A World Without You. A. S. Peterson
nodded. “Yes, I’ll be a sophomore, but I don’t know anyone.”
A sigh of relief nearly escaped Scott. She was his age. He asked, “You just moved here?”
“No, I’ve been…homeschooled.”
Briana shifted, surprised at her sudden openness. Her parents wouldn’t approve of her eagerness. They had rules—would they approve of her sitting beside this boy from South Hillside? Worried her mother might come looking for her, Briana moved forward on the bench. “I need to leave.”
Caught off guard, Scott moved forward on the bench also. He lacked experience with girls and wondered how to make his next move. Finally he decided to use the indirect approach. “Do you come to this park often?”
“No.”
Taking a deep breath, he asked, “Would you like to come to this park again?”
“Yes.”
“When will you come to this park again?”
“Ten o’clock, Thursday morning.”
Scott grinned. He hadn’t expected a specific and precise time. “Would you like me to come at the same time?”
“Yes.”
Scott stood, extended his hand, and clasped hers. They walked to the entrance of the park, holding hands where he stalled. Fate brought them together. Now he didn’t want her to leave.
As they both hesitated, Briana glanced at his muscular arm and moved her gaze to their joined hands. His body heat flowed easily into her hand and traveled up her arm. She didn’t know holding a boy’s hand could feel this stimulating. She moved her gaze upward slowly, looked into his brown eyes, and smiled shyly. His full lips smiled in return, drawing her toward them. She stepped back. “Ten o’clock, Thursday morning.”
“Do you want me to walk you home?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
Scott watched the girl stroll to the corner of the block where she paused, smiled, and turned north. When she was out of sight, Scott realized he hadn’t even asked for her name, but at least, he learned a few things about this reserved girl: she was homeschooled which explained the reason for her sheltered life, and she also thought carefully before answering questions. As Scott turned to leave, he couldn’t help but compare this girl to Felicia, his next-door neighbor who spoke continuously without thinking.
2
Home
Ten minutes later, Scott walked through his familiar neighborhood of older homes. The everyday sight of a few well-maintained houses went unnoticed as did the houses with peeling paint, broken shingles, and shabby lawn care. His concentration was on the girl and his late arrival for the football game with his friends.
Derek despised when the guys were late. Even though his best friend was a jerk, Scott tried his best to avoid conflicts with Derek as he did with most people, except his mom. With her, conflicts were constant, 24-7.
Scott crossed Fourth Street and entered McCarthy Park where his nine friends gathered every weekday during the summer. He studied the two teams on the line of scrimmage. Derek’s team consisted of Brett, Lance, and Jess. They were standing in a spread formation and were wearing shirts. Matt’s team consisted of Karl, Randy, Adam, and Troy. They were set up in a three-two defense and were shirtless.
Lance, their tall hefty center, snapped the ball to Derek who faked a handoff to Brett, a solid guard, sending the defense to the left. Derek dropped back, throwing a quick slant right to Jess who caught the ball and was immediately tackled by Randy.
Watching Derek toss the ball, Scott grinned. His athletic friend was a versatile quarterback with a strong throwing arm. Derek didn’t wind up. He just brought the ball up behind the ear and threw, copying his favorite legendary quarterback, Joe Namath.
While growing up, Derek’s dad was relentless about teaching his two sons the rules and techniques of the game. Even now, Derek constantly practiced his fake-and-pass moves. Six days of the week, rain or shine, Derek woke up on demand at five thirty in the morning to practice for three hours. His dad set up tires and built tall obstacles in their backyard to increase Derek’s accuracy. Derek was told to throw over the obstacles, aiming for the tire opening. His throwing accuracy and speed were incredible; and every year, he improved.
If Derek failed to throw three consecutive passes through the swinging tire, his dad would react impatiently. Once Scott witnessed Derek’s dad angrily pick up three different footballs, throwing each one easily through the tire. Then Mr. Paulson turned to Derek, jammed his finger into his son’s chest, and bellowed, “I nailed my target because I’m not thinking about the romp I had with my wife last night or my eldest son who’s pining over some girl who threw him away like yesterday’s newspaper or my youngest son who thinks he’s better than his old man. The only thing on my mind is the ball, that target, and nailing those passes. Don’t miss another target. In this game, there’s always someone waiting to take your place.”
After witnessing events like that one, Scott felt grateful his dad had a more casual attitude about football.
Scott cruised through the grass, scrutinizing his comrades who usually dressed in faded jeans and T-shirts, except for Matt who owned nothing but newer clothes. Years ago, Scott had learned to have patience when dealing with these guys. Some days, when he played football, Scott felt as if he was on a battlefield. His friends were quick-tempered, competitive, but each made an effort to live by one basic rule: stay away from the girl the other one liked. When abiding by that one simple rule, they usually got along fairly well. Scott scowled. Derek sure didn’t live by that rule.
As Scott approached his friends, his one true rival, Randy, noticed him first. Randy narrowed his eyes, swiped his reddish-brown hair off his forehead, and growled his usual irritating comment. “Nerd, you’re here.”
Derek glowered. “Shut your damn mouth, Randy.” Derek eyed Scott and gave an annoyed expression. “You’re late.”
Scott shrugged. As always, his friend took football way too seriously. As Scott joined Derek’s team, they huddled for the next play. Preoccupied by the morning’s event, Scott stared at Derek who called the next play but Scott’s thoughts were on the girl in the park, wondering about her name and remembering the feel of her touch. He missed Derek’s entire play call. The next thing he knew, he was taking his wide receiver position and sprinting forward after the snap. Great, Scott thought, now I’m really going to irritate Derek. Running deep, he instinctively ran a comeback as the ball sailed past him. Scott groaned silently. He should have run a square out.
After years of playing football with Derek, the two of them clicked. Their precision and accuracy was skillfully executed for the majority of the plays. When Scott wasn’t in the right place at the right time, Derek had no patience for imperfect performance.
At the line of scrimmage, Derek creased his forehead and glared. He walked up to Scott, speaking only to him. “Where’s your damn brain?” When Scott raised his brows, Derek added. “Get your mind into this game and quit thinking about some girl.”
Anytime Scott wasn’t engaged in the game, Derek automatically thought his lack of concentration was because of a girl. As much as Scott didn’t want to admit it, Derek was usually right. His friend knew him too damn well. Scott gave his typical comment which always annoyed his friend. “Relax, I’ll get the next one.”
While the game continued, Scott’s adrenaline started flowing. As a wide receiver, he had the qualities: speed, athletic agility, and great hands, but most importantly, concentration when he wasn’t thinking about a girl. Scott pushed the morning’s event to the back of his mind and spent the rest of the game concentrating on catching Derek’s passes. The passes where Scott didn’t break his stride or the ones that flew through Randy’s hands to his—left Scott with the fantastic feeling of why he played this game. After catching one of those passes, he’d run back to his friend,