“Do you see anyone else here?” I ask sarc
astically. I literally waved my hands in front of his face, who else would I be talking to?
“An entire football team,” he replies and points at the field behind me. I stop myself from laughing. Instead, I walk up two steps and take the seat right next to him on the bleachers. I should probably be minding my own business but having a conversation with someone, anyone really, will make waiting for my brothers to finish practice more bearable. Plus, I’m intrigued now. Something about the chase.
“So, did you at least win the fight?” I ask again, trying a different approach.
A few minutes pass by in silence, the only sound coming from the coaches whistling on the field. He doesn’t answer my question and, to be fair, it’s probably because of the tone of my voice and the fact that asking someone who you don’t know about fighting isn’t really how things go. Then again, all I’m trying to do is be nice and then he goes ahead and tries to make me look stupid. I really can’t help the sarcasm that rolls off my tongue. It’s a gift and a curse.
“I’m Kaitlyn,” I say awkwardly, extending my hand toward him, hoping we can start over.
He faces me then looks at my hand still suspended in the air. Instead of shaking it with his own, he looks back toward the field.
“Okaaay,” I respond, putting my hand back down. “Do you like football?” I ask. Clearly, to have a conversation, I’ll have to pull every word out of him. But I’ve got time. His rudeness isn’t going to stop me.
He shrugs.
“Do you know any of the guys practicing?” Maybe that’s why he’s sitting out here. He could be related to one of the guys. He looks too young to be a scout.
“Are you on a different team? Are you just trying to steal their plays?” I ask, my mind thinking about all the football teams that hate ours.
He shakes his head. “No,” he finally speaks again.
“Do you know one of the coaches?” At this point, I’m probably sounding like a journalist with all the questions I’m asking, but his non-answers are starting to irritate me. It’s a personal challenge to get him to string together more sentences and actually talk to me.
My question is met by a physical response, a shrug.
“Why are you watching the football team practice?” I ask. “And before you shrug, or nod, or shake your head, or whatever else you were thinking about doing, I’d prefer an actual answer… with real words. Like the ones I assume you’ve been taught. You’ve said a couple of them so far, so let’s keep doing that.” Maybe that was harsh, but really, is it that difficult to be kind? To have a conversation with a stranger? I’m trying to kill time, the least he can do is be forthcoming.
He looks at me again. “It bothers you so much, doesn’t it?” he replies, his tone as cold as the wind that picks up speed, making my hair fly all over the place.
I grab the elastic from my wrist and put my hair up in a ponytail. “You not talking to me?” I ask, figuring that’s what he means.
“You don’t seem like the type that gets ignored often,” he says, facing the field once again. It’s not a question but a statement.
It does bother me. “I’m just trying to be nice.”
“That’s you trying to be nice? You should probably stop,” he shifts his eyes to me again. “You don’t look like the type,” he finishes then looks away. Well, I wanted more words and I got them.
I scoff. “I’m nice.”
“Somehow I doubt that you go around talking to everyone and making them feel comfortable. Let me guess, you’re a cheerleader and your boyfriend is one of those meatheads out there on the field.” Maybe he was better off not talking. He looked better that way, more attractive too. I shouldn’t have riled him up in the first place. This is what I get for trying to have a conversation.
His predictions are so off though and I can’t help but correct him. It’s my duty. “You’ve got a lot of things wrong,” I tell him.
He fixes his eyes on mine once again. They linger long enough for me to truly take them in this time. They’re so dark that I can’t find any light in them whatsoever, but it doesn’t stop me from searching. “Enlighten me,” he says, his brow raised as if throwing down a challenge.
“For starters, I’m not a cheerleader.” There’s nothing wrong with cheerleaders, I’m just not one of them.
“Could’ve fooled me.” The way he says it annoys me.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you look like one.” Is that supposed to be an insult? Because, if it is, I don’t get why it would be.
“Whatever that means… you’re still wrong. I’m on the volleyball team.”
He nods slowly, like my answer surprises him. “Got one wrong,” he admits. He got more than one wrong.