STUFFED (The Slate Brothers 2)

This isn’t a news article: It’s a love story.

17

My parents get over it.

Well, sort of. Not really.

They get over it to the tune that they’ll pay my living expenses, since they’d “have to pay those anywhere”, but they totally refuse to pay for tuition if I’m not moving toward a “serviceable career”. Which is fine with me— I’ve got decent scholarships and can apply for a few more, if need be. Besides, now that I’m not working at the Blaze, I can pick up a part time job or something next semester.

It’s been three weeks since the article went live and my relationship with Carson went very, very dead. Even though I can tell I’m moving on with life, it has a surreal, false feeling, like being on those moving sidewalks at the airport. Things are going by, but you look down and see you’re moving at a fraction of the world’s pace. I can’t help but wonder how it feels for Carson. He didn’t just find out his alibi for his dad was fake— the entire world found out it was fake.

I wonder if he talked with his father, with his brothers, his mother— do they understand? Do they forgive him? Or do they blame the investigation that lead to the alibi being blown on me?

Despite the fact that my suitemates advise a total Carson detox, I sneak to watch the second to last game of the regular football season on television while they do the same at one of the sports bars in town.

It’s weird, watching a game from home after attending them live; being able to mute the crowd only contributes to that surreal sense. But I curl up with a blanket and all the junk food I can scrounge together from the pantry, and watch. I remember what Desi told me about the way Carson played at the last game— that he was better than ever before, because he was happy. I wonder— and I bet his teammates are wondering— how he’ll play now, since I know he’s got to be anything but.

The answer? Poorly. Very, very poorly, in fact.

Carson usually looks like a general commanding his troops— a great general when he’s happy, and a middling general the rest of the time. At today’s game, though, he looks like an overzealous dictator, shouting commands, missing signals, passing before his teammates can guarantee a catch. He’s a mess, and the announcers can’t get enough of it— they have pity in their voices, but they still zoom in and replay each and every one of his failures. The coaches are in deep discussion through their time outs, and there’s even talk of them pulling him from the game entirely.

That’s the last thing he needs. Come on, Carson. Pull through this, I think hard at the television. I know scouts are watching, I know the everything’s more important now, toward the end of the season. Even people who think he’s a villain have to know that his mind is in a million different places, but that this isn’t his usual game— right?

I curse at the television when another pass is ruled incomplete. Did I manage to not only derail Carson’s family life, but his entire future career as well? The coaches argue with the referees for a few moments, and the camera zooms in close to Carson. He’s talking with another player, and it’s clear that the other guy is trying to calm him down. Carson has removed his helmet, and his face is harsh, all straight lines and dark eyes. He doesn’t appear to be hearing a thing the other player is saying, nor does he appear to feel the sweat dripping from his hair onto his cheeks. It looks like his mind is somewhere else entirely.

In that moment, my heart breaks.

I miss him so much. If only he would have spoken to me, let me back in…

The announcers stop talking for a moment, waiting to hear the outcome of the conversation between the referee and the coaches. To fill the time, the cameraman zooms in on the marching band, then the crowd, finally focusing on a few people in particular. I can’t sort out why at first, but realize what’s going on at the same moment the announcers do— Carson wasn’t zoned out, he was staring at a group of students from the opposing school who are hanging over the side of the bleachers. They’ve unfurled a sheet on which they’ve painted, “Slate For Prison 2020”. They’re jeering at Carson, though I can’t make out their words— still, it’s clear from their faces that they’re not shouting compliments his way.

The announcers discuss this for a moment, calling it unsportsmanlike, wondering if someone will make them stop, if anyone has the authority, and the camera alternates between a tight shot of Carson’s face and the jeering fans. I hear the announcers mention the article, citing my name and Devin’s name, and even through the television I can feel tension in the air, that frightening sense of stillness before two dogs lunge at one another.