Unpopular: An Unloved Ones Prequel #3 (The Unloved Ones) (2 page)

It's an empty hallway, the fluorescent lights flickering against the glass of the trophy cases. I close the door and step back into the locker room.

A lump forms in my throat. Running now, I go back through the outer door to the field, and the sunlight hits me in the face. It seems to burn right into my retinas, and I put up my hand to shield my eyes. Squinting, I look out at the field.

The wind blows and I smell freshly cut grass in the breeze. But it's just as quiet and lifeless out here as it was in the locker room. What's more, I know that my father was out here just a minute ago. He couldn't have disappeared. But he didn't come into the locker room. I would have seen him cross through.

"Dad?" I call out, feeling a bit silly and like a kid lost at the mall. But that's what it feels like: like I had been left behind.

"Where are you?" I call out, and no one answers.

I stare out at the field a moment longer, and then go back into the locker room. Somehow it felt safer not being outside in that empty loneliness.

I walk back inside and&,dash;

"Surprise!" twenty voices call out at once.

I look up to see the guys rushing forward through the back door, flowing in like water from a broken dam. They're all still in uniform, and they're holding something in the middle of the group. My dad comes in behind them, and he's got a rare smile on his face. I look up at him confused, and he points with his eyes to what the guys are holding.

It's a cake. It's round, with white icing and blue piping. A baseball. There are candles on it already lit.

The team breaks out into an off-key chorus of "Happy Birthday." My dad stands behind them, the smile frozen on his face. He's not singing.

I try to smile, but I'm still shaken from finding everyone missing.

"Thanks, guys," I manage to say, and they laugh. They finish the song, and push the cake into my lap as I sit down on the bench. They all start talking at once around me.

"Andrea made the cake."

"She's got it bad."

"Bet she'd do more than bake."

"She's not so hot."

"Are you going to eat it?"

I look up with a stupid grin on my face, an approximation of gratitude. I look over and my dad has dropped his smile. He can only pretend so long. I blow out the candles and set the cake down. Johnson has a plastic bag with paper plates and plastic utensils, and he starts passing these around. I take mine, and Victor Manning cuts a big slice for me and waits for me to take a bite before he'll cut one for himself.

No one on the team does anything unless I do it first. It’s like asking permission to see if it’s cool or not.

"Sam," my dad calls from behind the guys.

I set down my plate and walk over to him.

"Yes, sir?"

"There's another surprise for you."

I stare at him.

"It's outside."

Without waiting for a response, he turns and goes out the back door of the locker room, into the school gymnasium. The other guys follow, and I can feel their excitement. They know whatever it is that is about to happen.

We approach the far doors at the end of the hall. My dad pauses in front of them, and then turns to make sure I'm paying attention. Then he throws open the doors, and says, in the least enthusiastic tone possible, "Happy Birthday." He might as well have added, "Even though you don't deserve it."

The sun hits me again, and before my eyes can adjust, a car horn honks and makes me jump. I look out into the parking lot, and right on the curb is a shiny black truck, freshly washed. In the driver's seat is Andrea Vale, the captain of the girl's cheerleading team. She's grinning at me, and she presses her hand down on the steering wheel again, blaring the horn.

The guys all turn to me to see my reaction, and I realize that I'm not acting happy enough. "Oh,
wow
," I say, and open up my eyes as wide as possible.

It's not that I'm not happy to receive a truck for my birthday; I'm just confused. Our family doesn't have a lot of money. My parents can barely afford to keep their two cars in working order, let alone afford a new one. I take a step to my dad, and say softly so that the guys can't hear me, "Can we afford this?"

He smiles at me, but it's a hard grin that doesn't reach his eyes. I've offended him. "That's not for you to worry about."

And there's my answer: we can't.

"Yes, sir."

Great, another thing to feel guilty about. He's just showing off to the team. I bet
he
wanted a truck when he turned sixteen and didn't get one, so of course I have to have one. He wouldn't be able to live vicariously through me otherwise.

I see my teammates are watching me, and I put the smile back on my face. "This is
so
cool," I say, trying to act like nothing bothers me.

That's another thing about being popular: you can never let anything bother you. Always appear relaxed and happy.

The guys are talking but I'm not really listening. My dad brings me around to look at the inside of the car, pointing out the dash and the interior. His eyes are on me the entire time, daring me to not be thrilled with it all. The guys on the team are watching my reaction as well. They want to live through my excitement, too. I don't think any of them got trucks on their sixteenth. Except maybe Bobby Duko. His parents are loaded.

Once my dad is satisfied that I understand how nice the truck is and how much I should appreciate it, he lets the team go back inside to shower and change.

I don't talk to anyone, just wanting the day to be over—and at the same time, I don't want it to be over because that would mean it's tomorrow. What if I choke? My dad will never let me live that down, now that he's given me a truck. It's like blackmail. Now I have to perform well.

I towel off and grin as my teammates make jokes, but I'm not really listening. I pull on a t-shirt and some jeans, and then step back into my sneakers. Then I line up with the rest of the guys and we all fix our hair and pose in the mirror, while acting like we aren’t paying much attention at all.

These guys are obsessed with their hair. Hair gel, hair spray, getting the little spikes in front just right. Even the guys with shaved heads spend time on their hair. They're worse than girls.

"Hey, Sam, you coming tonight?"

I look over and see it's Aaron Johnson talking to me. He's running a comb through his buzz cut.

"What's happening?" I ask.

"Bunch of us guys are having a bonfire tonight at my brother’s house." He makes a face like it's kind of lame, but is watching me at the same time. He doesn't want to commit to liking it until he sees my reaction. "It’s the only thing going on, and it might be cool for your birthday. He said he’d invite some college chicks.”

I know I should probably stay in, since the game is tomorrow, but the idea of spending all night at home around Dad makes my stomach hurt. Even a bonfire in the dark woods near his brother’s broken down trailer would be better.

"Yeah, dude," I say. "You guys headed over there now?"

He grins. "If you can give us a ride."

I nod, and when the team finishes their grooming, we head out toward the parking lot through the main auditorium. I stop by my dad's office outside the locker room.

"Is it all right if I go out with some of the guys?" I ask.

My dad isn't the type to say no to me going out and partying. If anything, he normally encourages it. But not on a game night.

He sets down a roster and pen, and looks up at me. His mouth is a hard line and I can tell he wants to say no. Then his shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh. "I guess it is your birthday," he says.

He fishes in his pockets and takes out the key to the truck. Before he lets go, he looks me in the eye and says, "You have fun tonight, but if you’re hung over during tomorrow’s game, I'll kill you. Understand?"

I nod. "Yes, sir."

He lets go of the key and already my mouth is watering for a beer. I turn out of his office and meet the other guys.

"Who's ready to get wasted?" I ask, and they cheer as we all pile into my brand new truck. Aaron Johnson, my buddy, sits shotgun. The rest hang on for dear life in the back as I speed out of the school lot, out towards the woods, and away from my father.

* * *

It's already late by the time I realize the time.

"Oh shit," I say, punching Aaron in the arm. "What time is it?" He's sitting next to me in front of the fire. The woods are dark around us. Most of the other guys are drinking inside his brother’s trailer.

Aaron's eyes are hazy. We've all been drinking. It takes him a moment to process the request before he pulls his phone from his wallet, and presses the button to light up the screen.

2:18

"Man," I say. "I need to get home. I'm supposed to be rested for the game tomorrow."

"All right, bro," Aaron says, looking kind of hurt that I'm leaving him here. Aaron has trouble making friends. I think that's half the reason he joined the team, so that he wouldn't have to learn how to make friends on his own. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I hobble over to my truck, and wave good-bye to a group of guys hanging out by the trailer. They'll probably be here until dawn, but I'll get into trouble if I'm not home in bed when the sun comes up. My dad may be nice to me in public, but at home, he doesn't have to hold back.

I open the door to the truck and climb up into it, the door alarm dinging incessantly until I lean over and pull the door shut. I scratch up half the dashboard in an attempt to fit the key into the ignition, and start the engine.

I look out through the windshield and the beams of the headlights blur apart and come together again.

Damn, I'm drunk. I know I shouldn't drive, but if my dad finds out I've been out all night, it'll be much worse.

I step on the gas and skid out onto the road, sending dust flying behind me. It takes me a moment to adjust into the lane. I keep my eyes wide and my speed slow.

The one advantage of being in a middle of nowhere town like Mayfield is that there's never anyone on the road after dark. At two in the morning on a weeknight, you might as well be driving on the moon.

I am startled by the sound of gravel under the tires, and snap my head up in time to swerve back onto the road.

Shit. I fell asleep. I don't even remember being tired.

I force myself to focus on the road again, but it's so blurry that I feel the truck listing into the other lane before I can see it.

"Screw it," I mutter.

I slow down at the first turn-off from the road I see. It's a small dirt pathway that curves into the trees, and I pull into it. The ground crunches under the tires of the truck, and the headlights make the bark of the trees look white against the black of the night. I follow the path until I can't see the road anymore in the rear view mirror. Then I shift the truck into park, and turn off the ignition.

No one will bother me here. I don't have to worry about the cops coming along and asking me questions about why I'm parked here overnight.

A nagging worry keeps me from passing out at once: I've got to set my alarm. I dig into my pocket and pull out my phone, swiping and hitting the wrong buttons. Eventually, I get the alarm set for six o'clock. That should give me time to sneak in before my dad wakes up. By then, I should have sobered up a little for first period.

I let my heavy eyes close. The phone falls to the floor, and my head slumps down onto my chin.

In less than a moment, I'm out.

* * *

When I wake up, there's warm light coming through the trees. I blink, my back stiff and my neck aching. I look out the windshield and instantly remember where I am.

"Ugh," I say. I need to get home.

I sit up and buckle my belt. I feel something chalky on my fingers, and look down to see that I'm covered in a thick coating of dust.

"What the hell?"

I brush it from my forearms, and it coats the front of my jeans and lightens the dark fabric of the truck interior. I must have left a window open. I'm too groggy to care too much, and start reaching around for my phone.

I find it at my feet, and wipe off the dust from the screen to see that it is 7:45. So much for sneaking back in.

I start the truck, and then have the unpleasant task of driving the enormous truck in reverse down the narrow path of the woods, all the while hoping that I won't get stuck in any mud.

I make it back to the highway, and drive the short trip back to town. I'm just starting to wake up a bit when I pull up in front of our house. It’s a modest single-level brick home with an old brown roof that slants down and covers the front window in a shadow.

Both of my parents’ cars in the driveway. I groan, knowing I'm in trouble now. Normally my mom would have left for work by this time. Things must be pretty bad inside if she's still here.

I get out and try to close the door of the truck as quietly as possible, but it’s not quiet enough. My mom is running out from the house and across the lawn by the time I’m on the curb. Her blonde hair is frazzled, and her thin face is stretched with worry. She looks like she got worse sleep than I did.

“Oh, Sam!” she cries, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “Thank God you’re alive!”

I step back from her and raise an eyebrow. “Alive?”

She wipes her eyes. “Excuse me for being a little melodramatic, but we were all worried about you.”

“We?” I can’t imagine my dad being worried. Angry, maybe, but not worried.

“The whole town,” she says. “But what did you expect? You just disappeared. It’s not like you.” Her eyes notice the dust on my clothes, and she returns to her panic. “What happened? Are you all right?”

I roll my eyes. “I’m
fine
. Just drank too much with guys.” I try to give her a reassuring smile. “I thought it was safer to sleep it off on the road than risk driving back lit. It’s not a big deal.”

“You’ve been sleeping?” she asks in disbelief. “This whole time?”

I nod, and for a brief moment, she looks at me like I’m a stranger. Then she’s looking at me like a mother again. “Well, you know I’m relieved that nothing happened to you, honey, but your father is going to be furious.” She looks away and her face fills with worry. The edges of her blonde hair in profile glow in the amber light.  “Let me tell him you’re back. It might go better that way.”