This morning, I was on my way to the mural when I was called in to meet with my football coach and the dean, my father’s abrupt reactions coming through over speakerphone. As usual, I said nothing, letting them decide what actions were appropriate. They gave me every opportunity to lay blame elsewhere, but I wouldn’t do it—and hell, my mind wasn’t even in the dean’s office during the meeting. It was across campus with the girl.
The girl who feels like mine.
Because I’ve never had so much as a mild transgression, they let me go with a written warning. If I wasn’t important to the football team, I’m sure the punishment would have been more severe, and I can’t help but feel guilty about the special treatment.
I should be consoled by the fact that none of my teammates got in trouble. Normally I would be, having this proof that I can serve a purpose. That I’m dependable, if nothing else. Today, though…I’m not consoled. If I’m honest with myself, I feel kind of used. And I want nothing more than to have Birdie’s eyes on me. I want to hear her voice. Because last night on the basement landing, she made me feel the opposite of used. She made me feel like one half of a whole. Someone who’s needed for more than his size, strength and willingness to play the scapegoat. I want to see her, but there was no one at the mural to ask. I’m shit at finding people on social media and my attempts came up empty.
There’s only one thing going for me. The mural didn’t seem completed, so the Kappa Kappa Gamma pledges have to return to finish it sometime. While I stood there staring at the painting this afternoon, I noticed that each of the girls were given different sections of the mural to complete. All the styles were different and had their respective initials at the bottom. Birdie’s part consists of two branches growing alongside each other, and I couldn’t help stepping closer, looking for the tiniest details, as if the paint strokes might help me locate her.
If she’s not there when I go back tomorrow morning, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Roam the campus shouting her name? I might find her that way, but she’ll have to come visit me in a padded room.
I drag my hands down my face, but drop them when the front door of the house bursts open. Two of my teammates are carrying paint cans and talking in hushed tones.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, bro,” one of them says.
“I can’t believe she called campus security. What? I’m supposed to never have a good time for the rest of my life, just because we broke up?” He sets down the paint can in his hand. “She has to learn not to fuck with people. I could’ve gotten benched.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll send the message.”
They see me at the same time and exchange a look. “Hey, Big J.”
I nod and reach for the remote control, casually flipping on the television as they head up the stairs. But I continue to replay their conversation in my head through the remainder of the day and into the night, pretty positive they’re going to do something stupid. My suspicion is confirmed when they knock on my bedroom door around midnight and ask me to come along and be their lookout.
They are so confident that I’ll get on board with whatever they’re planning that they don’t even tell me the plan. All I see are paint cans and black clothing. More than likely, they’re bringing me along knowing I’ll take the blame if they get caught. And on the way out of the house, something shifts inside me. Like a boulder rolling in front of a hole in the dam, plugging the flow of constant doubt in myself. I might be intimidatingly large and lacking in social graces, but I’d never sneak out in the middle of the night to inflict harm. Or cause destruction. I’m the one that stops those kinds of things from happening. My teammates are half my size, but they are the ones people should avoid, aren’t they?
Not me.
A weight falls from my shoulders as I follow my teammates across campus. I’m done making excuses for my presence. I’m done having to prove my worth. I’m sure as hell going to put a stop at whatever they have planned tonight.
I don’t expect them to open their cans of paint in front of the mural, preparing to throw a wave of white over the pledges’ hard work. Birdie’s work. As I snatch up one of the cans with a growl, intending to keep it away from the guys, I definitely don’t expect Birdie to step out of the shadows with a horrified expression…