I move to his lap, a strategic maneuver to cover the tutu, which he doesn’t mind. His hand finds my knee quickly, and his fingers inch up my leg every few seconds, closer to the edge of my cheerleading skirt. I’m okay with this, too.
“When we were kids, I used to beat Nate up. You know, normal brother-wrestling kind of crap, not like bloody-nose stuff,” Ty says. “Anyhow, he was easy to pin—all thin and gangly. I was four years older, and he never stood a chance. But he’d always start crying, running to Mom and telling her I was picking on him. Well, one day, she was busy…working on one of her sculptures. She was trying to get some welding equipment to work in the driveway, and here Nate was waving his arms, whining that I pinned him on the carpet and gave him a rug burn. She told him to stop making a fussy fuss.”
“So it’s really your mom’s fault?” I ask.
“Ha. I guess in a way, she started it. But no, I take full blame for giving him a complex over it,” Ty says. “When she told him that the first time, it blew his mind. He couldn’t believe that she would sell him out like that, not stick up for him. He turned around and looked at me—all I could do was grin. It was like a free pass. I could pin him over and over, and Mom wouldn’t care. He was totally helpless. And the next time he started crying, I told him to stop making a fussy fuss, which only made him kick and scream more. Of course, I did it again. And then it sort of became my thing for him, whenever he would get whiny or act like a baby—fussy fuss. He hates it, and I love that he hates it.”
I must be making a face, because Ty’s hand stops its slow trip up my thigh and he leans back to look at me. “What?” he asks.
“I don’t know. That just…that seems kind of mean,” I say, almost feeling grateful for having a sister instead of this sick, demented, brother-relationship. Almost.
“It’s not mean. It’s a dude thing. Trust me, he hates it…but he also loves it,” Ty says, his attention back on his hand now, which is where my focus goes immediately when I feel the hem of my skirt start to move up.
“Owens. Nice practice today,” the voice pulls me out of my intimate bubble with Ty. It’s Chandra, dressed as Wonder Woman. I’m not surprised. And her compliment is not a compliment at all. I was cramping at practice and had to leave before it was over. She’s reveling in it. I hate her.
“Well, I thought I should give you a chance to work the ball,” I say, my smile as fake as the bile in my mouth is real. She bites her lower lip, and when she slides her teeth over it, some of the cherry-red lipstick wears off, leaving a red mark on her front teeth. It makes me happy.
She’s here with a few of the other girls, and some dude on the football team. I think he’s friends with the guy Paige has been seeing. This guy seems clueless, so I give him a pass on his poor taste in women. He walks down the porch steps and the other girls follow, but Chandra stays behind. She doesn’t like me having the last word, so I wait patiently for her to put an end to our conversation—happy to have Ty’s hand on my leg, and his lips on my neck. He couldn’t care less about her.
“I meant to ask you, Cass. How’s Paul Cotterman?” The second she finishes talking she knows she has me. She smiles with her red lips pushed together tightly, bothering to give me a wink before turning and leaving me alone to bleed out from her attack.
My body is instantly covered in sweat, and the ability to breathe leaves. I feel sick, and not from drinking too much, because I’ve hardly had anything to drink at all. How does she know about Paul Cotterman? What does she know? And does she know about Kyle? Why would she do this…say this?
I quickly stand from Ty’s lap, and he grabs my hand, turning me to look at him.
“What was that about?” He’s not asking like he’s angry. He’s genuinely concerned, but I can’t talk about it here. I’m not sure my brain has fully wrapped itself around what just happened. All I know is that I need to leave, and I’m probably going to vomit in the grass.
“I want to go. Now, Ty. Please? We need to go,” I say, holding my hand over my mouth just long enough to make it to the lawn. I let out the little bit of alcohol I’ve had, shutting my eyes as shivers take control of my arms and legs and spine. Ty is next to me quickly, and he’s holding my purse in his lap, over his tutu. The visual makes me smile through the tears that are already starting. This man loves me. I know he does. And I can trust him. Even with my ugliest parts.
“Not here. I’ll tell you everything. But just get me home,” I say, and he puts his hand on my lower back. We begin the long trip back to our dorm building.