Handwritten ✓

03 | banter

MERCURIAL MEANS CHANGEABLE OR UNPREDICTABLE.

I looked it up when I went home after football practice and then applied it to what the hate note said about my hair. Clearly, there was someone out there who hated how unpredictable my hair was enough to write it down on a piece of paper. And a bunch of other things, too, but that was the one that plagued me most that afternoon.

Two days later, the other items on the list started to sink in, too.

Of course, I objected to all of them, as any rational self-aggrandising human being would. Some of the items had a kernel of truth in them. Some of them were mere matters of opinion, like being loud, or showing off, or not taking studying seriously. What was too loud to my hater was just the right volume to me, so I disregarded those as much as I could disregard blatant insults to my character.

Other points made me overthink in my spare time, like when Ursula and I made out behind the cafeteria again and during boring classes. I had my learner's license, but I'd let my driving practice slip while Bishop was preparing for the start of the football season. Perhaps I should pick it up again... Mom wouldn't mind letting me take the minivan for a spin around the block during the weekends. Traffic was so non-existent in Bishop, I had no concerns about road safety.

But being dumb enough to play football? Having a caveman sense of humour? That hurt.

For the most part, I projected a cool, confident, and outgoing disposition. I was always down for a good time, whether that meant flirting with girls, going to parties, or taking the piss out of the teachers that had fuses too short for their own good. Jake Tanner was a good time, a lover, not a fighter.

But inside that devil-may-care shell, I was very soft. Totally squishy. My heart was a sensitive thing, and since I had no defenses against the cruelties of the world — which seldom made their way to sleepy ol' Bishop — those ten attacks all lodged deep. Some deeper than others.

It was made worse by the fact that I tried to do no harm wherever I went. Sure, perhaps I was disruptive or egotistical in class and on the field, but I liked to think I was entertaining everyone around me. Spicing up their boring lives.

Evidently, someone hated spice. And resented me deeply for it.

While the football team ran up and down the bleachers overlooking the field, a deep frown was plastered on my face. Exercising was one effective method to clear my head of my troubled, insecure thoughts. Eating, sleeping, and making out with my not-quite-girlfriend were successful to an extent, but the back of my mind would always fill with some random train of thought. Lately, that train always terminated at the hate note.

When I reached the bottom of the bleachers, I picked up my labelled drink bottle and drew long, refreshing gulps from it. It was always easier coming down the bleachers than going up, my quads and calves burning and twitching with fatigue. At least I could still feel my lower legs. Sometimes Coach Ibrahim pushed us so hard that they turned completely to rubber, and no amount of willpower would make them move as quickly as I wanted them to.

Coach himself was occupied at the moment, sitting on the top of the bleachers, fanning himself with a clipboard. Some of the time he'd inspect each of us to check our condition, but he was very obviously busy chatting away. I threw a fond smile at the old man above and the lady next to him as I started on my umpteenth climb of the afternoon, the afternoon sun bearing down on my exposed back.

Kay descended as I stepped onto the first bleacher, his chest flushed red and glistening. "Kill me now."

"Kill me first," I panted, urging my thighs to start lifting.