The Tuesday before the Fall Football jamboree, I was late to Mrs. Kensington's class. I slunk in the classroom door and handed Mrs. Kensington the pass that Father Bill had written.
"Have a seat, Chris," Mrs. Kensington said over the glow of the overhead projector. Her illuminated silhouette was menacing in an educational, authoritative way. I slid into the empty seat behind Blaire and took my notebook out, trying to concentrate on math, but my mind was racing. The conversation Father Bill and I had had that morning weighed on me, and I wanted to think of anything but that. I was zoning out as I saw Blaire peek at me over her right shoulder with a hint of a smile. It made me feel warm as a small smile twisted from my frown.
I tapped my pencil on the desk as I noticed her laugh. Part of me felt a hint of aggravation; the other part wanted to make her do it again.
"Chris," Mrs. Kensington's stern voice pierced down the row at me as my tapping came to an abrupt stop.
“Sorry, Ma’am.” I rolled my pencil to the edge of my notebook.
Mrs. Kensington's face was flat as she erased the problem and started over. I looked at the empty page of the notebook as I thought about Father Bill again. Mom had scheduled these meetings because she wanted to make sure I was "grounded in my faith and handling my father's betrayal," blah, blah, blah.
"Fuck!" my mind screamed as I thought about the meeting that turned into an impromptu confessional. The last thing I wanted to talk about was my hardships. I huffed at the idea that they could be resolved with a series of Hail Marys, Our Fathers, and some well-placed intercession of the saints.
The hair on my neck tingled as I saw Blaire's hand shoot back with a folded piece of paper in her palm. My fingers pulsed as I pulled it back. The exchange lasted a bit longer than I had expected.
Back in the 90s, a note was how you conversed in class, declared your undying love, or just called somebody out. I secretly hoped it was the second option. The worst thing to experience was when a teacher would take the note and read it out loud. There was always a fifty-fifty chance it was steamy or full of delicate information. So it was very important to keep the transaction as private as possible.
I smoothed the paper out in my notebook as Mrs. Kensington just prattled on about algebra. I noticed Blaire had signed her name on the front of the paper with a small heart dotting the 'I' in her name, and a smiley face in the bottom loop of the 'B'. It made my chest warm, and I fought a smile as I read it.
"You good?" The words swirled in looping ink. "Sit with me at lunch. I'm here if you need to talk. Love Blaire."
Love Blaire.
A bubble of uncertainty hung in my throat as I read the note again. I realized she was the only person, other than my family, who had ever expressed any concern for me. I caught myself tapping my pencil again, as Mrs. Kensington stared at me over the projector. I was about to apologize again when the bell rang, and Mrs. Kensington rolled her eyes.
Blaire waited for me by the door as I nervously packed my bag. I looked at her with a forced crooked smile as I walked towards the door. I felt Blaire's fingers wrapped around my palm. I just closed my mouth and pulled her close, hugging her.
"Thank you," I whispered in her ear.
"Let's go," Blaire said as we walked down the hall, holding hands for the first time.
The red carpet of the upperclassmen's wing rolled and crunched under our feet as we walked to the Spanish room.
"Let's talk at lunch?" She squeezed my hand as I hugged Blaire at the door.
I nodded as I watched her walk into the room before I turned to walk away.
At lunch, I waited in the vestibule outside the cafeteria by the Pepsi machine and dropped money in for two Mountain Dews. Blaire came in the double doors from the main courtyard. I guess I was smiling more than usual because Blaire giggled with a scrunched expression on her forehead.
"Hey, you!" I hugged Blaire as I handed her a Mountain Dew.
"My favorite," she replied as we walked to a table by the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the garden of our Lady Mary.
"You ok?" she cracked open the can of Mountain Dew.
"Yeah, my mom." I sighed. "She scheduled a monthly meeting for me with Father Bill. She's afraid I'm not handling my father or the divorce well." I stopped after that, waiting to see Blaire's reaction.
"Are you?" she asked, her voice carried a genuine concern.
"Better than she is," I said, taking a sip of Mountain Dew and regretting it the second it hit my tongue. I pushed the tray away and rubbed my thumb along the edge of the table. "I didn't mean that how it sounded."
`Blaire slid out of her seat and came around to me. She leaned against my shoulder, her hand finding mine. I looked up at her, trying to smile even though my chest felt tight.
"I didn't mean to dump that on you," I said quietly. "It's just… Dad's always there. Every game, every boring school thing. He shows up with that old camera in a Crown bag like it's his job." I swallowed, nervous, trying to walk that back. "Mom doesn't go. Not really. Not since my sister…And I don't want you thinking she's some villain or something. It's not like that. It's just… different."
Blaire's expression softened behind her big, black‑framed glasses.
"I want to meet your dad," she said.
"He'll be at the jamboree Friday," I answered, a little too fast. The nerves made my voice thin.
Blaire grinned. "Are you asking me to come to the game? I mean, I might go anyway, but it'd be nice if you asked." She shifted her chair, flicking her hair back over her shoulder.
"Please?" I whispered. "Would you?"
"I'd love to," she said, squeezing my hand.