Chapter 29: Take Me to Church

January

I haven't seen Peyton since I gave her Cash's ballsack in a box.

I don't think she was too happy about that, to be honest. I mean she thought the trucknutz part was kind of funny, but it was the other thing that seemed to bother her.

I was excited to talk to her, but the more I think about it, the more  annoyed I get. I don't understand why she can't see what this is like for me. I can't just sit by and watch that fucker bully people. It had to be done.

By the time I get to fifth period, I'm ready to hash this all out so she can see my side of things.

"Well, well, well. Smoothie queen returns," Ms. Pickle says when Peyton walks in the door.

"Yes Ma'am. Sorry about my absence. I guess I need to get caught up."

Pickle sniffs. Today's apron features two mini pickles in hard-hats, hands on their hips...if pickles have hips. Underneath them reads, Gherkin hard or hardly gherkin?

She nods, looks over at me, and says, "Jack will catch you up to speed."

Peyton turns to face me.

Damn. It's hard to be mad at her when she looks at me with those eyes.

I smile. "Hey."

"Hey."

"You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"Alright, people. Go get your stations set up. Today we'll continue our hot food prep. And when I say mince, I mean mince, not dice!"

"What's the difference?" Peyton asks under her breath.

"Behold the master at work." I pick up the garlic clove and place it on the cutting board. Then I position the flat of the knife over it, giving it a hard smack.

"I think you smashed it..."

"Watch and learn, Thomas. Watch and learn."

I free the thin skin from the clove and remove it on one gesture. Then the mincing commences.

As my hands move the knife up and down, I feel her watching me, her breath on my skin. It smells like cinnamon candy. My elbow lightly brushes her arm. She inches closer, so her thigh is resting against mine.

Focus on the garlic.

"See, you want it small, so it cooks all the way through. Nothing worse than raw garlic."

"Can I try?"

I hesitate before handing her the knife. "You sure I'm safe?" I raise an eyebrow and smile.

"Yes, smartass. I'm not going to stab you."

"Okay, just don't slice off your finger."

"Got it."

She smacks the garlic super hard. Probably overkill. When she lifts the knife, it's practically pounded into the cutting board. She's having trouble picking the skin from the clove, trying to avoid getting garlic juice all over her hands. I gaze over at her face set in concentration as she bites her lip. God, she's so beautiful.

"I missed you," I say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So, about my package..."

She stares down at the cutting board, cheeks flushing, and nods. "What about it?"

"What'd you do with it?" I ask.

She turns to me with a level gaze. Then she says, "I mounted it on my headboard with a hunting knife."

"Really?" I laugh.

"No, psycho. I hid it in my drawer. It is evidence, you know. Of an actual crime."

I roll my eyes.

"And I think you've been watching too much Game of Thrones."

"So, you didn't like it?"

She's quiet for a while, mincing away. "To be honest, I wish you hadn't done that. For me."

"What, take his nuts?"

"No, the other thing."

"Oh...well, that wasn't for you."

She gives me a look, knitting her eyebrows together. "Then who was that for?"

"That? That was for me."

She ponders this for a few beats.

I turn the heat on under the sauté pan and pour a tablespoon of olive oil in. Then I add the minced garlic. "He's a bully. I don't like bullies. The things he's done to you, they couldn't go unanswered. Somebody had to stand up to him."

"It's not like you, Jack. You usually do the right thing. The honest thing."

"You trying to take me to church, Preacher Thomas?"

She stands there shaking her head as she watches me do my thing.

"See," I say, "You gotta move the garlic around so it doesn't burn. Burnt garlic is probably worse than raw garlic."

"Uh huh. Thanks for the tip," she snarks. Then she asks, "do you remember what you told me, when you found out I was a girl?"

I think back to that day. I said a lot of things. Talk about giving a sermon.

I shrug. "Not really."

"I told you that I never lied about anything. That if the coaches didn't know I was a girl, then that was their problem."

"Yeah. I think I vaguely remember."

She sighs in frustration. "And you said, 'not telling the truth is just as good as lying,' and that I knew it was wrong, or I wouldn't be so defensive. Remember that?"

What is she, the chronicles of Chaplin?

"First of all, I'm pleased to see I made such an impression on you," I say, smiling.

She tightens her mouth into a grim line and glares at me.

"Second of all, if you recall, which I'm sure you do, I said you should tell the truth because them not knowing could hurt the team. This is different. I'm not hurting anyone but Cash. And I think you and I both know that."

"No, we don't both know that. Your not telling the truth is hurting someone," she says.

I use the spatula to gently push the garlic round in the oil as it sizzles and pops. "And who would that be?" I finally ask.

She takes the spatula from my hand and scrapes the garlic around the pan. I watch her face, waiting for her to say whatever it is she has on her mind.

I know it's something specific.

"Marshall," she says, not taking her eyes off the pan. "They're pinning it on Marshall."

Fucking Marshall.

Again.

"How do you know that?" I ask.

Her jaw is clenched. She closes her eyes. "He told me, in English class. They called him in for questioning."

"So that's what this is about?"

"What?"

"Marshall," I snap.

"No..."

"You're a shitty liar."

"I mean, what did you think would happen? After he broke Cash's collarbone last fall, of course Marshall would be the main suspect. You can't let him take the fall, Jack."

I can't fucking believe this shit.

I nod, staring at the pan. Then I spend the rest of the hour fuming.

I ignore her until the bell dismisses us for football.

*****

Outside of the locker room, the coaches have posted a list of players who made the cut for seven on seven. I scan the roster. They have Peyton slated to play safety on defense.

They list Cash at quarterback. Not surprising. ­­

Little and Jackson will play offensive receivers/backs, and it looks like I'm a defensive back.

And Marshall? Marshall's name is mysteriously missing. They're likely punishing him for his suspected role in Cash's assault.

Yeah, that's kind of a bullshit move. I guess I should have thought this whole thing through a little better. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I need to come clean and take the heat off Marshall.

Instead of dressing out for football, I decide I better go have a chat with the coaches.

Today's class is conditioning. That means an hour of bear crawls, wind sprints, ladders, and burpees.

Not sad to miss that.

When I walk out to the track still wearing jeans and boots, Peyton's eyes follow me. She's sitting up in the stands, shivering in her sweatshirt while the team warms up. She's not cleared to return to practice. It'll be a while yet.

I approach the coaches.

"What the hell, son? Why ain't you dressed and ready?" Murphy asks me.

I clear my throat. "I need to talk to you both about something," I say.

They nod. "Well, go on then." Coach Carson raises his eyebrows.

"I was the one who beat the shit out of Cash," I say, looking at them defiantly.

Coach Carson glances at Murph, who nods his head like he's already suspected as much. "You two have some kind of beef or something?" he asks.

"Yessir," I say. "Been going on for a while now."

"What's the problem?"

I glance over my shoulder at Peyton watching us from the stands. "A few things. But mostly what he did to her."

"Alright, son. Well, no reason to escalate this. We can settle it right here and now if you'll apologize."

I glare at them. "Apologize? Did he apologize to her for giving her a concussion?"

"No, son, but...that's football. Injuries happen." Murphy shrugs.

I stand there shaking my head. Unbelievable. So now I'm supposed to swallow my pride and apologize to the only person on this team who should be sorry. I really don't know if I can do it without throttling that fucker.

Coach calls Cash over. His face is still a little swollen, with puffy lips and black eyes that are fading to a light green color. His once perfect nose looks askew between the abrasions on his cheeks. The damage isn't as bad as I hoped it would be.

"Son, Chaplin has something to say to you," Murph says.

Cash narrows his eyes at me and sneers. "Oh yeah, what's that?"

I feel a tightening in my gut. The urge to punch him again is very hard to resist.

"Yeah, so, it was me. I'm the guy who kicked your ass last Friday. Anyway," I clear my throat, "sorry I jumped you. I should have confronted you in the light of day...like a man."

And then kicked your ass.

Cash just stands there with his face screwed up like a toddler about to throw a tantrum. He looks at Coach Carson. "Uncle Cal, you just gonna let him get away with this?"

"Cash, he apologized," Coach Carson says. "What happens among teammates, stays among teammates. Hopefully y'all got this shit outta your systems and we can let bygones be bygones."

Cash spits the words "Fuck this!" before he turns and walks away, back to the locker room.

Coach Murphy puts his hand on my shoulder. "I'd like a word with you, Chaplin. Coach Carson needs to tend to practice now, so why don't you follow me?"

He walks me over to the field house. As we're passing the bleachers, I glance up, making eye contact with Peyton.

Sometimes, when I look at her from a distance, it's like she's not made of flesh and bone, but pure energy. Like a phantom or spirit. Ethereal is the word, I think. A moon goddess who shines her light on a dark path to show me the way home.