It's My Life - Stacie Ramey Page 0,69
Kids pile out. Our kids. Their kids, too. Soon, it’s a mob scene. My head swims, and I’m struggling. I can’t think of a single book or movie where someone set fire to something and it ended well. Dread socks me in the stomach. “We shouldn’t be here.”
Ben nods and starts the car back up. “We’ll just make things worse.”
I turn to the back seat to tell Rena to put her seat belt back on, but she’s got this look of incredulity on her face, and her hand grips the door handle like a threat.
“Our boys will fight harder if they’re being watched. We all need to go home,” I say, but she isn’t listening. And even if she did, the others wouldn’t.
“I have to go,” she says. “I’ll find a ride home.” She climbs out of the car so fast neither Ben nor I can say anything to stop her.
The world goes in slow motion, and Ben turns the car back off. “This is not good,” he says. “This is not good.”
We’ve got to go after her. Only it’s not that easy, given my huge-assed leg cast and my CP. Ben helps me get into my wheelchair, and I grab my crutches too; even though this is an ultrarich high school, I never know what kind of nonsense I’ll find in terms of accessibility, which is insane considering it’s nowhere near the 1950s anymore. The cold night air slices through me, but the fear of Rena getting hurt pushes me forward. Ben runs. I motor and steer toward the sidewalk.
“Where’s the ramp?” I cry.
“Here, here.” Ben points the flashlight from his phone on the ground, and I rough ride up and over the bump of a curb. I practically tip over, but Ben catches me. “Calm down, you’re going to roll this thing.”
Normally the idea would be hysterical, but right now everything feels so…desperate. The kids around us on the pavement race to the field. The night is freezing, and there’s the sense of something dangerous in the air. I am powerless to stop Rena or Julian or any of it. I am powerless.
We pass a crowd of teens who must be from Danbury because they are in jeans and sweatshirts and winter coats while we are in our Homecoming clothes—definitely not made for the elements. Everyone’s shouting.
There’s a four-foot chain-link fence around the field and a row of hedges around that. If I’m going to get to the football field in this wheelchair, I’m going to have to go on the sidewalk and go all the way around. I watch the able-bodied kids climb the fence and urge my chair forward, but the battery is low on juice, and it’s not as fast as it usually is—as fast as I need it to be. Ben jogs next to me.
“Do you see her?” I ask. He’s got a much better view over the hedges than I do in my seated position.
He peeks above the bushes. “No. How could she have gotten away that fast?”
“It’s her superpower.”
I round the area where they take tickets and close in on the gates. My chair churns over the pavement, covered with blue paw prints for Danbury’s mascot, the Wildcats. Our hockey players are on the football field, which looks like a cage now. The sound of cars screeching into the parking lot makes me jump. God, I hope it’s the police.
Ben looks over his shoulder. “The Danbury players are here,” he says. “We need to get Rena and go.”
I couldn’t agree more. I make it onto the track surrounding the field just in time to see the Danbury players propelling themselves over the fence. It’s like a waterfall of anger. It doesn’t take me long to find Julian. He’s midfield. Bracing. His face is so angry, and I wonder why.
Ben points. “Found her.”
Rena stands near us on the edge of the field, huddled with a group of girls who have their arms wrapped around themselves, shivering. There’s one hockey player with them. Chip. Rena grabs him and talks to him so intently, I can feel the energy all the way over here. Julian locks eyes on me. I’m not exactly sure what emotions I expect to see, but I mostly see anger. He’s mad at me for being here? Wait. What?
Julian takes Rena by the arm. “Say goodbye to Chip.” His voice sounds like Eric’s—protective. Firm. Nonnegotiable. Julian walks her over to Ben and me.
Dave and Nate come over all agitated. “Come on,