Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,39

swaying with her.

“Careful,” Chelsea teases. “This seems awfully close to dancing.”

From the corner of my eye, I watch Kenzie slam her bottle into one of the metal trash cans and stomp away.

Chelsea

ball reversal

We walk up and down Main Street so many times, my arches are throbbing like they do after one of my long hikes with Clint. At some point during those slow and easy treks, he always takes out some old compass and stares at the dial—and then the horizon—and sighs loud enough to make me suspect he finds our pace too slow and easy. Make me wonder if I need a note from my orthopedic surgeon to convince him that push yourself is a relative term.

But Clint’s not sighing this afternoon. He seems to revel in the fact that our stroll is punctuated by funnel cakes and fried Twinkies and kabobs and root beer. Trying on silly ball caps. Watching the kayak races. Picking lumberjacks to cheer for in the log-jumping competition.

The pink watercolor shades of sunset shock me. We’ve spent hours here, but it feels like a moment. Clint’s beginning to seem a little antsy, as if the encroaching night is a floor we’ve begun painting without paying any attention to where the doors are. Like we’re about to be trapped by—what? A darker shade? Isn’t that all night is?

Only it’s not. Night has a whole different connotation—I know that. Baudette knows that, too. The families clustered around picnic tables are giving way to hand-holding pairs. Couples that look a little like fireflies, the way they flitter about, flirting in the sweet summer air. And I’m here with Clint. Anyone who didn’t know better might suspect we’re dating, too. My face warms as I wonder what it would be like if I were free to take his hand. If I could wrap an arm around his waist.

Gabe Gabe Gabe Gabe Gabe …

We’re coming to the end of the booths again; it’s time for us to leave, I know it is. But I elbow Clint, delighted to find a way to stretch out our day just a little longer. “Come on,” I say, pointing to a booth where hairdressers are braiding hair, weaving ribbons into the plaits. I take a seat, close my eyes, and allow my brain to play with daydreams the way the local stylist plays with my locks, twisting them tightly around the base of my head. I imagine that I’m a Baudette girl, going to college in Minnesota. That I have all summer to spend with my boyfriend, my Clint, whose skin is the utter fire of thrill—the closest thing I’ve ever felt to launching my body into the air, shooting the ball out of sheer desperation, and triumphantly snagging the final, game-winning three-pointer.

When the hairdresser’s done, she sticks a handheld mirror in front of me. “Whaddaya think?” she says, her voice bouncing with a light accent.

I think it looks just like a little-girl hairdo. I might as well have happy faces and rainbows painted on my cheeks.

“Thank—thank you,” I stutter, my entire face growing red as I push myself out of the chair. My hair is pulled so far from my face, I have no hope of hiding my horrendous blush.

“It’s silly, isn’t it?” I say, reaching to take it down.

But Clint just wraps his warm, strong hand around my wrist, stops me from pulling out the pins. “You look really pretty,” he says, without even a dash of sarcasm. Pretty. The word gives me goose bumps.

His stare grows intense. I start to wish, as I stare back, that I could see his unspoken fantasies reflected in the shiny pupils of his eyes. More than anything, I wish I could see that the person he’s been fantasizing about is me.

His head—good God—his head leans closer to mine. My entire body beats as though I’m being dribbled against a gym floor.

Clint’s grip grows painfully strong against my wrist. But instead of pulling me toward him, like I want him to, he pushes me away.

“I—I’m sorry—I—” I try, but Clint just shakes his head.

“Let me go see if Pop’s going to need any help at the beer garden. Gets kind of hectic at night,” he says, turning away from me.

I’m left standing there alone. Feeling like a complete and total moron.

Kenzie catches my eye from the opposite side of the street and starts stomping straight for me. Okay, now I wish I could stay alone. Please go away, I think. Please go away. But she