Initiation by Phil M. Williams Page A

Carter said. He held up his half-eaten sandwich. “You want some?”
    “What is that, peanut butter? No jelly?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s gross.”
    He took another bite. “Tastes good to me,” he said, his mouth full. After swallowing, he glanced down at her hands. “What’s with the gloves?”
    She held up a hand encased in a long white glove that went halfway up her forearm. “It makes me feel like I’m living in a different time. You know, like when people wore top hats and addressed each other as sir and madam, not dude and man.”
    “Excuse me, Madam, may I escort you to your destination?” Carter said in his best stuffy voice. “It is improper for a young lady to be unescorted on a public street.” Carter held his arm out like a chicken wing.
    She laughed and slid her arm through. “Did you see Ben over the weekend?”
    “Saturday at the scrimmage,” Carter said.
    She took a deep breath. “Last I talked to him he said he was going to the big football party at some farmhouse.” She pursed her lips.
    He glanced at her. “Why, what’s wrong?”
    “I don’t know. I went over to his house Sunday, but his mom said he was sick. And then today, I didn’t see him. Last year he waited on the corner for me every day. I’m assuming you went to the party.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Did you see him there?”
    “Just the back of his head. He doesn’t talk to me, remember.”
    She frowned. “Did something happen there?”
    He bit the inside of his cheek. “Where?”
    “The party, where do you think?”
    He sucked in his bottom lip and pressed it out. “Maybe. Like I said, I didn’t see him much.”
    “I know the football team has initiations. Two years ago a kid went to the ER for alcohol poisoning.”
    “What happened?”
    “Nothing as far as I know. He still plays.”
    Carter raised his eyebrows. “Who?”
    She ignored his question. They watched the red hand on the traffic light across the street. Cars and trucks zipped past, the smell of exhaust in the air.
    She turned to Carter. “Did they force you to drink?”
    “No.”
    She nodded.
    “Who was the kid that got alcohol poisoning? You said he still plays.”
    “Your boy, Noah. Congrats by the way, I heard you took his position.”
    The light flashed walk in green. They picked up their pace as they moved across the four-lane road. Carter glanced at the cars, the front ends lurching forward as the three-thousand-pound machines ground to a halt in front of the crosswalk.
    “It’s not his position,” Carter said.
    She glanced at him, her mouth flat. “You’re right, it’s yours. You’re a man of your word, Carter Lynch. You said you were going to take his position and you did.”
    “You say that like I did something wrong. Didn’t you say it was a competition, not personal? I worked hard. The coaches didn’t give me anything.”
    She pursed her lips. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m happy for you. I tend to be cranky in the A.M.”
    Carter exhaled. “I don’t think anyone wanted me to have this position.”
    She stopped and turned to Carter. He stopped, their arms still interlocked. “I’m sorry for being a bitch. You don’t deserve it.” She shook her head and exhaled, her eyes searching his. “I hate football. Ben’s mad at you over it, putting me in the middle of you guys. Kids get hurt on and off the field. You know, Noah was a nice kid in middle school. It’s like they get on varsity and turn into varsity assholes.”
    They continued down the sidewalk, the sprawling brick school looming large in the background.
    “Is that what you think is gonna happen to me?” Carter asked.
    She smiled briefly. “I like you despite your head-ramming fetish, not because of it.”
    * * *
    The lunchroom was filled with the buzz of voices, clanging trays, and stomping feet. Carter pushed his tray along the metal counter. Justin nudged in front and dumped his empty tray on the counter.
    He turned to Carter. “What’s up man, let me get in