My Seventh-Grade Life in Tights by Brooks Benjamin

in eighth grade.” DeMarcus fell onto the bench beside me. “He’s like three inches taller than last year.”
    “He’s got a beard, too,” I said, then remembered that the last time we spoke, I was sure I was going to walk away with a smashed nose. DeMarcus leaned forward, shaking the sweat off his face, and I moved down the bench as slowly as I could.
    He looked over at me, eyebrows pinched together. “I smell bad or something?”
    I froze mid-scoot. “No. You smell fine.”
    DeMarcus let out a weak-sounding laugh and sat up. “You still freaked out about the other day?”
    “Yeah. I guess. Like maybe I feel bad for making you think I was calling you—”
    “Whoa, easy.” He swept his eyes around the sidelines really fast. “You can’t just go throwing that word around, you know?”
    “Um, not really.”
    “Guys don’t like to hear it. Especially guys who have to change in the locker room with other guys. Even if—even if it’s not true. You know?”
    I sort of understood what he was saying. But at the same time totally didn’t. “I was trying to say I know you’re not. I mean, you’re dating Sarah.” I added that in more for me. Because I had enough to deal with. The thought of DeMarcus sending lovey-dovey texts to Kassie would just make me feel worse.

    He sighed, staring out onto the field. “I don’t know, man. It’s…tough.”
    “Trust me, I know.”
    DeMarcus swiveled his head toward me. “You do ?”
    “Yeah. But I’m starting to get there. Or at least I think I am.”
    “So…” DeMarcus slid closer, his voice slipping into whisper mode. “How do you deal with it? Like, do you ever talk to your parents or anything?”
    “Not really. I just sort of tell myself that I’ll either get better or she’ll lose her voice.” I smiled at the thought of Sarah trying to bark out commands, but only managing a bunch of wimpy wheezes.
    “Hold up.” DeMarcus shook his head. “What’re you talking about?”
    “Sarah. How tough she is. I’ve been screamed at more these past few weeks than ever in my life.”
    His head fell forward. I thought he was going to pop back up and say something like I feel you, man, but instead he just sat there with his eyes closed and sighed. Maybe he liked my idea of Sarah not being able to talk and was praying that could happen for him, too.
    “Are you okay?” I said.
    He lifted his head. “I’m fine.”

    He wasn’t. That much was obvious. What I couldn’t get was why. “Hey, if you need to talk about something—”
    “I said I’m fine,” he snapped, and stood up, shaking out his hands. “I gotta get ready to go back in.” He grabbed his helmet and walked toward the other first-string players, who were milling around on the sidelines.
    I sort of wanted to go stand by him. Maybe try to get him to talk. If anything, maybe he could give me some pointers on how to survive Sarah. But I stayed put and tried to focus on the rest of the game.
    Which we lost. By over thirty points. That was the bad news.
    The good news was that practice was at my house on Saturday, so I got to sleep in later than usual. After we ran through our routine a few times, we sat down to get real-life zombified by Austin. He’d brought a makeup kit that he’d found online.
    Carson sat on the edge of the end table, already halfway to undead as the YouTube video played back. He commented a few times, saying how much he liked some of the moves Sarah had taught me.
    Kassie, though? Not so much.
    “I’m not saying they don’t look good,” she said, shrugging. “Your lines really are looking better, but they’re just not your style.”
    “They could be! I could just mix them in with my old stuff. I could be like a contemporary ninja or something.”

    “Ooh, you could call it Kungtemporary Fu!” Carson said.
    Austin snorted out a laugh, accidentally drawing a streak of green across Carson’s forehead.
    “Yes!” I said. “Kassie, think about it. It still