I RUN LIKE I’M in a disaster movie and the pavement is cracking into pieces behind me, my eyes glued to the ground so no one will see that I’m on the verge of tears. Even the thought of my mom checking me into a “recovery” center somewhere doesn’t slow my feet. I narrowly miss running into several people but manage to shoulder-swipe someone at the edge of the parking lot.
“Sorry,” I whimper. A fiery pain races through my shoulder, but I keep going.
“Mal?”
Someone grabs a handful of Brad’s jersey, whipping me around. Jake.
“Are you okay? Did something happen?”
I inhale shakily. “I’m … fine. I’m just going home to grab something.” I try to focus on him—he’s carrying an armful of brown-gray fabric and, I think, Artie the armadillo’s head.
“Let’s just take a time-out, okay?”
He grabs my hand and leads me behind a row of cars and under the bleachers. The costume almost slides out of his grip. The bleachers muffle the sound of the band members practicing scales and the stomp of the fans’ footsteps on the metal stands enough for my heartbeat to slow. I don’t want to tell Jake why I was running through the school parking lot crying and hyperventilating, so I preempt his questions with a question of my own.
“You know I’m going to have to report you to the proper authorities for kidnapping Artie, right?”
Jake laughs and tosses the costume on the ground. “Yeah, right. You don’t think I have better things to do than steal a high school mascot?”
I look at him uncertainly.
He scoffs. “Point taken. But no, I didn’t steal it. I saw a couple of little douche bags from Mayfield trying to shove the costume in the bushes behind the elementary school playground after I dropped Brad off. I just asked them what they were doing and they practically begged me to take it and not hurt them.”
I let out a giggle and feel some of the tension evaporate. “Let me guess. They thought you just got out of prison?”
Jake shrugs. “Or rehab, gang, whatever. I guess having a reputation pays off.”
“And tattoos,” I add. A cheer erupts from the bleachers above us, sending a wave of get home through me. “Anyway, I’m feeling a lot better, so I’m just gonna go—”
I turn to walk away, but Jake grabs my arm. “Don’t you have to be on the field in, like, two minutes?”
As if on cue, the band starts playing the fight song. The sound’s snaking closer, and I know that they’re marching onto the field.
“Do I?” I bite my lip.
Now Jake puts both of his hands on my shoulders and looks me right in the eyes. The silent-but-waiting treatment. “Were you trying to bail?” he asks quietly.
I used up all my energy running, and there’s none left to keep the truth from pouring out.
“Yes, okay?” A brief, cool wind sweeps up my bangs. Tears spring into my eyes. “Adventure’s Peak went okay, and I’m trying to do better and Lincoln said I could do it, but I just can’t. I can’t do this. There are all these people and the noises and the lights and…”
I swallow.
“Hey,” Jake says, rubbing my shoulders. His hands are strong and his fingertips press into my shoulder blades. “I know what will make you feel better.”
I look up at him, eager to hear whatever brilliant solution this genius guy has for me.
“The mascot costume,” he says.
I wait a beat before asking, “I’m sorry?”
Jake smirks a little, and I wonder what the hell kind of “beautiful smile” gene the Kirkpatrick boys got and if it could ever be used for cloning purposes. “Hear me out.”
The people in the stands above us stomp their feet and ring cowbells. Instinctively, I move closer to him. His arms wrap around my back far enough that his hands meet, making a warm knot between my shoulders.
“So before I went to Harvard,” he says, “I started getting these … I guess you could call them panic attacks. You know what I’m talking about?”
I nod slowly, inches away from his chest.
“I’d get them whenever I felt like I was under too much pressure, whenever my mom was hounding me about some new deadline or possible internship I might want to get. It was bad.”
“Yeah,” I say, eager to hear that someone understands what I’ve been dealing with.
“But what always helped me was being in a small space. I mean, sometimes when I would freak out, I’d climb into my closet. Don’t, like, psychoanalyze that or try to figure it out, because I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of weird, return-to-the-womb stuff going on.…”
I can’t help it. I laugh.
“But just being in a small space made me feel … safe.”
Safe. Secure. Capable. I get it. Jake lets go of me and bends down to pick up the mascot costume. I shout, “No!” and I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want to wear the costume or I don’t want him to let go.
Principal Lu’s voice comes booming over the field. “Good evening and welcome, players and fans!”
A cheer erupts. More cowbells. Jake holds the armadillo head and costume out to me. “No one will see your face. You’ll be totally hidden, Mallory.” He unzips the costume.
The way he says my name gives me a little zing that ricochets through my whole body. The crowd is screaming now; the noise is hitting me over and over again, like a huge wave. Do I run? Or do I walk onto the field? The thought of walking out in front of everyone makes me feel sick.
But I know, as I look at Jake’s encouraging face, that I’m way past the point of hiding from everyone and everything. And if I have a chance at winning—and, maybe I’m crazy, but I think I do—then I need to go out there on the field. Winning means more than finding my dad now. It means showing everyone, like Mom and Lincoln, that I’m okay.
It means that everything can finally go back to normal.
I close my eyes and sigh. “Zip me up, Jake.”
I step into Artie’s (giant) feet and Jake reaches around me to zip up the back. With the screaming, the smell of the costume, and the nausea climbing up my body, I hardly have time to think about the nerves that fire at the touch of his hand.
“Please welcome to the field the members of your Reardon High School homecoming court! Caroline Fairchild and Luis Valdez!”
Holding Artie’s head, Jake asks, “You ready?”
I have approximately ten seconds before Principal Lu calls my name, so I frantically say the words I never imagined would come out of my mouth.
“Just put the mascot head on me!”
Jake complies and the world around me disappears. With Jake, I stumble out from under the bleachers and toward the field. Thank God I have him to hold on to—I can barely see through the tiny eyeholes of the armadillo head and I have no idea where I’m going.
“Mallory!”
Someone else grabs my arm. I maneuver the head around until I can see who it is.
“We’re up!” Brad says. “Where have you been?”
Brad and Jake say something to each other, but I can’t hear them. This armadillo head makes it sound like I’m listening to everything through a seashell, but Jake’s right—it’s way better than being crushed under an avalanche of noise. Brad wraps his arm around me and leads me to the field. We step onto the sea of manicured, bright green turf.
“You found the mascot!” Brad yells so that I can hear him. “You’re a hero! Again!”
The combination of Brad’s compliment and the heat inside the armadillo shell is making me melt. Principal Lu’s voice calls out, loud enough that there’s a tiny echo in the costume.
“And, last but not least, Mallory Sullivan and Brad Kirkpatrick!”
I put one giant fuzzy foot in front of the other, following Brad’s lead, as the crowd screams and rings those godforsaken cowbells. They’re chanting something.…
“Mal-lor-y! Mal-lor-y! Mal-lor-y!”
My name. They’re chanting my name … and not because they’re making fun of me. Not because I’m the freak who’s too scared to leave the house. Not because I’m Skyping into class.
Because I saved the day. Well, Jake did, but still. I was there.
And now I’m here.
* * *
The rest of the ceremony blurs by. After a lot of announcements and one squeaky performance of a Bruno Mars song by the marching band, Brad’s already leading me off the field. Once we’re safely to the parking lot, I yank the armadillo head off. My hair is plastered to my head with sweat, and my face feels tacky with makeup. Jenni would be horrified.
But I don’t even care. I let the armadillo head fall on the ground and heave a huge sigh of relief.
“That was amazing, Mallory!” Brad shouts.
A smile swallows my face. I must look like an idiot. “You think?”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “You are the best. No one else had the balls to show up dressed as an armadillo.”
Before I even understand what’s happening, he gives me a huge, lifted-off-the-ground hug. As he spins me around, I catch a glimpse of Pia Lubeck shooting us death glares, Jenni and Lincoln walking toward us from across the field, and … Jake, who stops dead in his tracks a few feet away, staring at us.
Brad puts me back on the ground. “Can you believe it?” he asks Jake, his face still lit up.
“Nope,” Jake says. The flatness in his voice makes my stomach flop.
“What the hell?” Lincoln says. “I thought you”—he stops himself before saying “spazzed out and ran home”—“were kidnapped or something.”
Jenni throws her arms around me. “You were fantastic. Oh, this fabric is so gross.” She pulls back from me and wipes her hands on her skirt before she unzips me. The armadillo costume falls to the ground, and I’m once again wearing just jeans and Brad’s practice jersey.
Brad puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, the cheerleaders are forming the tunnel and I need to get on the field. But I wanted to ask you something. Would you…”
I almost stop breathing. My heartbeat picks up. Jenni and Lincoln and Jake watch us.
“Want to go to Shauna Macgregor’s party with me? She throws one after the homecoming game every year and it’s usually pretty fun.”
“Yes!” I say, and then immediately clap my hand over my mouth.
Jenni and Lincoln look at each other, clearly as shocked as I am about what I just said.
“I’m gonna split,” Jake says to Brad, avoiding my gaze. I ignore the confusing feeling pooling in my stomach. I need to focus on Brad. “I’ll catch you at home.”
“Oh, wait, dude.” Brad grabs his arm. “Do you think you could give us a ride to the party, and maybe pick us up, too? I hate to ask, but we’re going to be celebrating, and I don’t really want to drive home.…”
Jake looks at me, his mouth a straight line as he puts artificial pep into his voice. “Sure. Anything to help my baby brother the quarterback avoid getting a DUI.”
“Awesome!” Brad says, looking just as genuinely happy as he does 95 percent of the time.
As Brad runs onto the field, the reality of what’s going to happen tonight sinks in. What did I just agree to?
“Thank you,” I call weakly after Jake, but he’s already too far away.