Luke pulled up to the curb. “Don’t tell Mom about all that.”
Timothy, his gangly little brother, glanced at him in the mirror. “I thought you were in trouble.”
“Trouble? Me?” Luke pushed Tim on the knee. “Never. Sorry you’re late.”
His brother opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. He gathered up the bags at his feet. “You want me to use your lucky rag?”
“Only on my helmet.” Luke produced a scrap of old denim. “Don’t go spreading that luck around.”
“Why don’t the school just pay people to do this? They act like they don’t got stacks.”
“It’s tradition. Get the hell out of here.”
Luke waited at the curb until his brother’s friend let him into a little house north of town. Through the front door Luke could see that a few other middle schoolers were already hard at work inside. Forty helmets, forty pairs of sneakers, were spread down a long dining table, all waiting to be shined to a high gloss for the game tomorrow night.
Luke knew it was no good trying to pretend that a sight like this didn’t make him a little tipsy with pride. Unlike Dylan Whitley, Luke had always cared for traditions, ceremony, heritage. Ironic maybe, considering the direction in which his heart had always pointed, but Luke was a Texas boy through and through.
Strange, he thought, that Joel hadn’t asked him the obvious questions.
Fuck that guy for wasting his time. Luke was impatient to taste some of this town’s devotion for himself. He was ready to awaken in the mornings to find messages waiting on his phone. The second the front door of the house closed Luke’s hands began to shake on the wheel.
He texted Garrett Mason: Ready.