Seventeen. Stupid Oliver Pagano and his stupid bird face reminded her that she was very much seventeen.
Even before finding the list, Daphne had been thinking about her sister more than ever now that they shared the same age. Seventeen was the link to Emily that had been simmering in Daphne’s veins for seven years, a curse to be revealed and a chance to break its spell. If Daphne could just make it through seventeen, the doors of life would open to her and she could walk through anything. Emily’s list gave her a charm to counter this spell, but she didn’t know how to use it.
She reached deep into the black nothing of her mind and grasped for any clue that Emily may have left. Her last memory of Emily was the most prominent, a few months before that infamous Tuesday, when Emily’s mood had swung on a peaceful hammock blowing in the wind.
Daphne sits at her small desk, filling out a workbook for spelling class. Emily knocks on the door, which is strange because Emily isn’t a knocker. She’s barged in and out of rooms as long as Daphne can remember with absolutely zero courtesy for the people on either side of the door. The knock validated her parents’ whispers of medication and working, a quiet joy in their voices.
“Come in.” Daphne’s words come out as suspicion rather than instruction.
“How’s it going?” Emily tiptoes in, as if reduced volume lessens the disruption. Daphne goes back to her writing.
“Doing homework?” Emily asks.
Daphne is no fool. Plenty of times Emily has asked Daphne about school only to ridicule her teacher’s pet status. It’s better to say nothing and just let Emily get frustrated with the lack of attention and storm out of the room. Daphne nods without looking up.
“Sorry you have Mrs. Morris. She’s a huge bit…” Emily catches herself. “Big, nasty person.”
“That’s what I thought, too, before I had her. She seems really mean in the halls and at recess. But she’s a really fun teacher and not mean at all.”
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Why would I lie?” Daphne cocks her head, half innocent, half annoyed.
“Why would you tell the truth?”
Daphne gives this three seconds of thought. “Because I do.”
Emily smiles at her, a smile Daphne hasn’t seen in a long time. A real one.
“Yeah, you do.” Emily exits louder than her entrance. The ground creaks and moans under her feet, and she takes extra, weighted steps to build the noise.
Daphne stares at Emily, at her rude feet.
“So serious. You need to get out of this room.” Emily throws Daphne a wink as she saunters through the doorway.
This list was probably there the whole time—maybe that’s what the wink was about. Daphne played the scene again and again in her mind. At the end of each wink through the doorway, her thoughts returned to Oliver. The other boy at another desk in the other house with another set of floorboards.
She’d given Oliver a full week. Rather, she’d given herself a full week to forget about him, and she’d failed. Basic cyberstalking showed that he’d “Liked” one of their mutual friend’s photos. Deductive reasoning pointed to him having read her message. Still, she couldn’t let it go. She didn’t know what the list meant, but it meant something. He should have something, shouldn’t he? The list had become a secret she was keeping from him. Whether he wanted to hear it or not, the universe owed it to him. And Daphne was the universe.
A quick Google search revealed that he’d scored a touchdown in football three years ago in a JV game. It was a start. The first place she’d look was the Sacred Heart football field.
After school, one block before her house, she passed the Sacred Heart campus as she’d done roughly twelve hundred times before. Striding by the elite prep school every morning, she fantasized rolling out of bed at the first bell and still making it to first period without a tardy. Daphne had the sensibility to keep her dreams feasible.
Though a block away in proximity, Sacred Heart levitated miles above her family’s income bracket, even with her mom working eighty-hour weeks at the hospital, even before her dad lost his insurance job. Daphne shared the sidewalk with girls whose shoes cost more than her entire wardrobe, and the student parking lot could stand in for an Audi dealership.
The whole scene was pretty disgusting. Sweet-sixteen birthday presents could pay for entire college educations. Well, almost. Daphne always held her head high and slowed her pace when walking alongside the Sacred Hearters. The rich would suffer the sight of her ninety-eight-percentery as long as possible. She tugged on her vintage Harley Davidson T-shirt. The safety pins holding it together shimmered in the sun.
“Cool shirt.” A blonde girl slipped in six dainty conch earrings, no mirror required. She gave Daphne a nod of approval and adorned her fingers with thick silver rings.
That’s what Daphne got for trying to make a socioeconomical statement: a compliment.
“Thanks,” Daphne mumbled. She also acknowledged that if she had the money, she’d buy the same pair of Alexander Wang ankle boots that No Mirror Girl was wearing, college education be damned.
Daphne wondered what the girl would wear if she wasn’t hampered by the Sacred Heart’s polos and knee-length skirts. And that’s when Daphne realized the fatal flaw in her plan—the dress code. She couldn’t blend in wearing all black in a world of navy blue and khaki.
She circled back, taking long, slow breaths to coax her stomach up the four inches it had fallen. In an effort to calm herself, she analyzed her findings from the initial Sacred Heart flyby. The main entrance had too much security to get through without a Student ID. All the other gates were locked, but the East Gate had a fair amount of foot traffic. That was her best chance of sneaking in. She just needed someone to open the door.
By the time she made it back to the East Gate, the stream of students had run dry. Daphne milled about the sidewalk for ten minutes, pretending to be on her phone, until someone finally came. The Chuck Taylors beneath the boy’s khakis made him a solid prospect. They were decked out in rebel fashion with band logos reimagined as pro-Catholicism talking points. On one white toe cap, the squared NIN of Nine Inch Nails now read “NIV.” On the other toe cap, NOFX’s logo now promoted “NOSEX.” She walked to the gate, keeping her eyes on her phone, playing it cool. She moved to slide behind him, but he jerked the gate closed.
“Hey, you don’t go here.” He held her shoulder.
Daphne almost dropped her phone. “I…was…” She stuttered, unable to concoct a lie.
He scowled at her and walked away.
Entitled asshat. Trent Reznor would not approve.
Daphne leaned against the fence, ready to give up. Out of the corner of her eye, No Mirror Girl crossed into the parking lot from the main entrance. This was Daphne’s last chance. She ran to the Alexander Wang boots.
“Hey!”
No Mirror Girl turned. “Hi?”
“I don’t have a badge.” The line came out smooth because it wasn’t a lie. “Could you, please, let me in?”
No Mirror Girl gave Daphne’s T-shirt a second look and pointed up and over the fence. “See those?”
Daphne followed her finger to three security cameras aimed in different angles at the gate.
“If you do anything illegal, it’s my ass. And I like my ass just the way it is.”
“Understood. No asses will be affected.”
NMG ran her badge over the sensor. The gate unlocked.
“Thank you.” Daphne hoped the wavering in her voice conveyed her gratitude and ran inside.
She didn’t know where she was going, but a sweet-rich-exotic cloud of incense swarmed the sidewalk. She followed the scent, averting her trespassing eyes from any remaining students. The trail led her to the school chapel. Directly behind it were the football field bleachers. The entrance was right there! But between her and the fifty-yard line, two male faculty members with badges dangling on lanyards were headed straight toward her. One of the men spotted Daphne and nodded in her direction. Daphne couldn’t turn around. They’d call her out for sure, and she’d be escorted out as soon as she’d arrived. The chapel was her only hope. Don’t panic. She held her head high and marched the ten steps to the chapel. Not too fast, not too slow.
The chapel was filled with smoke from the incense. She froze in the doorway. Her own memories swirled in the exhaust.
The thick haze escapes as the garage door opens. Her mom throws open her car door, tries to jump out with her seatbelt still on. The yank of the seatbelt reaching the end of its give, like a noose snapping a neck.
PHLUGH-MEH-DUM! The brown flash in Daphne’s peripheral vision brought her back to the chapel. A priest whipped a rug through the air, whooshing fresh air in and incense out. A nun waved a broom, trying to do the same, while an overachieving altar boy apologized profusely.
“It’s fine, Wyatt. I know it won’t happen again.” The warmth in the priest’s voice comforted the boy. The nun scowled, unconvinced Wyatt wouldn’t repeat his sins.
Still flapping the rug, the priest spotted Daphne in the doorway. “Please, come in. If you don’t mind a little incense. This might put you off the stuff for life.”
It struck her that the last time she’d attended church was Emily’s funeral. She considered turning around and running, but she liked the way the light blazed through the stained glass windows in the late afternoon. The vivid colors of the Virgin Mary and Jesus, mercifully not on the cross, energized her. At the same time, the listless eyes of shepherds and angels lent the room a sense of serenity. No worries, no happiness, no sorrow. She gave the priest a sheepish look and stepped inside.
The two faculty members were right behind her. “Everything alright, Father?” They said it referring to Daphne, not the smoke.
“Yes. This is a prospective student,” the priest said. “We should be so lucky.”
The faculty members smiled at Daphne and left.
“I’m Father George. Please don’t tell me if you’re not a prospective student. I like to consider myself an honest man.”
Normally, there was something off-putting about the black and Roman-collared attire of priests, such formality for a religion based on a notoriously informal carpenter. Father George overcame her apprehension with an assertive handshake. She wasn’t a delicate creature to him, nor a soul that needed to be saved.
“Daphne.” She shouldn’t have given her real name, but he was a priest. Lying to him was an express ticket to hell. Not that she believed in hell, but still.
“Welcome to Sacred Heart, Daphne.” His kind eyes eased her nerves.
“I’m looking for someone. Oliver Pagano?”
Recognition lit up Father George’s face. “I imagine he’s on the field.”
“Is it this way?” Daphne pointed to the back door.
“I’m sorry, Daphne. You’re not a student here, so you can’t go through there.”
“Oh.” Her knees turned to jelly. She struggled not to slump to the floor in defeat.
“But there’s a home game Friday night.”
“Oh,” she said again. Her legs reconstituted, and she grew an inch while attempting to make more than vowel sounds. “Can I do my homework here?” Every night, she wanted to add.
“You’re welcome here, anytime.” Father George reached into his pocket and handed her a business card bearing his name, phone number, and the Sacred Heart emblem. “Call this number at the Main Gate.” He pulled a pair of scissors from behind the pulpit and trimmed the wicks on the prayer candles. “Call every day, if you like. I’ll be here.”
Daphne swallowed and nodded, barely able to contain her smile. “Thank you.”
Over the next hour, a few people stepped in and out to say a brief prayer. If Daphne was distracted by their entrance, they exited quietly without her notice. This place was a homework mecca, while her broken public library was a crowded and noisy substitution for a babysitter and a homeless shelter. She was going to study here tomorrow and next week and the week after. The idea made her head go fizzy. Even reading about the horrors of Gettysburg couldn’t take away all of the carbonation.
• • •
She wanted to bring Janine along for moral support. But the merciless teasing—for a boy, much less—wasn’t worth it. Friday night, Daphne arrived at Sacred Heart an hour before the game, paid the entry fee, and sat at the bottommost bleachers, prime real estate for reading names on jerseys. She knew she was in the right place because the bird head from Oliver’s profile photo was cheering at her feet.
The stands filled up and screamers of all ages, all wearing red and white, packed in around her. By the end of the fourth quarter, Oliver Pagano hadn’t made any passes, blocks, catches, tackles, or touchdowns. He hadn’t incurred any penalties, and he wasn’t sitting on the bench. The masses around her hadn’t screamed his name.
He wasn’t on the football team.
Sacred Heart was fourteen points ahead as the final seconds ticked down. Everyone in the bleachers stood and cheered. It was time to make her escape before everyone fled for the exits. She ran along the bottom bleacher, careful not to step on any toes.
“Oliver!” A female voice shouted.
Daphne halted and turned to the voice. Beneath her, right in front of the bleachers, most of the cheerleading squad ran and hugged the hawk mascot. She shuffled back to her seat, closer to the hawk, now pushing against the flow of bodies.
“We did it!” a short, buxom girl squealed, burying her boobs in the bird’s feathers.
Daphne grimaced. Squealing girls were nails on chalkboards.
“Oly, are you coming out tonight?” Another cheerleader asked. The hawk head nodded.
Jason Pagano’s little brother had been right in front of her the whole game, running back and forth as the Sacred Heart Hawk. She’d made a point not to watch him because she pitied the sticky, stinky person in the hawk costume. Her eyes stung imagining the sweat dripping into his eyes, the hot breath hitting the headpiece and blowing back in his face. Even more irritating was the realization that the profile photo wasn’t a reflection of his sense of humor—it was realism.
The Hawk flapped his wings over to a redheaded cheerleader near the stands. His bird. Something resembling jealousy fluttered in Daphne’s chest, but she blamed the cool night and shivered away the implausibility. She didn’t know Oliver Pagano, and there was nothing to be jealous about. She hadn’t even seen his face, which was probably vastly overrated since it was covered up all the time.
Facing Daphne, he took off the headpiece. Her suspicions were confirmed: Oliver Pagano was nothing special. The resemblance to Jason was there, but Oliver was taller, his hair lighter brown, and his jaw curved where Jason’s had angled.
Oliver’s cheeks were bright red, his eyebrows mashed onto his forehead and pointed all directions of the compass, his hair damp and flattened in awkward cowlicks. He suddenly became aware of this and shook his head to reposition the clumps. The result was slightly better.
In his eyes, Daphne saw mischief, curiosity, and light. Only a tiny shadow of emptiness lurked in his brown irises. Could Jason Pagano’s little brother’s eyes look like this? Shouldn’t they look more like her own tired, doubtful eyes?
In one way or another, she’d been searching for Oliver Pagano for seven years. Finally, he was right in front of her, laughing in a chicken costume. And Daphne wanted to fly the coop.