Friday afternoon it rained. Landon watched football technique drills and blocking highlights on YouTube while his father pecked away at the computer. Genevieve ignored him, leaving the house with nothing more than a wave. When Landon asked his father where she’d gone, his father said that she was going to the mall with Megan to shop and then see a movie.
“So that’s a good sign, right?” Landon said, wishing beyond hope that the Peeping Powder Puff thing had died a quick death and everyone had gotten over it.
His father only shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see. Sometimes people surprise you, and I know your mother is on the case, so . . .”
His mom “working on it” made Landon worry more, but he chose to push it from his mind and instead dwell on the weekend invitation. He wanted to call Brett to make sure it was real, feel him out for signs that it was something his mother had put him up to, but decided that might damage what was a good thing. He needed to be patient and let it all unfold.
He closed his iPad and picked up his book.
It was nearly time for practice and still raining when Landon, sitting in his favorite chair, looked up from reading and, out of the blue, spoke across the room to his father. “Genevieve didn’t seem too mad when she left?”
His father looked up from his typing and over at Landon. “The thing about your sister is that she’s a lot like your mom. You never have to worry whose side she’s on.”
Landon waited for his father to go on, but he’d stopped talking. Landon filled the silence, saying, “My side, right?”
His father dipped his chin. “Your side times ten. She might be mad, but she’ll fight for you, Landon.”
Landon thought for a moment. “But who wants to have a little sister fighting for him? I mean, that looks kind of bad.”
His father scratched his chin and pointed. “You seem to really like that book.”
“Huh?” Landon wasn’t sure if he’d heard his father correctly so he held up the book, and his father nodded. “Yeah, it’s awesome.”
“But look at it,” his father said. “A worn-out green cover with the title and the author’s name, both faded. No fireballs or dashing heroes or swords or brilliant, eye-catching colors. But inside? Wow. What could pack a bigger punch than The Three Musketeers? It’s unforgettable.”
“So, don’t judge a book by its cover,” Landon said.
“I never do.” His father smiled and turned back to the screen and his story.
Later, at football practice, Landon watched the other kids warily. The rain hadn’t stopped. Maybe that was keeping the fires of rumors under control. The temperature had dipped into the low seventies, so there wasn’t as much need for water bottles. Landon found himself shifting from foot to foot, drenched from head to toe, watching the other boys battle in the muddy grass. There was a lot of hooting and hollering. Landon couldn’t figure out why. Large drops swelled on his face mask, growing fat until they broke free and splattered his jersey.
No one said anything to him. The one time Landon found himself face-to-face with Skip—before practice on the sideline where Skip was retrieving a football from the ball bag—the quarterback simply walked around Landon like he was a lamppost. He took that as a good sign, but he had a sinking feeling that something might have changed with Brett. It was like their Skype the night before had never happened. He wasn’t able to bring himself to tap Brett on the shoulder until after wind sprints.
Brett looked exhausted, which was no surprise. The big lineman had hustled and hit his way through practice like it was a fifty-round boxing match, if there even was such a thing. Even in the cool rain, Brett’s face was beaded with sweat and his eyes sagged wearily. “Hey, Landon.”
“Everything good?” It was the only question Landon could ask.
“Oh, you mean guys calling you 3P?” Brett shot a glare around at the other players slogging up toward the parking lot. “Don’t worry about that junk. People are stupid.”
“Wait, what?” Landon had no idea what he was talking about.
Brett waved a padded hand toward the heavy gray sky. “Forget it. Just jerks. You’re good for tomorrow, right? My uncle’s place?”
“Yeah.” Landon nodded. “I’m great for tomorrow, but what’s 3P?”
Brett studied him. “Landon, it’s okay. Junk happens. People blow things out of proportion. The girls you walked in on? I already told Skip to keep his hands off you.”
“You did?” Landon felt a surge of gratitude. “Thanks, but why would Skip . . .”
“Well, you know he and Megan are, like, this thing.” Brett wrinkled his face. “Stupid, really. I think they hold hands at the movies or something. Everyone was pushing him to bust you in the mouth, but I got that covered.”
“But, 3P?”
Brett tilted his head. “You really don’t know? It’s not nice. I don’t want to even say. It’s stupid.”
“Wait . . .” Landon lowered his voice. “Peeping Powder Puff?”
Brett looked disgusted. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll die down, and no one’s laying a hand on you.” Brett made a fist and tapped his own chest. “They know better.”
Pressure built up inside Landon because he felt like he should let Brett go. The two of them were just standing there alone now. Brett’s dad was huddled up with the other coaches as they sometimes did after practice, but Landon had to ask, “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Being my friend. What’s in it for you?”
Brett shrugged. “Nothing. You’re my teammate. My dad says a real leader treats everyone on the team the same. The best player or the . . . the not-best player.”
“You mean the worst player.” Landon wondered if, despite the drills, he even qualified as a player. “The guy who plays left out.”
“It doesn’t matter, Landon.” Brett set his jaw. “Some people just don’t get it, but in my house, that’s how we do things. You help people who really need it.”
Landon swallowed. “And . . . because of all this stuff, I really need it?”
Brett had that hard look on his face again. “Yeah. You do.”