Playing hooky from school is justified when you have work to do.
Dad will receive an automated call reporting my absence, so I cover my tracks before they’re even made. I open his bedroom door then knock to wake him up.
“Dad?”
He rolls over and replies in a very slow and sleepy voice.
“What’s up, Chels?”
“Dad, I’m not going to school today. I have a research project I’m working on so I’ll be at the library all day. The school automated thing will be calling. Didn’t want it to scare you.”
He barely opens his eyes and readjusts his old blanket.
“The library? Look at my smart girl.” Dad makes no mention that I shouldn’t be missing school.
I walk into the library and sit at an open computer in the back row but get a little sidetracked before I begin. Mothers bring their toddlers in for story time, and I start daydreaming and wondering if my mom ever brought me to hear a story. Little girls with short pigtails and ribbons, little boys with combed-over hair. All kids deserve to sit on their mother’s lap and hear tales like The Little Engine That Could and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. It’s a precious time for all involved, and for ten minutes I sit and observe moms tying shoes, mom and toddler selfies, and moms handing crackers to their little ones.
I swivel side to side in my chair then decide it’s time to get proactive. I begin my search for jobs in the area, something I do often. I hit all the main sites, and make notes for three jobs that look like potentials. A retail job that pays commission sounds most promising, but there’s something very uncomfortable about lying to people about how good they look in stuff they can’t afford. High-pressure sales. Ugh. I can’t seem to get too excited about a minimum wage, paid-by-the-hour job either. The pot I won the other night would be the equivalent of about seventy hours of work. It took five minutes.
I get sidetracked on a recreational gaming site, and I play poker, for fun, until almost ten in the morning. Then I realize that I could actually be learning something about the game itself.
I search: How To Win at Poker. How To Read Your Opponents. The Millionaire Poker Player. Poker Skills. A million sites with a billion articles and videos come up in my search, and I can’t believe I’ve never thought of this before. I go to the front desk and ask for some headphones.
I walk through the library and check each aisle, making sure there’s no one here, by chance, that I know. I go back to my computer and feel like I’m back here about to embark in criminal behavior.
I’m mesmerized. I spend the next five hours learning tricks about the game of poker—things I’ve never even thought about or even considered.
I can’t believe this information is out there. The experts are incredible. Why is the whole universe not on to this? Why are people working miserable jobs when they could be sitting on a poker table making a living? How could something so available seem so untapped? I feel like a secret member of a club after I educate myself all day. I’m empowered, and my heart rate goes up just thinking about my next opportunity on the poker table.
__________
Somehow I manage to be running late to the first football game of the year.
Simultaneously, I drive and place an oversized red bow on the top of my head. Not sure who started the big bow trend, but I look in the rearview mirror and confirm it’s ridiculous. The bow is as big as a football. Why are we wearing footballs on the top of our heads? Bows. Who needs ‘em?
__________
“Daddy, Kailey said her mom makes her hair bows with a hot glue gun.”
Dad looked at me. “Hair bows?”
“Yeah, those big ones with the ribbons and jewels and feathery things.”
“Oh.” Dad flipped the channel. He flipped some more. “Why? Do you want hair bows?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. But I don’t know how to make them.”
He cranked back in his recliner. “I’m sure it can’t be that hard. It’s just a hair bow.”
“Yeah.” I knew in my head Dad couldn’t make what I had in mind. He stopped on a fishing show just as they were reeling in a big one. I explained, “They’re about this big, and a jewel holds them together in the middle.”
He was entranced by the bass.
“Dad?”
“Oh, yeah, honey, hair bows . . . draw me a picture and I’ll give it my best shot.”
__________
The parking lot fills quickly, and I inch my little car between two SUVs, one of which is halfway into my parking space too. I crack my door open to realize there’s no way I’m getting out, slam my door back, then crawl to the passenger side to avoid reparking. Before I open the door, I look up to the heavens and say, “Dear God, please don’t let any casino people recognize me. I’ll be better. I promise. Amen.” I get out of the car, tie my shoes, and run toward the field.
“You’re late.” Cassidy is already on my case.
“I know that.” I look for Miss Mound, but she’s not around.
“Let me guess. Casino?” She says just a little too loudly. I look to make sure no one heard then squint my eyes at her sending the, “What-the-hell-are-you-thinking?” message.
I go down in the splits to start stretching with the rest of them, and keep my face down toward my knee, looking up through the corner of my eye.
Please.
Please. Please. Please. Don’t let anyone recognize me.
I look down each row of bleachers as they start to fill with kids, grandparents, teenagers, and moms and dads—all dressed in red and black. An old guy in overalls makes my heart stop, but after my eyes adjust and zone in, I decide he’s not a poker player.
If only this were a day game, I could wear sunglasses. The big ones. No one would be able to recognize me then. I think of a million ways to hide my face as we line up to run through and practice our halftime routine. As we wait for the music to start, I look down at my shoes and pretend my foot itches.
The music starts. A hip-hop song that’s so loud it sounds like the speaker could crack any second.
“Five. Six. Sev-en. Eight.” Miss Mound comes from behind us and lets her presence be known.
Like a little kid, I take the, “If-I-don’t-look-they-can’t-see-me” approach. I go through the entire routine without looking into the stands. But my mind spins a million ways I’ll be recognized. A cocktail waitress attending her brother’s game. A poker player visiting his alma mater. A truck driver pulling over for a hot dog.
I’m screwed.
I go through the motions. Then, it’s time. The stands are full. The football players come out. We grab our pom-poms and do our thing on the sideline. The football players line up down the field, black jerseys, silver numbers. Number 42, Caleb Vanhoose, comes back for a drink. I notice. He takes his time and looks into the stands, and I pray he doesn’t have an Uncle Charlie that knows what it means to have an inside straight. He looks at me, oddly, and I panic that somehow he’s received a telepathic message that I’m a poker player.
He smiles.
Eyebrows raised, I smile back.
Cassidy’s on it.
“What was that? Did you see the way he looked at you? Wow!”
“I don’t think he was looking at me.” I adjust my skirt and bend down to tie a shoe that doesn’t need to be tied.
“Ummm, yes he was,” she says.
At halftime, we run to take our places on the field. I barely smile, thinking a big smile will only draw attention. We stand there, waiting for music. We stand there longer, waiting for music. Is this really happening? Play the damn music! I frantically scan the stands, praying this isn’t a bust. We are motionless, pom pons at our hips, waiting for something . . . anything to happen. I start on row one, and strain to look at every single spectator.
Row one . . . I’m safe. Row two . . . Row three . . .
I get halfway through the crowd when the music starts.
Then I see Nate.