Page 19 of The Cadence

T he silence went on long enough that I felt the need to repeat myself. “I’m very sorry,” I said.

“It’s not me you need to apologize to.”

“Miss Mozella, does Jesus really care—”

“Calla Easterly!”

It was, of course, bad news that she didn’t call me Bug and that my last name came out, too.

“I’m very, very sorry, and I won’t question anything about how Jesus might feel,” I apologized.

“I’ll go to Mass next Sunday. I swear it.

” I meant all that. I would have gone the Sunday before except that another of the Woodsmen had a party because it was the last weekend before their games started.

I had really, really wanted to attend, enough that I’d been willing to risk the wrath of Miss Mozella (and maybe higher powers, too, but I had felt like everyone would understand).

The party had been very fun. She forgave me enough to keep talking, asking me about who I had met and the friends I was making, and then telling me about the Mass that she had definitely attended herself. As she discussed the homily, I let my mind go (sorry, again, to any higher powers).

It had been a very busy time, and not just because I was being more social.

For one thing, Annie Whitaker-Gassman had been in touch a lot and because Will was also so busy with the season starting, I’d become the point person for a lot of the decisions regarding the changes in his house.

I’d been working for him, doing the tasks that he lined up for me each day, and I’d also kept doing my shifts at the grocery store.

When I did, I made sure to look my best and I felt a little strange interacting with customers.

Were they going to take my picture? Maybe they would say that I needed to try harder with my outfit, or that I needed to reconsider the arch of my eyebrows.

There had been a debate in the comment section of a video about that issue, and most people seemed to feel that I should leave them natural.

But everyone agreed that my clothes sucked.

It didn’t bother me all that much, but it felt very high school-y. This was all so high school, the whole reunion with Will and how I was feeling—

“Bug, are you listening to me?” Miss Mozella demanded. She sounded miffed again, but I was glad that I was back to being Bug. I said yes, and then she said she had something serious to tell me. There was another problem with her son, who had (again) done something terrible.

“It breaks my heart,” she said. “He’s grown, but he’s still my child, and it’s so awful to watch him make bad choices like this. It was the same for Calla.”

She meant my grandmother, and I knew that she was right. I remembered our drives back from the state prison and how Grandma tried to hide her tears over her son. “I can’t understand it,” she’d said over and over. “Where does it come from? I never taught him to act that way.”

“She was so disappointed by him,” I said.

“But he did step up for you, finally,” Miss Mozella answered.

He had “stepped up” by telling his mother that I was now her responsibility. It had been wonderful for me, and I thought that she had benefitted from it, too—I hoped so. “I was very lucky,” I answered.

“You both were,” she told me, and then I had to go because I needed to start getting ready.

I’d been watching a lot of videos to prepare and the process was going to take a while.

On top of that, I needed to leave here very early because today was not only a Woodsmen home game, but the first one.

Will said that the fans would be out in droves.

“People start tailgating hours before it starts. The traffic is legendary,” he’d said, and then had taken a map of the stadium out of a folder that he carried.

He’d highlighted the special parking lot where I would leave his car and the section where I would sit, and he’d also drawn arrows to show me the preferred routes to reach those locations.

I had studied it all very carefully, like I used to do with my school materials before he’d come over to tutor me.

“I can follow this,” I assured him. He was also concerned about me sitting alone in the big stadium, but I further assured him that I had sat alone plenty of times in my life.

That made him frown heavily, and he’d flipped to a different piece of paper in the folder he’d prepared.

This one was another map that directed me to the lounge connected to the players’ locker room, where families and friends hung out after the game.

“You can head right home, but you could also meet me there. If you want to,” he’d added.

“Heck, yes! How long will I have to wait before I get to see you?” I asked, and that had made him smile instead.

It took me a good bit of time to complete all the preparations that the videos recommended and I had to speed a little on my way to the stadium in order to keep to the careful chronology that Will had prepared, typed up on another paper he’d printed for my folder.

I did turn into the long road that led to Woodsmen Stadium one minute behind schedule but I figured that was close enough.

So did he, because I got a text shortly after saying he was glad I was there and mentioning nothing about cutting it close.

I followed the map and went directly to the special parking lot that was marked “VIP” and meant me—me, Calla Easterly—and I kept following his directions until I arrived at my orange plastic seat in the stands.

I wasn’t that high above the field and I was right in the middle, so the view would be perfect.

This stadium didn’t have a roof but it was a beautiful summer day, not very humid like at home and with a nice breeze blowing through.

Still, Will had recommended sunscreen and a hat on the paper he’d titled “Preparing for the Game,” and I had worn the first one but wasn’t going to put on the second.

I had spent way too long on my hair to cover it up.

I shaded my eyes with my hand instead and watched the activity on the turf below me.

In the Game Day Schedule he’d written up, there were two columns helpfully labeled “Calla” and “Will,” with my side in red and his in blue.

The blue column had begun with his departure for the Wequetong Inn the night before, where the whole team stayed together before their home games.

I ran my finger down the column and checked the time on my phone, and saw that he would be coming out of the tunnel and onto the field… now!

And there he was, walking out with several other enormous guys wearing white jerseys with orange letters.

I was wearing one, too, and mine also said “Bodine” on the back.

He had brought it home a few nights before and it fit better than the one I’d worn on Fan Day, and I absolutely loved it.

I loved it so much that I had been nervous about wearing it but was now thinking I might not ever take it off.

“Will! Will!” I yelled, but everyone else in the stadium had also started cheering when they saw the players, so it was impossible that he heard me.

Still, he looked over in my direction and then walked to this section.

I jumped up and ran down the steps so I could lean over the guard rail to see him up close.

“Hi! Hi!” I also yelled, and he smiled.

“You made it,” he noted, and I nodded. Then he squinted a little and scrutinized me carefully. “What did you do with your hair?”

“I worked on myself for a while. What do you think?”

“It’s good,” he said, but he sounded doubtful. “You look different.”

“Different, like it’s bad? No, never mind,” I answered myself. “You need to pay attention to your game and not my makeup.”

“I have a minute,” he answered, but then one of the other huge guys called to him. “Wait here,” he said, and I did, watching as they talked. After a moment, he jogged back to me. “We actually have a few things to work on, so I have to go.”

“That’s ok. This is your job, right?”

Will nodded. “I’ll see you after the game in the lounge?”

“You will, and you’ll see me during the game if you turn around. I’ll be the one screaming for you.”

“There’s a lot of screaming in here. Do you think I’ll be able to pick out your voice in particular?”

“I’ll try to be louder than everyone else,” I said, and he smiled again. For someone who was just about to go play a game where other large men would try to kill him (and who would also be televised nationally while that happened), he seemed very relaxed. “Are you nervous?” I asked curiously.

“I’ve played a lot of football, for a lot of years.” But then he paused. “Yeah, I generally feel that there’s pressure.”

“Well, there is, right? There always has been, as long as I’ve known you.

Except now there are a lot of other guys out there, too, and they should share the burden.

” That was unlike our high school games, when the entire season had depended on Will Bodine, Football Star.

“Anyway, even if things don’t go well, you’ll get up tomorrow and I’m going to make a really good breakfast.”

“Words to live by,” Will said. “I’ll see you soon.” He jogged a little way, but then turned. “I like your hair,” he called, and I grinned.

“Good luck,” I yelled, and he jogged off again.

He didn’t need it, though, because he was always amazing.

It wasn’t just natural talent but how hard he worked, too.

I remembered that, years before, he’d told me about his goals and he’d shown me the list that he carried in his phone.

He’d also shown me the other lists he’d made, which spelled out every step he would take to achieve what he wanted.

“See, here’s my workout schedule,” he’d said. Then he’d also demonstrated how he’d broken up the hours in his week so that he’d be able to study, work at his job, and take care of his mother. I’d been more than impressed, which I’d told him at the time.