A Good Killing Read Free Page B

friendly—she was a princess and I was a jock—but Wendy and I really started beefing at the Homecoming game of 2004. That game was always a big deal at Holly Grove High, and it was seriously big that year. The team was undefeated, and everyone hoped we’d take back the state title. In a town where everything was turning to rust, football was our last shining thing. That night, I was also excited to be out hanging with friends. After you left for college, the house felt empty. Mom was working two jobs, and the dinner table was a lonely place. Football games meant a place to go, excitement and crowds, tailgating and after-parties.
    It was ten years ago, but I remember that night as perfectly as if it were recorded on video. Funny, things from last week are stored in my brain with less clarity.There’s something about being fifteen that makes everything that happens stay clear and bright.
    I stood with my friends, our cheers making cloudy puffs in the cold night air. The wave came around and we shouted and raised our hands toward the bright lights. Down below, Coach Fowler stalked the sidelines, shouting commands at his players. The cheerleaders were in frenzied dance mode, flashing their silver-and-blue pom-poms.
    Wendy Weiscowicz stood on the sidelines near the cheer squad. She’d been the head cheerleader the year before but graduated lastspring and enrolled in Holly Grove Community College. In her spare time, she helped train the current crop of cheerleaders. She called that “community service,” but actually it was her way to keep hanging out at the high school. In the real world, she was just another college freshman. Back at the Holly Grove stadium, she was still queen bee.
    One of the cheerleaders grabbed Wendy from the sidelines and pulled her out with the cheering squad. Wendy made a momentary show of resisting. Then she smiled and threw off her jacket. Beneath it, she wore a blue top and black leggings—the closest thing to the cheerleading uniform a civilian could get away with. She grabbed a pair of shimmery pom-poms and seamlessly joined the routine. She knew the moves better than some of the actual cheerleaders did. It was pathetic how much she missed high school. But the crowd cheered for her. At least, the adults loved her. Me and my friends rolled our eyes.
    A few minutes before halftime, someone in the stands called to Wendy, and she made her way up there. She was chatting and animated, her cheeks flushed pink. She was kind of a celebrity in the stadium. And she was beautiful, with that amazing head of red-blond hair and those big green eyes. A crowd was soon gathered around her. But when the clock reached zero, she excused herself and went to the rail overlooking the tunnel where the players ran to the locker room. That happened to be right in front of where I was standing. She leaned over the rail and called to the coach as he passed.
    “Owen! Yoo-hoo!”
    He looked up at her and stopped. The players jogged past him.
    “Good game!” she called. “You’re looking good out there!”
    Which was true—the Bulldogs were up by seven—but I couldn’t believe she was taking precious seconds out of his halftime to personally give him platitudes the rest of the crowd was yelling.
    “Idiot,” I muttered.
    She glanced at me, and the coach took that opportunity to move on. Wendy was furious.
    “What’s your problem?” she asked me.
    “Can’t you see he’s got coaching to do? He doesn’t need an oldcheerleader interrupting his halftime.” Ah, for the days when eighteen seemed old.
    “He’s a big boy. He can make his own decisions. I certainly don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she said. “Frankenstein.”
    I was used to kids making fun of the scar on my cheek. It was a cheap shot, and usually I could shrug it off, but I was pissed, and, yeah, I’d had a few beers in the parking lot before the game. We exchanged some words, none of which were kind. Some f-bombs were dropped,