I'm Not Dying with You Tonight: Part I

“It’s good you’re doing this, Campbell,” Dad says, as the bus empties and a long line of beefy football guys in tracksuits lumber out.

I wonder why he thinks it matters if I work the concession stand for one game at this school.

The Panthers and their entourage fill the parking lot.

The human throng before us parts, allowing a tall woman with waist-length braids to make her way through.

She struggles to push a dolly in front of her with one hand and drag a battered, red wagon behind her with the other.

Ms. Marino explained that this year, the proceeds from concession stand sales will be used to fund renovations to upgrade the rest of the athletic facilities so they’ll be as nice as the fancy new football field.

The familiar ring of a coach giving orders makes me flinch. Words like those reverberated through my nights and weekends once.

Otherwise, the concession stand is a disaster—a rickety box built of plywood and two-by-fours, with big windows on one side covered by a rolling metal security grill, and below them, a lip of wood that juts out and is probably supposed to be the service counter.

With her, my dad, me, and the dolly, the booth is crowded to capacity.

“The dance team always celebrates at Mr. Souvlaki’s after home games. I think, after working the booth for us tonight, you’ve earned honorary team member status. You should come with us.”

I feel a strange mix of regret and relief churning around in my stomach.

I protest, but in vain.

Ah, there’s the ulterior motive that isn’t related to my popularity status. She knows my dad owns Carlson’s Hardware down in the commercial district on Seventh Avenue.

I glance from the pile of napkins scattered across the floor to the massive, old-fashioned soda fountain that’s been jammed up and working erratically most of the night.

A disgusting work of red-and-yellow abstract art, done in generic condiments, smears the customer counter.

I can only ever think of good retorts when it’s way too late.

Her long, wavy hair flows over her shoulders, and I wonder how she can stand the heat. Maybe she’s compensating with her shorts, which are so short they’ve got to be a dress code violation.

If he was a girl, that rich sable tint would’ve gotten him made fun of, and for sure no one would have been checkin’ for him to be a bae or boo.

You give me fifty bucks and two hours at LaRue’s consignment shop, and I’ll have anyone looking red-carpet ready but unique.

The noise in the immediate vicinity of the stand hushes a bit.

The crowd morphs into a huge, seething mass.

He’s riveted by the fight, arcing his phone to film the chaos in panoramic glory.

He’s riveted by the fight, arcing his phone to film the chaos in panoramic glory.

To the right of the concession stand, two cops push their way through the melee.

The flimsy walls rattle as two battling girls crash against the concession stand, stumbling through the open entry and falling in a heap.

She screams and flails, but the person drags her out the doorway.

She barks into her phone, an older model generic one.

Lena barking orders, I can handle. Lena losing control? That I can’t contemplate.

Black dots float in front of my eyes, briefly obscuring Lena.

“Look at these shenanigans,” she says, her eyes on what we can see of the fight.