Chapter 1
1
I lie on the hood of my boyfriend's pickup. It's sort of a tradition round here. Find a field. Throw a blanket on the hood and climb on top.
We listen to songs on the radio, gazing at a sprinkle of stars.
We're still dressed in our game clothes. He’s in his red and white quarterback jersey. I'm in a matching cheerleader outfit.
The stars seem brighter than usual. Like they've come out just for us. I turn to look at him, his smile as wide as the sky. "What do you think's gonna happen? Once we finish high school, I mean."
"It's simple," he says. "After we go to Kansas U, I'll get drafted by the Chiefs."
"Oh, you've got it all worked out, huh?"
"Got to have a long-term plan," he says.
"Will you still talk to me when you're a big-shot NFL star?" I ask, hooking an arm around his right bicep.
"Of course, you'll be on the cheerleading team."
"Is that right?"
"Head cheerleader. Unless you're going track," he says, running a hand over his dark hair.
"I haven't decided," I say. "Depends if I'm fast enough."
"Are you kidding? You leave me for dead every time."
"Ah, that's not hard," I say, getting a playful nudge in the shoulder. "Besides I'm thinking of studying law."
"Law?" he says, slapping me on my thigh. "With those legs? Come on."
"It pays better than running or cheerleading," I say. "Pop reckons it's good to have something to fall back on. You know, in case."
"Way to dream big, daddio."
"Hey, that's my pop you're talking about," I say, digging him in the arm.
"Okay, okay," he says as the sound of a speeding car on the highway grows louder.
I hear it skid to a stop on the road behind us. I turn and look through the windshield, across the field. All dark except for a maroon convertible full of classmates in team colors. The top is down. Headlights blazing.
One guy, Scott, holds the school’s trophy in the air. "Go Devils!" he shouts.
His buddy in the backseat throws a football. It sails overhead, bouncing across the small stretch of grass we're parked up on. It disappears in the bushes.
The convertible speeds off, the sounds of engine and stereo fading into the distance.
My boyfriend looks over to the dark wall of bushes where the ball bounced in. He shakes his head. "Stevie can't throw for s**t. That's why he'll never be a QB."
"You're not going after it," I say, as he slides off the hood and jogs toward the bushes. “Guys and their balls!" I shout after him.
He turns and smiles. Grabs his crotch. "Back in two ticks," he says, spinning and picking his way into the bushes.
I lie back and think about a milkshake. A banana one, from Kath's Diner. It's open late on Friday, and everyone will be there.
But as I'm thinking about that milkshake, and a plate of warm pancakes with syrup, I think I hear something behind me.
Feet across grass.
I turn and look again through the windshield. "Hello?" I say.
I don't see or hear anything. Nothing but the sound of crickets. I turn and rest my back against the windshield.
I think about the taste of that ice cold banana milkshake. The steam rising off those fresh, fluffy pancakes.
Then I feel a presence to my left. I turn my head. There’s a tall figure stood by the side of the hood.
No. It can’t be—Before I can scream, he pushes a cloth over my mouth and nose. He's crazy-strong. He drags me off the hood by my hair, the heels of my white tennis shoes kicking against the bodywork.
The cloth smells sickly sweet. It fills my head and my vision blurs. The strength drains from my body like water down a sink. One by one, the stars snuff themselves out, until all that's left is the dark.
