Ruby High was a football school. Track was what donkey-brained football superstars and their sycophantic coaches did to obsessively fill every minute of every hour with training. No one gave two dungballs about track. No one came to track meets.
I loved track.
Track fulfilled the Physical Education requirement with almost no effort.
“Here comes Coach Oldtimer,” said Jamal. Coach Oldtimer’s real name was We Did Not Care What His Real Name Was. “Pretend you’re stretching.” He opened his arms and mimed shooting invisible arrows, pew, pew. Jamal (third-generation Jamaican-American) was stretched so tall and thin, he was nearly featureless.
“Oh, stretching,” I cried.
Milo (third-generation Guatemalan-American) lay flat and gently rolled side to side, flattening the grass with his muscular superhero body, which he had done nothing to achieve and did nothing to maintain. He even wore thick black prescription glasses as if he harbored a secret identity.
I, Sunny (third-generation Korean-American), bent my unremarkable physique to vigorously rub calf muscles as tender and delicate as veal, rub rub rub.
Together, we three represented 42.85714286 percent of the entire nonwhite population of Ruby High. The other four were Indian, Indian, East Asian, and nonwhite Hispanic, all girls and therefore off-limits, for Milo and Jamal and I did not possess the ability to talk to girls. At Ruby High, we were the lonely-onlies in a sea of everybodies.
“Stretching stretching,” I said.
“Go away Coach go away Coach,” said Milo under his breath.
But Coach Oldtimer did not go away. Coach, an older white man with the face of an enchanted tree scarred by the emerald fires of war, drew near. He’d been with the school since its founding six thousand years ago.
“I like this little dance you guys got going on right here,” said Coach. “Miles, you sure you don’t want to run tight end for the football team? Quick, strong guy like you?”
“It’s Milo,” said Milo.
“I’ll join football,” said Jamal.
Coach gave skinny Jamal an eyeful of pity. “It gets pretty rough,” he said.
“Toxic masculinity,” coughed Jamal into his fist.
“What?” said Coach, pouting.
“How can we help you, Coach Oldtimer?” I said.
Coach shook off his bewilderment and maintained his smile. “It’s huddle-up time to give all you boys the dope on next week’s track meet with Montsange High.”
A football jock in the distance cupped his hands to his face and juked an imaginary blitz. Gunner.
“Give us the dope, Coach!” said Gunner. Then he gave a crouched Neanderthal glance over to the girls’ track-and-field team to see if they noticed. They did, spasmodically flipping their long flawless locks of hair in autonomic limbic response.
Track was what mouth-breathing football cheerleaders did to ensure they remained visible to donkey-brained football players for every possible minute of every day.
I sat up. “I’m not sure our performance will be significantly enhanced by your dope.”
Finally Coach’s smile fell. “Your friggin’ loss.” He stalked away.
“Final grades are decided by attendance, not performance,” I called.
“Friggin’ nerds,” muttered Coach Oldtimer.
“We’re not nerds,” I whined.
“Okay, nerds,” said Gunner.
“Nerds,” said some of the girls in the distance.
“Nerds,” whispered the wind.
“Why does everyone keep calling us nerds?” said Milo, and made a worried face that asked, Did someone find out about DIY Fantasy FX?
He was referring to our ScreenJunkie channel, where for three years we had been posting homemade videos showing how even the most craft-impaired butterfingers could fashion impressive practical effects from simple household materials for their next LARP event.
LARP, or live action role playing, was when people dressed and acted like their Dungeons & Dragons game characters out in real life.
We did not LARP. We could never. In this temporal plane, we would only get discovered and buried alive under a nonstop torrent of ridicule. As it was, we made sure to never show our faces in our videos—my idea.
Jamal leaned in. “So there’s some pretty exciting audience activity on our channel.”
“Give us the dope, Jamal!” yodeled Milo, and gave an ironic glance over at the girls’ team, who glared back at him like tigers in the sun.
“We finally broke a hundred,” cried Jamal.
Me and Milo exchanged a look. One hundred ScreenJunkie followers. One step closer to advertisers and sponsorships.
“And,” said Jamal, with a wild smile, “we sold three tee shirts! Three!”
Me and Milo exchanged another look, this time with our mouths in twin Os.
“And finally,” said Jamal, hiding his glee behind his very long fingers, “Lady Lashblade liked our ‘Pod of Mending’ episode.”
“She liked my glitterbomb,” I said.
“She liked your glitterbomb,” said Jamal.
I gripped the turf like it had just quaked.
Everyone knew how influential Lady Lashblade (best friends with Lady Steelsash (producer of What Kingdoms May Rise (starring actor Stephan Deming (husband of Elise Patel (head organizer for Fantastic Faire (the largest medieval and Renaissance-themed outdoor festival in the country)))))) was.
“That is huge,” said Milo.
I hugged Jamal, who recoiled because physical contact was not his absolute favorite, before hugging Milo, who was big on hugging as well as simply big.
“We gotta keep going with new episodes, you guys,” I said.
“Heck yeah we do,” said Jamal, with a grin as wide as his neck.
“We gotta brainstorm our next custom prop,” I said.
Milo pushed up his glasses. “Right now?”
“Right now,” said Jamal.
“So, I was thinking, what if we made a—” I was saying when a football glanced off my temple.
“Catch,” said Gunner.
“Asswipe,” I muttered.
“What?” said Gunner. “What did you call me?”
Coach Oldtimer reappeared upon a fetid cloud of menthol rub. “Ladies, take a powder.”
“He started it,” I said, instantly wishing I hadn’t sounded so whinging. I pointed at my temple and the football on the grass.