Page 90 of Burning Embers
I nearly drop the damn thing before I manage to get my bearings.
“I’ve been here for a little bit,” I say as I unzip the bag and grab out the camera. I quickly turn it on, grateful that it’s as easy as pressing a button. “I rode with Jake, and he had to be here a couple of hours before the game.”
“Jake…” Ansel’s elegant eyebrows arch inwards. “That’s your foster brother, correct?”
“Yeah.” I quickly run through the pre-checks Ansel taught me—checking the memory card storage, taking a few sample photos to make sure the lens isn’t smudged, and fiddling with the lighting.
“How do you like living with Hale and Gerry?” Ansel’s question is asked almost absently, but I can hear the genuine curiosity lacing it. When I glance up at him in surprise, he lowers his gaze back to his camera with a muttered, “I was a foster kid too. So I just wondered how you like this particular house and family.”
“Oh.” Out of everything he could’ve said, I didn’t expect that.
Ansel—perfectly immaculate, put-together, meticulous Ansel—was once a foster kid?
I know not all foster stories are the same, but I can’t help but look at him in a new light.
Ansel’s cheeks are so dark they nearly blend in with the red of my sweater.
“I’m adopted now,” he blurts. “I haven’t been in the system for years, but I just thought… Never mind.” He shakes his head quickly, clears his throat, and then adopts a careful mask. A poker face. “I’ll have you take this side of the field, and I’ll remain on the other. Try to focus mostly on our team and stands, but it’s okay if you have a few pictures of the Vipers. They’re our biggest rivals and…”
Ansel drones on. Apparently, our heart-to-heart is over. I listen attentively, nodding along whenever it’s appropriate, before Ansel dismisses me with a flick of his wrist and a succinct, “Don’t mess this up for us.”
Geez. Thanks. Way to make a girl feel special.
There’s not much else to do but wait for the game to begin.
The stadium is larger than any I’ve ever seen before, at least at the high school level. The bleachers are a few feet above me and are blocked off by a black-painted gate. A track curls around the inside of the stadium, giving me room to maneuver without stepping on the field. According to Jake, there are two concession stands, one on either side of the stadium near the end zones.
Even though there’s still over an hour until the game begins, the stands are already beginning to fill up. I spot Hale and Lissa sitting near the fifty-yard line, and they wave to me when we make eye contact. More and more students, parents, teachers, and general townsfolk congregate on the bleachers until there’s barely any room to sit. The school’s marching band itself takes up almost an entire section.
Exactly an hour before the game begins, the cheerleaders rush onto the field to the audience’s raucous applause. Mimi does a few back handsprings, and KD does a layout. When the girls rush past me, they stop to say hello.
Desiree all but pulls me into her arms and squeezes the daylights out of me, her rose-scented perfume permeating the air.
“You need to try out for the competitive cheer team in the spring!” she gushes, finally releasing me. “You’ll do great.”
“OMG! Yes!” Mimi jumps up and down excitedly.
A girl—who I assume is Emilia, though I haven’t officially been introduced to her—offers me a tentative smile.
“I’m not really a cheerleading type of person.” I wrinkle my nose. I have nothing against the sport—I think the things they can do with their bodies are incredible—but it’s not for me.
Desiree pouts exaggeratedly. “What about the dance team? You can choose to do that for an elective next semester if you want?—”
“Girls! No more chitchatting! Start your warmups!” a strident voice calls, the words punctuated by a handclap.
A college-aged woman with curly orange hair and a kind smile waves Desiree and the others towards her. She must be the coach.
“Think about it,” Desiree urges as she begins to walk backwards towards the team. “I think you’ll be a great addition to the team.”
“Who would be a great addition?” The coach eyes me suspiciously, and Desiree grins like the cat that ate the cream.
“The new girl, Izzy. I heard from a little birdie that she used to do dance and gymnastics.” Desiree winks when I gape at her.
Where the hell did she hear that?
“Is that true?” The coach stares at me in a whole new light, her green eyes appraising. “Let's talk after the game. Izzy, was it?”
“I don’t think?—”