Homecoming

It was the day before the Homecoming football game. All week long, momentum had been building towards the big day. In a small town like Cedar Grove, things like Homecoming held great sway. The whole town participated. Earlier in the week, perky high school students decorated the windows of the storefronts facing Main Street. They used a special kind of frosted paint to paint the glass in bright colors. We’re #1! Go team go! Beat the Raiders! The students fervently hoped their strident messages would bring about victory. Whatever the game’s outcome, the paint was the kind that would wash off easily when the game was over. In the meantime, everyone in town was charmed and cheered by the messages. Seeing the students’ enthusiasm, it was a vicarious thrill for the older folk as they relived their own high school days.

A Homecoming parade was scheduled to take place on game day. Students would be dismissed right after lunch so they could attend. For the Homecoming festivities, there was a court, governed by a king and queen. It was considered the highest honor to wear the royal crown. The entire student body voted, and it was usually the most popular, prettiest girl who was chosen. Correspondingly, her king was a “stud”, or the cutest boy in the class. During the parade, the chosen couple got to ride in the back of a convertible, waving to their adoring crowd. The rest of the court, the second most popular group, rode in the next convertible. They also felt pretty special. The queen bees and her wannabees. 

But for now, it was still Thursday. One more day before the main event. Nonetheless, there was always something happening during Homecoming week. Today, it was the girls' turn to compete. Not only did the boys get to play football in front of a crowd, but the girls did too. Their brand of football was called “powderpuff”. They didn’t compete against another school, however. It was Cedar Grove’s own junior class competing against the seniors, a big rivalry. It was considered a given that the seniors would win. To not do so would be humiliating.

The senior team was captained by a girl named Brittany. Brittany, although not Homecoming queen, was one of the ruling seniors. She was attractive and popular, and she knew it. It was no great surprise that her fellow seniors had elected her captain. She was used to being looked up to and admired by girls and boys alike. 

One boy, in particular, had caught her attention, and they had been dating for most of the school year. Ryan, with the big muscles and pretty blue eyes. Running back on the football team and star basketball player. Ryan was her everything. He was her world. She had to admit she was crazy about him. She couldn’t get enough of him. Lately, however, he had become increasingly distant. It seemed like he was “ghosting” her – he hadn’t called her in awhile. It had been at least two weeks. She was keeping track.

Moreover, he had not asked her to the Homecoming dance. Most alarmingly, the dance was only two days away. Everyone who was anyone attended the dance with their sweetheart. It bothered her to no end that he hadn’t even talked to her about it yet. Was their relationship so strong that they didn’t have to talk about it? She wondered, trying not to worry. Did he just assume they were going together since they had been a couple for most of the school year? Even if they hadn’t talked or hung out recently . . . The uncertainty was driving her crazy.

No sooner had she pondered that question then she discovered the answer.

“Hey, Brittany,” her friend Liza stopped her in the school hallway. “I just found out something interesting.”

“What?” Brittany asked.

“You’re not going to like this,” Liza warned.

“What?” Brittany said again impatiently.

“It’s about Ryan.”

“What about Ryan?”

“I heard he was taking Emma Sanders to the dance.”

“Where’d you hear that?” Brittany was stunned. It couldn’t be true.

“Emma’s best friend is in my French class. She told me.”

“No.” Brittany swallowed. “It can’t be.” She felt tears stinging her eyes.

“Yep.” Liza paused. “What are you going to do about it?”

Brittany thought for a moment. This would never do. Who did Emma think she was stealing her man? 

“Tonight’s the powderpuff game, right?”

“Right,” Liza said confused. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Well, Emma’s sure to be playing, right? And she’s a junior . . . “

“Oh no! What are you gonna do?” Liza asked worriedly.

“That bitch’s going to wish she’d never been born!”

“Take it easy, Brittany. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Brittany said. “Relax. Emma won’t be getting anything she doesn’t deserve.”

Brittany had always admired strong women. Women who didn’t let themselves be pushed around. Women who sought revenge on those who had wronged them. As an eclectic music lover, she found herself listening to Dolly Parton’s old song “Jolene.” It seemed a fitting song, given her current mood and situation. Dolly had implored her romantic rival, Jolene, “I’m begging of you please don’t take my man . . . “

Dolly was a wimp. There was no getting around it. She was a beggar, a pushover. Brittany vastly preferred Beyoncé's remake. Beyoncé laid down the law with Jolene – “I’m warnin’ you don’t come for my man . . . you don’t want no heat with me . . . “

Those words were balm to Brittany's soul. Emma was going to wish that she hadn’t come for Ryan. Emma was going to get some heat. That was for sure.

The school day seemed to drag on and on. Brittany thought game time would never arrive. But at last it did. The seniors changed into their powderpuff uniforms, specially decorated white T-shirts, matching headbands, and booty shorts. They also wore bright yellow belts with plastic, tear off flags around their waists. Powerpuff was “flag” and not tackle football. The minute a flag was torn off, the runner was down. For that reason, flag football was safer than tackle football. The goal was for no one to get hurt. Brittany remembered her friend Liza’s words – “It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.”

Brittany knew she would have to figure some way around that. Her goal was to inflict as much pain as possible on Emma. The same pain Emma had caused her. Emma’s pain would be physical, however, unlike her own heartache. Brittany was going to make it hurt. She decided she would also inflict a little emotional pain as well. She would scare the crap out of Emma. 

Besides being what she considered a bad ass, one of Brittany’s other talents was art. She thought that maybe she would like to be a cartoonist or graphic artist. She had perfected the manga style of drawing. She could quite easily sketch manga-style faces – the big eyes and other exaggerated features. When the girls got together to decorate their powderpuff T-shirts, Brittany had drawn a picture of herself, manga style, on the back. She drew herself as a pouty, strong warrior woman with big eyes, a smoking hot body, and a breastplate of armor. She held a sharply raised sword, ready to strike at her enemies. 

She had painted the sword with glittery silver paint. She thought it looked most striking. She now took the time, however, to add bright red drops of blood falling from it. The paint she chose was a deep dark red. It looked wet even when it was dry, like real blood. She hoped Emma got the message.

It was almost game time. Brittany noted with satisfaction that Emma was one of the starters. Like Ryan, she was very speedy. She was a running back. Brittany hoped that Emma would carry the ball early and often – all the more opportunities to give her a leveling tackle, flag or no flag. 

Previously, Brittany had planned on playing offense. She relished the opportunity to score. Now, however, she knew that playing defense was her only recourse, her only opportunity to extract her revenge.

“There’s been a change of plans,” she told her teammates. “I want to be on the defensive line. A nose tackle, or something. Some kind of tackle. The ones that rush the quarterback and the running backs. I want to level that girl,” she said.

Gossip spread like wildfire among the senior class, and everyone knew immediately who she was talking about. She didn’t even have to say Emma’s name. Poor Emma, several thought. No one dared say it, however.

“Let’s huddle up,” Brittany said. “Put your hands together in the middle of the circle. At the count of three, let's say 'seniors!’"

"One, two, three - seniors!", they all shouted in unison, throwing their hands up in the air.

The game began. The center hiked the ball to the quarterback. Brittany and friends charged forward. The quarterback managed to get the ball off in time before being leveled. Apparently Brittany wasn't the only one trying to turn flag football into regular tackle football. The quarterback's pass fell way short of the mark, her intended receiver being several yards ahead of the ball. The quarterback was slow to get up and winced as she finally stood.

“Good job team!” Brittany encouraged. “Let’s keep it up!”

The juniors also huddled up. Brittany wished she knew what they were saying. The seniors didn’t need a new plan. No need for a huddle. Their plan really was the same from play to play– attack, attack, attack. Brittany, of course, would attack anyone and everyone, but she especially wanted to get at Emma. It went without saying.

She got her opportunity to do so on the very next play. The ball was snapped. The center pitched the ball back to the quarterback, and the quarterback in turn handed it off to Emma. Emma tucked the ball firmly under her arm, put her head down, and began running. Brittany took a deep breath and charged after her. Somehow, Emma had gotten past the defensive line. She was fast, Brittany was forced to admit. Still, a lot of open field remained. Brittany tore off in hot pursuit.

She needed to kick it up a notch, or Emma would be long gone and the juniors would soon score a touchdown. Brittany tried to psych herself up. It was now or never. What was that saying? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. The heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing about. Or how about all’s fair in love and war? Whatever the mantra, Brittany had a lot of justification and a lot of motivation. 

She gritted her teeth and bore down, churning her legs, pumping her arms. She ran as fast as she could after her target. She was gaining on her. The crowd erupted in cheers. The seniors urged on their classmate. To them, it was just an innocent game. They had no idea of the fury and jealousy that was driving her. 

“Go, Brittany, go!”

Now she was less than a few feet from Emma. Emma was nearing the goal line. She had somehow made it almost all of the way down the field on one wild run. It was now or never. 

Brittany ignored the pain in her side, took a deep breath, and ran as hard as she could towards Emma. She was now mere inches away. The bright yellow flag dangled tantalizingly down at Emma’s side. All she needed to do was rip it off Emma to stop her from scoring.

But that was too easy. She wanted to make Emma hurt. 

“Come on Brittany! Get the flag!” She heard Liza’s voice.

It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. Brittany heard the echo of her words.

Although it might just be a game to some, to her it was everything. It was hurt. It was rage. It was pain. It was her heart, torn out and scattered in pieces on the ground. It was her chance to get even. To extract her revenge.

Bearing down on Emma, she ignored the flag, choosing instead to barrel full tilt into Emma. She plowed headlong into her.

Emma fell heavily, hitting her head on the ground as she fell. Several long moments passed. She didn’t get up or move. 

There was a stunned silence, before someone finally shouted. 

“Get the medic or trainer or somebody. I think she’s really hurt.”

Suddenly everyone was swarming the field, surrounding Emma. They even brought out a stretcher and carried her off the field.

Brittany stood there like a statue. Had that really just happened? Had she really fulfilled her fantasy of hurting Emma? Why didn’t it make her feel better? She didn’t know what to think. The field was finally clearing of people. When Brittany looked over at the sidelines, she saw that they were actually lifting Emma into an ambulance. She was going to the hospital.

Brittany looked down at the ground. Flecks of sparkly silver paint now dusted the ground, having fallen off her shirt upon impact. To others looking her way, the sword on the back of her shirt somehow now didn’t look quite as shiny. The blood, however, still looked wet.

She thought ruefully that Liza was right. It was all fun and games until someone got hurt. In this case, however, there was more than one injured party. No one was the winner.