Football Friday Night

It was one of those magical southern nights in October, and all of the teenagers in town were drunk on autumn and youth. There would be a party after the football game, and youthful concupiscence would be satisfied before the moon set in the morning sky. In anticipation of this, the boys were dousing themselves in Polo and Drakkar Noir while the girls teased their bangs into ski slopes and lacquered them above their heavily mascaraed eyes lined with kohl and painted hot pink stripes on their cheekbones. Def Leppard and Whitesnake blasted from boomboxes perched on dressers and lingerie chests. Pliers were used to zip jeans, and Marlboro Lights were smuggled out of sock drawers and into handbags while condoms pressed their circular imprint into dollar bills in wallets in back pockets.

Sharon Veranda danced around her bedroom, trying on different outfits. She finally settled on her white jeans from The Limited with an oversized burgundy sweater that hid her lack of a waistline. When she finished applying Maybelleine’s Expert Eyes, shading green up to her eyebrows, her makeup was late 80s perfection, and she spritzed Estée Lauder’s Beautiful on her neck and wrists then got to work on her hair with a brush, comb, curling iron, and hairspray. When she was done, a hurricane wouldn’t move her bangs from the position she sculpted them into. She wondered if Jeff would notice her, then added an extra spray of Beautiful, directly over her heart, just above the little ribbon bow on her new water bra that gave her sweater some shape. A pair of black ankle boots and dangly earrings completed the outfit.

When Cathy and Teresa pulled up in Teresa’s mother’s Oldsmobile, Sharon flew out of the house and down the walkway, calling goodbye to her mom on her way out the door. The girls passed around a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill on their way to the game, so when they arrived, the stadium lights blazed a little brighter, the buzz of the crowd was a bit buzzier, and the ground beneath their feet was a touch less even than on previous football Friday nights. Sharon didn’t even know who they were playing; she was just happy to have made a high C on her last English test, allowing her to join the revelry instead of studying Shakespeare at the kitchen table.

The line at the concession stand jostled with band geek parents, freshmen, and teachers roped into game duty. Sharon, Cathy, and Teresa were seniors, so they felt superior to everyone else in the line. The autumn air was alive with the smells of popcorn and French fries competing with cologne-marinated teenagers in the crisp twilight. After they acquired their Cokes, the girls sashayed down the home team side, looking for the rest of their friends. Stephanie was supposed to bring bourbon from her dad’s liquor cabinet, and someone said that Jenny had some pot.

Giggling worse than middle schoolers, the girls made a beeline for the restroom when they found their friends, but the old troll from the library was on duty there, so they fought for mirror space, slicked some Kissing Potion on their mouths, and exited.

“Come on, under here!” Cathy called over her shoulder as she ducked under the bleachers.

Beneath the stands, the noise was different. The stomp of footfalls climbing and descending the bleachers was amplified, and some snippets of conversation drifted down, but the PA system was muffled there among the cigarette butts and used condoms.

“Ohmigahd, gross! Who would do it under here?”

“Oh, get over yourself and pass the bottle.” Cathy rolled her eyes and held out her hand. “Dewars? This isn’t bourbon!”

“I know,” Stephanie tossed her long, spiral-permed hair over her shoulder. “My dad had some fraternity brothers in town this week, and they drank everything but this.”

“Oh, yuck. This tastes like ass.” Jenny stuck out her tongue and made a face. The bleachers shook over their heads as a passel of freshman boys thundered down from the top row.

“Shari, pass me your Coke.”

“I don’t know—“ Sharon hesitated after Jenny’s rave review.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, just take a swig from the bottle and chase it.” Everyone was familiar with Sharon’s penchant for sweets and knew she would hate the scotch. Sharon complied, and in a vain attempt to prove herself, took a healthy draw of the Dewars and promptly upchucked the Boone’s Farm and her

mother’s lasagna all over Jenny’s white boots.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sharon!” Jenny jumped back, shooting daggers from her dark eyes. She raked her fingers through her short black hair practically giving Sharon an MRI, taking her in like a CIA agent who’s found her mark. “What size are those?” She pointed a long-nailed finger at Sharon’s new boots.

“Six and a half.”

“Let me try them.”

Cathy elbowed Sharon in the ribs. “She has weed. Swap boots.”

Sharon scanned the ground around her and saw herself losing her balance and falling into the nasty mess in her white jeans. Then she saw herself walking in at Savannah and Charlotte’s in filthy jeans and boots reeking of her own puke. “Let’s go sit on the bleachers to trade,” she suggested, her voice coming out in a trembling squeak. She didn’t want Jenny’s pot, but she really didn’t want to be on Jenny’s bad side.

“And have everyone out there see me like this? I don’t think so.” Jenny shook her head, quarter-carat diamonds on gold chains swinging from her earlobes.

Despite just being emptied, Sharon’s digestive tract gurgled as she wondered how she would explain this to her mother. Cathy and Teresa stood on either side of her to help her balance while she and Jenny traded boots. Sharon needed to go back to the restroom to wash her hands and try to clean up Jenny’s boots, which were too big for her. Cathy whispered that they could run by her house after the game and get a pair of shoes Sharon left behind last time she spent the night. Slightly mollified, Sharon accepted the Marlboro Light Stephanie passed to her when they came out of the restroom and pretended to smoke it, gripping it awkwardly with her thumb and index finger.

A group of guys joined the girls on their next pass in front of the stands, and they climbed the bleachers near the opposing team’s end zone, the aluminum benches clanging under the traffic of ankle boots and Wellingtons, the too-big boots making Sharon awkward and clumsy on the climb. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest when Jeff joined the group, lazily ambling up to them and dropping onto the bench beside her.

“What’s up, Shari?” He smelled vaguely of pot and aggressively of Polo.

Sharon tucked her feet under the bench and hoped Jeff wouldn’t notice the boots. Nervously twirling a strand of her brown hair, she said, “Not much. You going to Savannah and Charlotte’s after the game?”

* * *

The party was in full swing when Sharon, Cathy, and Teresa arrived after their detour to Cathy’s for shoes for Sharon. She put the soiled boots in a Kroger bag with a car air freshener and locked both in Cathy’s trunk. Jenny would want them if Sharon didn’t have them with her. The underwire on Sharon’s water bra dug into the flesh over her ribcage, and she wondered how some girls wore underwire bras all the time. The girls stumbled into the kitchen from the side door, and George, Mark, Paul, and Trey were playing quarters at the kitchen table. There were clusters of teenagers, most with a beer or liquor drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, in every room of the house. Jenny leaned over a coffee table in the den, rolling a joint. The harvest moon was rising, a flaming ball of orange just above the horizon visible through the windows of the sunroom where another group was lounging on sofas and in armchairs, playing Bullshit. A busty blonde in a black sweater and long black skirt in the tobacco-colored leather club chair appeared to be holding court. She was the only girl in the room, and she had seven beers lined up in front of her. A mischievous look twinkled in her stunningly blue eyes, the color of swimming pool water, and she had the undivided attention of every guy in the room. Sharon wondered what her secret was. The blonde shifted her gaze to the newcomers and recognized Cathy, springing from the chair with a shriek, and wrapped her arms around Cathy’s neck.

“Cathy! Play Bullshit with us! We’re about to start fresh and deal a new hand.” When she spoke, her voice was deep and throaty.

Cathy returned the hug, then leaned back, her hands resting on the blonde’s shoulders. “No way, Lila. I know how you play, and I don’t have any beer to spare.”

“Why would you need beer to spare?” Sharon gave Cathy a quizzical look.

Cathy removed her hands from Lila’s shoulders, then draped an arm around her. “Because this one doesn’t make you drink when she gets you,” Cathy pointed at Lila with her thumb. “She takes one of your beers. And she gets everybody.”

“That’s right,” Lila replied. “Now, somebody tell Jenny to bring that joint in here.”

A new wave of guests poured into the house, and a tall, dark-haired guy in corduroys with a blond dude in khakis practically fell into the room. Corduroy took one look at Lila and seemed to get taller, shoulders broader. “Lila Daniels. What the hell are you doing here?”

Lila leaned back in the club chair and crossed her legs, ruby toenails gleaming on her bare feet as she folded her arms over her chest. A hard look blazed out of her eyes at him as she set her chin and scrunched her eyebrows. Everyone else in the room seemed to hold their breath. “Fuck you, Sam. It’s none of your goddamn business what I’m doing, regardless of where I am. But since you suddenly seem to care, I’m playing Bullshit.” Lila’s face softened and her pouty lips curled into a smile as Sam’s friend’s presence registered. “Hey, Nick.”

Sam’s hazel eyes darted back and forth from Lila to Nick, who was visibly uncomfortable, color rising up his neck to his face. “What the fuck, Lila?”

Lila opened one of the beers in front of her, a Miller Lite, took a long sip, and lit a fresh cigarette, then slowly lifted her eyes to Sam’s. “Just saying hello. Something wrong with that?”

San took a step toward her, corduroy swishing, “How do you know Nick?”

She rolled her eyes and pulled her long, blonde hair over one shoulder. “We met at a party last summer. No big deal.” She shook her hair back over her shoulder and picked up the deck of cards on the coffee table, lazily shuffling them. “Want me to deal y’all in?”

Nick saw an opportunity to escape and quickly said, “Not me. I’d rather play quarters,” and slipped back into the kitchen.

Sam looked around the room, tensing up all over again when his eyes fell on Randy Barrett. “With Barrett? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m not sure I ever want to play with you again if you’re playing with him.” His lip rose in a sneer as he returned his focus to Lila.

“Fuck you, Sam. I’ll play with whomever I want. Not that you care.” She dismissed him with her eyes then addressed the room as a whole. “Who’s in?”

“Leave it to Lila to be grammatically correct in a drinking game,” Jeff drawled as he joined the room. “Let me guess, we’re playing Lila’s Rules Bullshit. Deal me in.” He dropped into a vacant seat on a couch upholstered with damask roses.

Sharon saw her opportunity and squeezed in between Jeff and Randy. “I don’t know how to play.”

“Alright Lila, explain the rules to the newbies.”

Lila took in the room as a whole, then focused on Sharon. “It’s like this: first, we play cards, throwing one every hand. Highest card wins, no trump suit, but off-suit cards can’t win a hand. When you win a hand, you pick your -shit name, and everyone has one. Whoever wins at cards tells the first story. At some point in the story, the storyteller says another player’s name. When your name is said, you reply, “Bullshit!” The person who said your name responds, “Who shit?” to which you respond with another player’s name, and it goes on until someone messes up and gives a wrong response or says their own name.”

“With normal people,” Randy interjected, “when someone messes up, they drink. With Lila’s rules, when you mess up, you have to give the storyteller one of your beers. That’s why Lila never brings her own. She knows she’s taking ours. You also surrender a beer if the storyteller says your name and you don’t respond. That’s how she usually gets us.”

“I don’t understand why you play by those rules if you always lose,” Sharon moved closer to Jeff. Randy was greasy, and he smelled worse than Jenny’s boots.

Everyone laughed, and Lila just smiled.

“You’ll see,” Will asserted from an armchair. Lila tells really good stories.”

Cathy jumped in. “I don’t know if Shari is ready for Lila’s Bullshit.”

Sharon chafed and replied, “What do you mean I’m ‘not ready’? How hard can it be to play cards and listen to a story?”

“Yeah, ‘hard’ is the key word,” Jeff answered. The rest of the guys laughed.

Glen got up from the other end of the sofa and took the cards from Lila. “Ready to win at cards?”

Lila laughed and said, “Go ahead and stack the deck so y’all don’t have to be so obvious at losing on purpose.”

“Why don’t y’all let someone else deal if Glen stacks the deck for Lila?” Sharon whispered to Jeff.

“You don’t get it,” he whispered back. “Everyone wants Lila to win. Maybe you should watch a round before you decide you’re in.”

Glen dealt, and led with the four of clubs. Lila won the hand with the queen and announced, “I’m Hot Shit.”

“Yes, you are.” Jason raised his beer to her.

Lila proceeded to take the next five books, laughing all the while. Sharon had a strong feeling that Lila never giggled.

After all the cards were on the table, Trey reached over some family photos on an end table and killed the light. Lila took a long sip of her beer and leaned back in her chair.

“I couldn’t decide what to wear tonight, so I didn’t lay out any clothes before I got in the shower. I was listening to Fables of the Reconstruction while I looked through my closet.”

“Get in the shower, Lila. You think better naked.” Will gave Lila a knowing look.

She took a long drag of her cigarette and smiled slowly as the moon broke through the veils of clouds, backlighting her. “Pipe down, peanut gallery. This is my story.” Lila returned the look with knowledge that compelled Will to fish his bag out of his pocket and start rolling a joint.

After she was certain she was still in command of the room, Lila dropped her voice into a throaty, conspiratorial tone. She sounded like the phone sex ads on late night television as she continued, “Will isn’t wrong; I do think better naked, so I took off my clothes and dropped them in the wicker hamper, then slipped into my bathrobe to walk down the hall to the bathroom.”

“You don’t have your own bathroom?” Sharon blurted, delighted to feel a fleeting moment of superiority.

Lila turned to her slowly, assessing her more thoroughly and cruelly than Jenny had under the bleachers. “No, I don’t have my own bathroom. But I do have my own car.”

“Anyway,” Lila continued, “I got in the shower and turned on the water. It was cold at first, so my nipples got hard, and they felt so good and slippery in the water, but I always wash my hair first, so I barely even touched my tits, just a brief whisper of my fingers across that silky skin all slippery wet as the water warmed up.”

Sharon was glad the lights were off so no one could see her blushing. Who was this slut coming on to every guy in the room?

As Lila continued her story, sinking deeper and deeper into sensual, erotic details about her body, her hair, her skin, her mouth, the guys started squirming in their seats and adjusting their junk. It was disgusting. The worst part was when Jeff put his arm around Sharon, his hand snaking under her arm to reach around and cop a feel, and finding the water bra.

While Jeff was making his move, Randy slid a hand onto her thigh. Gross. Wait. She wanted to kiss Jeff, not get felt up while some slut told a slutty story. Sharon jumped up, knocking Jeff's beer over, and ran for the bathroom. Occupied. Sharon turned toward the staircase, rested her hand on the cool, polished mahogany banister, and fled upstairs to find a bathroom. She could hear them laughing in the sunroom as she ascended the stairs in Jenny's too-big boots.

🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

When Shari fled the room, Lila noticed and slipped Randy’s game name into the story while he was flustered, going on, barely pausing long enough to give him a chance to say bullshit before throwing Jeff’s name in, too. When the rest of the guys started laughing and saying “busted,” Lila turned on Jeff and Randy, taking a beer from each, throwing them out of the game for breaking her rule that “you filthy fuckers keep your nasty paws to yourself.”