Friday night. Boys on the verge of manhood. Playing at violence on a field of clipped and white-lined grass.
A girl named Ally sat in the bleachers. Outside the halo over the field. Apart from the student body, in a deserted section of bleachers next to the one with the parents.
On her lap, in her white and blue gingham dress that just brushed the top of her army boots, she had wrapped up a switchblade. The pockets of her black bomber jacket contained a can of mace, brass knuckles, and a paperback copy of Stephen King's Carrie.
She had been planning the night for a year. Homecoming night. When they all got what they deserved. A bloodbath that would do King proud.
The quarterback barked out his cadence: “Blue 32! Buh-lue 32! Hut!” The players lurched into motion and the quarterback dropped back to pass. When he spiraled the ball deep into the night, the crowd hushed and Ally could hear the opening click of her switchblade. She pressed the point against her thigh to close it. The crowd groaned as the football wisped through the receiver's outstretched hands.
Loser, she thought. That boy, Adam, was a real jerk in the hall. Always leering. Always telling her to open her jacket and show what god gave her. She felt the fright, still, of the one time he had grabbed at the books she clutched to her chest. She had frozen in place, silently, grappling with him, while his eyes raped her and he grinned, until Mr. Rouch intervened.
She felt the fright of it, the freeze again sinking into her limbs. Then the switchblade clicked beneath the crowd chattering as the boys ran back to their opposing huddles. She could see Adam almost directly across from her, his back turned, his hands on his knees.
She stood up and the bleachers rang as she walked seat by seat down to the chain link fence that ran between the track and the stands. The knife was open in her hand. She hooked that wrist over the top of the fence, laced the fingers of her other hand through the links, then scrabbled for a toehold with her boot. The crowd quieted to whispers as she found a hold and pulled herself up.
Her dress caught on the top of the fence and ripped as she dropped down the other side. She didn't notice; her eyes were on the field, where the teams had broken their huddles and lined up for the next play.
“Blue 38! Blue 38!” The quarterback looked back and forth along the line. Adam was split wide, all the way across the field. The boys standing on the sideline would get it first, she guessed. As she crossed the running track, they started to notice her and turn to stare.
“Hut-hut, hike!” Adam launched himself, not down the field, but through the backfield toward the near sideline. The quarterback stepped back and extended the ball to him as he raced past. The knife was extended before her. The sideline parted. Adam ran straight at the opening. But he was running out of room; soon he would cut to go upfield.
Ally ran toward the field through the hole made by the players backing away on either side. No one stopped her. There were shouts as she crossed the sideline to the field. Adam stopped running, his eyes on her. His mouth guard fell from his mouth. Then a defensive back leveled him. When the back got up from the tackle, Adam lay flat on his back before her, cringing as she drew back the knife, his arms crossed to ward off the blade.
She knew how he felt. She had felt that way too, with her books clutched to her chest in the hallway. And like that day, she froze, leaning over him with the knife drawn back, her eyes still seeking his neck or stomach or any soft body part outside his helmet and shoulder pads, until the football coach bear-hugged her and spun her away.
The screaming then sounded exactly as it had in all her dark fantasies. But there was no blood, and among the screams was her own, because she believed herself a coward.
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