Possess

Franz Ferdinand concert Saturday night? I already bought the tickets.”
    Bridget choked on her soda. “Dammit. I forgot.”
    “Forgot what?” Brad Hennessy slid his heavily laden lunch tray into place next to Hector’s and straddled the bench with his long, skinny legs. “History paper?”
    “Done,” Bridget said, dabbing drops of Diet 7Up off her sweater with a napkin.
    Hector eyed the stack of sandwiches on Brad’s tray. “What are you, eating for two?”
    “No, dude,” Brad said, two-fisting turkey sandwiches. “Baseball conditioning started last week.”
    “Oh.” Hector’s eyes moved from Brad’s sandwiches to his own diet snack bar, rice cakes, and celery sticks. “I hate you right now. I hope you know that.”
    “Don’t worry about the history paper.” An elbow jostled Bridget’s right arm as Peter stepped over the bench and took a seat next to her. He was wearing the ridiculous red Windbreaker again over his uniform shirt, and the cowlicks in his thick, black hair made him look like he’d just rubbed a balloon over his head. As Peter slid his tray forward, it tipped Bridget’s soda can, spilling the remainder of its contents all over the cafeteria table.
    “Peter!” Bridget and Hector said in unison.
    “Sorry! Sorry!” Peter squeaked, frantically searching for a napkin.
    Brad calmly stretched his lanky arm across the table and mopped up the pooling liquid with a napkin while Bridget tried to pretend that the whole cafeteria wasn’t staring at them.
    “Oh my God, Bridge,” Peter said, turning crimson to match his Windbreaker. “I’m so, so sorry. Can I get you another one?”
    “It’s fine, Peter,” she said, pushing her tray away. “I’m not thirsty.”
    He dropped his eyes to his tray. “Sorry.”
    She caught Hector making kissy faces at her from across the table and gave him a swift kick with her boot.
    “Ow!” Hector grunted. “What was that for?”
    “So what did you forget, Liu?” Brad said, diving into sandwich number three. She’d given up trying to get him to use her first name; can’t teach an old jock new tricks.
    “Franz Ferdinand concert,” Hector answered for her. “She’s grounded.”
    “Again?” Brad shook his head in disbelief.
    It was like they thought she was some sort of delinquent. “Don’t you guys ever get grounded?”
    A look of horror spread across Peter’s face. The mere concept of being grounded by Mr. and Mrs. Kim was paramount to public flogging. Brad shook his head, mouth full of turkey and canned cranberry sauce, but Hector was
smiling.
    Bridget knew exactly what he was thinking. “Getting sent to Catholic school because your parents think it’ll beat the gay out of you doesn’t count as getting grounded.”
    “Please,” Hector said. “That’s the ultimate grounding.”
    Peter cleared his throat. “Um, Bridge, why did you get grounded this time?”
    “Duh,” Hector said. “She had a hot date with Matt Quinn.”
    Peter’s eyes grew wide. “But you said . . .” His lower lip trembled.
    “Dude, no, she didn’t,” Brad interrupted. “I was at Riordan Prep for a scrimmage yesterday and Quinn was practicing with the varsity team.”
    Hector’s jaw dropped. “YOU STOOD HIM UP?”
    Bridget threw up her hands. “There was no date!”
    Hector ignored her and pointed at Brad. “Maybe he was trying to throw you off by pretending to practice.”
    Brad smiled and played along. “She could have been in his truck the whole time . . .”
    “In his truck?” Poor Peter. Now they were just torturing him.
    “. . . taking a break from sucking face!” Hector finished. “That’s totally what happened.”
    Brad and Hector fist bumped while Bridget shook her head. “You guys need therapy, you know that?”
    She felt Peter stiffen. “Bridget, were you really with Matt—”
    “Hey, Kim,” Brad said, tactfully changing the subject. “What did you mean about the history paper?”
    Bridget could have kissed him.
    “Huh?” Peter asked.
    “You said not to worry about the history paper.”
    Peter grudgingly turned his attention from the Archbishop Riordan Prep varsity baseball team and Matt Quinn. “Right. Mr. Singh took a leave of absence. We have a new history teacher.”
    “What?” Bridget said. “From Monday to Tuesday he needs a sabbatical?”
    “Yanno,” Hector said. “You’d think he’d have the decency not to assign that hot mess of a paper if he was going to bail on us.”
    Brad shrugged. “Oh, well. At