Chapter 21: Phone High, Don't Breathe

"Lainey," my mother said, "you're upset. We can talk upstairs."

"We can talk here."

I walked to the television and turned to face the room.

Fifty people looked back at me, glasses halfway to their mouths.

My knees were weak, and my voice came out steady.

"Some of you know me from the street. Some of you watched me grow up. My mother invited you to see a video of me and my stepfather."

Nobody laughed.

"I'm twenty-two. I sat on Gabriel's lap for ninety-three minutes at the Round of 16, and I wanted to. I'm not ashamed of what I wanted."

A neighbor near the door put her hand over her mouth.

"What I didn't know," I said, "is that the seat I sat on was cut open on purpose, with a blade, by the woman holding the camera."

A sound ran through the room.

My mother laughed, thin and bright.

"Darling, you're confused. The seat was vandalized."

"Nico," I said.

He tapped a key.

The black screen lit with two photos side by side, the whole seat and the cut one.

"Seventy minutes apart," Nico said. "I took both."

"This is absurd," my mother said. "Dale, say something."

Dale had not moved from the mantel.

His eyes were on the laptop.

"The cut was made with a box cutter," I said. "My brother can tell you which one."

Heads turned.

My brother stepped out from the stairs, small and white-faced, and he took the freezer bag out from under his jersey.

The orange blade showed through the plastic, with a flake of foam in the track.

"She borrowed it the night before the game," he said, loud enough for the back of the room. "She told me it was a craft. She told me not to say."

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