Hushed | Christal Ruppert

Hushed

Christal Ruppert

Fiction

It's senior night at the football game, so of course I'm there covering for the yearbook, camera bag making my shoulder ache. Mim will tell you it's because I'm a control freak and won't let anyone else shoot, but honestly no one else wanted this shift. I'd be up in the pep band at halftime if I could, not down on the field.

But, okay, yes, I'm a bit of a control freak.

The athletics at Quincy, suck though they may, are rich in traditions. Parents' night and senior night are similar in nature, but still distinct: At halftime on senior night, Rich Crawley announces each senior and they're joined on the field by their families. At parents' night halftime, Rich calls the names of each player's parents, only the parents join them on the field, and the boys give them some kind of gift -- a flower for their mom, a can of root beer for their dad, something like that.

Either way, it takes a long time. And they want pictures. So I'm stuck listening to Dom and Alyssa handle the drumline, which sucks because we're already missing Owen and Tanner and Gideon and Scott, who are all in Quincy orange and white and currently standing behind me on the field. I mean, the band isn't currently playing, because all the seniors are being announced, but the end-of-half school song run sounded weak, like it was missing half its backbone. Because it is.

I wipe a palm on my jeans and adjust my grip on my camera. One responsibility for another.

Gideon Vogel, #15, is called up now. He walks out to the 50 yard line while the line behind him inches forward. His mom and little sister meet him there with a hug. When they pose and smile at me, I click off a few shots and give them a thumbs-up. Rinse and repeat.

Jonathan Brady, #22, meets his dad on the track, because his dad's wheelchair can't make it out on the turf, and I swivel. Ben Macauley, #25, is joined by his triplet brother and sister, respectively. Alex Koch, 28, scoops his mom up off the ground in a bear hug, and I try to catch it.

Gavin, #39, is second-to-last to be called up. I wave at his parents as they trek out to the 50 yard line, far outstripped by an energetic Hayden. I can see Gavin signing to his brother already as he sprints toward him, and by the time he gets to Gavin, they've worked it out. Gavin drops to a crouch and Hayden, with all his momentum, leaps onto his back.

I choke down some sudden knot in my throat and take their picture: Hayden's arms thrown around Gavin's neck, parents flanking the boys, all beaming brightly. The Muellers. For a second, it's almost quiet.

Sound returns in a rush as Rich starts announcing the last player. They all walk off the field together to the crowd's applause, replaced by Owen Baker, #42, and then senior night, or at least my job for it, is done. There will be cookies after the game, but the yearbook doesn't need photos of that. I reach to my

back pocket for my lens cap and turn to look into the bleachers. The players have all retreated to a team huddle for the remaining minutes of halftime, and Kesler has struck up the pep band again. People are milling around, chatting, getting food. Kids are chasing each other, running into people. It's like every other halftime.

I look for my mom, my dad, before I remember they're at home with Marshall tonight, whose teething is making the whole household lose sleep. Presley's here somewhere, but she's 12 and she's with friends, which is to say she's not watching the game even a little, and she wouldn't understand this anyway.

She wouldn't remember.

Mim, from the flute section down in the front of the band's bleacher section, is the only person close enough to catch the look on my face -- which, in all fairness, I'm not sure what it looks like, but I can guess I've lost any color because I vaguely feel like passing out. I quickly turn back around and busy myself with the camera, removing the lens, replacing the rear lens and camera body caps, packing it away. Mim will think this has to do with Gavin, or maybe Owen, but it doesn't at all.

I leave the field and find a quiet, dim spot behind the bleachers where the band is a little muted and people walk past me without noticing. I take a deep breath to ground myself and lean into a pole, into the calm.

I wonder if he remembers his football senior night. Luke.

Presley was five or six, and she refused to come out to the field with us because of the lights and noise and people. Mom had to carry her; she's pouting in the photo. But I, like Hayden Mueller, had adored my big brother and jumped at the offered piggy-back and hugged him around the neck and grinned widely for the camera. This is my brother, my smile declared to the world. He's awesome and funny and smart and strong and he's mine.

I remember this moment because a) the photo of it is framed in the living room, and b) it was one of the last times I felt so exuberantly proud of him. By the time his spring track banquet and graduation rolled around, I was more sad than excited, and I cried buckets when we moved him into his college dorm.

I wonder if he ever thinks about it. I remember the text he sent Mom over the summer in response to her asking if he was coming home for the 4th of July -- a photo of him in a wetsuit, friends behind him, surfboards under their arms. It was an indelicate "no." So the odds aren't good that he reminisces about high school very often, very much less one specific halftime of a football game.

Luke the football quarterback, the basketball shooting guard, the 400 hurdles champ. Luke the endlessly-athletic and perpetually-bored. Of course he's learning to surf.

But even though this is so Luke, so on brand for him, I can't help but feel like I don't know him at all anymore. I don't know this Luke.

I pull my phone from by back pocket and swipe open the lock. The band has stopped playing and the hush around me is more complete without its muffled noise. My thumb hovers over the screen for a few moments, suspended in the stillness. The light from my phone blinks up at me and I wonder

where he is right now, what he's doing, who he's with. I want to ask him if he misses playing football. I wonder if he still likes yogurt but not Jell-O. I want to know if he misses us, misses me, like I miss him.

I think about that 10-year-old girl on #11's shoulders: This is my brother. He's awesome and he's mine.

My phone goes dark of its own accord, tired of waiting for me. I swipe it open again, but too many thoughts hold my fingers paralyzed, mind spinning with questions to ask or things to tell him. I want, strangely, to tell him that I don't hate yogurt anymore, the way I did when I was a kid.

And then I think, Luke doesn't know this Kit, either.

We're seven years past Luke's senior night. I'm not that 10-year-old girl, the one who sat on Luke's shoulders at fireworks every summer, eating cotton candy. I'm not the girl who tried every food he ate or watched Star Wars with him just because it would give me a few hours to be next to him.

And Luke, he's not the 17-year-old boy who would let me.

I lock the phone.

I tell myself I do this because Rich Crawley's voice is announcing the return of the teams, and the noise in the bleachers means the pep band is packing up, and I should go help Alyssa and Dominic with the percussion equipment. I tell myself I do this because Mim will come looking for me any second to drag me back to the game and I won't have time to write the text; but I tell myself it's okay because I'm not angry anymore, which I think is probably true, because I've spent a lot of time -- too much time -- being angry with Luke over the last seven years.

But the truth is, I do this because seven years is a chasm, and I don't know how to bridge that gap.