Nicknames Are a Life Sentence

You sat in the soaked bleachers of Canyon High on a rainy Friday night, the stadium lights casting a sickly greenish-yellow haze across the field. The Canyon Cougars were facing off against the Hayward Farmers, but all eyes were on their freshman linebacker phenom, Jack Del Rio—part football player, part demigod in cleats.

Next to you, Liz huddled under a massive umbrella. Between the two of you sat a bag of popcorn that had long since surrendered to the rain, each kernel tasting like soggy regret.

Off to the side, you noticed the girl they called the Tasmanian Devil. She was marooned on a solitary slab of bleacher, her jacket soaked, mascara melting like the villain in a low-budget horror flick. No umbrella, no allies, just rain and raw adolescence.

“Tasmanian Devil’s got that look,” you said to Liz, chewing a kernel that crumbled into sadness on your tongue.

“What look?” she asked.

“The one that says she knows her life is a steaming pile of crap.”

Liz nodded slowly. “Poor thing.”

“Do we even know her real name?” you asked.

She gave a small shrug.

“Exactly. She’s been sentenced to that nickname for life. Might as well tattoo it on her forehead.”

As the game dragged on, the rain lightened into a mist, coating everything in a kind of apocalyptic glow. The crowd buzzed as Del Rio took the field, and a man behind you barked, “That kid’s going pro, you mark my words.”

You leaned toward Liz. “Jack Del Rio and the Tasmanian Devil—two trains, opposite tracks. One’s off to glory, the other’s derailing into a swamp.”

“We could invite her over,” Liz offered.

You waved like a deranged game show host. “Need an umbrella? Want to join us?”

She shook her head. Her eyes stayed on the ground. Her jacket soaked through like a sponge left in a car wash.

“At least you tried,” Liz said with a sympathetic smile.

You shifted the conversation. “You mad at your dad?”

“No,” you said, surprising even yourself. “If anything, I’m relieved. There’s less tension now. No more walking on eggshells.”

Liz nodded. “After my dad left, my mom never dated. She’s allergic to men. She’s got this fortress of piano recitals, farmer’s markets, and gin rummy with Grandma. Her friend circle is basically a man-repellent sorority.”

You sighed. “I’m dreading my mom dating. She’s too nice, too open. Men could run circles around her.”

“You can’t control everything,” Liz said.

“There’s this awful book called How to Pick Up Girls! It’s like a predator’s playbook. If some sleazeball uses that on her, I swear I’ll Hulk out.”

Liz laughed. “You can’t be a bouncer at your own house.”

You squared your shoulders. “Watch me.”