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armpits. It was petrifying, really. I blurted out the only sound one
can
make when he’s been unceremoniously stabbed in both underarms during high school French.
    From that day forward, Madame Kuepper considered me
“très bizarre.”
    Paige sat directly behind me during all four years of high school French, and over time, we developed a system of signals to help each other with vocabulary. For example, when Paige mistakenly used the masculine form of a feminine noun, I might start massaging my neck and biceps. (I’m sure these idiosyncrasies played right into Madame Kuepper’s impression of me.) By sitting behind me, it was easier for Paige to tip me off if I made a mistake.One swift kick to my chair and I knew:
Mais oui, naturellement, j’aime la … LE chat noir.
    By sophomore year, I still hadn’t worked up the courage to ask Paige on a date; somehow I’d convinced myself that I’d only be ready to pop that question when I could order dinner for her in fluent French. But then the Crockett Indians were playing the Piedmont Highlanders. It was the last high school football scrimmage of the season, and out of the blue, Paige wondered if I’d like to accompany her to the game.
    On paper, it had all the markings of a legitimate date—just the two of us (and the rest of the student body) … at night—but then Paige suggested we meet there instead of me picking her up, and when I arrived at the game, there were “others,” among them Paige’s older sister, Lara, and Lara’s best friend, Tyler Rich, both seniors.
    It was five minutes into the first quarter of the game—Paige and I locked in an intense conversation over whether the first word or words in the Peter Gabriel song “Big Time” was “higher,” “hi there,” or “hey la”—when it hit me. The football. Or at least that’s what I’m told.
    I would learn later that while it was the Piedmont Highlanders’ star quarterback who was responsible for launching the pigskin, it was
our
defensive linebacker, Emmanuel Milken, who, in attempting to block the shot, tipped the ball slightly upward, causing the torpedo to hit me smack-dab in the right temple. What happened next happened quickly. Through various witness accounts, computer simulations, and expert testimony, I believe the magic bullet then ricocheted off my noggin, smacked Paige square in the forehead, knocking her off her bench and across two rows of bleachers, and then returned off Paige’s face to pop me in the nose before coming to rest.
    The crowd gasped. The game stopped. It all happened so fast, I think Paige thought I head-butted her midsentence.
    “You okay?” I managed to blurt out before Lara and Tyler jumped on Paige, all Secret Service-like.
    Paige said nothing. We were both seeing stars. Lara and Tyler helped Paige to her feet.
    “Let me help …,” I said, stumbling to rise.
    “You’ve done enough!” Lara insisted.
    Through tunnel vision, I can still see Paige’s protectors dragging her away toward the on-site nurse, Paige crying, “Wait, wait, wait. Hold up one sec. I’m fine. I think Andy’s the one who’s hurt.”
    “I’ll be no problem,” I screamed back, one hand cupping my bloody nose, the other rubbing the side of my head.
    Paige and Tyler were tight after that, though she rarely mentioned him in French class. They dated off and on for the rest of high school and possibly beyond. It would take me ten years before I’d get a second date with her. Had Manny just kept his right meat hook to himself, everything would have been so different.
    “Know what these are?” Manny says, reaching inside his de livery truck and dragging a medium-sized box closer with his fingertips.
    My eyes widen. The orange and light blue lettering on the box is a town trademark. The red ribbon unmistakable. Memorial Day is only two weeks away. Crockett’s Red Rockets are back, baby!
    “I’ve got Gregory’s supply right here. Can I interest you in a few freebies?” he says,