The Tailgate by Elin Hilderbrand Read Free Book Online Page A

beat-up pair of Levi’s and an oversized men’s oxford shirt. She had the shirt in four colors: white, blue, pink, and peach. She always wore penny loafers, and she always wore a strand of pearls and pearl earrings. That was Dabney.
    Dabney Kimball was the most popular girl in the school because she was genuinely kind to everyone. She was kind to Jeffrey Jackson, who had a port wine stain on his face; she was kind to Henry Granger, who started wearing wingtips and carrying a briefcase in second grade. She included everyone in planning events like Homecoming floats and December Delight. She had grown up an only child raised by her father, Lieutenant Kimball, who was a police officer. Her mother was…well, no one knew exactly what had happened to her mother. A couple of different stories had circulated, as gossip does, but all we knew for sure was that Dabney no longer had a mother, which made us love her even more.
    Dabney was also smarter than everyone else at Nantucket High School, except for Clendenin Hughes, who was what our English teacher, Mr. Kane, called a “hundred-year genius.” Dabney was probably a ninety-nine-year genius.
    Freshman year, Dabney and I were fledglings on the yearbook committee. The yearbook was mostly upperclassmen—it was, actually, all upperclassmen, except for the two of us. Dabney felt that, despite our lowly status, freshmen should be represented just like the other three classes, and that no one was going to look out for us if we didn’t look out for ourselves. So that winter Dabney and I hung out a lot. We would go to yearbook meetings every Tuesday and Thursday after school, and when we were finished, we would watch the boys’ varsity basketball team.
    I had a huge, horrible crush on Phil Bruschelli. Phil was a sophomore, and in the varsity games, he mostly sat the bench. If the team was ahead by more than twenty points, Phil would go in for a few minutes. One such time when this happened, I grabbed Dabney’s arm in excitement.
    I’ll never forget the look on her face. It was what I’ll now call amused recognition. She said, “You like him. You like Phil.”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” I said. Because even though Dabney and I were practically best friends, my crush on Phil wasn’t a secret I was willing to share.
    â€œYes,” she said. “You do. I can see it. You’re all…pink.”
    â€œOf course I’m pink,” I said. “It’s a hundred degrees in here and I’m Irish.”
    â€œNot your face, silly,” Dabney said. “Your, I don’t know, your aura is rosy.”
    â€œMy aura?” I said. “Rosy?”
    After the game, Dabney insisted I wait with her in the hallway outside the boys’ locker room. Her father was coming to pick her up, she said.
    â€œWhy aren’t you walking?” I asked. Dabney lived right across the street from the school.
    â€œJust wait with me,” Dabney said. And then she pushed my hair back off my shoulders and flipped up the collar of my Izod shirt. She was so close to me I could have counted her freckles.
    I said, “How come you don’t have a boyfriend? You’re so pretty and everyone likes you.”
    She said, “I do have a boyfriend. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
    I wanted to ask her who she meant, but at that instant Phil Bruschelli walked out of the locker room, all six foot three of him. His dark hair was still damp from the shower and he was wearing a dark brown shearling jacket. I nearly fainted away, he was so cute.
    Dabney stepped into his path. “Hey there, Phil.”
    Phil stopped. “Hey, Dabney.”
    Dabney said, “Nice that you got a little playing time today. Varsity game, you must be psyched.”
    He shrugged. “Yeah, whatever, Coach says I have to pay my dues. Wait until next year.”
    Dabney pulled me close to her side. “You know Ginger, right, Phil? Ginger