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Locking arms around each other’s shoulders, the pushy pack of teens shoved and shouted, propelling a steamy cloud of breath skyward into the damp air. The ba’ itself hadn’t been seen since it was first tossed up—then swallowed—by the fracas. Its disappearance, though, wasn’t unusual. It often went missing—hidden under someone’s shirt or stashed in a trash bin—until it could be spirited away undetected through the mass of bodies toward one of the goals.

“I can’t tell them apart.” Evie dismissed her search with a wave of her floppy, handknit mitt. “They’re all squished against the town hall.” She shifted as several spectators squeezed past, hunting for a better vantage point.

“Oh, Evie, Sunita—hi!” Mrs. Robson, a plump, gray-haired woman who worked in the post office, leaned in. “Happy Christmas.”

“Happy Christmas,” they replied in unison.

Evie’s spidey sense pricked. She knew what was coming next.

“You been well, love? How’s your bowel disease?”

Grateful for Mrs. Robson’s concern, Evie smiled, but being appreciative didn’t cancel out the annoyance of being known around town as “That peedie girl with Crohn’s.” Nothing seemed to displace the label, not winning the school’s science fair, not volunteering with the family history society, not serving customers in her mother’s shop. Crohn’s was always front and center, what people remembered most about her. If she wasn’t defined by her disease like her mother said, why did everyone keep bringing it up? She brushed her bangs from her eyes and reminded herself not to be snarky. “It’s been okay. Behaving.”

“Aye! Glad to hear it.” Mrs. Robson patted Evie’s arm. “Say hi to your parents for me.” She grinned then weaved her way down the packed steps.

Evie searched the crowd again.

“So…” Plowing through her belongings, Sunita nudged aside crushed bags of Cheesy Wotsits and a dented box of Tunnock’s marshmallow Snowballs, sustenance for the long haul. The Ba’ could last eight minutes or eight hours. “Does your mum worry—ahh! There it is!” Sunita pulled out her phone, flipped it open, and sat back on her haunches, checking text messages.

Evie peered down at her friend’s tiny screen, the ache of being fourteen and a half and still phoneless flaring. “Worry ’bout what? Sam and Dad playing?”

Sunita took a beat to answer. “No…her shop.”

Looking across the road, Evie eyed the temporary planks of wood running horizontally across the shop’s windows and green door, temporary barriers against rampaging elbows and flying shoulders. Marwick’s shopfront wasn’t the only one; all the shops in the town center wore similar gameday protection. “Not really. Mum says we haven’t broken a window in thirty years.” When she licked her shimmery lip gloss, one of Sunita’s Christmas presents, strawberry sweetened her tongue. She gawked at her friend’s screen again. “Who’s that from?”

“Fiona.” Sunita raised her voice over the shouts from the Ba’. “She’s totally chuffed. Got the Justin Timberlake CD.”

JT owned Fiona’s heart today, but who would claim it tomorrow was anyone’s guess. Fickle Fi swapped heartthrobs as frequently as her underwear. Nick lasted barely two months before being replaced by a revolving door of actors, singers, and reality show contestants. Evie risked whiplash trying to keep up.

“Oh!” Sunita exclaimed. “She says, ‘Thank Eves for my choker. Lovin’ it!’”

“Knew she would,” said Evie. “Fi’s wanted it for ages.” Yeah, like me and a freakin’ phone. Picking at her bobbly mittens riddled with dropped stitches, she frowned, the dread of slipping further and further into teenage social oblivion weighing all too heavy.

“EVIEEE!”

Oh gawd. Squirming, Evie shifted her gaze down the street, away from the Ba’, away from the beckoning voice.

“Wait! Is that—?” Sunita shot up onto her feet, her arms cradling a large plastic bottle of cola. Eyes darting, she scoured the sea of faces until she landed on her target. “It is! Evie, look! Stuart’s over there, crossing the Kirk Green.”

Acting oblivious, she glanced over. “Where?” Her tone dripped with disinterest.

“With the Flett twins.” Sunita pointed. “See? He’s looking this way.”

A stocky eighteen-year-old with a stern brow and a buzzcut waved amidst the maze of rapt spectators. Proudly wearing his Scotland rugby top, old jeans, and steel-toed boots, Stuart obviously wasn’t headed to his stepmother’s Christmas lunch.

Evie raised her mitt politely, her brief acknowledgment unleashing another enthusiastic wave.

“Aw! Look at him!” Sunita giggled, bumping Evie with her elbow. “He so likes you!”

She turned away, hoping the University of Strathclyde freshman home for the holidays wouldn’t come over. “I like him too, but not in that way.” Eyes darting back, the former boys Ba’ winner was gone, headed to the Uppie men’s pre-game meetup. Not having her own phone held one advantage: Stuart Moodie couldn’t bombard her with flirty texts.

Sunita tsked. “Why not? You moan constantly about wanting a boyfriend, and he’d be perfect. Older, fit, smart—he’s studying mechanical engineering for fuck’s sake! He’s a parent’s wet dream!”

Evie cringed into her scarf. “Then they can snog him.”

“Ahh, Eves, you’ve gotta stop comparing Stuart and all the guys we know to Nikolai,” said Sunita.

“I’m not!”