Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have (23 page)

Do you only get one chance? I hope not.

“I’m good at a lot of things,” I say.

“Not like this,” Dad says.

I think about that for a second. Dad’s right. There aren’t a lot of things that three thousand people watch you do in a stadium. I imagine taking the American History AP exam in the middle of the field with people watching. I bubble with a number-two pencil and the fans go wild. Never going to happen. Then I imagine writing a short story. That’s something else I want to do. But people don’t jump up and down when you write a story.

“Take some time to think about things,” Coach says.

“I’ve had lots of time.”

Coach twirls his droopy moustache. “Take some more. You don’t want to do anything you’re going to regret.”

A bunch of guys rush past, and they grab Coach and pull him along with them.

“I’m serious,” Coach calls back to me. “This team is championship material.”

I turn back to Dad. He just stares at me.

“You’re quitting?” Dad says. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“You wouldn’t understand, Dad.”

“Try me.”

You can’t out-argue a lawyer. I forget that sometimes.

“It’s like I did everything for the wrong reasons,” I say.

I think Dad is going to yell at me, but instead he says: “Right and wrong. It gets confusing sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You think it gets easier when you’re older, but it doesn’t.”

Dad shuffles uncomfortably and kicks the turf with his loafer.

“I don’t want you to go to New York,” I say.

As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. Even though it’s what I’ve been thinking for months. Even though it’s the truth.

“You don’t just give up an opportunity like this, Andy. They don’t come around every day.”

I’m not sure if Dad is talking about his new job or football. Before I can ask him, Miriam comes walking towards us across the field.

“Sorry. I had to run to the little girls’ room.”

“She has a tiny bladder,” Dad says. “It’s like living with a gerbil.”

“Stop that,” Miriam says. “It’s your son’s big day.”

“Exactly why you should hold it until we get back to the apartment.”

I clear my throat. “Mom’s giving me a ride home.”

“Okay, then,” Dad says. “You’ll come by the apartment before we leave?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

He musses the top of my hair like he used to do when I was a kid. Then he gives me a hug.

It starts out like the usual Dad hug—more symbolic than anything else—but then he doesn’t let go. Neither do I.

“Whatever you decide, you did a good job today. You should be proud,” Dad says.

“I am,” I say.

I walk away towards the parking lot. When I glance back, the two of them are still there, watching me. Miriam has her arm hooked in Dad’s, and they’re both waving and smiling.

Maybe it’s mean of me, but I don’t wave back.

the long short ride home.

“What’s O. Douglas really like?” Jessica asks from the front seat. This is her ten thousandth question about the game, and it’s only a fifteen-minute ride home. I feel a little embarrassed for her, the way she’s so obviously obsessed with the popular crowd. Who’s hot, who’s not, et cetera.

All the same stuff that I was obsessed with.

So I don’t get angry with her like I usually do. I answer her questions as best I can. I try to tell her the truth, share my experience of it all.

I tell her about the time I was playing in O.’s backyard, and I had an asthma attack. I tell her about my secret deal with O. about my inhaler. I tell her how I had a crush on April, how we talked at the party, and I thought she was going to be my girlfriend. I talk about my theory of love at second sight. I know Mom’s listening, so I leave out the stuff about the alcohol at the party. But I tell most everything else.

Mom and Jess seem really interested, even during the boring parts. They sigh and gasp, ask a lot more questions.

A funny thing starts to happen.

The more I tell the story, the more it stops feeling like something that happened to someone else, and starts feeling like it happened to me.

When I finish, Mom says, “What an amazing story. You should write some of this down.”

“Maybe I will,” I say.

Mom turns the corner onto Boylston Street.

“I saw you talking to your father,” Mom says.

I think she might get angry, but she doesn’t. She just says, “It was nice of him to come to your game.”

“I think so, too,” I say.

“And bring his friend—” Mom doesn’t even finish the sentence before she starts to cry. She takes the corner too fast as she digs in her purse for a tissue. Mom’s driving is never great, but when she’s driving and crying, I get concerned for our lives.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “It’s all a little too much sometimes.”

“It’s going to be okay, Mom,” Jessica says.

Mom sniffles. “It’s
my
job to say that.”

Mom shoots through a stop sign. Jessica and I trade worried looks.

“Maybe we should go to Papa Gino’s,” I say, because it’s
right down the street, and if I’m going to die, I’d like to do it in the vicinity of pizza.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Mom says.

We pull into the parking lot, and a few minutes later we’re sitting with a large sausage and pepperoni in front of us. We also get a big salad on the side, but it’s mostly for show. We put some on our plates, then we concentrate on the pizza. Even Jessica has a slice.

“The sausage is delicious,” Mom says.

“Definitely,” I say.

Mom put us on the Kosher Diet last year, but it didn’t last long. We both realized we liked pork too much to commit.

After a while, Mom starts to tell us a story about her own high-school days. She tells us how she got a crush on a boy and how he didn’t like her back. She talks about another boy who liked her too much, and she didn’t like him back.

“How did you meet Dad?” Jessica says.

I try to kick her under the table to shut her up, but I don’t get to her in time. I’m waiting for Mom to freak out, but she just gets quiet for a minute, and then she starts to talk.

She tells us about the first time she saw Dad playing baseball in college, how good he looked on the field, and how she had to work really hard to get his attention. “All the girls wanted a piece of him,” Mom says, “but they couldn’t cook like I could. One night I made him a lasagna and brought it to his house after the game with fresh pecorino cheese and a grater. I think the pecorino sealed the deal.”

“You can get a lot of mileage with a good cheese,” I say.

We sit in Papa Gino’s—just the three of us—eating pizza, telling stories, and laughing a little, almost like the old days. I eat four pieces of pizza. I’m about to reach for five when Mom gives me the eye, and I have to stop.

I know we have problems, but tonight they don’t bother me so much. I don’t know why it is, but everything feels better when I’m eating. I guess I’m just built that way.

expansion.

Eytan and I are walking to AP History together. I’m looking around the school, thinking about all the different things I’ve done since the beginning of the year.

“What’s on your mind?” Eytan says.

“The whole world,” I say.

“That’s a lot.”

“No kidding. My head’s killing me.”

“Maybe you could think about half the world at a time. Like Monday, Wednesday, Friday you do Western Hemisphere, and Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday you do Eastern.”

“What about Sunday?”

“Sunday is for sex. Twenty-four hours of the most depraved and perverse sexual fantasies.”

I laugh and punch Eytan in the arm.

“Careful. You’ve got serious guns now,” he says.

I make a muscle and Eytan squeezes it.

“Geez,” he says. “You should start wearing T-shirts. Show those babies off a little bit.”

“I don’t like T-shirts.”

“Forget what you like. Do it for me. We could use a few more ladies in our social circle. That’s not to say you’re not excellent company. But for the purpose of expanding our horizons—”

“It’s important to expand,” I say.

“I cannot disagree with you,” Eytan says.

“But you’ll have to do it without my T-shirts.”

A couple of cute girls pass us, and they look our way. One of them, a redhead, even smiles.

“Have a beautiful day, ladies,” Eytan calls after them.

They giggle as they go down the hall.

Eytan looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Expansion,” he says.

“In your pants, maybe.”

He smiles, then his face suddenly gets serious. “Quick question,” he says.

“Hit me.”

“With all this football stuff—the parties, the practices, the new friends, the cheerleaders, all of it—”

“What’s the question?” I say.

“Did you get any?”

“No.”

“Son of a bitch.”

football players only.

I’m waiting outside the locker room after school. It feels strange to be in the hall without going in. A bunch of the guys pass by in a group.

“What’s up, badass?” Rodriguez says. We bump fists.

“Not much,” I say.

“You miss us, don’t you?”

“Not at all,” I say.

“Bullshit,” Cheesy says. “It’s tough to shower alone. Admit it.”

“It’s true,” I say. Then I pause. “So it doesn’t count if my mom is in there with me?”

“Holy crap,” Rodriguez says. “You did not just say that.”

The guys bust out laughing. Cheesy starts to choke, and they have to slap him on the back. We’re all there—Rodriguez, Cheesy, Bison, even the Neck. It’s like we’re on the line again, just for a second.

“You maybe change your mind about us?” Bison says.

“No,” I say.

“Why not? Is there something wrong with us? I mean, other than Cheesy’s BO,” Bison says.

“It’s not you guys. It’s just—I have other things I want to do.”

“That’s friggin’ lame,” Bison says.

“Easy,” Rodriguez says.

“No, I’m serious. We schooled the boy, and he turns around and screws us.”

Bison flings open the locker-room door. He stops and looks back at me. “So I’ll tell you what, dude. You can suck my hole now.”

He disappears, slamming the door behind him.

The guys shift uncomfortably. Who quits football, right? Maybe it’s a little scary to them. When someone leaves, it feels like they’re rejecting you, even if that’s not what’s going on.

“Don’t mind him,” Rodriguez says.

“No,” I say. “He’s right. You guys did a lot for me.”

“That’s the game,” Cheesy says. “That’s how it works.”

“Coach and I had a heart-to-heart,” I say. “He told me I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.”

“Coach is messed up over this,” Rodriguez says. “He’s been eating pork lo mein by the truckful.”

“Seriously. We’re gonna have to get the guy a friggin’ Weight Watchers membership,” Cheesy says.

“Is he right?” Rodriguez says. “Is it a mistake?”

I shrug. It’s one of those answers I might not know for a long time.

Just then O. comes around the corner whistling. He sees me and the whistle dies.

“Okay,” Rodriguez says. “I’d better see your ass at some games, huh?” We bump elbows, then he signals the guys, and they head into the locker room.

“Football players only,” O. says. He walks past me like he’s going straight into the locker room.

“I came to say thanks.”

O. pauses. “For what?”

“For everything.”

“I thought I set you up and ruined your life.”

“Not true,” I say. “I was being dramatic. And I was pissed at you. For a pretty good reason, I think.”

O. blows out a breath. “I’m not proud of what I did,” he says. “But I’m proud of the things we did together.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, I forgive you.”

“Screw you, dude.” O. clenches his fists. I think maybe we’re going to get into it, but he stops himself.

“You know what? I forgive you, too,” he says.

“Forgive me for what?”

“For using me to get famous.”

“Am I famous now?” I say.

“Pretty famous.”

“That doesn’t suck.”

“No, it most certainly does not,” O. says.

There are catcalls inside the locker room. Guys horsing around. The team vibe. I miss it. At least that part of it.

A tiny part of me feels like I am making a mistake.

“I got to motivate,” O. says.

“So what now?” I say. “Do you think you can be friends with someone who’s not a football player?”

O. opens the locker-room door. “You don’t know me well enough to know the answer to that?”

He’s right. I already know.

“It was a good game,” he says. “But it’s over. Now I have to get ready for the next one.”

He nods once, and then he goes inside to join the guys.

buses come and they go.

“Andy! Wait up a second,” April says.

I’m on my way out of school, and I think about ignoring her, rushing out the door so fast she can’t catch me. The thing is, I see her in AP. I see her in Gym. It’s not like I can avoid her forever. So I stop.

“What’s up,” I say.

“You know,” she says. “Lots of things.”

We walk out together. I don’t think we’ve ever walked out the front of the school together. It’s a new experience for us.

“We didn’t get to talk after the game,” April says.

“You heard that I quit?”

“Everyone’s talking about it.”

“What are they saying?”

“They’re angry,” she says. “But I think it’s because they miss you.”

They
. Not
I
. Big difference, right?

“I think I’m going to write for the lit journal,” I say. “Try something new and different.”

School buses fill up and rumble away in clouds of black smoke. I haven’t been out here at this time in a couple months. It’s funny how you can go away and come back, and things are just the same.

“How do you like being a cheerleader?” I say.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I mean, I think I’m pretty good at it.”

“I think so, too.”