Love All: A Novel (19 page)

As soon as the bell rang, Teddy slipped out of homeroom with his sweatshirt in his hand and his backpack secure over his shoulder. He’d apologize to Kim later. He’d make it up to her by nailing her in his very own backseat. Teddy slammed through the cafeteria doors and slid into shotgun in Dave’s running vehicle, releasing the lever on his seat back and quickly reclining out of view.

They’d be caught later—maybe not till second or third period, but someone would finally take attendance and there’d be a call to his house. Fortunately for Teddy, his parents worked, and answering-machine messages could be erased. As for Dave, he’d been offered early admission to Yale and now seemed to have a permission slip to come and go as he pleased.

Kim’s fucking annoying, Teddy announced.

Dump her, said Dave.

I should, said Teddy, bracing himself as Dave revved his Saab around the circle, whipping them onto Linden Avenue.

You should, Dave agreed.

Dave thought Kim was a moron. He thought Teddy was a moron, too, but they’d been friends since preschool and were still sort of close all these years later. They didn’t have any classes together, but Teddy liked to listen to the Affect Effectors rehearse during study hall, Dave on bass. Teddy wondered what would become of Dave at Yale when he joined the crowds of people as weird as he was—would Dave ever come home again?

Teddy had no intention of leaving home, really. He was going to college only forty-five minutes away, and now that he was buying a car, he’d be able to pop back whenever he felt like it. But who else would still be here? Teddy had developed a phobia of life after June 26, graduation day, when one by one his friends would pack up their rooms and leave for foreign lands: Ithaca; Binghamton; Springfield, Mass. Why did this have to happen? It seemed unnatural, and Teddy was refusing to participate.

Eyes closed, he spun the radio dial. In three tries—his best was a lucky single—Teddy hit Lite 98.7. He had just started to sing along when Dave’s long fingers appeared out of nowhere and retuned the radio to NPR.

No, said Teddy.

Find a tape, said Dave.

Teddy rooted through the glove compartment, silently vetoing Luscious Jackson and the Cocteau Twins. Dave was so fucking gay.

Prince, said Teddy, feeding the tape into the deck. Dave nodded his approval.

Without signaling, Dave turned right onto Susquehanna and tore over the bridge toward the gym. In their dusty wake, Teddy charted the disappearance of his house until it was only a tiny square in his side-view mirror.

Christ, said Teddy. Slow down. There are always cops here.

Dave said, I divine the police.

Teddy monitored Dave’s speedometer as they went 40 through a 20, past the gym.

So, which cards are you selling? asked Dave.

I haven’t decided.

Dave glanced at him, then nodded at the backpack by Teddy’s feet. What’s in there?

All of them, Teddy admitted.

You’re selling all of them?

Teddy started to squirm. As boys, Dave—not a collector himself but happy to do whatever Teddy suggested—had taken charge of Teddy’s collection. He’d engaged the shopkeepers on type, condition, and rarity, while Teddy stood directly behind his shorter friend and pinned his eyes to the floor. Teddy hadn’t been able to understand where scrawny, bespectacled Dave, with a severe allergy to peanuts, had gotten his confidence. Teddy was average height for a ten-year-old and still he’d preferred slinking in with his head down, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter, then silently choosing his wax packs from the bins near the registers before retreating to the comfort of the sidewalk to shuffle through his decks, admire the one or two keepers, and work his jaw over the brittle sticks of gum. It wasn’t until Teddy began to shoot up—presaged by excruciating pains in his long bones—that he’d taken ownership of his collection. By age fourteen, Teddy was marching straight up to the counters at places like Third Base and Diamonds, and he didn’t have to explain his decision now to sell that collection—not to Dave and not to his dad, on whom Teddy had two inches.

I might, said Teddy.

He went to crack his window and was for a moment completely baffled, then remembered that his window control was on the center console. Saabs were so weak.

The wind washed through the car and drowned out Prince and also Dave, who was now telling him that it would be insane to give up his entire collection when individual cards were the locus of a collector’s
blah blah blah
.

Teddy closed his eyes. He’d sensed the same disapproval from his sister last night and was sick of all the negativity. Maybe he’d outgrown baseball cards, okay? Teddy still had in his closet three shoe boxes full of GI Joes, Transformers, He-Men, and Garbage Pail Kids; a stack of
Mad
magazines nearly as tall as he was; and a library of
Sports Illustrated Kids
dating from the first issue, in 1989. What business was it of theirs if he wanted to cash in? It wasn’t like he was giving his cards away. He knew what they were worth and he had a so-so idea of his walk-away price. If the manager of Major League Collectibles lowballed him,
boom
, Teddy would be out of there.

Teddy felt his window going up and opened his eyes to see Dave’s finger on the center console.

You can’t hear me, said Dave.

That was the point, said Teddy.

So, what’s the deal with Kim? asked Dave.

Teddy shrugged.

Do you think you’ll stay together next year?

Teddy began to sweat. All morning his temperature had been off. It was the button-down shirt, the dress shoes that Teddy hadn’t worn since Nonz’s funeral, the gray sky draped like a blanket over the day. The trip to Albany had been Teddy’s idea, but when they crossed into Middlefield, leaving the
WELCOME TO
COOPERSTOWN
sign behind, Teddy wanted to grab the wheel from Dave and spin them back toward home.

I heard she got into Gettysburg, said Dave. Not that close to Oneida, but I guess that’s what the Jeep’s for.

I guess, said Teddy.

Is it serious? asked Dave.

It was deadly serious, but not in the way that Dave meant. Teddy had a problem, and he couldn’t talk about it with anyone, and he couldn’t even really explain it to himself. He was definitely still Teddy—MVP and captain of the baseball team; homecoming king and winner of the Senior Superlatives most popular, most athletic, best eyes, and best legs—but recently he’d discovered he was also a second Teddy, a smaller Teddy, and this Teddy was a loser, and this Teddy was getting left behind.

While the Oneida College athletic director had toured Teddy around their facilities last month—including a brand-new weight room, where Coach Peterson expected him to gain twenty-five pounds by the first captain’s practice—Teddy had been trying to hide his sweating palms and hear over the roar in his ears. All the guys here were benching 200, 210, while Teddy couldn’t even manage his own weight. A kid in an Oakland A’s cap, who looked to be less than Teddy’s 170, had given Teddy a quick once-over, then gone back to adding twenty-five-pound disks to his bar.

All around him, people were buzzing about college, and not only Teddy’s parents and teachers but his friends. Opening envelopes, celebrating acceptances, sending in deposits, making plans to go. Take Kim, for example, who was deciding between Gettysburg College, in Pennsylvania, and Syracuse University, forty-five minutes west of Oneida. Syracuse, right? Except, to Teddy, it made no difference: if he made it as far as Oneida, he knew he couldn’t go an inch farther. The idea of getting in his Jeep after the last baseball practice on Friday and turning west instead of east, doubling the distance between himself and home, made Teddy’s head spin. He had everything he wanted right here in Cooperstown, and he was having trouble understanding why he should leave.

Are we—Teddy braced himself against the dashboard—are you, like, pumping the gas?

Dave glanced at his feet.

Can you open a window? said Teddy. Now.

Dave fumbled for the controls. Are you going to be sick?

It was true that Teddy had been a barfer as a kid, and now he trotted out his old tricks: breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth; keep your eyes on the horizon; let the blustery air in.

Should I pull over? asked Dave.

Teddy shook his head. How to tell him that it wasn’t the way he was driving, it was that he was driving, carrying Teddy to the far reaches of his comfort zone.

Can you slow down or something? asked Teddy. You’re shaking the wheel.

Dave rolled his eyes but eased up on the gas. Edgy and cool in his horn-rimmed glasses, black jeans, and Charlie Brown T-shirt, Dave didn’t care what people thought of him. Teddy cared deeply. He cared what they thought of his girlfriend, his friends, his parents, his sister. Teddy would’ve loved to have had a normal sister or brother, the way so many of his classmates had siblings and cousins—even aunts and uncles—scattered throughout the grades, clansmen disguised by different last names, ready to fight when called to arms.

Dave was like family. He’d been Teddy’s only friend at Nonz’s funeral, the rest having scattered for spring break. While Teddy had shaken one adult’s hand after another, he’d thought about how Nonz used to scrub his feet with a scratchy washcloth at bath time, between each toe, behind his ears, in the creases of his neck, going after dirt like it was a playground bully, polishing and shining him like a first-place trophy, her best prize. She’d never missed a home baseball game, never forgotten his birthday, never failed to give him ten dollars on Valentine’s Day, and as these thoughts had inched closer to Teddy’s consciousness, he’d felt tears brimming, getting ready to fall.

Then suddenly Dave had pushed through the greeting line, wearing a three-piece suit and bow tie. Hey, he’d said with his hands in his pockets, no need to shake. You know who’d get a huge kick out of this whole thing? Dave had looked left, then right, then said, Nonz.

I’m okay, said Teddy now. It’s just—his mind shuffled a stack of words, pulled one out, tentatively played it—college, he said, blowing out the candle, breathing in the flower.

College? Dave repeated.

Yeah, said Teddy. I don’t know. Everyone keeps talking about it.

Right, said Dave. Well, we’re going. Then, Are you worried about Kim?

Teddy shrugged, started to speak, stopped. He was not very excellent with words.

Dave said, You know there’s going to be like a million new girls there, right?

Suddenly Teddy flashed to a memory of a five-year-old Dave pulling the beautiful Laurie Youngblood onto the swing with him and hooking her legs to either side of his body so that they could pump together, a four-legged, four-armed insect in a brilliant new game. A softness washed over Teddy, a lightness. Maybe they weren’t lost. Maybe they weren’t disappearing. Maybe they weren’t too young for it all.

Teddy felt his nausea give way to hunger pangs, his second-most familiar feeling. I’m kind of starving, he said, and Dave agreed that he could eat.

In Sharon Springs, they turned into the Stewart’s parking lot and Dave killed the engine. What do you want? he asked.

Teddy placed his order, forked over a five, then asked if he could drive.

If it’ll keep you from getting sick, said Dave. He blessed Teddy with the keys.

Teddy jogged around the front fender and slipped into the driver’s seat, locking the door behind him. Eyes closed, he shifted through the gears one at a time, gently fondling the smooth gear knob, paying special attention to where first and third needed a little finesse, a lover’s touch. Was it wrong that this turned him on? He checked to make sure there was no one near the car, then put his left hand down his pants. There wasn’t enough time to do anything, but for thirty seconds he was happier than he’d been all day.

Dave beat on the store’s plate-glass window and waved.

What? asked Teddy, returning his hands to the wheel. Dave held up a sixteen-ounce Coke; check, said Teddy. Then a giant bag of Cheetos; Teddy nodded. Had Dave forgotten his Sno Balls? But no, Dave had a mind like a fly strip; he would’ve skipped a grade after Seedlings if he’d been able to hold a pencil, and Dave would not let him down.

When Teddy saw Dave crossing the parking lot, he reached across the console to open the door from the inside.

Don’t spill, said Dave, handing him his Coke. I just had the car detailed.

Teddy ate while Dave filled the tank, then Dave gave him the green light and they pulled back onto Route 20, heading east.

Go easy, said Dave as Teddy shifted into third. Push the clutch all the way in. Don’t shift too early! See the RPMs? Then, Shift, shift, shift! until Teddy told him to calm the fuck down.

Let’s play a game, said Teddy.

Twenty questions?

No. Teddy shook his head violently. No, like Hump Island.

Oh, God. Fine. Jean Seberg in
Breathless
, Patti Smith on the
Easter
cover, Dagny Taggart over her desk.

Nice, said Teddy about the desk.

Dave shrugged. Hump Island’s only fun when it’s plausible, he said.

Right, said Teddy, feeding the word back to him. So make it plausible.

Dave cocked his head. Okay. Ava Streeter. Louise Hart.

Teddy nodded. Good choices. He’d had sex with both of them sophomore year.

There is one girl, said Dave. He folded his hands in his lap and Teddy could tell that it was no longer a game.

Okay, said Teddy, settling into the conversation. He was an expert at talking about girls. He knew all the right questions. Is she hot? he began.

She is, said Dave. In a coltish way.

And? Teddy prompted.

And in a not-coltish way.

Dude, said Teddy. What does she look like?

Pretty, said Dave. Smart.

A senior? asked Teddy.

Sophomore.

Hannah Quigley? She was in Teddy’s Spanish class and always seemed to be getting a drink when Teddy was coming out of the bathroom. Chocolate-brown eyes, round muscular calves. Teddy could definitely see wanting to date her.