Out of the Pocket (6 page)

And no matter how hard your work was, how could you be too tired to sit in the stands and watch?

The reporters droned on, asking about our game plan, and Austin’s injury. I did the best I could. While answering a really stupid question about throwing on the run, I looked up and saw, behind the tight circle of press, a guy a little older than me, maybe in college, about my height, with a goatee and jet-black hair.

We caught each other’s eye. He smiled and looked away.

46

“Word on the street has it that Austin’s put a hit on me,” I told Rahim as we headed to Spanish class the following Monday. I hadn’t seen Austin yet, though we’d spoken on the phone Saturday.

“Bruised ribs,” Austin had told me.

“Mmm. Braised ribs,” I’d said.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he’d answered. He was basically okay.

“He’s gonna miss two, maybe three games. He’ll get over it,”

Rahim replied.

Rahim was probably my second closest friend. Rahim and I could talk better than Austin and me, but I’ve known Austin way longer.

Rahim’s family moved here sophomore year from Oregon, and I liked him right away.

“It just sucks because it’s my fault,” I said. “What if this costs him a good scholarship somewhere?” We walked past Rahim’s 47

locker and he stopped to drop off some books. Rahim was a pretty amazing player and had already made a verbal commitment to Berkeley.

“You need to learn about what you can change, and what you can’t change,” he said, fi ddling with his combination.

“What does that mean? Rahim-to-English dictionary?”

“It’s not that complicated. You know my mom’s in AA, right? She says the Serenity Prayer every night before dinner,” Rahim said. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “ ‘ God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’ It’s kind of beautiful, isn’t it?”

Rahim slammed his locker shut and we continued down the hall to Spanish.

“What does that have to do with me? And what does that have to do with Austin and me, and what are you talking about?”

He laughed. “Sorry, B. I’ll stop my preaching.”

I smiled. “I mean, I get it.”

We entered the stairwell side by side and took two steps at a time. “Good. It is what it is, right? He’s hurt. He’ll get better and the recruiters will watch him play again.”

We hurried down the steps to the main fl oor.

“Looks like the Gay-Straight Alliance is having a dance,” he said, pointing to a pink fl yer on the wall in front of us.

I laughed. It was just a reflex reaction. Not that Rahim had ever made antigay jokes, but I wasn’t used to my friends using the word
gay
without some sort of negative twist. Not Rahim, but a lot of the guys were always saying things were “so gay.” And that wasn’t a good thing.

When Rahim didn’t laugh, too, I stopped. “Cool,” I said, struggling to swallow.

48

• • •

I found Austin in the cafeteria at lunchtime and headed over to the counter, where he was buying a plate of pasta to go along with his brought-from-home protein shake. He saw me and smirked. “Oh, you’re gonna pay,” he said.

“Yeah, for your lunch,” I said. He shrugged, putting away his wallet. I paid the woman, and when she gave me change, Austin grabbed it out of my hand.

“Wow. Free pasta and forty-five cents, this is my day!” he said as he carried his tray to a free table. I didn’t have food yet, but figured hanging out with my best friend was more important at this moment.

We sat down and I waited until he settled himself and began to eat, really fast, as usual. There was a lot to talk about, and I didn’t know where to start.

“Austin, I’m really, really sorry, dude. How are you feeling?” I asked.

“How are you feeling, how are you feeling?” He mimicked me, slobbering pasta. “Screw you. I’m fine, you moron. Get over it. It’s football. You still owe me big-time.”

“Well I’m glad you’re okay,” I said, boiling a bit about how he made me sound.

“Yeah you are, or else I’d be kicking your ass right now, kid,” he said, and I smiled, knowing that it was all words.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m scared to death of your amazing strength.”

He laughed, continuing to eat. “Dude. Injure me and then talk trash. Real nice.”

I laughed, grateful to hear him sound like my buddy again. As awesome as he was about things, since coming out to him a week 49

earlier, I felt like the connection had gone down or something, like a bad cell connection, cutting in and out and suddenly it was hard for us to relate.

I got up and bought myself lunch, then rejoined Austin. Dennis had arrived and was busy devouring two heaping plates of rigatoni.

“Hey, Dennis, what’s going on?” I asked.

“ ’ Sup,” he said. Dennis’s communication skills were lacking.

When he wasn’t being funny, he was busy showing us how the world isn’t cool enough for him.

His dirty-blond hair fell in wisps over his forehead, and I tried to imagine what girls saw in him. He did nothing for me.

“What are we hating today?” I asked Dennis. Getting him on one of his rants was one of my favorite things, but it could be hard to do.

He was either there, or he wasn’t. No middle ground with Dennis.

“You, if you keep asking questions,” he said, grumbling.

“Problem solved,” I said, turning to Austin to speak. Austin interrupted me.

“Don’t look now, geek reporter approaching, nine o’clock,” he said. I turned to my right and saw Finch Gozman loping over.

I cursed myself for not removing the remaining chair at the head of our table. Gozman took it as an invitation to join us.

“Hey, guys!” he said, and I had to suppress laughter, thinking of Dennis’s imitation of Finch, which started with the same line. “Hey, guys!” Dennis would say when he saw us in the hallway. “Hey . . .

hey . . . wait up!” And then he’d start following us, his arms out in front of him like Finch, his eyes scrunched up, looking like a serious nerd.

It was mean, but pretty much right on target.

“Hey, Finch,” I replied, not looking at him, hoping the lack of excitement at seeing him might send him a message.

It did not.

50

“Great game the other night, Bobby Framingham,” he said.

He always called people by their full names. I didn’t actually hate Finch. He was just annoying sometimes.

“Thanks, Finch Gozman,” I replied, and Dennis smirked into his pasta. I prayed he wouldn’t laugh. Finch, for one, was pleased to have his full name used.

“So, um, guys, what say I do my interview with Bobby now?” he said to the whole table.

I lifted my wrist and studied my watch, as if hoping the minute and hour hands would offer some sort of excuse as to why we couldn’t do this right now. I didn’t need the attention at the moment.

I came up with nothing.

“Oh, you’re doing a story about the guy who tried to have me killed by the Oilers secondary?” said Austin.

Finch laughed in big spastic breaths. “That’s funny! Let me write that down!” He took out a pad, pen, and a small digital recorder. He pushed the button on it. “Interview with Bobby Framingham,” he said into the recorder. He looked up at me and smiled. “So,” he went on. “Who is Bobby Framingham, and what’s going on with him?”

Austin looked at Dennis and laughed. Dennis laughed back, like they were sharing a secret moment. I felt a twinge of panic in my gut.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Same old stuff.”

“Why are they laughing?” Finch asked me.

“Don’t pay attention to them, they’re both in need of serious help,” I said, shrugging them off. “I’m good. The team is playing well and I’m feeling confi dent.”

“Is it true you want to go to Stanford?”

I smiled at the thought. “Yeah, but it’s a long shot. They’re probably going to recruit one or two quarterbacks in the whole country this year. Hard to imagine one will be me.”

“But you could be one, you’re one of the best in the state,” Finch 51

said. “I’d love to get into Stanford.” I looked at Finch’s big, sincere brown eyes, like those of a dog who just wanted to be petted. It was kind of nice, since my friends, as evidenced in Austin and Dennis, who were now fl inging food at each other, rarely complimented me.

“Thanks, Finch. I don’t know. I just do the best I can.”

“Aw, perfect answer, kid,” said Austin, screwing his pointer fingers into each of his cheeks and fake-smiling. “Moron.”

“You have a piece of rigatoni in your hair,” I said, and he violently thrashed a hand through his hair and found the offending pasta. He threw it and it hit Dennis in the eye. Dennis shut both eyes tight and swatted at the pasta as if it were a fl y.

“So tell me about how it feels to be the quarterback!” Finch said, full of enthusiasm. Austin laughed, and Dennis would have, but he was still busy with the eye pasta, stuffing it in his mouth. “How does it feel to be behind center?”

“Arousing,” Dennis said, jumping in to the conversation with his mouth full. My heart nearly stopped.

“Huh?” said Finch, laughing uncomfortably.

“It gets him hard,” mumbled Dennis, looking at his food.

“Shut up, asshole,” I said, glaring not at him but at Austin, terror in my eyes. He wouldn’t look at me.

“That’s what you say to the center’s butt,” Dennis continued, now laughing hysterically.

I felt the veins in my forehead pulse.

“Just ignore them,” I told Finch, whose eyes were now wide open. Or at least they were when I looked at him at first. I looked back at my so-called friends, and when I looked again at Finch, he was totally composed and had this calm look, as if this was a normal answer and he knew exactly what to say next.

I looked down at the recorder, as if I wished I could turn it off with a simple, cold stare.

52

Dennis was now in fine form, and the problem was, he didn’t stop when he got like this.
Why would Austin tell him?

Dennis was playing with his food, his face red and his eyes full of peril. “Our star QB is a ho . . . mo”—and he looked at me, daring me with his smirk—“. . . sapien!” And then Austin’s laughing slowed a bit and he looked at me nervously. I wanted to vaporize and all I could do was allow the conversation to zip by me without affecting me. I turned myself off.

“What are you saying?” said Finch.

“That means he’s a human being,” Dennis said, proud.
He’s such
an idiot.

Finch scratched his nose and took a deep breath. “What is this?”

he asked.

“Last week he told Austin about his Homo sapien tendencies. He came out of the closet . . . Cave! The Cave! That’s awesome. Bobby’s out of the cave!”

I really didn’t know if Dennis thought this was subtle, or what he thought at that moment. Maybe nothing.

Maybe his head was a big fat mound of mush that would put up little resistance before exploding if I, say, ran it over with my car.

I glanced at Finch, wondering how to do damage control. He was trying to ask a follow-up question, looking completely dazed.

“Moving on,” he said, trying to regain composure. “What’s the biggest skill you need to have in order to be a quarterback?” It was, I admit, not a bad job by Finch of getting us back on track, or close at least.

“Restraint,” I said, staring directly at Dennis, who was oblivious and once again wolfi ng down pasta.

After a few more questions about other, less charged topics, Finch left, looking confused. I turned first to Austin, and when I could fi nd no words, to Dennis.

53

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I said Homo sapien,” he said, grinning.

“And you thought that code would be tough for an honor student to break? What’s your problem?”

“Dude. He’s not going to write an article that says you’re a Homo sapien. Relax.”

I stood up and gathered my things, shaking. I kept my voice low and controlled. “Relax? Relax? You could ruin my fucking life,” I said, this time directly to my so-called best friend, Austin. “What’s wrong with you? Who else did you tell?”

“Rahim,” Austin said quietly, not looking me directly in the eye.

I thought back to the comment Rahim had made about the dance, and it all made sense.

“Great,” I said. “Very nice.”

“What did you expect? That’s some information,” Dennis said.

“Yikes.”

Austin just sat there, looking torn.

“Forget it, just forget it. Thanks for a terrific lunch,” I said, my voice quaking, and with that I stormed out of the cafeteria.

54

As I headed to math class later that day, I caught myself daydreaming about strangling Austin, or better yet strangling Austin with Dennis’s lifeless body.

Taking that as a sign that things weren’t quite okay, I took a detour.

Coach came to mind, then Carrie. I nixed both ideas, unsure how much more drama I could take in a day. I needed someone uninvolved to talk to. I thought of Dr. Blassingame, the head guidance counselor at Durango.

Dr. Blassingame had been my ninth-grade history teacher. When I was in tenth grade, he stopped teaching history and took his current position. He also became the faculty adviser for the Gay-Straight Alliance; I knew it didn’t automatically mean that he was gay, but that was the rumor around school, since he was at least fifty and not married. He was always nice, but eccentric, the kind of teacher who 55

would be lecturing about Sumerians, go off on a tangent about the best ways to cook pork, and never come back to his point.

I’d never been to Dr. Blassingame’s office before; it hadn’t occurred to me to ask for help with anything. But as I walked along the hallway to his office, I felt like someone had tied a knot of rope tight inside my chest. Maybe this would help me untangle it.

The office was dimly lit and smelled slightly of vinegar. Blassingame was at his desk, gazing intensely into a book, his brow furrowed, a red pen in his left hand. He didn’t look up when I knocked lightly on his door. Instead he kept his pen on the page in front of him and spoke, his voice a bit forceful.

“Please tell me this: What’s a three-letter word for an ancient Hebrew coin that starts with a
Z
?” he asked, chewing on the pen cap.