“It’s okay, Mom. Really.” I don’t want to have this conversation for the ten-thousandth time.
“I know what it’s like to be a heavy child. Especially in high school. Kids can be cruel.”
I’ve seen pictures of Mom from her senior year. She wasn’t exactly fat, but she had chipmunk cheeks, and she looks uncomfortable in front of the camera. I can always tell when someone looks uncomfortable. It’s my special gift. Probably because I’m so uncomfortable.
“Maybe I’m a bad mother.”
“You’re not a bad mother.”
“Then why won’t you listen to me? If I was a good mother, I’d be able to get through to you. Other mothers get through.”
“No, they don’t.”
“The good mothers do.”
“Trust me. They don’t.”
I can’t tell if Mom’s crying, or if it’s just the steam from the bath making her cheeks red.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say.
“It’s my job to say things like that,” Mom says.
Mom smoothes down my hair, and I wince. I can’t help it. I don’t like to be touched.
“I hope you have the best year ever,” Mom says.
Mom wipes her eyes. I think she really was crying.
She pauses at the door. “I know you talk to your father during the week,” she says.
I pull the belt on my robe into a tight knot.
“No, I don’t,” I say.
“Well, if you do, you might just mention… he’s a month behind with the check.”
Mom has this amazing ability to ruin any moment. I thought Mom was being nice to me because she wanted to give me a pep talk. Now I feel like I got set up.
Mom says, “We’re trying to avoid going to court. To keep things friendly, you know.”
“I know,” I say.
“So if you mention it to him, that would help a lot.”
“Fine,” I say.
“You’re not angry, are you?”
“Of course not.”
Mom closes the door. I get in the stupid tub that smells like flowers. The water scorches my skin, but it feels good on my muscles, too. Pain and pleasure at the same time. Like buffalo wings. Like high school.
21. how to lie to your best friend.
I’m hanging around outside AP History, pretending to tie my shoe for the eighteenth time. I’ve been waiting for April for ten minutes, all the time pretending I’m not. Love at second sight is a lot of work. That’s what I’m starting to think.
I bend over again, and I feel my pants ride down my butt.
“Attractive,” Eytan says from behind me.
“It’s the Eighth Wonder of the World,” I say.
“Eighth and Ninth,” Eytan says.
“It’s these stupid new pants. If I pull up the front, they fall down in back. If I pull up the back, my stomach pops out.”
“It’s the movement of the cosmos. Where something is born, something else dies.”
Eytan adjusts his John Lennon glasses and stares at me.
“Speaking of ass—what happened to you yesterday?”
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I had an emergency. I think a Russian agent slipped me something. Insta-poops.”
“The Russians took your colon hostage?”
“Anything to prevent Estonia from rising.”
Eytan eyes me suspiciously, but he knows that I really do get the runs a lot. You can’t blame a guy for IBS.
Suddenly April walks by. Before I can say hello, Eytan swirls his arm in the air a bunch of times and bows deeply from the waist.
“Good day to you, madam,” he says in a fake British accent.
April doesn’t answer, just walks by with her head down.
“Ouch,” Eytan says. “Is my Jew-’fro singed?”
“It’s not you. I’m still socially radioactive. She saw that soccer game.”
We go into class together. April is sitting alone on the other side of the room next to the pencil sharpener. If I have to sit through a whole class watching Justin try to flirt with her, I’ll kill myself.
I have to do something.
That’s when a crazy thought occurs to me. If I can face off against Cheesy, I should be able to talk to a girl for two minutes.
I drop my books on the desk next to Eytan, hold my pencil by my side, and snap the point off with my thumbnail. “I’m going to sharpen this bad boy up,” I say.
I walk across the room, silently praying for my ass crack to stay under wraps. As I pass April’s desk, I chicken out. I don’t say a word. I just stick my pencil in the sharpener and start grinding away. It gets shorter and shorter while my mind whirls. Freud would have a heyday with this one.
“I saw you on the field yesterday,” April says out of the blue.
“Really?” I say. I pretend I didn’t notice her sitting right there.
“How’d you do?”
“I did great,” I say. “Not at all like that stupid soccer game last week.”
I mime my shorts falling down. She looks shocked at first, but then she laughs. It’s a big risk reminding her of that day, but that’s what the guys on the team do. When they make a mistake, they’re not shy about it. They make fun of themselves, and it makes everything better.
“How’d the cheerleading go?” I say.
“Great,” she says. She bites at her lower lip. “Actually, not so good. I’m really out of shape, you know?”
I glance down at her legs. I can’t help it. She’s wearing a skirt, and I can see her thigh muscles. They’re tight and muscular, which has me wondering about her definition of “out of shape.”
“I might get cut,” she says.
“No way. You have nothing to worry about. I was watching you.”
“You were?”
I feel my face turning red. I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker or something.
“Were my jumps high enough?” she says. She tugs nervously at an errant piece of hair.
“They were really high,” I say.
“The girls didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe they’re jealous.”
April laughs. “What do they have to be jealous about?”
Ms. Hartwell clears her throat. “Let’s get started,”
she says. “See you soon,” April whispers.
I walk across the room with my stubby little pencil, and I notice everyone’s looking at me. That’s probably because I’m the ballsy guy who made April laugh. Or maybe it’s because my pants are riding low again.
“I thought you were radioactive,” Eytan says when I get back.
“I guess my reactor has been contained,” I say.
Eytan looks at April. “Are you putting your rod in the core?”
“Of course not.” I feel my cheeks getting hot.
Eytan crosses his arms. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I’m going to figure it out.”
Ms. Hartwell flips on the overhead projector. She stands framed in the spotlight.
I glance across the room, and April smiles at me.
“War breaks out in Lexington,” Ms. Hartwell says, “and it all begins with one, unexpected shot.”
22. back in the big leagues.
I’m rolling a kickball to a girl in a scoliosis brace while Warner looks on and smiles. I want to elbow him in the head. What is there to be happy about?
Suddenly Coach pops through the door of the gym. A ripple of fear passes through the Slow Gym kids. Coach might ask us to do something. Like stand up.
“Zansky!” He motions me over.
“Yeah, Coach?”
He puts an arm around my shoulders and whispers, “You don’t need to be playing patty-cake in here, son. Why don’t you come outside and join the party?”
“I don’t know, Coach. I’m not too good at soccer.”
Coach chuckles. “Tell you what,” he says. “We’ll put you on goal today. You can guard it rather than knock it down.”