O. Douglas comes down the hall and casually walks to the front of the crowd. He glances at the paper, grins, then steps back.
“How’d you do?” Cheesy says.
“Made it,” O. says, and brushes his forehead like he’s wiping away sweat. Everyone laughs. The funny thing is that he actually sounds relieved, like it’s possible he might have been cut.
“Get up there,” Rodriguez says to me. “Don’t you want to know?”
“Not really,” I say.
He pushes me towards the front of the crowd, and the guys split down the middle to let me through.
I break into a sweat. An old prayer from Hebrew school pops into my head. I say it silently, and then I remember it’s the prayer for bread. Fabulous. I know one prayer, and it’s for challah.
The list is in alphabetical order. I brace myself. Thirty seconds of public shame, and then I can slink back into the obscurity of Estonian ephemera. I follow the names with my finger, all the way to the bottom where I see:
Holy sweet mother. The bread prayer worked.
“Center what?” I say.
“Center position,” Rodriguez says.
“What’s that mean?”
“That means it’s you and me,” O. says. He mimes like I’m hiking the ball, and he’s grabbing and throwing.
“No friggin’ way,” I say.
The guys laugh. A bunch of them slap me on the back.
“Welcome to the Offense, baby,” Bison says.
“Now you’re part of the O-Line,” Rodriguez says, and the guys grunt and bump chests.
I stand there wide-eyed, taking it all in.
“It’s a rush, isn’t it?” O. says.
I move to the back of the hall, standing with the guys who made it. I notice a few guys who check the list, then walk away really upset. It’s like Dad says—there are winners and losers in the world, it just depends which side fate decides to put you on. Maybe that’s why I feel strange right now. I’ve always been on the other side. I mean I’m a winner in Model UN and on English tests, but that’s not really winning. That’s like the consolation prize they give a loser on a game show so he doesn’t drive his car into a telephone pole on his way home.
A group of girls scream, and April pops out of the circle of cheerleaders with a big smile on her face. Lisa Jacobs gives her a huge hug. April laughs and snaps her fingers as she dances a kooky dance. Korean girl gone wild. I wave to her across the hall, and she comes over to me.
“Hey,” she says. “Did you make the team?”
“You’re talking to the new center,” I say.
“What’s the center do?”
“I’ll let you know in about a week.”
April laughs. “Well, I guess we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,” she says.
Lisa Jacobs rushes past and jumps into O.’s arms. They start making out like crazy two feet away from April and me, sucking face so loud it sounds like a kid drinking from the bottom of a juice container.
“Celebratory tongue,” April says.
“Delicious,” I say.
“And low in calories.”
I’m hoping April will be overcome with emotion and give me some celebratory tongue. Instead she rolls her eyes.
Suddenly a girl screams and bursts into tears over by the list.
“That’s so sad,” April says.
“Not everyone has what it takes.”
“That’s kind of a jerky thing to say.”
She’s right. I do sound like a jerk. It’s just that when you’re laughing and joking with the winners, it’s hard to care too much about the losers. They kind of fade into the background.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I meant that you deserve it. You worked really hard. And you’re great.”
“That’s sweet,” she says. “Thanks, Andrew.”
She smiles at me, but no tongue.
“Get it while it’s hot,” the Necks says. He walks through the crowd handing out papers. He gives me one, but he looks in the other direction like I’m not there.
The top of the paper says: Consent to Participate in Intramural Athletics.
“What’s this?” I ask Cheesy.
“No big deal,” he says. “You have to have your folks sign it.”
“Why?”
“In case you die. They can’t sue the school.” He laughs.
“Shut up, fool,” Rodriguez tells him.
Cheesy says to me, “I was just kidding, dude. Don’t get your sack in a knot.”
I read quickly through the consent form. I’m not thinking about dying. I’m thinking about something much worse.
Living.
There’s no way Mom is going to sign the form. Which means I’m going to be the first guy in history who makes the football team and can’t play because his Mommy won’t let him. When that gets around, I’m going to be what Eytan calls an NSG.
No Sex Guaranteed.
25. hurry plus.
I’m sitting in Finagle Bagels with the iPhone to my ear, waiting for Dad to come on the line. I take a deep breath. Is there anything that smells better than baking bread? It’s as close to heaven as you can get in this world. It’s like the air loves you.
“Everything okay?” Dad says after his secretary puts me through.
Dad’s got that “hurry” tone in his voice. He almost always has that hurry tone, but when he’s in the office, it’s like hurry plus, as if he expects you to kick it into high gear.
“I need to talk to you about school,” I say.
“How’s that going?”
“The year is off to a great start.”
“Great start, huh?” Dad’s voice perks up. “You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“You sly dog. You have two. You’re playing the end against the middle.”
I want to hang up. I want to tell Dad I can’t talk to him anymore, that I’m out of minutes for the month.
“Like father like son,” I hear Dad saying, but I missed what he said before that.
“I have some good news, Dad. I’m playing football this year.”
“You in a weekend league or something?”
“Varsity football.”
There’s silence on the line.
“I don’t know what to say, Andrew. This is… stupendous news.”
“You have to come to games.”
“Absolutely.” Dad pauses. “Did I hear you correctly? You said ‘varsity’?”
“Varsity. That’s right.”
“Son of a gun. I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years.” Dad calls out to the office: “My son made varsity!”
I hear people congratulating him in the background. Great news. You’ve got a jock now.
“I need a favor, Dad.”
“You want some equipment money?”
That reminds me of what Mom said about the check. But now is not the time.
“I need you to sign a form,” I say.
Dad’s voice instantly changes. “What kind of form?”
He sounds suspicious. Dad’s an attorney. He doesn’t sign forms without a million questions.
“It’s a consent form,” I say. “Giving me permission to play.”
“What did your mother say about this?”
“She doesn’t know yet. I wanted to tell you first.”
I smile, even though Dad can’t see me. I read a Psychology Today article that said your voice changes when you smile, and people are more inclined to believe you.
“What about your asthma?” Dad says.
“Not an issue.”
“You’re sure.”