“Do you want to go out with her?”
O. studies my face. I want to tell him everything. I want to know if he believes in love at second sight or if he thinks it’s stupid. Every girl in school is in love with O. He has to know something about this.
O. says, “I’m worried about you losing focus.”
“I won’t,” I say.
“She’s just a girl. Keep it in perspective. That’s all I’m saying.”
“It’s in perspective.”
O. grabs the ball out of my hands and drops back to pass. “Go long,” he says, and points to the edge of the backyard.
I start to run.
“Cut left!” O. screams, and I do.
I’m halfway down the backyard, when I start to think about April. Only now I try to put her in perspective. She’s nothing special. She’s just a girl. That’s what I tell myself. Instantly I feel this tickle in my chest, and next thing I know, my asthma takes hold.
I clutch at my chest, pretending I’m adjusting my shirt, but I’m trying to do the chicken wing thing the doctor taught me that helps to open my lungs. Sometimes I can stop the asthma before it goes too far. I have to breathe and relax and think about good things.
“Now cut right!” O. shouts, but I can’t. I can’t run anymore. I can’t even breathe.
I stop and lean over with my hands on my thighs, panting like a dog. I have an inhaler in my pocket, but I don’t want O. to see me use it.
“What’s going on?” O. says. He comes over fast.
I try to answer him, but I only wheeze.
“Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?”
I try to tell him no. I move my hand back and forth to wave him off, but he doesn’t get it. He pulls out his phone to dial 911.
I fight in my pocket for the inhaler. I yank it out and suck hard. Twice in a row.
“No phone,” I squeak. “I’m okay.”
I do my best to stand up. When you have an attack, your body wants to double over, but you need to stretch out and open up. I put my hands on the back of my head and do the chicken wing in front of O.
“Do you need some water or something?” O. says.
I feel the reaction slowing down inside me. I shake my head, give him the “one minute” finger.
“It’s asthma, right?” O. says.
“Yeah,” I say when I can talk again.
“One of my cousins has it. That’s how I know.”
“I’ve had it all my life,” I say. “But it’s gotten worse over the last six months.”
I take slow, even breaths.
“Is that why you don’t have your consent form?”
“How do you know about that?” I say.
“I heard Coach asking you about it.”
“My mom won’t sign it.”
O. looks into the distance, his hands on his hips like he’s thinking about something.
He says, “What if it happens on the field? The asthma.”
“It won’t.”
“It just did.”
“I have my inhaler. I’ll just take a puff.”
“But what if you can’t get to it?” O. says. “What if you’re trapped in a pileup or something?”
I feel panic rising inside me. O.’s right. I haven’t thought it through. What if some guy bangs into me and the inhaler cracks? What if it slips out of my sock and I lose it? What if—?
My lungs tighten again. I put the inhaler back in my hand just in case.
“I have an idea,” O. says. “Do you have an extra one of those doohickeys?”
“The inhalers? Yeah.”
“What if you gave me one?”
“Do you have asthma, too?”
“Maybe I could hold one for you. Then if anything happens, you’ll have a backup on the field.”
I stare at O. “You’d do that for me?”
“That’s what you do on a team. You back each other up.”
I keep forgetting. I’m on a team now. Suddenly I get this feeling like I’m a little kid. I want to cry, and I’m not even sure why.
“I have an idea about the consent form, too,” O. says.
“What’s your idea?”
“I say we forge it.”
30. child support.
An hour later I walk into Dad’s office with the consent form in my backpack. Dad looks up from his spicy tuna roll, a little surprised. I guess when your sweaty, fat son walks into your office at 6:15 p.m., it’s a shock to the system.
“Why are you sweating like that?” Dad says.
“I rode my bike straight from practice,” I say.
“Your mother wouldn’t give you a ride?”
I have to remember not to bad-mouth Mom. Only say good stuff around Dad. That’s the most important thing.
“I didn’t even ask her,” I say. “I wanted the exercise. I’m an athlete now, Dad.”
“I’m getting the sense of that,” Dad says.
He takes a box of tissues from the credenza behind him and puts them on the desk. I snag a few to wipe my forehead.
“You want a little dinner? We brought in sushi.”
“I’m good,” I say, even though I could probably eat four thousand sushi rolls right now. Line them up at face height and start running with my mouth open.
Dad dips a single piece in soy sauce and pops it into his mouth. I look around his giant office. He’d rather eat dinner alone at his desk than spend an hour with us in the kitchen at home. It doesn’t make any sense.
“To what do I owe the surprise visit?” Dad says.
“The form, remember?”
“Of course. The form.”
I take the consent form out of my backpack and pass it to Dad. I think O. and I did a pretty good job with it. I’ll know in about sixty seconds. Dad puts on his reading glasses and switches into serious mode. “This is a standard PYA,” he says. PYA. That’s Dad-speak for Protect Your Ass. “Crudely written, but it gets the job done.”
Dad looks up at me.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
Dad examines Mom’s signature.
“What did your mother say about it?”
“She’s a little nervous,” I say. I have to keep it realistic or Dad will know something’s up.
Dad chuckles. “That’s the understatement of the year. She’s Chicken Little in a catering apron.”
I hate when Dad talks like that. “She might be anxious, but she believes in me,” I say.
“We both believe in you, Andy. Don’t forget that.”
Dad takes an expensive fountain pen out of his desk and puts it next to the form.
“We play eleven games this season. You can come to some, right?” I say.
Dad sighs. “We haven’t had a chance to talk, you and I. My date has been moved up.”
“What date?”
“My start date. They want me in New York ASAP. November first at the latest.”
“That’s so soon.”
I’m sweating again, and I feel like I can’t breathe. It’s already September and Dad is leaving November first. That’s less than seven weeks away. Seven weeks until our family is destroyed.
“Promise me you won’t say anything to your mother or sister. I want to tell them myself.”
“I promise,” I say.
I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re running, but the location keeps changing so you never know where you are.
“Tell me something,” Dad says. “How’s your mom holding up?”
“She’s holding.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
What can I say to that? Come home. Or maybe, You never should have left in the first place. I sit for a long time, thinking about what I should say to Dad. Finally I give up.
“Sign my form,” I say.
Dad picks up the pen, signs, and slides it across the desk to me.
“Mazel tov,” he says.
I stand up and put the form in my backpack.
“Before I forget…,” Dad says. He takes a check out of his desk. “I threw in a little extra this month. Pay your iPhone bill. Whatever. You know.”