I look at the check. It’s for eight thousand dollars. In the memo line Dad wrote child support.
31. maybe I’ve changed.
I’m headed out to practice with the guys when I hear Eytan’s voice behind me.
“Is it Halloween?” he says really loudly.
A bunch of football players stop and turn around. Eytan’s standing in the door, half in and half out of school, like he’s not willing to step into the back area with the jocks. It’s probably a smart choice. You would not want to piss these guys off.
“I’ll take care of that geek,” Bison says, and tugs up his arm band.
“He’s an old friend,” I say.
“Then I’ll kick his ass gently,” Bison says. “Out of respect to your former life.”
“No. I have to talk to him. I’ll catch up to you in a second.”
Bison shrugs and continues on with the guys.
I walk over to Eytan. I suddenly feel really awkward in my football uniform. Standing next to Eytan is like the Hulk standing next to a light pole.
“So it’s true,” Eytan says.
“Who told you?”
“Nancy Yee.”
I make a note to cut off all communication with Nancy Yee. That only means six less words per month, but I’m going to make every one count.
“Not that she had to say anything,” Eytan says. “You’ve missed twelve committee meetings. The last guy to do that was Peter Mercurio, and he was cooking meth.”
“I’m not cooking meth.”
“This is worse. At least with meth we could put you on Intervention or something, cry in a circle and tell you we love you. But this—this is like… lobotomy time.”
“I like football. It’s fun.”
Eytan holds up his hand. “Give me a second. I threw up a little in my mouth and I have to swallow.”
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” I say. “I’m doing something different, you know? Breaking the mold.”
“Playing football? That’s not different. That’s surreal. That’s SciFi Channel shit. I mean, do you even know how to play football?”
“I’ll learn.”
“No. Learning is when you toss a football around in the backyard with your dad on Sunday afternoon. You don’t learn by playing varsity for Newton. That’s the big leagues.”
“Well, that’s where they put me.”
“Doesn’t that sound a little strange to you? You’ve never played in your life and suddenly you’re on the team?”
“Coach said I’m a natural.”
“A natural water boy maybe,” Eytan says.
“Screw you.”
“No. Screw you, dude. I’m your best friend, and you totally went Philip Morris on me.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve been blowing smoke up my ass for three weeks. Now I’ve got sphincter cancer. What kind of person gives his best friend sphincter cancer?”
“I wanted to tell you,” I say. “I kept putting it off, and I don’t know—”
Coach blows his whistle.
“I have to get on the field,” I say.
Eytan looks out at the guys grunting in formation.
“You really fit in with those guys?”
“That’s my team now,” I say.
“I don’t even know who I’m talking to,” Eytan says.
“Maybe I’ve changed.”
Eytan looks out towards the field, then back to the school. “What was wrong with you before?”
I can’t answer that.
Eytan doesn’t wait. He goes back into school and slams the door hard behind him.
O. jogs over, motioning me towards the field.
“What was that all about?” he says.
“My best friend,” I say. “Used to be.”
“That sucks.”
Half of me wants to go back into the school and find Eytan. Forget all about football.
“You know about the party Friday?” O. says.
“What party?”
“We always do stuff with the cheerleaders. Hang out. Dance. Whatever.”
“Nobody told me.”
“I’m telling you. You can come, right?”
“Sure,” I say.
Coach blows a triple tap on his whistle. If he gets to four, it’s bend-over-and-kiss-your-ass-good-bye time.
“Check it out,” I say.
I dig in my waistband and pull out the consent form. O. looks at the signature lines.
“Looks like your parents approve,” he says.
“They’re thrilled,” I say. “Their son is a football player.”
32. mom picks, I unpick.
I’ve got ten shirts laid out across my bed, and none of them are right. Not even remotely. Definitely not for a party.
I’m not sure what party clothes should look like, but I assume if Mom bought the shirt, it can’t be right. The problem is Mom buys all my shirts because I refuse to go into a clothing store. Every time I go, it’s the same bad news: “Congratulations. You’re fatter.”
Mom drags me to the store once every six months so she can get my size. Ten minutes of misery and then I’m free. For the six months after that, clothes magically appear in my room. It’s like that fairy tale with the cobbler’s elves, only my elf specializes in triple-XL polo shirts.
Even I know that’s not going to fly at a football party.
I look at the clock. Seven p.m. I’ve got half an hour before Rodriguez picks me up.
I wish I could call Eytan and ask him what to wear. He knows about stuff like this a lot better than I do. Unfortunately he hates my guts right now. If he saw my number on his cell phone, he’d probably throw it under a bus.
That leaves me with two options. I can pretend I’ve got food poisoning and miss the party, or I can talk to my sister.
Explosive diarrhea or Jessica. Not an easy choice.
I tap on her door.
“Go away,” a voice says.
“You don’t even know who it is,” I say.
“Now I do. Go away.”
I open her door anyway. Desperate times, you know? She’s standing in front of the mirror in her bra, pinching the fat under her arms.
Now I’m going to have to stab my eyes out.
“What the hell, Andy!”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She covers herself up with a T-shirt and flops down on the bed. She buries her head under a pillow.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, “but I need help. It’s serious.”
I hear an annoyed groan from under the pillow.
“I’m going to a party,” I say.
“I’ll call TMZ and let them know.”
“A varsity-football party. With cheerleaders.”
She sits up and looks at me. “How did you get invited to a football party?”
“I can’t tell you,” I say.
“Then I can’t help you.” She sits back on the bed and crosses her arms.
“Listen. You can’t tell anyone,” I tell her. “You have to promise.”
She waits. I look at my watch. 7:10.
“I’m on the team,” I say.
“Okay, I just slipped into another dimension for a second and my ears stopped working. Say that again.”
“I made the team.”
“You made varsity?”
“Yes.”
“That’s like Ugly Betty winning America’s Next Top Model.” I’d love to fling a couple dozen insults back at her, but I keep my mouth shut.
“What about Mom?” Jessica says.
“She doesn’t know.”
Jessica’s eyes narrow. She loves secrets. She’s just bad at keeping them.
“What do you want from me?” she says.
“Dress me.”
Jessica smiles. “Why didn’t you say so?”
She grabs my arm and pulls me into my room. We survey the clothes spread all over my bed.