“What about his form, Elizabeth?”
“Absolutely not. He almost died out there. I will not sign that form under any circumstances.”
Dad holds his hands out to me. “I tried,” he says.
I look at Mom and Dad standing at opposite ends of the room, their arms crossed.
I tried, too.
Nobody told me you could try your best and still end up failing. They don’t write about that kind of stuff in kids’ books. If they told you that when you were a kid, maybe you wouldn’t grow up.
47. twisted.
Ugo is roughing up Warner. It’s easy to miss at first because they’re standing really close to each other at the end of the hall. If you didn’t know they were enemies, you might think they were friends sharing a secret together. Except for the fact that Warner’s crying, and Ugo has two fingers clamped on his nipple.
Titty Twister.
I know what that’s like. It hurts like hell, but the worst part is not the pain. It’s the fact that you can’t twist what’s not there. Titty Twisters remind you that you have titties, that you’re a fat kid who maybe deserves to get twisted.
First Eytan, now Warner.
I can’t be sure what this is, but I know what it feels like: Ugo can’t get to me, so he’s targeting my friends. Or my ex-friends. Whatever. I’m sure there’s no difference to him.
The question is, what am I going to do about it? I can keep walking away and spend the semester watching Ugo slaughter the rest of the geeks. Or I can stand up. What would O. do?
“Stop it,” I say to Ugo.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he says.
Warner is crying behind him. Ugo lets go of his nipple and pushes his chest, pinning him against a locker.
“The rest of your team,” Ugo says. “I don’t see them around, either.”
I don’t say anything.
“Which means you have no protection,” he says.
“I don’t need protection. Remember?”
“Is that what you think?” Ugo says. He yawns, entirely unconcerned. Not at all like someone who got his ass kicked last week.
That gets my mind going. I beat Ugo once. It’s true. But I had the element of surprise on my side. What if I can’t do it again? What if I get into real trouble?
Maybe the team comes to back me up. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re pissed at being lied to, and they leave me out here alone. I can’t be sure.
Ugo takes a fast step towards me, and I flinch.
A dark grin spreads across his face. Guys like Ugo, they may not be smart with the books, but they’re smart in other ways. They’re smart with reading people.
And I just gave myself away.
“See you around,” Ugo says, and throws me a little salute.
He gives Warner one more nasty tweak on his nipple, then he slogs down the hall, walking slowly and dragging his feet, making sure his work boots squeak against the linoleum so I can hear every step.
48. just plain Zansky.
I go in the other direction towards AP History class. I walk down the same hall I’ve been walking down for the last six weeks, but everything feels different.
I try to walk like the old me from freshman year.
Who was I back then?
Smart Andrew. Geek Andrew. Fat Andrew.
I thought I was doing okay in those days. I knew I wasn’t cool, but I didn’t think I was a loser. At least I never felt like a loser when I was hanging out with Eytan.
Of course back then I didn’t know what being a winner felt like.
As I walk, I try to wipe out the memory of everything I’ve learned and seen in the last month. Eternal Sunshine my brain. Go back to the beginning when I was just plain Andrew. No love at second sight. No football parties. No hanging out in O.’s backyard.
I take ten steps, walking just like the old me. I’m hoping it will feel familiar and comfortable, but it doesn’t.
It feels like I don’t know who I am anymore.
49. a feeble attempt to recapture the dream.
I jog onto the field in my football uniform, picking up pace as I pass the cheerleaders. April looks up, surprised.
I glance at my watch. It’s 3:45 and I’m fifteen minutes late for practice, so I’m really going to have to apologize to Coach.
Coach sees me coming. “Zansky!” he calls. He whistles me over.
The Neck watches silently.
“Did your mother change her mind?” Coach says.
“Not exactly.”
“So you don’t have the form?”
“Not yet,” I say.
Coach grits his teeth. “I can’t let you play,” he says.
“It’s in process, Coach.”
“Sorry. They’ll put my ass in a wood chipper.”
“I’ll have it tomorrow.”
Coach puts his arm around me. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, son.”
“Can’t I just practice for one day?” I say.
He takes a step back and twirls his moustache. His voice gets loud. Coach-mode.
“I want you off this field immediately,” he says. “Take some downtime. Hit the books.”
The guys are staring. The cheerleaders are staring. I think about the game on Friday, sitting on the field with oxygen strapped on my face, my mom sitting on the field ten feet away with her own oxygen.
“Please, Coach.” It comes out like a whimper. Desperate. Pitiful.
O. lowers his head.
“It’s out of my hands,” Coach says.
He reaches across and grasps my shoulder for a second. Then he turns his back on me.
50. private practice.
I walk home from school alone. Even though I’m depressed as hell, I jog a little. I figure just because I can’t practice with the team doesn’t mean I can’t practice on my own.
I imagine I’m on the field and I hear the whistle blow. Coach is watching me. April is cheering. O. is depending on me.
I sprint to the corner. Then I walk a tight circle with my hands on my hips—the guys call it sucking wind—then I sprint again. It feels dumb doing it in my street clothes with a backpack on, but that just makes me push harder.
The longer I do it, the more it seems like a great plan. I’ll have my own private practice every day. I’ll stay in shape until I find a way back onto the field.
I pick a point all the way down the street, and I run there as fast as I can. I’m three quarters of the way when I get a terrible cramp in my ribs, and I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and grasp my side in pain.
A BMW slows down by the side of the road. The window goes down, and a lady looks at me.
“Excuse me,” she says.
I ignore her, rub my chest.
“Young man?”
“What!” I say, breathless.
“Are you having a heart attack?”
Jesus Christ. A fat kid can’t even stop and breathe in the street without someone calling 911.
“Do you need help?” the lady says.
“Leave me alone.”
I keep walking, trying to rub the pain out of my side. She drives slowly alongside me, watching me carefully.
“I could drive you to the emergency room,” she says.
“Screw you,” I say.
That does it. She rolls up the window and pulls away.
51. the sound of salad.
My head is filled with the sound of Caesar salad. The crunch of croutons between my teeth. Crisp lettuce being destroyed in my mouth. When I start to think about football, I chew louder. I reach for more croutons to drown out the thoughts.
I’ve had to chew a lot lately to keep up. I’ve spent a week burying April in pizza toppings and crushing O. with pretzels. When I remember the game, I eat chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream by the tablespoonful. I drown the memories in an avalanche of icy cold cream.