Jessica, Mom, and I sit at the table tonight, chewing in silence. Maybe they’ve got their own things to drown out. I don’t know.
I look at Jessica’s plate. There are six lettuce leaves in a pile, and she’s wiping dressing off of one. She won’t eat it until it’s practically bare. Mom is moving salad around on the plate but not really eating. Just making angry scraping sounds.
That’s our dinner. Three silent people and one empty chair. Lots of lettuce.
And then the doorbell rings.
Our doorbell never rings. Not at this hour. Not at any hour.
“Are you expecting someone?” Mom says. It sounds like an accusation. Like she’s had enough surprises for one year.
“No,” I say.
This is the most conversation we’ve had in seventy-two hours.
“I’ll get it!” Jessica says. She’ll use any excuse not to eat.
“Be careful,” Mom says.
While Mom is distracted by the door, I put a second huge tong of Caesar salad on my plate.
“Mom!” Jessica shouts. Her voice sounds funny, like there’s some kind of problem.
Mom gets up and goes to the door. I drop the tongs and use my fingers to pick croutons out of the bowl. Big fat ones.
“Andrew! Come here!” Mom shouts.
What the hell’s going on out there?
I walk into the living room and I see—get this—half the football team standing in our doorway. O. is in the front with Cheesy next to him. April’s there, too. So is Lisa Jacobs and some other girls I barely know.
“Are these your friends?” Mom says.
Are they? I’m not sure.
O. says, “We’re sorry to bother you at home, Mrs. Zansky, but we were hoping to talk to you and Andy.”
“Who are you?” she says.
“We’re the football squad,” he says.
“Varsity,” Cheesy says, as if that makes a difference to Mom.
Mom looks at me strangely, like maybe I planned a surprise attack.
“It’s okay with me,” I say.
Mom sighs. “Who’s hungry?” she says.
I was wrong about it being half the team. Actually, it’s the whole team and the entire cheer squad. They’re stuffed into our living room now—sitting, standing, leaning, girls sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mom quickly goes into catering mode, whipping out trays of mini egg rolls. She’s doling them out defensively like little missiles.
Nobody has said why they’re here yet. They’re just chewing and thanking Mom. Cheesy tries to pick a mini egg roll off the tray. He’s got hands like snow shovels, so he really has to concentrate to take just one.
Jessica’s eyes are jumping around in her head. She’s got twenty hot guys in her house, and ten beautiful cheerleaders. She goes from flirting with guys to being shy to asking the girls about their hair. She keeps walking past O., trying to get his attention.
I sneak looks at April. I want to be angry with her, but when I see her in my house, it’s impossible. My head is angry, but my heart keeps opening up all on its on. It pisses me off that I can’t just close it and keep it shut.
Mom runs back to the kitchen for more missiles. I’m wondering how long this is going to go on when O. finally says, “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Zansky, we’ll get down to business.”
Mom freezes like a trapped animal.
“Of course,” she says, and smoothes down her apron.
She looks for a place to sit. Rodriguez jumps out of the armchair and brushes it off for her. Mom hesitates. It’s Dad’s chair, but Rodriguez wouldn’t know that.
“Andrew is a very important part of this team,” O. says.
Mom sinks into the chair.
“We know he made a mistake, and he has some health problems, but we’d like to help him if we can.”
“I don’t understand,” Mom says.
“We need him,” April says.
“You do?” Mom says.
I feel like I’m going to faint.
O. says, “We’re hoping there’s some way we could work this out.”
Mom looks upset. “Of course I want Andrew to be happy,” she says.
What else is she going to say? She’s sitting across from a thousand pounds of offensive linemen.
“Andrew’s our boy,” Rodriguez says. “You should see him out there on the field, Mrs. Z.”
“I did see him,” Mom says.
In an oxygen mask. But she doesn’t say that.
“Things won’t be the same without him,” April says, and she bats her eyes at Mom. I notice Mom soften a bit.
“Andrew has a serious asthma problem,” Mom says.
“Is there medicine he could take?” O. asks.
“There is medicine…,” Mom says tentatively. She glances at me. I keep my face neutral. “But football is a dangerous game, isn’t it?”
“It’s a tough game, there’s no question,” O. says. “But there’s a lot of protective technology that’s applied in our gear. Safety comes first. Always.”
“And we’re a team,” Bison says. “We protect each other.”
“Yeah!” the guys grunt. It comes out really loud in our living room. O. holds up his hands like he doesn’t want things to get out of control.
Mom looks around the room, her eyes flitting nervously from person to person.
“I didn’t know Andrew had so many friends,” she says. She looks at me proudly. “It’s nice for a mother to see.”
I try to see what she sees. Thirty people, all here to support her son. That’s when I notice it’s not the entire team. There’s one person missing. The Neck.
“Andrew,” Mom says, “do you want to play football?”
The whole team looks at me. It’s a really strange moment. Mom never asks me questions directly like this, like I might actually have a choice in the matter. She always decides things for me, then we fight over her decision.
“Andrew?” Mom says.
“Earth to Andy,” April says, and everyone laughs. But they do it in a nice way, like we’re all in this together.
“Do you want to play?” Mom says.
“Yes,” I say.
“Even after what happened?” Mom says.
“More than anything,” I say.
The room goes quiet. Cheesy crunches down on an egg roll, and it sounds like thunder.
Everyone’s waiting for Mom now.
“Okay, then,” Mom says softly. “We’ll find a way to make it work.”
The team bursts into applause.
I get up fast and go to my room to get the consent form. Before she can change her mind.
52. the sidewalk, the moon, and april.
The party lasts for an hour after Mom signs the form. Everyone is in a great mood, and Mom keeps the hors d’oeuvres flowing. It feels like we just won a game together, only we did it in my living room.
Eventually things start to break up. People drift out to the driveway. I’m walking outside when I notice O. standing alone looking into the backyard.
“Thanks a lot,” I tell him.
He motions back towards everyone in the driveway. “We need you. For real.”
“At the game last week,” I say. “You saved my life.”
“You make it sound like some major deal. I just stuck an inhaler in your mouth.”
“It was more than that.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
O. squeezes my shoulder briefly, then heads back to the driveway. I watch him as he goes, half of him in shadow, half lit up by our porch light. He seems like a hero in that moment. Even the way he refuses to take credit. It’s something a true hero would do.
The players say their good-byes and pack themselves into a few cars. Lisa Jacobs get into the passenger seat of O.’s 4Runner. O. climbs in next to her and fires up the engine.
“Are you coming, April?” one of the cheerleaders says.