by Kara Bietz
He mentions that tonight is Bingo Night at Crossroads Church and Thursday night is Football Family Dinner, plus a few after-school football clinics with the peewee league are on the calendar for next week. “And don’t forget that you are all expected to attend the Guardettes’ ’80s-themed dance on Friday night. Not only will you all attend, but you will behave like gentlemen,” he says, while a few of the players elbow one another and laugh. “No funny stuff. And you know I will hear about it if there is. Coach Andrews will be there in his finest acid-wash denim and Bon Jovi T-shirt, so you all better be on your best behavior.” He laughs, elbowing Coach Andrews in the gut.
He dismisses us to the locker room, and I watch Julian trot off the field with most of the offensive line. There’s a pull in my chest as I watch him walk away without me. Three years ago, we would’ve walked off the field together. I gather my things, wondering if part of the reason I loved football was because of Julian. So much of today didn’t feel right, and I can’t tell how much of it is related to him.
“Elijah, let’s talk.” Coach Marcus claps me on the shoulder.
“Yes, sir?” Here it comes. I know it. I’m a huge disappointment and he made a mistake.
“How’d you feel out there?” he asks as we start walking toward the locker room, as slow as molasses in January.
“A little rusty, sir. I’ll try harder,” I say, hoping he gives me another shot before cutting me out completely. Maybe I should make a stronger plea.
“Elijah, you have so much talent,” he says. I sense a but coming and try to steel myself for the inevitable heartbreak. “I know you haven’t been on the field for three years, but that’s what workouts are for. Sure, you’re a little out of shape, but that’s easily fixed. I can see the way you’re tackling out there, and I know you can do this. You’ve got to get out of your head, though, son. You’re thinking too much,” he says.
“No one has ever accused me of that, sir,” I say. “I felt like I had two left feet out there.”
Coach Marcus laughs. “Let it go. Have fun. Let your natural instinct for the game kick in. Tomorrow it will be a little bit easier, and the next day and the next. You’ll see.”
Tomorrow? The anxiety falls away from my shoulders, and a smile pulls at my lips. “Yes, sir. Tomorrow will be better.” I nod.
“It will. Mark my words,” he says, swinging the locker room door open for me. “You’ve got this.”
I walk toward my locker with my chin held up. I feel his words sitting right in my chest.
· nine ·
JULIAN
He’s rusty. Really rusty.
I have to admit, it felt so good to let that long bomb go to my wide receiver, Darien, when I knew that there was no way Elijah was going to catch him. When that kid is on, no one can catch him. He runs like a damn gazelle when he gets his hands on the ball. If only we could make that happen reliably, we’d be the freaking state champions.
The buzzing in my ribs after I let that pass fly and it landed right in Darien’s sweet spot was totally worth it. I watched him cradle it all the way into the end zone and fought the urge to do my victory dance right in Elijah’s grass-stained face.
I know I’m going to have to ice my side tonight, but I’ve certainly played with worse injuries than this. I’m not even going to mention it to Coach Marcus. First, he’d yell at me for somehow being tackled incorrectly, and then want me to rest or go to the trainer and probably bench me for a week. For what? Sore ribs? How would it look if the second-string quarterback got the start in the first game of the year instead of me, and for something as dumb as sore ribs? Ray Remondo would rip me apart in the Meridien paper, and I know not one single Crenshaw graduate or booster would let me live it down.
I take my time in the shower and getting dressed, taking a good long look at my side. The bruise isn’t huge, but it’s turning a nasty shade of purplish red. Got to remember that ice tonight.
The cloudless sky is thick with humidity, and Elijah is waiting for me outside the locker room door after practice.
“Hey,” he says when I open the door. “I waited.”
My gut goes soft, seeing his smile.
“Listen, I don’t want things to be weird like this between us,” he says. “I want you to know I don’t blame you for, you know… ratting me out that day.”
I swallow hard. I didn’t even know that he knew it was me. “Don’t blame me?”
“Yeah. Things are a little—uh—tense between us, and I just thought…” His voice trails off. “I know it was you that tip-lined me. And I don’t—um—I don’t blame you,” he stammers.
We walk along Main Street for a couple of silent blocks, the sun shining on our backs. We pass a couple of storefronts, and the empty one next to Ron Redd’s Rapid Repair is coming up quick. The one with the windows partially covered in brown paper and the peeling blue paint inside. Where I usually cross the street and walk on the other side. I know Elijah will notice if I suddenly cross Main for no apparent reason, and I don’t feel like explaining all that right now. Not to him.
The air is too heavy between us, and I don’t know how to respond to Elijah’s admission that he knew it was me. There’s a pinpoint of light inside my brain that says Now is when you should ask why he left you the way he did, but everything else inside me is screaming to just ignore it. Nothing good can come from that conversation.
“Remember when we ate nothing but hot Cheetos for an entire summer?” I nod toward Jake’s Convenience in the distance, past the empty storefront with the peeling paint inside.
Elijah lets out a too-loud belly laugh, and the inside of my chest melts. “It’s a wonder we didn’t ruin our taste buds for good. I think my fingers stayed orange until Halloween.”
I glance sideways at him and then run ahead, my eyes trained on the sticker-covered glass door of Jake’s Convenience. I hear Elijah’s footfalls behind me, but I know he won’t catch me before I get into the air-conditioned comfort of the stuffed little shop.
The bell over my head tinkles my arrival just as Elijah catches up, breath heavy. I find a bag of hot Cheetos and grab two bottles of Coke from the fridge while Elijah follows.
“What are you doing?” he asks. I can hear the smile on his face even without turning around.
“Nostalgia,” I tell him as I pay for the items.
I settle myself on the curb outside the shop and open the Cheetos. My fingers are immediately atomic orange. I offer the bag to Elijah, who sits down next to me. I take a long sip of Coke and let the burning powdered cheese flavor drift down my throat.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back to the football team?” I ask him.
“I’m not.…” He takes a deep breath. “Last night didn’t really feel like the right time. Or this morning. You just… you seemed pretty angry. With me. Or something,” he says. I can feel him tense up beside me, like he wants to say something else. Instead, he clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably on the warm concrete.
“Do you know why I seem angry?” I refuse to look his way. I don’t know what I’m going to say next.
Elijah is quiet for a long time. I can hear him fiddling with the cap on his Coke bottle. “Is that a trick question?” he finally asks.
Does he even remember? Did it mean nothing to him at all?
It was after a particularly grueling football practice our freshman year, the day before he broke the window. I stood in the locker room under the lukewarm shower longer than usual that night, letting the water wash away every inadequate feeling that had built up over the course of the last few hours. Coach Marcus had been yelling at me at practice for weeks, and it had finally culminated in a night when nothing I did seemed to be good enough. I was ready to throw it all away. Throw my hard-earned Crenshaw Guardsmen jersey with the bright blue number eight on the back right into the trash can and join the chess club. Or the show choir. The freaking fishing team. Anything to get me away from football.
I finally turned off the showe
r and loped toward my locker, dejected. When I heard a locker slam shut a few rows over, I went to investigate, stepping carefully on the wet floor in my slides.
“Elijah?” I asked, coming around the corner. He was sitting on the bench in front of his locker, his head in his hands.
He jerked his head up quickly, surprised to see me there. “I thought I was the only one still here,” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. His eyes were bright and rimmed with red.
“You okay?” I asked, sitting down next to him on the bench.
He shook his head no but offered up a little smile. “You okay?” he asked back.
I shook my head no and smiled, too.
We sat there talking in the empty locker room for almost an hour.
“Remember that game at Liberty Middle last year?” he asked me.
I laughed at the thought. “When the mascot accidentally wandered onto the field midplay and you mowed him down?”
Elijah threw his head back and laughed, clapping his hand on my knee.
I stopped laughing right away and turned toward him. Elijah had been out since seventh grade without apology and without any fucks to give. And maybe he realized in that moment what I had known for at least a few months about myself but hadn’t been able to admit out loud yet. Or maybe he knew before that moment. Maybe it didn’t even matter. What did matter is that right in that second, as two scared and tired fourteen-year-olds laughing about football in the school locker room, we both felt seen. Understood.
I don’t remember if he leaned forward first or if I did. I don’t remember if he kept his hand on my knee or if his fingers drifted somewhere else. I don’t remember what I did with my hands. I don’t remember what I was thinking in that exact minute, or if I was thinking at all.
I do remember his slow, warm exhale as our lips touched. I do remember the feeling of letting go. The way my shoulders relaxed, and I wasn’t scared, and everything made sense, even though nothing made sense all at the same time.
He pulled back first. “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that?”
“No, I… it was okay,” I said.
It never happened again.
Not because I didn’t want it to happen again, but because things changed after that. He ignored me completely the next morning. Didn’t even walk to school with me like we had been doing for weeks. I thought he hated me. I thought he regretted that kiss so badly that he couldn’t even stand to look at me anymore.
It was that same afternoon that I found him with broken glass on his shoes, getting ready to climb into the coach’s office and steal the car wash money.
I think about it a lot, why I called the tip line that afternoon. I spent three years convincing myself that it was because Elijah was breaking a rule and it was my duty to make sure there were consequences for that. But really it was because Elijah’s complete rejection had cut me to the quick.
“It’s not a trick question,” I say, taking a long sip and avoiding Elijah’s eyes.
“Uh… I think maybe I do know, probably,” he says, his voice shaky.
I take a chance and glance toward him. His eyebrows are pinched in the middle of his forehead, and his lips are set in an uneven line. He stares out at the cars whizzing down Main Street, and never glances in my direction.
“We probably ought to head home,” I say, folding up the Cheetos bag. “Birdie’s probably waiting on us.”
Elijah swallows the last of his Coke and throws the bottle in the trash can. He wipes the Cheetos crumbs from his hands across his black shorts. “Aw, man,” he says, trying to brush off the neon orange dust but only making it worse.
He doesn’t remember.
I’ve spent three years thinking about him and wondering what I could have possibly done differently, and he hasn’t given me a second thought at all.
A huge wave of sadness washes over me as we round the bend from Main Street onto Rudy Street.
“Oh, good. You’re both here!” Birdie greets us at the front door. She’s wearing her GUARDSMAN GRANDMA T-shirt with my name and football number in silver glitter on the back. “It’s Tuesday! You didn’t forget, did you Julian?”
Booster Bingo. I totally forgot.
Birdie calls bingo every Tuesday night at Crossroads Church. Not only is it the highlight of her week, but it’s the highlight of everyone’s week in Meridien. I would reckon the multipurpose room at the church is more packed on Tuesdays than the pews are on Sundays. The second Tuesday of every month is Football Booster Bingo, and almost all the proceeds go to the Crenshaw football team. Birdie and Coach Marcus expect the team to volunteer selling hot dogs and popcorn and passing out extra cards.
“I didn’t forget,” I lie. “I just need to change my clothes, and I’ll help you pack up the car.”
I leave her and Elijah on the porch, Birdie reminding him how important Tuesdays are to the whole community. I’ve heard the spiel before, and I can only imagine Elijah’s reaction to the news that he’ll be selling bingo cards with me all night.
I comb my hair and put on a clean Crenshaw polo shirt.
“Aren’t you a sight!” Birdie says, waiting in the living room. Down the hallway, Elijah’s door closes, and I assume he’s changing his clothes. “Tell me about practice. How did Elijah do?”
“He’s pretty rusty,” I tell her, setting my jaw. I’m still annoyed she kept this secret from me.
“Now, don’t be mad at me for not telling you sooner,” Birdie says in a hushed voice, throwing a look down the hallway toward the guest room. “I honestly didn’t know if the boy was going to go through with it. He was so nervous this morning about upsetting you and making a mistake. Practically had to talk him off the ledge at breakfast before you got up,” she says.
“Well, he certainly looks like he hasn’t played in a while,” I say, letting my anger for Birdie subside a little bit.
“Oh, I’m just glad he put on a helmet and got out there! He’ll get his legs under him, sure enough,” she asserts. “Is he at cornerback? Left side, I hope.”
I laugh. “Yes, Birdie. He’s playing the left side.”
“Now if they could only fix your protection. You might actually have a fighting chance against Taylor this year!”
“Hey, now! That hurts!” I laugh again.
“A quarterback’s only as good as his protection,” Birdie quotes, carrying the bright pink wheel of tickets out to the car.
Elijah comes out of the guest room in a clean shirt, his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail again. “Is this okay? Do I look nice enough for bingo?” he asks me.
His shoulders strain against the frayed sleeves of his V-neck T-shirt, and I notice a few tiny stains on his khaki pants. My gut hums in protest as my eyes follow the worried lines on his forehead down his freshly shaven cheek. “You look fine.”
“It’s the nicest thing I have with me,” he says, a concerned look settling across his full lips.
“I promise, it’ll be fine. You’ll be sitting down at a table for most of the night, anyway. Help me with this cooler,” I tell him, heaving up one end of the heavy ice chest Birdie has left in the kitchen.
I sit in the back seat in the car while Birdie and Elijah talk about practice all the way to the church. Well, Birdie talks. Elijah nods along in agreement and offers a word or two when he can get them in.
I help Birdie set up the bingo cage on the stage near the lectern while a few of the other football players trickle in. Nate and Bucky help me pull a few tables in a line near the door to sell cards, and Elijah and Camille soon get to work putting chairs out.
I avoid talking to Elijah, even though he’s barely left my side all night. He’s there while I set up the popcorn machine, breathing loudly and not talking. I’m not sure what to say to him. The realization that he really doesn’t remember what happened in the locker room three years ago, or at least that he doesn’t care to talk about it, circles around in my head, and I can’t get past the bright, stinging buzz of it.
&n
bsp; Camille’s dad sets up the audio for Birdie, and her mom busies herself with the cash box and the bingo cards and daubers.
I help Professor Robles-Garcia stretch a long white tablecloth over the front table and set it up with the cash box. “You remind me more and more of your father the older you get,” she tells me. My cheeks burn and I look at the floor. I never know how to respond when someone tells me how much I am like him. It makes me feel like I have something to live up to, which makes me feel both proud and anxious. “We should have you and your granny over for dinner soon,” she says.
“That sounds nice,” I tell her. “I’ll have Birdie give you a call.”
“You can even bring the Vance boy, I suppose. Camille tells me you’ve got Elijah living with you for a bit?”
I start to answer, but the professor doesn’t wait for me to form the words.
“Elijah Vance. Hm. I hope he’s not up to his old tricks,” she says, her face pinched.
Her words don’t sit right with me, but she walks away before she can see the look on my face. Elijah might be a lot of things, but he’s not the bad seed some of the people in this town think he is.
People start arriving in droves soon after we get the room set up. Camille, Elijah, and I are sitting at the front table, handing out bingo cards and daubers as Mr. Robles collects money. Almost every person who comes through the door has a handy football tip for me, or a warning about the Taylor game, which is still almost a month away at this point.
“That Taylor quarterback is going to spell trouble for you,” Ms. Brownie says, pointing a wrinkly finger in my face. “He’s just a sophomore and already being courted by Alabama.”
The whole town turns into armchair coaches and experts as soon as football season comes around. I never hear Ms. Brownie warning baseball pitchers or the basketball team about their games.
