Sidelined

by Kara Bietz

  “Wow,” I say, picturing a hundred football players on the field just pounding the crap out of one another. Not a pretty sight.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t our proudest Guardsmen moment, that’s for sure,” Figg says. “And not one that a lot of people in Meridien like to remember. That’s probably why your grandmother never talks about it. If it happens to come up, don’t you tell her I was the one who spilled the beans. I’ll never be invited to dinner again.” He laughs.

  “I promise I won’t throw you under the bus,” I say, laughing too.

  The bell rings. “I’ve got a class coming in, Julian. Don’t you have history this period? I don’t think Mrs. Nguyen would be too happy with me if you’re late for one of her fascinating lectures because you’ve been loitering in the calculus classroom.”

  I wish lunch were longer. Sometimes it feels like Figg is the only person who really understands me. Plus, he’s easy to talk to. I slide out from behind the desk and toss my Styrofoam lunch tray in his garbage can.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” Figg tells me as I pack up my things and get ready for the joys of US history.

  “I’ll see you,” I tell him. “And thanks for telling me all of that.”

  He nods and smiles at me, putting a hand on my shoulder and squeezing.

  As I leave the classroom, my head buzzes. My father didn’t like the pranks any more than I do. He tried to stop the tradition, too.

  The thought buoys me as I walk down the hallway toward history, feeling taller. My father. My dad. The guy who played football in college and has a ton of trophies with his name on them outside the Crenshaw gym.

  What if something goes too far again? What if the consequences are worse than just a forfeiture of the homecoming game? A ton of my teammates are relying on football for scholarships. If there’s a prank that gets out of hand, all that would be on my head.

  Something has to change.

  · sixteen ·

  ELIJAH

  All anyone can talk about all day long is the Taylor flag hanging in front of the school. I guess I really don’t get what the big deal is, but maybe that’s because I missed most of the homecoming festivities and buildup when we lived in Meridien before. Frankie loved all the excitement surrounding homecoming, and before her senior year, she would always get all dressed up with her friends and go to the dance. After she got serious with Ty, though, a lot of her so-called friends kind of ditched her. I was at Crenshaw for less than a month before I was suspended, and after that we shipped out to Houston.

  I keep my eyes peeled for Julian all morning. I know he was pretty ticked off when he shoved the Taylor flag in his backpack this morning, but I think he may have been more worried about the flak he was going to get for not being the first to strike rather than angry with whatever Taylor Titan hung the flag up in the first place.

  I’m so preoccupied with looking for Julian that I forget to go to my new social studies class after lunch. I get all the way to the old classroom and sit down at my desk before I realize my mistake, and I have to ask Mrs. Schad for a pass to find my new class. I feel like a dolt.

  I have to knock on the door to get into the new room. “The counselor changed my schedule,” I say, handing the pass to the teacher. “I’m in this class now.”

  “Welcome, welcome! I’m Mrs. Nguyen. We’re just getting ready to do some study questions in small groups. Join wherever you see space,” she says, gesturing to the room.

  I hate it when teachers say to find a space. Do I sit next to a quiet person? Do I sit in the front? What if the person I choose to sit near doesn’t want company? I use a sneakered foot to scratch at my ankle and lose my balance a little bit. A few kids in the front of the room snicker.

  I see a hand raise toward the back of the room. It’s Julian. “Elijah,” he says, pointing to the empty desk next to his. “You can sit here.”

  My stomach stops bubbling over. “Thanks,” I say, settling into the seat and taking out a fresh sheet of notebook paper. “They had me in a freshman geography class. What are we working on?”

  “Causes of the Civil War,” Julian says, showing me the study guide. “Here, pull your desk up next to mine and then we can share the guide. I’ll work on the even numbers and you take the odd. Then we can just share answers.”

  I scoot my desk up close to his, and he puts the study guide over the tiny crack between the two desks. We work silently for a few minutes, each scratching lengthy answers on our respective pieces of paper. I catch myself looking at Julian’s handwriting while I’m supposed to be reading question number five. His l’s start with a little flourish, and his a’s are round and neat.

  “What is it?” he asks, catching me looking at his paper. “Did I get one wrong?”

  “Oh, um… no. I think it’s good. Your answers, I mean.”

  We fall back into a comfortable silence. When Julian leans over to read the next question, he’s close enough that I can smell his hair. Something minty. His knee touches mine under the desk, and it takes a second before he moves it away. A jolt of heat reaches up my thigh and settles low in my gut.

  “I… um… I didn’t see you at lunch today,” I say, pretending to study the questions in the guide between us.

  “Oh. Didn’t know you were looking,” he says, not looking up from his pencil.

  My face burns, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay after the flag thing this morning.”

  “I ate lunch in Figg’s room. I do that sometimes,” he says, still not looking at me.

  “Oh.”

  I let the silence stretch between us while I try to think of something else to say. Julian flips a page in his notebook and keeps writing. I think his answers are going to be a lot more thorough than mine. I can’t focus, sitting this close to him. I can almost feel the heat coming off of his knee under the desk. I wonder how much I would have to stretch my leg to accidentally touch his again. I wonder if I did that if I could just leave it there, resting against his knee like it’s no big deal. Nothing to see here. Just two dudes touching knees under the desk.

  “I’m fine,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “The flag thing. I’m fine.”

  “Oh, right. Well, that’s good. Have you thought about your next move?’

  “Hey, I said I’m fine. I didn’t say I wanted to talk about it,” Julian says, crossing his legs at the ankle and stretching out in the chair. He pulls his notebook into his lap and continues writing.

  I finish the next question and try again.

  “Are your ribs feeling okay?”

  Julian sighs hard and drops his pencil on the desk. “No. They’re really not,” he says, clearly not thrilled that he invited me to sit with him.

  “Are you going to be able to play this afternoon? What about Saturday? How are you feeling about that?” I press on.

  “Elijah, jeez,” he whispers harshly. “The questions! Yes, my ribs hurt like mad right now. Yes, I’m still playing today. And Saturday! Can we please just get through this assignment?”

  “Sorry, I guess I’m just… I’m worried about you,” I say, my cheeks and my neck burning.

  Julian’s lips are set in a line, but his shoulders release and he relaxes into the chair a little bit. “Yeah.”

  I try to focus on the next question in the study guide, but the questions swim in front of my eyes and my brain can’t make sense of the letters on the page. I start writing, even though I know all my answers are probably wrong because I’m so distracted.

  “Thanks,” he says so quietly I almost miss it.

  He keeps his head in his notebook until the end of the class. When the bell rings, he grabs his bag and bolts out of the classroom without even a glance in my direction. I thought he’d at least wait for me since we’re both headed to football practice.

  I lope toward the gym, my head filled with Julian. I thought last night that he might be coming around. He at least didn’t see
m like he was mad at me anymore. And this morning on the way to school, he was friendly. Smiling. Not ignoring me or making angry faces in my direction.

  I wish I knew where his head was.

  I wish I had the courage to just flat out ask him.

  I get dressed for practice and try to put it all out of my head. I’ve been studying the o-line plays, and I’m feeling pretty confident that I can do this job. It’s just tackling, just like being on defense, only now I’m creating a pocket to protect the quarterback rather than trying to mow him down.

  Julian is already on the field, tossing a few passes to Nate and Darien when I make it out of the locker room. What did he do, sprint all the way to the gym after history? Or do I just walk that slowly?

  The breeze has picked up since this morning, and wide bands of clouds float across the field during afternoon practice. It feels less humid than it did earlier in the week, but there’s another kind of heaviness in the air. Those wide clouds are thick with rain, and you can feel the electricity that comes before a big thunderstorm hanging above the football field.

  “Let’s get in a short scrimmage this afternoon, boys. I don’t know how long this weather is going to cooperate,” Coach Marcus says after warm-ups. “And I know I’ve got to get you out of here in time to get ready for the dinner tonight.”

  Coach puts the backup QB, Corey, in for the first few plays. Martinez sits and I get the start. I make a few tackles, and I’m starting to learn how to anticipate the defense. Corey manages to get off a few good passes without being tackled, so I’ll consider that a win.

  “Julian! You’re in for Corey! Elijah, you stay right there,” Coach Marcus shouts after a few plays. “Let’s work on those running plays.”

  Julian calls the play, and the center hikes the ball right away. I plow right into the defense and take down the first guy I come into contact with. I look up from where I land and see that Julian has handed the ball off to the running back, who is making his way downfield quick. The defense is just chasing. There’s a tiny ache in my chest. I know I could have caught him.

  I guess there was a little bit more glory on defense. On offense, the quarterback gets all the credit.

  “Nice play, 87!” Coach calls to me. “More blocks like that and Alabama will be knocking on your door!”

  I raise my hand in thanks to Coach Marcus and set up again, watching how the defense sets their feet. Just from the way they’re standing, I know just how they’re going to try to sack Julian. In a split second, I change my stance before the play is called. I position myself exactly where I need to, to keep that defensive end off of him.

  “Blue 42! Blue 42! Hike!” Julian calls, and the defensive end takes off.

  I put my body between Julian and the incoming defense, but my timing is off. The defense just scoots around me and makes a dive at Julian’s shins. I see him about to topple over, and I change course and dive toward him instead, my hands outstretched. I can feel Julian about to fall on my arms, and I make them as strong as I can to try and break his fall.

  “Shit, I’m so sorry,” I tell him when we both hit the ground. “Your ribs! Did you get hurt? Holy shit, Julian, I’m so sorry.”

  Julian laughs. “I’m okay,” he says. “It’s football, Elijah. I’m going to fall down. You can’t apologize every time you miss a tackle. Besides, you’re not the only guy who’s supposed to be protecting me out there.”

  “You better get your head screwed on straight, Julian!” Coach Marcus starts to scream. “You’re broadcasting the play to the whole damn world before you even set up! I know I taught you better than that! Taylor would be all over you in a heartbeat!” He goes on and on while we set up again.

  I watch Julian bend at his side and put his palm on his rib a couple of times before he calls the play, and I know it had to have hurt, even though the defense took him out at the shins.

  “Don’t listen to Coach,” I say to Julian before I get in position.

  “I’m not,” he says, a defiant smirk on his lips.

  “That one was on me. I misjudged. It won’t happen again,” I say, digging my fingertips into the grass and facing off against the defense.

  We’re able to pull off only one more play before thunder rumbles in the distance and lightning starts to flicker in the dark clouds. Coach Marcus blows two short blasts on his whistle and points toward the field house. “That’s all we can do today, boys! Elijah! Uniform fee by Monday! Julian! Come on over here, son,” he says.

  Julian jogs to Coach Marcus, and I hear him yelling again while Julian looks down at the ground. Part of me wants to go over there and take the heat for that sack. I know it was my fault. I knew I’d misjudged it before the defense even got their arms around Julian’s legs.

  Luckily, the sky opens up and Coach can’t continue to rip Julian up one side and down the other in the middle of a Texas gullywasher. We make it into the locker room just seconds after the fat raindrops start to fall from the heavy clouds. I wait for Julian after practice near the football trophy case. Inside, trophies are crammed in so tightly that you can barely see the lettering on most of them. On the back wall of the case are framed team photos taken at the end of each season going all the way back to the late 1970s, when the school was built. I marvel at some of the haircuts back then until my eyes fall onto the pictures from twenty years ago. I lean in close to see if I can find my father in any of the photos. Once I find the right year, spotting him in the crowd is easy. His white-blond hair sticks out, and his wide smile is recognizable to me even through the dusty, smudged glass of the trophy case. I trace the names at the bottom of the picture. E. Vance is standing right next to J. Jackson.

  Julian’s father.

  I glance back up at the picture.

  One blond-haired and one dark brown–haired kid stare back at me. The two boys stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling widely for the photographer. Both the same height. I follow down the line of pictures and find them together for three years in a row, standing side by side. Their senior year, I only find Julian’s father.

  “Hey,” I call to Julian when he finally comes out of the locker room, his hand holding onto his ribs. “Come look at these pictures.”

  He drops his hand and stands next to me. “Man, look at these haircuts.” He laughs.

  “Tell me about it. But look, it’s our dads.” I point to the three pictures of them together. “Did you know they played together?”

  “Huh,” Julian says, the laughter in his voice fading. “Look at that.”

  “Do you think they were friends?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, his palm pressed to the trophy case.

  His left hand travels to his ribs again, and his eyebrows pinch in the middle of his forehead. “I never really paid too much attention to these pictures before.”

  He stares for a long time at the case and the pictures inside. I wish I had the courage to ask him what he’s thinking.

  “Hey, let’s get you home. You look like you’re hurting,” I say instead.

  We don’t talk all the way back to Julian’s house. The rain that was falling earlier has slowed to barely a drizzle, and steam rises from the blacktop as we make our way down Main Street.

  Ms. Birdie is bopping around the kitchen when we get to the house, stacking plastic containers full of food on the counters. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re home, boys. I need a hand getting the car packed for the team dinner. Go get cleaned up, and then maybe one of you can grab the steam-pan sets from the shed,” she says, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. Under her breath, she grumbles, “I’ve got to keep this pasta warm, and I know Pastor Ernie isn’t going to have what I need in the church kitchen.”

  “I can do that for you, Ms. Birdie,” I tell her as she disappears down the hallway. I quickly open the spice cabinet and grab the blue container of cayenne pepper.

  I follow Julian toward his bedroom and glance behind me to make sure Ms. Birdie is safely back in the kitchen before quietly closing the door
behind me.

  “Have you taken some ibuprofen or something yet tonight?” I ask him quietly. “Ice? Heat? Anything?”

  “I iced it right before practice and took a couple of ibuprofen right after practice. Nothing is really helping tonight,” he says, his lips twisting.

  “We can try this if you want,” I say, showing him the purloined cayenne. “I just need some hand lotion or Vaseline or something to make a cream.”

  He grabs a bottle of dry skin lotion from the bathroom and hands it to me. I shake a generous amount of the pepper into my hand and use my finger to mix in the lotion until I have a dark rusty cream in my palm.

  “I hope this works,” I say as I sit in the desk chair while Julian lifts his shirt.

  “Me too,” he says.

  The bruise is dark purple today, stretching across his ribs.

  “I really wish you weren’t so stubborn about playing through this,” I say as I gently put the lotion onto the bruise.

  “I already told you why I’m doing it,” he answers, his voice tight. “So don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  “I know, I just—”

  “I know. Just don’t worry about it, okay?” he snaps.

  My stomach flips a little.

  He winces. “Sorry. I’m sorry. You’re trying to help. I just… I don’t need anyone worrying about me. I got this,” he says.

  “You’re not taking anything again, are you?”

  “I said I got this.”

  I finish spreading the lotion on his side and gently pull his shirt down again. “That should feel better in a little bit. I’ll keep the pepper in case you need it again later,” I say, standing up and putting the shaker in my pocket.

  I turn to leave the room, and Julian reaches out and grabs my elbow. “’lijah,” he says.

  I turn to him, but he doesn’t move his hand from my arm.