Sidelined

by Kara Bietz

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  Figg exhales through his nose like he’s thinking of the perfect words to use. “Why were you fighting it so hard? These pranks… why didn’t you want to participate?”

  I take a deep breath and prop myself up against a desk at the front of the room. I lower my backpack to the floor because I know this is going to be a longer conversation than I anticipated having with Figg this afternoon.

  “I just want him to be proud, you know?” I say, mostly to the floor.

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah. He was this great stand-up guy that everyone loved, and here’s me… I’m just kind of… I don’t know.”

  “Hey, look at me,” Figg says.

  I raise my eyes to meet his.

  “Don’t put him on a pedestal. He was a regular guy just like me. Just like you. I know he would be damn proud of you right now. Prank or no prank. Damn proud,” Figg says quietly.

  “I don’t want do anything that might get anyone in trouble. Imagine if I planned a prank and someone got hurt? Or someone lost a scholarship or got blackballed from all-conference or something? Or what if it’s me? What if some college scout gets wind of some dumb prank I pulled and won’t come give me a look after that?” The words tumble out into the air between Figg and me.

  “Hey, whoa, slow down,” Figg says quietly, coming around to the other side of his desk and sitting on top of it.

  “Things can get out of control really quickly. I don’t want to take chances. Not with the guys and not with myself… not with any of it,” I tell him, finally taking a deep breath.

  “You’re right. Sometimes things can get out of control without that ever being anyone’s intention. But things can get out of control even when you’re doing something mundane, Julian. That’s just the way life goes sometimes. You can’t control everything. And sometimes it’s how you recover from those kinds of things that teaches you the most about yourself. About how much you can handle. About your ability to lead,” Figg says. “Does that make sense?”

  I nod. It does. It doesn’t mean I’m exactly thrilled to go out and plan two hundred pranks now, but I can see Figg’s point.

  “How are things with Elijah? Feeling a little more settled now?” he asks.

  My cheeks burn, and I feel like the tips of my ears are on fire. “Things are definitely better,” I say, unable to keep a smile from pulling on my cheeks.

  Figg raises his eyebrows. “Well, that’s nice to hear,” he says, giving me a side-eyed look.

  “Hey, can I ask you a question? Just between us?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. Shoot.”

  “Was it… when those Taylor guys stuffed beach balls up their jerseys, was it because of Eric Vance? And Elijah’s mom? Was she pregnant with Frankie?”

  Figg hangs his head. “Your grandmother is going to kill me for talking about this with you, but yes. It was Eric Vance the Taylor team was trying to get to. He was a real threat to them that year. A cornerback that was leading the league in interceptions.”

  “Elijah was right,” I say. “He said it’s no wonder the entire town hates his dad and him by extension, since he made Crenshaw have to forfeit.”

  “Well,” Figg says, bracing his feet on the floor. “That’s not exactly how it happened.”

  “But Elijah said his dad apparently got kicked off the team his senior year because of the fight during the homecoming game. Why else would a guy leading the league in interceptions suddenly disappear from the roster?” I groan in frustration. “I just don’t know why everyone is so hush-hush about it. I’ve tried finding articles about it in old issues of the Register; I’ve asked Birdie about it. Short of bribing Mr. Cooper and demanding he tell me all the details, I don’t know where else to turn.”

  Figg takes a deep breath through his nose and folds his hands over his stomach. I know this is something teachers do before they give you some kind of crappy news. Like You’ve failed the final and there’s no way you’re going to pass my class or We are reading The Odyssey in its original Greek and an essay is due on the author’s purpose next week.

  “Meridien is very proud of their football,” Figg says. “No one wanted to be the guy who wrote the scathing article about the Guardsmen and published it in the Register. Likely find a flaming bag of dog poop on their front porch after doing something like that.” He chuckles, only half joking. Then his expression turns serious. “But it wasn’t Eric Vance that started arguing with the Taylor team. He was trying to get the team to ignore what was happening. He insisted, actually, that they keep their heads in the game,” Figg says quietly. Then he sighs. “Your father and Eric were friends. Really close friends. And when that Taylor team came out onto our field, clearly trying to make a laughingstock out of Jeffrey Jackson’s best friend… well, it didn’t exactly go over really well. It was your dad that started that fight. He was sticking up for his friend.”

  My stomach is in knots. My dad was the one who started the fight? With everything I’ve ever known or heard about him, he doesn’t seem like the guy who would start a massive fight, especially at the homecoming game in front of the entire town.

  “Then why did Elijah’s dad stop playing football?”

  Figg takes another deep breath and meets my eye. “It was complicated, really. From what I understand, Eric took the fall for your dad. Told him that he was probably going to have to quit playing football after his senior season anyway because he had a baby on the way and a girlfriend that he loved, and he wanted to do the right thing and take care of them. He knew your father had a chance at college scholarships and whatnot. So instead of going to the coach and telling him the real story, Eric Vance insisted that the fight started with him, that he was the one who started the verbal argument and threw the first punch. That was all the coach needed to hear, and Eric was made an example of and kicked off the team.”

  “Whoa,” I say, trying to pull all the pieces of this wild story together. “So, Eric suffered the consequences even though my dad was the one that started everything? The coach didn’t even blink?”

  “It was easier for everyone to believe it was Eric’s fault,” Figg says, hanging his head. “He was a decent kid, but he always seemed to be around whenever there was trouble. Had a real knack for finding himself in the middle of it even when it had nothing to do with him. Taking the fall for your dad was a really selfless thing for him to do.”

  “So how come you knew about it back then and never said anything?” I can’t quite keep the heat out of my voice. “You just let Eric Vance suffer the consequences and never turned my dad in?”

  “Oh, Julian, I had no idea what really happened back then. I was a brand-new teacher and had zero instincts about anything. I took everything at face value.” He laughs. “It wasn’t until years later, after you were born, that Jeffrey came to me and told me the whole story over a beer. I was as dumbfounded as you are right now. No one in a million years would have suspected Jeffrey was capable of starting something like that. But when they messed with the bull, embarrassed one of his friends, someone he considered family back then, they got the horns.”

  Figg looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his lip. I let the information settle in my chest. It feels heavy and out of place. For years, I’ve heard about my father being a hometown hero. A football star who came back to Meridien and was ready to use his skills to do some good in the community. A guy who really loved his town and wanted to make a difference. A guy who caused a bench-clearing brawl doesn’t really fit the narrative I’ve been fed my entire life.

  “I don’t remember Eric Vance and my dad ever even talking when I was a little kid, never mind being friends. What happened if they were close enough to consider each other family?”

  Figg sets his lips in a straight line. “I think it’s something your father struggled with for a lot of years,” he says quietly. “I’m only telling you this because I think you’re mature enough to handle it, but I
think Jeffrey carried a lot of guilt for letting Eric take the heat for something he did. They drifted apart, like friends sometimes do when they take different paths.”

  The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and I hurriedly pack up my things and throw away my garbage. My head is swimming with all this new information, and I’m not quite sure what to do with it all.

  “Hey, Julian,” Figg calls to me before I walk out the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m sorry you had to find out about this from me,” he says, looking truly sad.

  “It’s okay,” I say, turning on my heel and heading toward Mrs. Nguyen’s class. “Thanks for letting me talk.”

  Is it okay? I don’t know that I actually believe that. Maybe it borders on okay. Maybe it’s okay’s next-door neighbor. Or across-the-street neighbor. Yeah, that seems more like it.

  I’ve always seen my father as this pillar of strength and perfection. Even at seven, I wanted to be exactly like him. Even now, ten years later, I want to be exactly like him. I want to achieve things and go to college and make a difference. To think that maybe those things might not have happened for him if it weren’t for Eric Vance kind of throws me for a loop.

  I wear the same guilt my father probably carried around for the rest of the afternoon.

  · twenty-four ·

  ELIJAH

  Julian is distracted. He’s been throwing long bombs that are way off the mark all afternoon, and he’s been sacked twice by that monster freshman who now thinks he’s hot shit because he’s taken the quarterback out. I’m doing everything I can to keep this giant kid off of him, but Julian’s not doing himself any favors. He keeps calling one play and executing another. He’s got his o-line so confused, we don’t know who we’re supposed to be paying attention to.

  Coach Marcus blows his whistle so hard, I wonder if he’s trying to spit it right at Julian’s head. I watch him pull Julian to the side and give him a real reaming about a half hour before practice ends. Coach Andrews takes the o-line to the end zone for gap-blocking drills, so I don’t have a chance to catch up to Julian and ask if he’s okay.

  Come to think of it, he was quiet in history, too. Mrs. Nguyen lectured for the entire class period, so there really wasn’t a lot of time for talking, but Julian didn’t look like himself, anyway. He held his chin in his hand and had his notebook out to take notes but didn’t write even one word down while she was talking. In fact, I think it’s the first time that I took more notes than he did.

  I hurried to practice after class so that I could give Coach Marcus the sixty dollars for the uniform fee, and Julian was dawdling like he wanted to talk to Mrs. Nguyen, so I didn’t wait to walk with him. When he finally got to the locker room, he looked tired, so I chalked it up to the Monday blues even though that didn’t exactly feel right, either.

  Our kiss has been on my mind since it happened last night, keeping me up most of the night with butterflies in my stomach. It didn’t seem like Julian regretted it. I know I certainly didn’t.

  For once, everything felt like it was falling into place. Football was going great, school wasn’t terrible, and even living at Ms. Birdie’s was starting to feel a little more comfortable. Holding onto Julian’s pinkie on the way to school this morning felt exactly right, too.

  I watch Julian out of the corner of my eye as we get dressed after practice. I try to push the growing worry out of my gut while I wait by the trophy case for Julian to be ready to go home.

  “I’ve got to cut the grass at Figg and Pastor Ernie’s place this afternoon,” he says, finally coming out of the locker room. “Figg cornered me at lunch.” He smiles a little.

  “Okay,” I say, studying his face.

  He hands me his key to the front door. “Just in case Birdie isn’t home before you get there. She was meeting with Pastor Ernie again today, remember?”

  “I remember. Hey, Julian?” I ask, something really niggling in my gut. “Are we okay?”

  “Of course,” he says, flashing me the world’s weakest smile. “I’ll be home in an hour or so, okay?” He glances down the hall and then leans in to give me a quick kiss on the lips. He tries to smile at me, but it never reaches his eyes.

  “Okay,” I say, as he wanders down the hall toward Figg’s classroom.

  I hold the key in my fist and start to walk toward Ms. Birdie’s in the five o’clock heat. My neck is burning by the time I reach Main Street, which doesn’t bode well for the rest of my walk. What I wouldn’t give for a massive thunderstorm right now.

  “Elijah! Wait up!” I hear Camille’s voice behind me.

  I turn and wait for her and she runs to catch up.

  “Hot enough for you?” she says, out of breath from running.

  Why do people in Texas always feel like they have to talk about the weather? It’s hot. It’s always hot. Sometimes it’s surface-of-the-sun hot, and sometimes it’s just equator hot or desert hot, but it’s always hot. Always.

  “Fire-breathing-dragon hot,” I tell Camille.

  “Has Julian come up with any ingenious plans yet?” she asks, falling in step beside me as we plod down Main Street toward home.

  “Not that he’s mentioned to me,” I tell her. “He seems a little off today.”

  “He seemed okay walking to school this morning, holding your hand.” She bumps me with her shoulder.

  My cheeks burn and my stomach flip-flops.

  “What was in my mother’s tostones?” She laughs.

  I shrug and hope Camille changes the subject because right now I feel like I want to keep it all to myself. That kiss we shared on Sunday night, and the little ones that followed as we sat on my bed and talked, it feels like something I want to keep close to me for the time being, like it’s fragile enough to need to be protected.

  “So I was thinking about something, Elijah.” She takes a deep breath.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “I think you and I should have something in our back pocket in case Julian craps out of this prank thing,” she says. “I told Julian a long time ago that I wasn’t going to help him come up with anything because it had to come from him, but I’m beginning to think he’s going to need a little, um… help.”

  “You think he’s going to back out?”

  “I think I know Julian. And I think I wouldn’t put it past him to get cold feet and start worrying, again, that he’s going to somehow get in trouble,” she says. “And that’s where you and I come in. If we already have some kind of plan in place, he’ll be less likely to back out of it. Even if he doesn’t do the prank himself, he’ll at least have to let it happen, if the wheels have already started turning.”

  “So, I guess we ought to start brainstorming, right?” I say.

  “Blue food coloring in their ice-bath tubs?” she says. “A ton of those plastic ball-pit balls in their locker room? A singing telegram or a mariachi band in the middle of their afternoon practice? It’s got to be something good, but nothing that will make Julian turn tail and run.”

  “I agree.” I try to think of other options. “How about a flash mob performance of the Crenshaw fight song at their next home game?”

  “Ooh, that’s a good one, but I think it might be too hard to coordinate,” Camille says, tapping her lip as we near Rudy Street.

  “I’ll keep thinking,” I say as we pause at the top of the street.

  “We got this. Even if Julian doesn’t, we’ll make it happen,” she says, hugging me. “Bye, ’lijah.”

  “See you in the morning,” I tell her.

  Ms. Birdie isn’t home yet, so I use the key to let myself into the empty house. I leave my bags on the floor of my room and head into the kitchen. There are plenty of leftovers from last night’s feast at Camille’s, and I help myself to a plateful of tostones and a small bowl of Pastor Ernie’s gumbo. What is it about gumbo that makes it so much more delicious the next day? I cut myself a tiny sliver of Ms. Birdie’s buttermilk pie and eat it while I wait for the microwave.


  Once the food is warm, I set it down at the table and call Frankie on speakerphone.

  “How’s my favorite brother?” she answers.

  “I’m your only brother,” I say, laughing.

  “Then you didn’t have much competition! Seriously, how are things?”

  “Pretty good,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I hear something in your voice. What’s going on?”

  “What?” I ask innocently. “Nothing going on here.” I don’t even know if I want to tell Frankie about Julian. Not yet. It feels too new.

  “How’s things with Julian? Is he still acting like you’ve got the plague?” she asks.

  “Oh, things have definitely gotten better in the past couple of days,” I say, my heart skipping.

  I do tell her all about our game on Saturday and the campout that I already texted her about. I tell her more about the potluck at Camille’s house and how Julian has finally decided that pulling a prank on Taylor is probably not going to get him a black mark on his permanent record.

  “How’s my Coley?” I ask her.

  “She misses her Uncalijah, but she’s doing okay. She did the cutest thing the other day. She stood up on one of the moving boxes and started shouting ‘Ladies and gentlemen’ over and over again like she was a circus ringmaster. I think I got a video of it. I’ll text it to you tonight,” she says.

  I hear the front door opening, so I tell Frankie I need to get going and that I’ll call her soon. She promises to text me the video of Coley and hangs up. I’m washing my dishes at the sink when Julian comes into the kitchen. He leans against the counter next to me, sweaty and smelling like freshly cut grass.

  “I am beat,” he says. “I got tossed on the ground in practice today more than I used to when we played peewee ball.”

  “How are you feeling?” I ask him.

  He winces a little bit. “Honestly? The bruise is going away, but my ribs are burning again.”

  “Do you need an ice pack? Or how about I get you some more parsley?” I turn to him and let my fingers gently touch his arm.