by Jill Malone
I can see Mrs. Brooks (in a cap and jeans!) and Jay with most of the baseball team, and Bangs and Gabby, and Doggy Life, and, actually, I think half the school is here. This morning, the Asbury Park Press announced Point Pleasant Boro, the favorite to win state playoffs, would annihilate us. My mother already has her hands clasped in prayer. I hope it works.
Robins pulls us into a huddle. “Annihilate,” he growls. “They wrote you’re going to be annihilated tonight. They put that in the goddam paper and sold thousands of copies to everyone you know. What are you gonna do about it? What’s your answer? Tonight, it’s up to you. Now get your asses out there!”
Kelly throws an arm over my shoulder as we take the field. “Here’s our strategy,” she tells me. “Slide tackles. Let’s bring every one of those bitches down.”
Slide tackles are no longer legal, if they’re from behind. As long as you slide from the side, or from the front, and are clearly after the ball, dropping girls is fair play. So we drop them. Kelly and I take down three just in the first few minutes of play. If they cross onto our side of the field, they are tackled, and we take possession, scanning for the forwards, for the breakaway, the chip, the quick score.
Kelly passes to me, and I see Jamie, our sweeper, dash up and left. At midfield, two defenders come at me, and I skirt to the right, take three strides, and punt the ball high and long. Jamie’s head comes back, her arms wide, and she chests the ball straight into their goal.
Robins screams at us from the sideline, “Don’t get complacent! Re-form your lines!”
Now they come at us four at a time, passing quickly between girls to make it impossible to target any single one for a tackle. Our forwards rush back to midfield, and the midfielders hunker with the fullbacks, and when Sue saves the ball, and kicks it across the entire field, we break their lines and Renee assists to Jamie, who heads another goal.
It’s a dream. A dream beneath the stadium lights. This time we’re the military unit—disciplined and sharp. Their coach calls timeout. Diofelli, in an official-looking collared shirt, has positioned herself at our right corner arc, and bellows murderous instructions to—well, I’m not sure who she’s bellowing at—possibly the refs, the opposing team, their fans, or everyone in attendance. Point Pleasant Boro brings in two subs, and then another several minutes later. Still we drop them. Drop, dart, dance. We come at them wave after wave. Someone in the crowd blows an air horn every time we recover possession.
I chip the corner kick to Renee, and she scores. And then Jamie takes the ball back from them in a scuffle, and one of their fullbacks steals it, and in the ensuing scuffle the ball lobs high into the lights, an arc that bisects the night. I step right, bend my knees, and, as the crowd murmurs a collective “Yes!” head the ball back down the field.
If any of us remembers that Point Pleasant Boro is slow to warm, rests their best players early in the game, and tends to bring wrath to the second half, you wouldn’t know it from our halftime huddle.
“You’ve got them,” Robins tells us. “You’ve got them, and you’re going all the way.”
Nigel screams something encouraging, waving his arms like a pinwheel. And the dream unravels, almost as we walk back onto the field.
Jeremy removes the screen from his bedroom window, and winds the window open. He stretches his arm back to me.
“You seriously think I’m going to climb out your bedroom window,” I say, “and sit on the roof of your house.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a blanket we can sit on. An old comforter.”
“A blanket?”
“You won’t believe the stars—”
But I’ve already heard his pitch about the stars. “No fucking way.”
“Cole, I promise you, it’s perfectly safe.”
“No. Fucking. Way.” I throw myself onto his bed, and stare up at his ceiling. My mother had the nerve to say, “At least you weren’t annihilated.” 5–4. No, the score doesn’t reflect annihilation, nor does it reflect the fact that we never managed to cross their penalty line the entire second half. We were effectively shut out. Helpless, as we watched them score five goals, and eliminate us from playoffs, under the big lights, before our home crowd.
Before I could walk off the field, Diofelli came over and hugged me. “I hear we’re losing you.”
“Hawaii.”
“It’s heartbreaking, Peters. You military kids, you’re like gunpowder for our teams, and then, just as suddenly, you’re gone. I haven’t watched anybody fly down the field like you in years.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I said.
“Years!” she called after me. “Well played tonight, Peters. That was one hell of a header.”
Framed in his bedroom window, Jeremy asks, “Will you sit on the windowsill?”
“Will you let it go already? I don’t want to see any goddam stars.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, and lays his hand across my belly. I want to slap it off, but the truth is, he’s comforting, and gradually I feel the poison drain away. I’m only tired now.
“As far as the sill,” I relent.
He sits between my legs, on the roof proper, and he’s right, the stars are glorious. Brighter than camera flashes and stadium lights. Bright and merciful.
“We’re out,” I say. “I can’t believe it.” The last of my Monmouth teams, and the checklist becomes another tick shorter: Finish soccer season.
“How are practices going? With the chorus?”
I know what he’s doing. I know, and I’m grateful. “Ernie says they give us another texture. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I think I get it now. Ms. Ruhl on the piano gives a different rhythm to the songs—and the harmonizing stretches the lyric—and we sound better. We sound better than we’ve ever been. The songs are a building now, when they used to be a room.”
“I thought they were cities.”
“You’re biased,” I tell him.
“My parents are coming—to the assembly. I guess your dad’s been telling everyone. Dad says there’s a buzz around the chaplain school.”
“Are you joking?” With my hands in his hair, I’m tempted to give him a tweak.
“No.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Why are you upset?” Jeremy asks, twisting around to look at me.
“Why am I upset? Are you kidding me?”
Jeremy shrugs. “He’s proud of you. He’s excited, and he wants everyone to know he’s excited. I don’t blame him. I’ve been having dreams about it. In my dream, you guys are all wearing cloaks like friars.”
I laugh, and the anxiety vanishes. Jeremy’s a tonic tonight, an antidote to every snakebite. What difference does it make if Dad brings everyone he knows? I’ll never see any of these people again. In five weeks we’ll be gone for good. A flash of gunpowder.
“You’re sure you don’t want to go to prom?” he asks. He has one knee propped up, and the other stretched out. He’s in shorts and a sweatshirt, and must be cold. I wish I’d showered after the game. I’ll taste of salt.
“Yes,” I say. “Aren’t you?”
“I thought the girl always wanted to go.”
“Not this girl.”
“You want a beer?”
“Where are your parents?”
“With your parents, at the Officers’ Club for their Hail and Farewell.”
“God, that’s tonight?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder Mom wore her pearls to my game.”
He winks at me. “You don’t miss anything. Can you reach the cooler—on the floor behind you—and grab us both a beer?”
“Yeah, the view is sweet and all, but I’m not drinking out here.” We climb back inside, starved, suddenly, for chips and salsa and bottled beer.
“I’ve picked William & Mary,” Jeremy tells me once I’ve sat, cross-legged, on his comforter.
“Last week it was Georgetown.”
“William & Mary. I’ve decided.”
; “So it’s settled.”
“Yup.”
“William & Mary.”
“Yup. In stone. Irrevocable.”
“Will you send me a long-sleeved t-shirt in the fall?”
“Of course.”
“Hawaii’s no place for hooded sweatshirts.”
“I’ll see if the campus bookstore sells bikinis. Oh, and Mike’s promised to come down for the movers, and graduation.”
“In order of significance?”
“Yes. He’s worried about his baseball cards.”
We finish the six-pack, and watch the fish in their tank, and later when he kisses me, his mouth is filled with sleep. Heavy, and deep, I drink my fill.
Dad says the prayer. We hold hands and bow our heads, though Nate keeps his eyes open. “Lord, thank you for this meal, for the opportunity to be together as a family, for your grace and your son. Amen.”
Spaghetti with meatballs, garlic bread, green beans, and a fresh salad; I can’t remember the last time I ate family dinner.
“Well, Cole,” Dad says, “we’re excited about your school assembly. Miss Jensen is coming, and Colonel Masteller, and all of my staff.”
“Great,” I say.
“Nicole,” my mother says. “Modify your tone.”
“Great,” I say again, and sneer at her. Dad’s puzzled. He stares back and forth between me and my mother. Alright, so I’m a jerk. Jesus. “I wish you’d asked me.”
“Asked you what?” he says.
“Asked me if you could bring everyone you know to my school assembly.”
“I didn’t think—I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Forget it.”
Mom shoves the breadbasket at me. “Pass some bread to your father.”
“Sorry,” I say again.
“It starts at two, right?” Dad asks.
“Yes,” Nigel says. “You should all wear your Doggy Life t-shirts.”
“Dork,” Nate coughs.
“I’m wearing mine,” Nigel says.
“Don’t forget to iron it,” Nate says.
“Nathan!” Mom warns.
Nate rolls his eyes, and eats an impossible softball-sized forkful of spaghetti.
“Nate,” Dad says congenially, “what’d they teach you at school today?”
“Einstein worked in a patent office.” Nate stuffs the rest of his bread into his mouth. “When he was young.”
“Is that right?” Dad looks hopeful.
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“If you say so.”
Dad plods on. “What about you, Nigel? What’d you learn?”
“Shakespeare plagiarized from other writers.”
Dad scowls. “Which writers?”
“German ones.”
Dad scowls around the table at us; you can almost see him decide to let it go. “Cole?” He raises his eyebrows at me.
“Mr. Pang wants us to alter a photograph. He says it’ll be our final project.”
“Alter it how?” Mom asks.
“Any way we like. We can alter it with flash, or light, or whatever, while we’re taking the photo; or we can alter it while we’re processing the negative; or we can alter the photo itself after it’s fixed. We’re supposed to experiment with all three, but we’ll only be graded on two photographs.” I don’t mention Bangs’ plan to take shots of the band performing at the school assembly. After all, they’ll know soon enough. An experiment within an experiment as witnessed by every student at Monmouth, and the entire chaplain school.
“Well, I’ve had some exciting news,” Dad tells us. “For the first two weeks we’re in Hawaii, we’ll be staying at a hotel right in downtown Waikiki. Practically on the beach.”
“Why?” Nate asks.
“And, we’ll be housed—eventually—in a volcanic crater called Aliamanu Military Reservation.”
“Eventually?” I ask.
“A volcanic crater?” Nigel says.
“What do you mean eventually?”
“Well,” Dad says, “there’s a bit of a wait.”
“How long a wait?” I ask.
Dad glances at Mom. “It might be three months. Six at the most.”
“So,” I say, “where do we go after the hotel in Waikiki?”
“Temporary housing,” Mom says.
“So we get to move a bunch of times. That’s awesome. I can’t wait.”
“Nicole—” my mother begins, but I’m on my feet, and nearly through the door.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, and send myself to my room.
Nascent. Beginning to exist or develop. Adjective. Insert breast joke here.
All four heavy doors of the activities hall are propped open. I’ve been shunted through these rooms all my life, usually for youth activities, like Sunday school—always the same linoleum, the same fluorescent lights, the same gimpy foosball table—never the ball, just the table—as well as a chalkboard with a single stub of yellow chalk. Not yet ten on Saturday morning, the lights in the long, rectangular room still off, and two men at the back, a chessboard between them, have paused to listen. From the doorway, I watch Leroy, his cap turned backward, his head bowed, play Motherless Child. His guitar a furious rush of bass and lick, the musical equivalent of call and response, and then, his ragged voice: “If I mistreat you girl, I sure don’t mean no harm. I’m a motherless child, I don’t know right from wrong.”
I stand at the door for the entire song, hold my breath through the long, tearing solo, and if I had any skill at all, I’d rush in and give him a rhythm to play against. When the guitar comes to an abrupt halt, he bows a little lower, and then the chessmen applaud, and I do too, with my own guitar case tucked between my knees, and Leroy seems to wake all at once. He smoothes his tie, and waves me over.
“You’re early, kid,” he observes. It’s true. But this is the last time, and I don’t want to waste any of it. “Tell me,” he says. “How’d your assembly go?”
“We played that little satirical love song, you know?”
He nods toward my case. “Play it for me.”
I take my guitar out, and run my fingers over the neck. I can’t even do the song justice anymore, not on my own; not after the chorus, and the band, and the undercurrent of piano.
“E flat,” I tell him. He gives me four measures, and then he joins in.
I’m gonna sing you a love song
And I’m gonna get all the words wrong.
In the end, I’ll make you cry
In the end, yeah, we’ll both die.
Love is tragedy and hopelessness and misery.
And I’m gonna sing you,
I’m gonna sing you a love song.
I sing it for him, and then we both keep playing, going round and round, the notes tiny now, in the dim room.
“The sopranos were so big,” I say. “They just hit the thing through the auditorium, and the harmonies made it seem like a real song, you know? And with the piano and everything—I can’t even tell you. It’s one thing in bars, with the amps, and pedals—but on the school stage, it all seemed—” and I can’t believe the last word, even as I say it, “legitimate.”
“Second verse,” he orders.
I’m gonna sing you a love song.
Soon enough you’ll be gone
And while you’re retreating
Holding my heart, still beating,
In the dust-bowl swirl, I’m a fractured girl
Between the earth and the sky,
Between the earth and the sky.
“You found another sound,” he tells me.
“Another sound?”
“You play with other people, mix it up, try different instruments, different voices, and you discover another sound. It might just be a layer at first, but it might be more than that, too. It might be a whole different sound. Like what you got at the school assembly.”
Something inside my chest tightens. “You play until you hear it?”
“Until you create it. You’ll kn
ow. You’ll know it when you hear it.”
Another sound. You can find another sound. It’s the most encouraging thing anyone has ever said to me.
Leroy takes his glasses off, and wipes them with his pocket handkerchief. “The music isn’t done with you yet,” he says. “Today, I’m gonna teach you an old blues song. Put some growl in your voice, now. Dig deep.”
At the end of the lesson, I crouch to wipe my guitar down, and put it back in the case. I take longer to do this than anyone ever has. Stall stall stalling.
“You don’t seem like a t-shirt guy,” I tell Leroy, handing him the shirt wrapped in a brown paper bag. “But you can wear this on laundry day, or whatever.”
He unfurls the shirt, and grins. “Doggy Life! Well, all right! A mutt playing the bass.”
In the parking lot, Meghan idles in her convertible.
“Why is it you?” I ask.
She grins. “Your mom had to rush off somewhere to get Nate. How was your lesson?”
“Traumatic.”
“How about Little Szechuan for lunch? My treat?”
“Yes, please.” I launch my seat back, rest my hand on her thigh.
“It’s too beautiful to be indoors,” she says. So we order carry-out, bring the lot to the park.
The day beyond lovely: bright, with low humidity, and a lazy breeze meandering through the grass.
“Bring your guitar,” she says. I follow along behind her. She has a blanket and citrus soda. Was her smile always this wide? She wears a striped tank top, and short denim shorts. Her body fluid, muscled, already browning in the first days of June.
“Play something.”
I glance around: some children by the play structure, a few adults on the periphery, but no one nearby. I tune my guitar, watching her, waiting for my next instruction.
“Something slow,” she says.
I play something slow, and then something fast, and the afternoon falls down around us. The blanket soft, the grass dense, the strings holding their pitch admirably, and I keep playing. My strum seems to be changing. Even the old songs sound different.
