by Britt Morrow
When I return to the trailer, I’m disappointed, if unsurprised, to find yesterday’s chicken is now rancid. The disability checks must have come through today though, because there’s a near-empty fifth of Jack on the TV tray, and some bologna and Wonderbread in the fridge. Brandi’s not around. Judging by the meager provisions, she probably decided to spend the rest of the cheque in one of town’s two dive bars.
I eat bologna sandwiches in front of the TV until my stomach protests, relishing the trailer’s temporary tranquility. For the first time in a long time, I think that maybe I’ve got things all wrong. Maybe bologna sandwiches in a trailer with a hot chick are all it takes to be happy. I could see myself being satisfied with just Oscar Mayer and Charlie for company.
I awake to what I initially think is a thunderclap. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, and for my mind to register that I’ve fallen asleep in front of the TV. I can smell Brandi before I see her. Eau de perspiration and grimy distillery. She’s alone tonight, thank god. I’ve seen enough fumbling nudity to require a lifetime supply of therapy. That’s the part I would actually tell the shrink. The part I wouldn’t mention is that the thunderclap was actually Brandi falling. That instead of checking to make sure she hasn’t hit or head or positioning her to ensure she doesn’t choke on her vomit, I just step over her and make my way to my bed.
Seven-year-old me would have been concerned, gone running to the neighbors for help, but the seventeen-year-old version is far too jaded. You don’t forget the first time someone looks at you with pity tinged with revulsion. This is especially so when that someone is your unshowered, unemployed neighbor who occasionally expresses his frustration at being jobless by backhanding his wife. It doesn’t get much lower than watching him peel your mother off the kitchen floor and check her pulse before leaving.
I feel no remorse as I lay back down. I wonder what a shrink would say about that. I doubt I’ll ever find out, though. I drift off to a dreamless slumber, undisturbed until my alarm goes off the next morning.
Chapter 5
It only takes a few minutes for me to get ready and out the door for school: a quick rinse off in the mildewed shower while I brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair, and throw on my uniform of denim and threadbare flannel.
I don’t bother going through the kitchen in an attempt to scavenge some breakfast. I finished the last of the bologna the previous night, and there’s nothing edible left in the cupboards. Thankfully, I’ve ingratiated myself enough with the cafeteria ladies that they regularly give me the leftover fruit from the previous day’s lunch.
I throw Brandi a cursory glance on my way out the door. There’s no blood, and she appears to be breathing - just another Tuesday morning.
My truck sputters weakly to life. The same Dolly song that Charlie was singing along with yesterday is playing, and I can’t help but smile. It’s an unfamiliar feeling to be this contented. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been striving: for acceptance, for worthiness, for recognition. Having someone exhibit interest in me without exerting myself for it gives me a sense of reassurance that I’m unaccustomed to. I’ve always imagined there could be something more for me than scrounging for meals and evading Brandi’s ire, but this is the first time that it has actually felt tangible.
Colt is at his usual post when I pull into the school parking lot, lounging on the tailgate of his (much nicer) pickup. Colt’s dad, Earl, is the local mechanic, a better job than most around here. It’s true what they say about money not buying happiness though; Earl’s vicious. He comes to most of our practices, and all of the games, ostensibly for the sole purpose of berating Colt. And not in a tough-love kind of way. In a way that slowly erodes a person’s self-worth. A way that almost makes me forgive Colt’s own ferociousness. Almost. I don’t think there’s any excuse for taking your circumstances out on others.
He’s here much earlier than usual. Colt actually making it to a first-period class is an almost unprecedented event. And he’s alone - also an anomaly. He stalks over to me as soon as I have the truck in park. I haven’t seen him since I dropped Charlie off on Sunday, but I’ve been mentally preparing myself for a possible showdown. I instinctively square my shoulders, ready to defend myself in case he decides to resume our Friday night brawl.
“You’ve been hanging out with Charlie, hey?” He says it gruffly, but not menacingly.
“Yeah, a little. You know her?” I’m treading lightly until I can gauge the situation.
“She’s my sister. You better be good to her.”
He doesn’t add the ‘or else,’ but he doesn’t need to. The blow he gave to my temple has transformed itself into a painfully swollen knot at my hairline.
He turns away abruptly, almost as if embarrassed at having expressed concern for another human being. I’m relieved. Both at the confirmation that he’s her brother, and the fact that he isn’t looking to lay into me because of it. I’m scrappy, but Colt is undeniably stronger.
“I will.”
He nods stiffly before walking away, clearly having reached his threshold for civil conversation.
I swing by the cafeteria and manage to come away with a banana and a couple of oranges before heading to first period physics. Unsurprisingly, I’m the first one there. The guys on the team constantly rib me, mistaking my punctuality for an eagerness to flirt with Ms. Walker. It’s not like that, though. My promptness is a function of having nowhere else to be.
Ms. Walker comes over to me as soon as I take my seat, brandishing a quiz from last week. “Well done, Levi. Another A.”
“Thank you.” I flip immediately to the one question I answered incorrectly, trying to figure out where I went wrong.
Instead of returning to her own desk, Ms. Walker takes a seat on the desk beside mine. “Have you thought any more about university applications?”
I blush. I haven’t thought much about anything other than Charlie in the last couple of days, not even the Tennessee Tech recruiter.
“Yeah, I’ve been looking at the programs at Tennessee Tech,” I lie. I don’t want her to think that I’m not taking my future seriously.
“If you need any references, I would be happy to provide one.” She squeezes my shoulder lightly before rising to greet the other students who have begun to file in.
I know she was probably just looking for an excuse to talk to me, but she’s right - I should be giving more thought to my university applications. Besides a few teachers, I don’t know anyone who has actually gone to university, or what the application process entails. I kind of figured that if I could get drafted for a team, the application would take care of itself. But I’m realizing now that that was probably naive.
I’m unfocused throughout the rest of the class, anticipating my spare period when I can go to the library and do some more research on Tennessee Tech’s application process. I’m relieved when the bell finally rings, and I can make my way over to the cinderblock dungeon that serves as our school library. It has to be one of the least well-appointed facilities in the state, if not the country. Not that I would know from experience, but I can’t imagine it getting much worse. The reading material consists solely of textbooks that are either so old or so poorly written that they were donated by other schools in the state. There are two computers, but only one working at any given time.
The sole working computer is free when I arrive. Not that I’m surprised. The school librarian is a stickler for ensuring that it’s only used for educational purposes. And no one around here has any interest in using a computer for anything other than viewing Victoria’s Secret advertisements or playing World of Warcraft.
I pull up the university’s website. It turns out that it’s one of the top-ranked public universities in the state, but the admission requirements aren’t as stringent as I’d expected. The requisite 3.0 GPA is well-within my reach. It’s the tuition that comes as a blow. I knew that it would be expensive, but seeing that many zeros clustered together makes me f
eel almost queasy. But that could also be attributed to the fact that I was so engrossed in my research that I missed lunch - an extremely rare occurrence given that I qualify for free school lunches. It’s the one upside to Brandi’s chronic unemployment.
I don’t bother looking through the Student Life section on the website. I don’t want to get my hopes up that I too could be one of the tanned, polo-shirt sporting freshmen with teeth that belong in a whitening toothpaste commercial. I do browse the athletics site, however, clicking over to the page where all of the coaches’ information is provided. I make a note of the football coach’s name and contact details before closing down the browser.
I was so captivated by my research that I’ve already missed the first few minutes of my English class. Not that I’m concerned. Today we have the pleasure of enduring a lecture on how to write a professional letter: a useless skill for a least 95% of the class who will never set foot in any environment that would be considered professional. We should have started with how to write a legible sentence.
I’ll be lucky to get any job with a dependable salary and benefits, never mind a profession, but I take meticulous notes nonetheless. I plan on writing to the Tennessee Tech coach. Maybe I can make up in politeness what I lack in sheer athletic talent.
I’m the only one paying any semblance of attention. A solid third of the class is absent, and those in attendance are either sleeping, absentmindedly staring at a random point in the classroom, or writing something other than study notes. Our teacher, not even a teacher really, but some poor Masters student who ran out of funds and ended up here, is clearly getting irritated. I don’t know why he still lets our inattentiveness aggravate him. It was made clear on day one, when he showed up in khakis with a face not much older than ours and not nearly attractive enough to garner any female attention, that he was going to be wholly disregarded. I’ll give him points for tenacity, though. Despite barely any of his questions getting answered, he persists in subjecting us to the regular awkward silences during which no one raises their hand. I usually humor him for the first couple of questions of every class, but after that, my benevolence wears off. I already get enough shit from the football guys about my academic inclination.
His tenacity must be wearing thin today, though; he dismisses us with more than ten minutes left of class.I’m grateful for the early dismissal. Discovering the full extent of university tuition has left me feeling disconcerted, and I’m eager for football practice and the opportunity to hit something.
I can hear yelling when I’m still a few dozen yards away from the locker room. We’re usually a pretty rowdy bunch, but something exciting must have happened to provoke this much commotion. I’m typically the first one in the locker room; I like to suit up in silence and give myself a few minutes to steel myself for the task ahead. Today though, a few of the guys arrived early. They’ve formed an enthusiastic semi-circle around Colt, clapping him on the back and high-fiving.
I don’t want to give Colt the satisfaction of asking what’s going on, so I busy myself with pulling on my gear. I’m about to find out anyway.
Cody lays eyes on me and rushes over. “Hey Chief, you hear that Colt got invited for an official visit to the University of Tennessee?”
As a poor kid with a shitty home life, I’m intimately familiar with jealousy. The pang I’m feeling right now is particularly acute, though. “No. That’s cool,” I respond without any warmth.
Cody has much more emotional awareness than any of the other guys. His ordinary, middle-class upbringing has bred a sensitivity towards the rest of us. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time until you hear from a team,” he reassures me.
Cody’s comment is meant to be encouraging, but it only increases the anxiety that has firmly lodged itself in my gut. I shrug him off, heading for the field. I’ve always had to work twice as hard to be half as good as Colt. He’s probably on his third celebratory beer while I’m out here warming up. It doesn’t matter though; I’ve resolved to work ten times as hard if that’s what it takes. If I don’t get called back for any official college visits, it certainly won’t be for lack of trying.
The rest of the guys file out onto the field, and Coach Hayes barks out instructions for three-on-three passing drills. My disappointment over tuition costs, combined with my envy at hearing Colt’s news, has firmly knotted my stomach and left me preoccupied. My passes are sloppy, and Coach is quickly becoming frustrated with my performance.
“What the fuck was that? We’ve done this drill a million times. I don’t want to see a single incomplete pass,” he admonishes. He spits out a wad of tobacco disgustedly before turning to another group.
Receiving a scolding from Coach only serves to fluster me further. I throw two more incomplete passes within the next ten minutes, both of which are my fault. The redness mounting in Coach’s face is almost alarming.
On the plus side, I don’t have Colt to contend with today, always quick to mock my ineptitude. He’s otherwise occupied right now. Earl is pacing the sidelines shouting about Colt’s “pussy-ass hits” and asking whether “he wants to see what a real walloping looks like?” To a newcomer, his behavior would probably be cause for concern. We’re all accustomed to it, though. When we were younger, coaches or other parents would occasionally intervene when it looked like things might take a turn for the physical. Since then, Colt has gained three inches on his dad, and the abuse has become purely verbal, so nobody thinks much of it. We all get it. The anger stemming from scarcity and unfulfilled expectations is common to all of us. And it’s hard to feel particularly empathetic towards Colt. Everyone knows he can give as good as he gets.
I’m relieved when Coach Hayes finally calls it a night. My passing improved only marginally in the latter half of practice, and Coach’s head shaking and heavy sighs aren’t helping any. My relief is short-lived, however. Coach calls me over as the other guys start trudging back towards the locker room.
“Where’s your head at? It certainly ain’t out on this field.”
“Sorry, the anxiety over college prospects is starting to get to me.” He caught me off guard, and I answer more honestly than I intended.
“Well, you better squash it. If you continue to play like that, there won’t be any college prospects.”
His bluntness smarts, but I know he’s not deliberately being an asshole. He’s right.
“Yes, sir,” I drop my head, hoping he’ll recognize my chagrin and dismiss me without further punishment.
He eyes the 50-yard line as if contemplating making me run suicides. “Get your mind right before practice tomorrow, ya hear me?”
I nod vigorously before turning away, relieved when he allows me to make my way to the locker room without further comment.
I relish the locker room’s scalding shower and the couple of minutes of solitude it affords me to decompress. When I finally emerge, I’m momentarily surprised to find Charlie waiting outside the door for me. I’d forgotten about our plans. If anything can take my mind off a shitty day and an even shittier practice though, it’s definitely her.
She waves a paper bag that I immediately recognize as being from Pete’s. “I thought you might be hungry.”
I busy myself with zipping up my backpack, so she doesn’t notice me reddening. I wonder if she has already picked up on my home situation. Sometimes I worry that I give off an aura of impoverishment, as if there’s a stench of poorness that everyone detects but me. I don’t want to appear ungrateful though, and I can’t deny the growling sound my stomach makes at the scent of the burger.
“Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugs. “It’s the least I can do. I know that you probably have better things to do than study with me.”
I want to tell her that this is by far the best part of my day. Even if I’d had a great day, this would still be the highlight. But I don’t want to appear overeager. “I would be studying anyway. And I like the company.”
“You
’re really disciplined.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “It’s easy to be disciplined when you have nothing better to do.”
“You could be out drinking with the guys. Target shooting. Mudding.”
“I could.”
“But?”
“But the payoff isn’t there. I want to spend my life doing more than just that.”
“I wish I’d had that kind of foresight when I quit school,” she sighs.
“Foresight? That’s definitely a GED word,” I joke.
She smiles but doesn’t respond. We sit in my truck silently for a minute while I finish my burger.
“What do you do with your time now that you’re not in school?” It was a question I’d been hesitant to ask. She’s skittish, to say the least, and I don’t want to seem like I’m prying. I feel like we’ve developed enough of a rapport over the last few days that I can start asking her personal questions now, though.
“I waitress,” she gestures at the bag from Pete’s.
She must not work the Friday night shift. The free post-game meals on Fridays are the only time that I can afford to frequent the diner, and I’ve never seen her there before. I would have figured out how to spend a lot more time there had I known that there was a waitress who could pass for a centerfold.
“Do you like working there?”
“It’s fine. I’m saving up to move somewhere else, though.”
“Where would you go?”
“Somewhere folks can afford to pay better tips,” she grins.
I drive us to the library while she regales me with stories of nightmare customers. When we get inside, I pull out a couple of textbooks for her to choose from: a different selection than yesterday - biology or chemistry.
