by Britt Morrow
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m useless at science.”
“You need to know science to pass the GED. Bio’s no different from history, it’s all memorization.”
She takes the biology textbook and heads for the nearest table. I work on balancing chemistry equations while she reads through a chapter on human anatomy. It takes her a while, her note-taking slower and more deliberate than yesterday.
I finish the chemistry equations as quickly as possible before I turn my attention to drafting a letter to the Tennessee Tech football coach. I’ve been debating what to write all day, reluctant to appear overly beseeching, but once I start scribbling, the words come to me easily.
Dear Coach Carson,
I am writing to express my interest in joining the Tennessee Technological University Football team. I am a high school senior and have been the starting quarterback for the Grundy Lions since my sophomore year. I have been researching your football program and believe that it would be a good fit for me.
I am a hard worker and always eager to learn. I would relish the opportunity to be a part of your team.
Sincerely,
Levi Adams
I reread the page before folding it. The letter comes off as slightly abrupt and entreating. But hell, who cares if it’s interpreted as being desperate. I am.
Charlie finishes working through the chapter summary questions. Jotting down her own answers before flipping to the answer key.
“How’s it going?”
She moves her elbow onto her notebook, obscuring the answers. “Better than expected. It turns out I have more of a knack for biology than I thought. What are you working on?”
I fold my hands over the letter, mimicking her defensive stance.
She tilts her head, blue eyes pleading. They’re striking against her almost-black hair and delicate features. It’s hard to imagine denying her anything.
“A letter of interest to the football coach at Tennessee Tech.”
“Is that where you want to go to school?”
“It’s where I think I can get in. It’s not a top team, but the academic programs are good.”
“Will you ever come back?”
“No.”
That’s what the answer has always been: get away and never come back. I always envisioned myself walking out of Brandi’s trailer and driving away from here without so much as a backward glance. But I realize now, taking in her evident disappointment, that that may no longer be the case.
“Well, just to visit friends.”
Only her. Becoming closer to her and feeling the affinity that’s developing between the two of us has only served to reinforce just how superficial all of my other relationships are. After meeting her, I’m not sure that I truly have any other friends.
“What about your parents?”
Most people who know me know better than to ask. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to anyone about Brandi.
“I’ve never had a relationship with my dad. I’m looking forward to no longer having one with my mom.” The words may be dramatic, but I deliver them with nonchalance. It’s been a long time since either of those facts dredges up any emotion.
She doesn’t look at me pityingly like I feared she would. She nods matter-of-factly, like it’s an expected response.
“What about you? Will you come back when you find your customers who pay better tips?” I tease.
“Like you said, just to see friends, maybe.”
“Not family.”
“My mom is gone. My brother will be gone soon.”
It’s not clear whether she means that her mom is deceased, or whether she left. I guess it doesn’t matter. The way Charlie says it makes it clear that she’s dead to Charlie regardless.
I wait, but she doesn’t address her dad. She doesn’t need to. I’ve seen enough of Earl in action, and I can’t imagine that he’s any warmer off the field. I can only hope that he’s less critical of her than he is of Colt.
She’s quiet for a moment, and I struggle to redirect the conversation somewhere more lighthearted.
“Let’s go for a drive,” she suggests, snapping the textbook shut.
I don’t ask where she wants to go but, instead, steer instinctively towards the lookout. It’s as good a spot as any.
I park the truck, and Charlie takes the lead as always, reclining my seat and climbing into my lap. She kisses me fervently like she’s been waiting to do it for a while. We remain entangled like that for minutes? Hours? I’m not sure of anything except the encouraging warmth of her mouth and the brush of her hair against my face. I want to go further with her, but there’s something comforting about just making out. I’ve been in a rush to grow up and move on for my entire life, it’s a relief to just enjoy the simplicity of being a high school quarterback making out with a beautiful girl in my truck. After a lifetime of feeling like I don’t measure up, it’s thrilling to, just this once, have all of the things that my small-town existence has taught me to idealize.
Chapter 6
I’ve fallen into a comfortable routine of school, football, studying, and hooking up with Charlie. So it comes as a surprise when, a couple of weeks into our routine, she’s not waiting near my truck after practice. I’ve gotten used to the anticipation of seeing her: lightly tanned legs, hair loose and wild, and always bearing a supposedly “leftover” meal from Pete’s. I wait for twenty or so minutes in my truck, debating what to do next. I could drive by her place, but she’s made it clear during the numerous evenings that she’s asked to be dropped off at the end of the street - when she lets me drop her off at all - that she doesn’t want me going up to her house. I’m still not sure whether she’s embarrassed by me or by her home situation.
I could stop by the diner to see if she got held up. There’s something about showing up at her job that strikes me as controlling, though. Our relationship only exists in the confines of the public library and my truck during the period of time between my football practices and her curfew. We haven’t even discussed whether it’s a relationship or just a mutually convenient arrangement. Given the slight panic I’m feeling about her absence, we probably should.
I settle for just going to the library. She’ll know where to find me if she wants to. She doesn’t, though. And, as hard as I’m trying to focus on the paper I need to write for English class next week, I can’t concentrate on anything other than her nonappearance. Feeling jittery, I decide to go for a run. Ostensibly to work off the nervous energy, but I realize once I start moving and instinctively following the path to her trailer, that I intend to run by her place.
Her trailer is set far back from the road. There’s a light on in the front room, but the trees are overgrown to the point that it’s impossible to make out anything going on inside. At least not without going right up to the window, which feels much too intrusive. Plus, after seeing Colt out in the yard with his gun, that's not a chance I want to take. Colt’s truck isn’t in the driveway. Unsurprising, considering he seems to spend most of his spare time out drinking and raising hell with his buddies. There’s a relatively new F-350 parked out on the lawn though, clearly Earl’s. As far as I know, Charlie doesn’t have a vehicle, and there’s nothing else to indicate whether or not she’s home.
Disappointed by the lack of information gleaned from my reconnaissance mission, I resume my run, lapping town twice before returning to my truck. Without anywhere else to go, I finally decide to head home.
The blue light of the television is visible through the front window when I pull onto the lawn, so I enter cautiously. Brandi’s seated in the stained recliner, Jack Daniels in hand.
“You sure think you’re fancy, huh?”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, so I remain silent.
“Tennessee Technological University,” she slurs, waving an envelope in the hand that isn’t gripping the bottle.
I’d been checking the mail diligently for a response to my letter to Tennessee Tech’s football coa
ch, but it’s no surprise that Brandi beat me to it. She awaits the mailman with the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning. Not out of any particular affinity for the man - he’s unattractive even by Brandi’s standards. But he delivers her disability checks. No matter how severe her bender the night before, Brandi can be counted on to make it to the mailbox every morning.
I get that sickening feeling that happens when a rollercoaster drops suddenly. I need to see what that letter says. I decide to feign nonchalance, however. If I let onto how crucial that piece of paper is to me, there’s no way she’ll let me have it.
“I thought I’d look into a couple of schools. I figured you’d be happy to have me out of here.”
“With what money? You wouldn’t have a pot to piss in if not for me.”
I can’t think of a response that won’t rile her up, so I stay silent.
“Here’s what I think of your university dreams.” She drops the letter on the linoleum floor and pours whiskey over it, snickering.
I want to yell at her, push her away, smash her bottle of whiskey, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. The angrier I get, the more she’ll enjoy it. So I remain in place, impassive.
“Good riddance,” she sneers, before stumbling towards her room, clearly discouraged by my lack of response. This game is only fun with a reactive opponent.
The second I hear the slam of her door, I dive for the envelope. It’s damp, but not soaking. Brandi may be volatile and destructive, but she’s too selfish to waste much of her precious booze. My hands are shaking to the point where I struggle to break the seal, breathing an audible sigh of relief when I find the letter inside still legible.
Dear Levi,
We appreciate your interest in attending Tennessee Technological University. Based on your performance thus far this season, and the character recommendation provided by your coach, we believe you could make a valuable addition to our football team. We would like to invite you for an official visit to tour the university campus and watch a football game. Enclosed is an agenda for your visit. Kindly respond by October 15th.
Sincerely,
Coach Eric Carson.
I’m sure it’s a canned response that dozens of recruits have received, but that doesn’t dull my elation. The agenda includes a tour of the campus, an opportunity to sit in on a class, and four tickets to a home football game. I can’t stop re-reading the letter. Verifying that it is, in fact, addressed to me, that it’s on the university letterhead, that I haven’t misunderstood the meaning. Nothing this good has ever happened to me before, and it takes a while for my incredulity to finally give way to excitement.
I stow the letter in the glove compartment of my truck. I’m not usually one for sentimentality, but it feels too significant to leave it in the trailer, vulnerable to Brandi’s wrath. I need to keep this as proof of the fact that, at one point, I demonstrated potential. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to recreate the facility and dexterity that I’ve been displaying during my last few games, but at least I have evidence of their occurrence. The letter is proof that my hard work and ambition materialized into something, at least momentarily.
I have to believe that there’s some divine being up there tallying everyone’s efforts and allocating the appropriate pay-offs; otherwise, I may as well succumb to the despondency and passivity gripping almost everyone around here.
Once in my truck, I feel compelled to go for a drive. This night feels too momentous to be spent in the confines of my 8x10 bedroom. Instead, I drive to the lookout. I retrieve the scratchy camping blanket out of the back seat and unfurl it in the bed of the truck. It’s not particularly comfortable, but the vastness of the sky above feels like the only appropriate backdrop to the immensity of the possibilities before me. I know that I won’t sleep. Even if I was on a down mattress instead of cold metal, there’s no way that I’d be able to still my mind enough to rest. That’s fine by me, though. I’m more than happy to take in the stars and imagine the world of keg parties, library all-nighters, and spring break trips that could await me.
I must drift off eventually because I awake to a chilly grey predawn. I’m stiff from both the cold and the experience of sleeping on a bed of metal. Classes won’t start for a couple of hours, but I drive to the high school anyway. I can take a warm shower in the locker room and craft my response to Coach Carson: an effusive yes.
I’m uncharacteristically serene as I board the bus for our away game this evening. Not only is the team we’re playing tonight the lowest-ranked in the state, but I no longer have the burden of trying to outplay the rest of the team for the benefit of recruiter attention. The guys are all boasting about their anticipated conquests: hits they’ll make, girls they’ll defile. I could out-do all of them with my news, but I don’t want to divulge it yet. I won’t be able to stomach the embarrassment and defeat if it doesn’t pan out.
“You’re quiet,” Cody remarks, snapping his jersey in my direction.
“Just busy visualizing crushing the Panthers tonight.”
A few of the guys let out war whoops in response. These are my favorite moments: right before a big game against opponents we feel confident facing. The air is charged solely with excitement, devoid of the usual underlying current of apprehensiveness.
The bus radio is tuned to a hard rock station and cranked all the way up. I can feel the thump of the drums in my chest, along with a self-assuredness I haven’t experienced in a while. Maybe ever. Football’s probably the only thing I’m good at. And, even then, I can rarely take a break from second-guessing myself and my abilities. It’s not a talent that came naturally, but one that I’ve had to consistently work at developing. Only now does it seem to finally be paying off.
Our game takes place in the next county, over 20 miles away, but that won’t stop the majority of the town from turning up. The bus leads a convoy of pickups and rusty cars honking and blaring music equally loudly. It’s uncharacteristically warm for a late September evening, and everyone has their windows open, hair ruffled by the wind.
I can’t help but think of Charlie, how pretty she looked after our last hookup: mussed hair, lips slightly swollen from kissing. I wonder if she’s somewhere in the procession, maybe in her father’s pickup. I doubt it, though. I’ve never seen her interact with either Colt or Earl after practice. She usually waits on the far side of my pick up, obscured from the view of anyone on the field. The clandestineness of our relationship is equal parts thrilling and disconcerting. There’s a protective quality to it, like our relationship is something precious that requires safeguarding. It’s exciting to actually have something that belongs to me alone. I can’t help but wonder if it truly exists if no one else is aware of it, though. Relationships only exist in relation to other people.
Even though I doubt it, I hope that Charlie will be there to watch tonight. Before meeting her, football was the only time I felt like I truly existed. It’s the one occasion during which I’m in my element and finally worthy of attention.
Tonight I’m particularly worthy. We hammer home a 35-0 victory. Usually, Coach Hayes would have us pull back at half-time and give the other team an opportunity to recover some of their dignity. We’re not playing mean though, just well, and he obviously doesn’t want to interrupt our cohesiveness. It’s rare for us to demonstrate such unity; we usually play like a collection of rogue mercenaries, advancing only our individual goals of destruction and release.
There’s something particularly heady about tonight’s dominance. For once, I’m playing for sheer enjoyment and not out of anger and a desire to defy my circumstances. I’d forgotten that football could actually feel like a game. As amazing as tonight’s game was though, I can’t help but feel a little defeated when we emerge from the locker room after the game and Charlie isn’t there waiting for me in the parking lot. It was an unrealistic expectation. Even if she had been watching the game, she probably would have departed immediately afterward with the rest of the spec
tators. But I’d still hoped that she might turn up.
The disappointment is short-lived, however. It’s hard to resist the contagiousness of the rest of the team’s energy.
“Hey, Tom!” Colt calls out to the bus driver. “We’re going straight to Pete’s.”
Tom salutes. He must be nearly seventy, and he’s been driving the team bus for as long as anyone can remember. I don’t think he even gets paid for this service; it’s just an excuse to be as close to the action as possible. Even when it’s not game day, he’s always sporting a team ball cap.
The ride back is even rowdier than the drive on the way there. I’m relieved when we finally pull into Pete’s parking lot and Cody’s description of his latest hookup, much more graphic than titillating, is forced to come to an end. I’m even more relieved when I walk in and see a familiar dark mane weaving between the tables.
Cody and I take a booth near the window along with a couple of other guys. It takes Charlie a minute to notice me, but she breaks into a grin when she does. “I’ve got table six, Shayna,” she calls out to the other waitress on duty.
“Good game tonight, guys. What can I get y’all to eat?” she asks. It’s not clear if she actually watched the game, or if Pete just filled her in on the details. He never misses a game. Or the chance to brag about the team.
We order the standard fare: burgers, fries, Cokes. She lingers for a bit after taking our order. “Any plans to celebrate tonight?” It could be a general question to the group, just a waitress making friendly conversation in a bid to increase her tips, but she’s looking directly at me.
I’m flattered by the acknowledgment. “I’m not sure yet. What time do you get off tonight?”
“Nine.”
“I can pick you up if you want?”
“I’d like that.” She flashes me another grin before turning to the next table, apparently in dire need of ketchup.
Cody nudges me sharply under the table. “Are you banging Colt’s sister?” It’s the confirmation I needed: our relationship does exist outside of my imagination.
