by Britt Morrow
The crowd quietens a bit and regains their seats once the game begins, but the energy isn’t any less electric. Everyone is still buzzing, talking over each other, and passing drinks back and forth. Back home, football is analogous to a religious ceremony: it’s serious, spiritual, and the players’ salvation hangs in the balance. Here, football is simply a social event. The majority of the spectators probably won’t take it personally if the team loses: either way, it’s an excuse to gather and drink.
It becomes clear pretty early on in the game that the Tennessee Tech Eagles fans will be drinking to a loss tonight. The quarterback has thrown a couple of interceptions, and the team is starting to get visibly frustrated. I feel for him. I know how difficult it is to get things back on track after a couple of poor throws. It’s good news for me though: the worse their quarterback plays, the better my chances of getting recruited.
“You could really shine out there,” Charlie whispers, giving my thigh a squeeze. I’m not sure whether she’s ever seen me play before, but I appreciate the sentiment regardless.
We lapse back into silence until halftime. I’m fixated on the game: the plays that are being run, how the players interact with one another, Coach Carson’s reactions. I’m sure that Charlie’s not nearly as entertained as I am, but she’s doing a good job of appearing engaged and allowing me to maintain my focus.
She doesn’t speak again until the players retreat from the field, and it’s taken over by the cheerleaders’ halftime performance. “I don’t think there’s a test at the end of the night,” she jokes.
She’s wearing the same mischievous smile that initially won me over. Something in my subconscious that night probably seized on the fact that I could use a little more playfulness in my life. So I swallow my defensive reply about needing to absorb as much as I can, and gently punch her shoulder. She responds by leaning in to ruffle my hair. I use the opportunity to pull her close, pinning her arms underneath mine.
I’d been debating all day whether to have this conversation, but the easy intimacy of this exchange solidifies my decision. “I had the best day today with you.” It’s not hyperbole; it honestly was the best day of my life.
“Me too. Thanks for inviting me along.”
“There’s no one else I’d rather have with me. Not just today, but most of the time.” All of the time, in fact, but I don’t want to come on too strong.
“Likewise. I can’t imagine anyone else actually inspiring me to study.” She says it with a smirk, but I think she truly means it.
“Can I also inspire you to be exclusive with me?”
“I mean, the pickings in our town are pretty slim…”
I lean over to kiss her as the marching band strikes up again, not stopping until long after the players have retaken the field. The Eagles are playing stronger in the second half, but it’s not enough to earn them a win. Not that it matters, I’ve already won today.
Chapter 9
“Have you heard anything back from Coach Carson yet?”
Nothing but radio silence, and it’s starting to make me nervous. I’m not ready to give in to full-on panic yet, though. “Not yet.”
I don’t meet Charlie’s eyes when I say it. I don’t want to know what her expression is: disappointment after everything she did to help me prepare, or relief that I may not be leaving after all. I’m not sure which one would feel worse. Regardless of what happens, I’ll be letting her down somehow, and it doesn’t sit well with me.
The early period for receiving a letter of intent is about to close. I know that only the star players get a letter during the early period and that I’m not nearly outstanding enough to be categorized as anything other than middling. I’m nothing if not realistic. My realism hasn’t prevented me from hoping, though.
I played strong throughout the rest of the season, but not strong enough for a divisional first place. We were knocked out during the second round of playoffs. It was a decent season - hopefully good enough to sustain Coach Carson’s interest. It was certainly good enough for Colt to garner attention. So far, he’s gotten a few offers. I’ve heard about all of them in excruciating detail despite my best efforts to ignore him. Thankfully Tennessee Tech wasn’t one of them.
The more time that passes, the more my visit to the university feels like a weird dream. The whole experience felt almost voyeuristic: watching the other students and so desperately wanting to be among them. I’m almost embarrassed that I dared to expect that much.
“It’s still really early, you’re going to hear back,” Charlie reassures me. She draws her sweater around herself tighter and suppresses a sight shiver.
The library is closed for the Christmas holidays, so we’ve just been hanging out in my truck. Today, we’re parked at the lookout, watching the falling rain. The truck’s heater is unreliable at best, but it gives us a reason to curl up in the back together under my old camping blanket. It feels almost apocalyptic: like there’s no one left in the world but the two of us.
School let out for the holidays two days ago, and I’ve spent most of it cuddled up like this with Charlie, talking about our futures. We speak hesitantly, careful not to include each other in our plans or dream too big. We’re both well acquainted with disappointment and wary of provoking more. It weighs on me though, not knowing whether there is a shared future with us. I’m afraid to get too invested only to lose her in a few months.
“What if I do?”
“Then you’ll accept, obviously.”
“And then what?”
“You’ll pack up and leave. Probably not look back. I don’t know, you tell me.” I can tell by her defensiveness that she has the same fears that I do.
“I would definitely look back if you were still here.”
“But would you come back to visit?”
“Sure,” I reply, more confidently than I feel. The university is only an hour and a half away. But it’s not the physical distance that I anticipate causing issues.
She’s quiet. I can tell that I haven’t allayed her concerns. Or mine for that matter. The chances of one of us making it out of this town are slim. The chances of us both making it out together are astronomical. But I don’t want that fact to ruin the evening. It’s Christmas Eve and, even though I’ve never experienced an even remotely jolly Christmas before, I’m hopeful that this year could be the first. Tonight is a departure from my usual holiday ritual of moping around the trailer wishing that I had a healthy family and serving as a reminder to Brandi of all the gifts she can’t buy for herself because she has to (barely) feed and clothe me instead.
“I have something for you,” I tell Charlie, reaching for the card I stowed in the glove box earlier today.
“I thought we said no gifts, Levi. Neither of us can afford it.”
“Trust me, it’s nothing luxurious.” It’s just a cheap holiday card that I picked up from the school’s art room. I took a long time crafting the perfect message, though.
Charlie,
Thanks for making me more than just the high school quarterback.
Love,
Levi
It might not seem like much, but I’m sure she’ll get it. Before her, I almost felt like I existed as a character. Dutifully playing my role as the earnest athlete determined to make a better life for himself. I still play that role, but with Charlie, I’m more: friend, boyfriend, confidante. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything other than desperation and frustration, but Charlie has opened me up to the full spectrum of emotion.
I debated for a long time over whether to conclude with Love or a more casual XOXO. Ultimately, Love felt more appropriate. I do love her, even though I haven’t expressed it out loud - more than I’ve ever loved anyone in fact. It’s not just the high school puppy love born from hormones and a desire for acceptance either. It’s a more desperate, ardent version resulting from having nothing else to cling to.
Her eyes tear up slightly, and I can tell that she feels the same way even though she
probably won’t communicate it verbally. As much as I care about her, I still haven’t figured out how to draw that much out of her. I know her home life is far from ideal. I’ve seen her father’s behavior out on the field and the viciousness that it has bred in Colt. I can imagine that she feels the same way about her father as I do about Brandi. But I have to imagine it because she doesn’t ever go there. She occasionally talks about Colt, in a more generous way than I ever would, but never mentions Earl. I can empathize with the shame and grief caused by an unstable family, so I don’t push it.
I’ve been opening up a little about Brandi though, hoping that she’ll do the same. It started more out of necessity than anything. She found the toiletry kit that I use to freshen up when I’ve been out sleeping in my truck: deodorant, mints, comb. It was a release to finally tell someone about Brandi. About the drinking and the animosity. Charlie didn’t express any shock or pity. No tears over my predicament or outraged exclamations about how I should contact authorities. She just took my hand and gave it a firm squeeze. That’s how I know we’re the same kind of person.
She reads the card slowly, taking the words in before tucking it carefully back into the envelope and slipping it in her purse in a deliberate way that suggests that she intends on keeping it.
“Thank you for making me more than just a high school dropout. Honestly. I would never have even tried to finish, and probably would have regretted it, had I not met you.”
“You’re sharp, you would have figured it out.”
“Maybe.” She pauses for a minute to watch the rain. “I feel awful that I don’t have anything for you. I think I can make up for it, though.”
She reaches for me, undoing the button of my jeans in a single practiced gesture. It’s been a while since she’s initiated anything, so I lean back and enjoy it. She alternates between being confident in her nudity and eager to hook up, and being reticent and reluctant to be touched. I don’t know if I should just brush it off as being attributable to hormones, or if that makes me sexist and there’s something deeper going on. For now, I’m just relieved that she’s eager to touch me and doesn’t shy away when I pull her in closer to reciprocate.
We finish almost simultaneously, a feat I previously thought was only possible in porn. She’s sitting on my lap, leaning her forehead against mine, slick with sweat. Our breaths, short and heavy, are synchronized, and I can’t imagine ever feeling closer to another human being. It’s deeply reassuring. My strained relationship with Brandi, the one person who’s supposed to love me abidingly and unreservedly, had me concerned that maybe I was incapable of that kind of closeness. That my years of being the subject of unabated contempt had jaded me to the point where I couldn’t open myself up to any more emotion and the subsequent disappointment. Charlie’s changed that, though. As uncertain as I am about our future, and whether it will be shared, I can’t help but develop deeper feelings the more time I spend with her. Now I’m concerned that I won’t be able to separate myself from her if I have to leave.
Having this many unknowns in my life - the future of my education and my relationship - makes me restless. I’ve spent nearly eighteen years of my life following a pre-defined plan, and now I have nothing to do but wait and pray to a higher power that I have no faith in. I’ve been talking to God a lot lately, but I know that it’s futile.
If God wanted to grant me some kind of salvation, he would have done it years ago. Probably the time Brandi left me in a playpen while she was on a bender. I’ve always had a pretty good set of lungs, though; the neighbors were alerted on the second day when I got hungry and wouldn’t stop screaming. They gave me some Spaghetti-Os and called the cops. I remember the cops being young and looking more terrified of the child screaming bloody murder than their usual domestic violence calls. They managed to locate Brandi, and the younger of the two told her it was her “first strike.” He didn’t specify out of how many though. She’s had dozens since then, but the cops haven’t been back to witness it.
If nothing else, that incident taught me self-reliance. In a town that probably counts more shotguns than people, no one’s interested in looking too closely into anyone else’s business. So I don’t ask about the bruise on Charlie’s inner thigh. It’s faded, transformed to shades of yellow and sickly green, but it looks like it would’ve been wicked and dark a few days ago. If she wanted to tell me how she’d injured it though, she would. I’ve learned by now not to push too hard. She’s the master of deflection, and I fall prey to it every time. It doesn’t take much more than that enticing grin. The same one she flashes me now, before leaning in to meet my lips.
Chapter 10
I’m nauseous and lightheaded. I try putting my head between my legs; I’ve heard that helps. It’s not the reaction I’d envisaged in all of the millions of times that I’d imagined this moment. As soon as I saw the Tennessee Technological University insignia on the envelope, my gut hardened into a tight ball of nerves. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so doubtful about the existence of a higher power. Everything had aligned perfectly: Brandi was on a bender, I was using a first period spare to sleep in after a series of nights sleeping poorly in my truck, and the mailman came just as I was heading out for school.
I've been sitting in my truck, just holding the letter for at least ten minutes, oblivious to the fact that I'm going to be severely late to my second period English class. The entire course of my life is dependent on the contents of this letter. I’m not ready for my college aspirations to be dashed if this isn’t the response I’m hoping for. And maybe there’s also a part of me that isn’t ready for Charlie’s reaction if it is.
Putting my head between my legs is only serving to make me feel more lightheaded. And I’m pretty sure my nausea won’t pass until I know what the answer is.
I tear the letter open haphazardly, not bothering to try to preserve the envelope. My hands are too shaky to open it properly. My anxiety is quickly put to rest, though. The header reads: Letter of Intent.
I did it. Tennessee Tech is offering me a position on the team and financial aid for my first year -enough to cover all of my tuition and living expenses. The elation is overwhelming. And short-lived. The letter requires the signature of a parent or a legal guardian. My stomach drops, and my nausea reemerges with a vengeance. So much so that I have to lean out the door of my truck to retch. Nothing comes out, though. There isn’t anything in my stomach to expel.
This wasn’t something I’d ever envisaged either. I thought that I’d ruminated over and planned for every eventuality, but somehow I’d overlooked the requirement of parental consent. There’s no way Brandi will sign. After the way she reacted to the initial letter, I’m afraid to even show this one to her.
Her primary complaint about me is the expense of feeding and clothing me, so you think she’d be thrilled to have that responsibility pawned onto someone else. Her secondary complaint though, is that she gave up on her dreams to have me. She’s been ravaged by bitterness over the fact that she got sucked into the exact same life as her mother, the exact same mistakes I’m sure she’d vowed to herself not to repeat: impregnated as a teenager by a guy who bolted as soon as he found out, stuck in the same trailer she grew up in, caustic and succumbing to addiction. The only difference is that she chose whiskey over cigarettes. Maybe her liver will hold out longer than her mother’s lungs.
Watching me succeed where she failed would rankle Brandi to no end. I can’t conceive of any way that this letter is getting her signature without resorting to forgery. The one thing that Brandi has inadvertently taught me though, is resourcefulness.
Instead of going to class, I go to the school library. As expected, one computer is out of service, but the other one is free. I sit down in front of the functioning one and start researching the letter of intent process. It’s not long until I find what I was hoping for. In certain circumstances - death and incarceration are specified, but I hope it isn’t limited to those two - another adult can sign the letter. Plan A is
to find another adult willing to sign for me. Coaches and athletics administrators are expressly excluded though, so I’m going to have to get creative.
I’ve gotten this far doing everything fairly and honestly, but I’m not above forgery as a plan B.
At this point, there are only fifteen minutes left of my English class. I decide to go early to physics instead.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Walker.”
She looks up, clearly startled, but breaks into a smile when she realizes that it’s me. “Hi, Levi. How are you?”
“I’m doing really well, " I tell her. “I actually heard back from Tennessee Tech this morning. I’ve been recruited for the football team.”
“Congratulations! I’m really proud of you, Levi. You’ve worked hard for this.”
“I have. I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to accept, though,” I sigh deeply, hoping it comes off as earnestly disappointed rather than disinterested.
“There are lots of opportunities for scholarships and financial aid…” she starts, incorrectly attributing my hesitancy to my economic situation.
“It’s not that.” I pause, not sure how much to tell her. I want her to feel sorry enough for me to be willing to help without laying it on too thick. “I need the signature of a parent or legal guardian to sign the letter of intent to join the team.”
“Your mom can’t sign for you?”
“She’s…not well.” It’s not a lie. But I hope she misinterprets it to mean that Brandi has cancer or some other unavoidable medical condition. I usually hate being pitied, but I’m generally on the receiving end of pity tinged with disdain. Having a parent who’s suffering from an ailment like cancer removes the trace of disdain. Cancer isn’t something you choose. It isn’t something that I could have maybe prevented by being a better kid, a more compassionate teen.
