Man, were we ever wrong. Corralling the kids from the bus to the front door is like herding kittens. Everyone wants to run in a different direction, like that ten seconds between stepping off the bus and being welcomed into the air-conditioned coolness of the community center is the only bit of freedom they will get all day. These kids are wild.
“Jack! This way, Jack. To the door. That’s right.” JC and I repeat the same lines over and over again as bus after bus arrives with more screaming campers.
I try to give high fives to all the kids as they exit the bus, which sometimes helps slow the mad dash to the door. I also try to say hi to every kid by name. If I don’t know a name, I just call the kid “sport” or “champ” or “bud.”
“Hi, Mr. Sam,” they call, each one trying to slap my hand harder than the kid before them.
I spend the morning doing shooting, passing, and defense drills with small groups of kids. It’s such a cushy job, playing basketball in an air-conditioned gym all summer, and I really like hanging out with the little kids. It makes me wonder what it would have been like to have brothers and sisters.
At lunch, JC and I grab a table in the middle of the giant multipurpose room, and bunches of kids join us. JC is one of the track-and-field coaches and one of the most popular with the kids. I tell him it’s because of his winning personality. He says it’s because all the kids want a chance to throw the javelin.
“They kiss my ass because they want to throw a spear like a gladiator or something. They’re all kind of baffled when they come to track and field and I make them run the mile before I even show them the javelin,” he says, laughing.
“You’re such a hard-ass,” I say.
“Attention, campers and staff!” We all turn toward the voice on the stage. Mr. Chapman is up there in a brand-new tracksuit, his whistle shiny around his neck. He’s probably never even used it.
“Sadly, today is Mr. Tucker’s last day. He is leaving us for a football position at the University of Rhode Island. Let’s all give Mr. Tucker a round of applause!” We all clap while the campers hoot and whistle. One of the older campers brings a giant construction-paper card that all the kids have signed.
“Starting Monday, there will be a new face in our football program. Mr. Ace, will you come up here, please?”
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I say under my breath.
JC turns around and smirks at me. “See? A Broadmeadow football player.”
I try to smile at JC. He loves it when his predictions are right.
Ace Quinn stands up from a table close to the front of the room while all the campers stand and clap for him. He waves to everyone, then catches sight of me not clapping. He touches two fingers to his right temple and then points them right at me in a mock salute.
I grit my teeth and salute back to him, but I know what he really meant: “I’m watching you.”
The rest of the day is a complete bust. After lunch, I have three groups of older girls come through the basketball gym. All they want to do is talk about Ace.
“You go to school with him, right, Mr. Sam?”
“Doesn’t he have the school record for most career passing yards and he’s not even a senior yet?”
“I heard he’s going to play football at the University of Texas after high school.”
“I don’t know about all that, but he sure is nice to look at.”
Giggle, giggle, giggle.
“Just run, girls,” I tell them.
They don’t run, but at least they start moving toward the baseline.
“Football used to be my least favorite activity, but it just moved up a few notches on my list,” one says to her friend.
“That’s it. Suicides! Just run until I tell you to stop!” I say.
“Mr. Sam, you’re no fun,” one of them says, ruffling my hair on her way to the baseline.
I’m in a foul mood.
* * *
Grandpa is waiting for me when I get home from work.
“Ready, Sammy?” he says before I even have the front door completely open. “I’ve already got your gun in the case in the car. Let’s get a move on!”
“Hey, Grandpa. My day was great, how was yours?” I mumble under my breath as I walk into the house. “Just let me put my stuff down,” I say louder, motioning to the bag of basketball gear hanging from my shoulder.
“Don’t be too long. Let’s make hay while the sun shines, boy,” he says as I head to my room.
Damn Grandpa and his damn guns. About a month after my dad died, Grandpa bought my mother a gun. “For self-defense,” he told her.
Two weeks later, Grandpa and my mom got into this huge fight over it. Mom wanted to get rid of it. Grandpa wouldn’t let her. “I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you or Sammy, Jenny. That’s why I got it for you, honey. Please.”
“I don’t want this thing in my house! It scares me to death!” Mom went on a full rant then, saying she was worried that I would find it and shoot myself in the foot or something.
Grandpa countered by reminding her that Dean Quinn had been taking Ace out hunting and shooting since he was knee-high to a grasshopper.
I remember sitting in the kitchen, almost thirteen years old, watching them yell at each other and wondering if this was what my life was going to be like now. If this is what happens in houses where there isn’t a father.
Finally, my mother relented after Grandpa promised to install a safe in the linen closet and store the bullets separately. Now once a month or so, Grandpa takes me to the shooting range to practice with the revolver. He loves it. I don’t. I go because I have to. Because I know it keeps Mom from having to fight with him.
I change my shorts and throw a hat on my head before running back downstairs to meet Grandpa. I find him with my mom on the sunporch.
Mom is twisted into a pretzel shape, while Grandpa sits on a stool eating an apple.
“Hi, baby! How was work?” Mom says to me from the floor.
Shortly after Dad died, Mom stayed at a place called Morningside for awhile. At the time, Grandpa told me it was because she needed some peace and quiet. I knew it was a mental health treatment center, but we never talked about it. Just like with most things, Grandpa wasn’t exactly open to a chat about his daughter’s mental health status. It was there Mom first learned to do yoga, and now we find her tangled up on the sunporch more evenings than not.
“What is that?” I ask, gesturing toward her twisty limbs.
“One-Legged King Pigeon! Isn’t it neat?” she asks, her legs all bent and one of her feet touching the back of her head. “You should try it with me. So relaxing.”
“Yeah, sure.” I smirk at Grandpa, and he gestures at me to shush. He’s laughing behind his apple, though.
“We’re headed out, Jenny. Don’t get yourself all tangled up while we’re gone.” Grandpa kisses Mom on the head and winks at me.
When we’re in the pickup, Grandpa turns the air conditioner on full blast. I turn it down a notch or two so I can talk to him.
“Did you know Ace got a job at the community center this summer? He starts on Monday,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Is that right?” Grandpa says, smiling. “Well, good. A job would be good for him.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, Sammy.” Grandpa squirms uncomfortably in his seat.
“No, I don’t. What do you mean?”
Grandpa takes a deep breath, sucks his teeth and shakes his head a little bit. “You know, Ace is one of those kids. He’s not like you, Sammy.”
I raise my eyebrows. “How so?”
“You ever take a look at those trophies outside the gym at school?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. A special Student Athlete of the Year certificate with my name on it now sits in that trophy case, next to the certificates of other Broadmeadow athletes that won in previous years. It’s the only proof I have that I even won that award since Ace smashed my
trophy.
“Take notice of the names on most of those trophies?”
“Dean Quinn? Ace’s dad?” I say, shrugging again. I don’t see how Ace’s dad winning trophies a million years ago has anything to do with Ace having a job.
“Ace needs something that’s just his. Something he can excel at all on his own,” Grandpa says, flicking the air conditioner back to full blast. That’s Grandpa-ese for “This conversation is over.”
It’s an excuse I’ve heard a lot from Grandpa. Mr. Quinn expects a lot out of Ace. He rides him pretty hard. I couldn’t feel bad for him. Who cares? So his dad is tough. Big deal. I think I was hoping that maybe Grandpa saw the change. Saw that Ace wasn’t just a kid with a pushy dad anymore. Something was different.
* * *
I stare down the barrel of the .38 special and line up my sights. I only practice with the red bull’s-eye targets. I can’t bring myself to shoot at the people-shaped ones. The gun isn’t heavy. It isn’t cold. The rubber grip fits right in my palm, my pointer finger curled around the trigger.
Grandpa is next to me in big, green earmuffs, watching how I line up my shot. He’s making a face.
I lower the gun onto the counter in front of me and remove my own green earmuffs. Grandpa does the same. “Why are you making that face at me?” I ask him.
“You’re lining it up all wrong. Plus it takes you too long. How many times do I have to tell you? If you’ve got a perp coming at you, you’ve only got a split second to raise the gun and shoot. You don’t have time to stare down the barrel and line up a good shot. You’ve got to raise that gun and be ready to go. Now try it again.”
I try not to roll my eyes at Grandpa. Instead, I wait until he gets his earmuffs back on, and I exhale really loudly through gritted teeth. We live in the suburbs. Yeah, I know, weird stuff happens every day, but it’s almost like Grandpa expects something horrible to happen at any minute. A perp. Jeez, Grandpa. Sometimes I think he wishes he were a cop or something instead of a high-school football coach. He watches too much CSI. Perp. For crying out loud.
I lower the gun and put it on the counter in front of me. I try to pick it up quickly and shoot at the bull’s-eye. I’m way off target, and I don’t have time to prepare for the kick of the gun. My hand flies up and away from where it should be.
Grandpa shakes his head and removes his earmuffs. “You need to be able to take only one shot, Sammy. It has to be done in one shot. Let’s get out of here.” He halfheartedly pats me on the back.
I open the cylinder and empty out the casings. The brass ends clink into the coffee can Grandpa brings to collect the shells.
Back in the car, Grandpa turns the air conditioner down two notches. He’s biting the inside of his cheek and fidgeting back and forth in his seat.
“Something you want to talk about, Grandpa?” I ask, reading his cues.
“Yeah, there is, Sammy. Listen, your mother and I have been talking…”
Nothing good ever comes after those seven words.
“We think it might be time for me to sell my house. Your mom says there’s room for me at the house with the two of you. I think I’m going to take her up on her offer.”
“When is this going to happen?” I ask.
“Probably before the end of the summer. I told your mother I would talk to you about it. You gonna be okay with this, Sammy?” he says, not taking his eyes off the road even though we are stopped at a light.
“Yeah, I think it’s a great idea,” I say, even though I wonder if that’s true or not.
“Your mom isn’t really…Well, my house is just too much for me to take care of alone since your Grandma Mae died. It just doesn’t make good sense. I think it will be good, Sammy,” he says.
“What were you going to say about Mom? She isn’t really what?” I know that Grandma Mae line is a load of bull. She’s been gone for almost twenty years.
Grandpa just shakes his head. “Not important,” he says.
I sigh, but not loudly enough for Grandpa to hear. Mom isn’t really what? Stable? No kidding. Happy? Well, duh. Able to take care of herself? That’s why I’m there.
“So what do you think? You’ll take the upstairs bedroom, and I’ll move into your old room?” he asks.
I nod.
“It’s settled, then. We’ll tell your mom when we get back home.” Gramps turns the AC up three notches. He’s done talking.
5
JULY
Ten Months Before
My mom and I only missed the Sandy Grove Neighborhood Fourth of July party once since we moved here. The year my dad died, I couldn’t get Mom out of the house. I decided to go by myself, but only got to the end of my street before I gave up and went back home. All of those kids with their dads…I couldn’t do it. I went home and sat on the couch with Mom. We watched the fireworks from our living-room window that night and didn’t speak.
This year, I can only think of Marnie. The year after I spent the night on the couch with Mom, Marnie insisted that I come to the party with her family, even if my mom didn’t want to go. I still remember she was wearing Statue of Liberty sunglasses and knocked on my door with a pair for me.
“Ready?” she asked, grabbing my hand and putting the sunglasses on my face. She pulled me out the door, not giving me a chance to say no.
Later that afternoon, Mom found her way to the party too. The Keatons invited her to sit with them for the barbecue. The Quinns joined us later on, and even Ace was kind of nice to me that year. Marnie held my hand during the fireworks. We were thirteen.
“I’ve got the dandelion greens. Can you carry the Jell-O salad, Sam? I’ve got my hands full,” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“I’m putting everything in the wagon, Mom. We can put the greens and the Jell-O in there too. I’ve already got the cooler and the chairs loaded up.” I’m trying to hurry Mom along. All I can think about is Marnie. It’s the day of my self-imposed deadline, and I’m determined not to chicken out.
Grandpa comes through the front door with an armload of cardboard boxes. “All ready for the barbecue?”
“I wish you’d come with us, Dad. You know everyone would love to see you,” my mom says.
“Oh, you go ahead and have fun. You don’t need an old man around tonight,” he says, patting her back. “I’ve got plenty of boxes to unload, anyway. I’ll be busy all night.”
His eyes are shiny, and I know he’s been sitting on the porch drinking beer. The Fourth of July does it for him every year. My grandmother passed away on the Fourth almost twenty years ago. Grandpa doesn’t do the Fourth.
“I know it’s not easy, Dad, but you really—”
“That’s enough, Jenny,” Grandpa says, his eyebrows raised. His voice is stern. It’s his football coach voice. We don’t hear it often around the house.
I watch the two of them stare at each other and get an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I can hear the second hand on the kitchen clock ticking. Neither one of them wants to be the one to look away first. My mother has her defiant face on, chin jutted out and nose in the air.
“Jenny, I’m sorry,” Grandpa says.
Mom stares at him for one more beat before turning her back.
“Let’s not forget the zucchini bread, Sam. You know how much Mrs. Macmillan loves my zucchini bread. Did you pack my sparkling water? You know I can’t sit in the heat without it.”
She plops her floppy straw hat on her head and tosses a brown prescription bottle into her shoulder bag. She paints sunscreen on her nose until it almost glows.
Grandpa puts down the boxes, grabs a beer from the refrigerator, and retreats to the screen porch.
“You know he doesn’t do the Fourth,” I whisper to my mom.
“I just thought if we could get him out of the house…” Mom takes a deep breath through her nose. “It’s hard for all of us,” she says, digging through her bag for the pill bottle she just threw in there.
“I know, but Grandpa—”
“We don’t hav
e to talk about it anymore,” Mom says, popping a tiny white pill into her mouth and tossing the bottle back into her bag.
I grit my teeth. We don’t have to talk about it. It’s not the right time now.
I think I’ll ask Mrs. Macmillan to crochet that on a pillow for us.
“The water is in the cooler. You ready?”
Mom nods and we head out the door, dragging the wagon full of dandelion greens and Jell-O salad and sparkling water behind us. My phone buzzes in my front pocket. I pull it out and see a text from Marnie.
We’re here! Are you?
My cheeks burn and I feel a smile pulling on my lips. I text back: Walking now. Be right there
The party is in full swing when we reach the end of the main road. The neighborhood’s private beach is buzzing with people. Kids are chasing each other in the sand with sparklers, and some of the moms are gossiping with their toes in the surf. Someone has set up a game of horseshoes, and a group of people is gathered around that.
I park the wagon in a shady spot for Mom and look around the beach for Marnie. Not too many years ago, I was chasing her with a sparkler while my mom gossiped with her toes in the water and my dad dominated the horseshoe pit.
Staring out at the water, I feel someone jump on my back and wrap her arms around my neck. “You’re here!” Marnie yells in my ear. “No Grandpa?” she whispers.
I just shake my head.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her breath tickling my ear.
JC saunters down the beach toward Marnie and me.
“Finally made it?” he asks.
“Mom needed to get her Jell-O salad ready,” I say, shrugging as Marnie hops down.
“Looks like Mrs. Macmillan is already lit,” JC says, pointing to the horseshoe game. She laughs loudly and swings a horseshoe way over her head. It lands with a splash right by the gossiping moms.
“Same shit, different year,” I say, laughing.
I watch my mom walk around the periphery of the party. She looks uncomfortable. And sad. I have to look away.
Until I Break Page 3
