“Pops, quit it.” I tried to pull my elbow away, but he gripped it harder. I gritted my teeth as he applied pressure right where Coach had told me to take it easy. “It’s nothing. I mentioned this clicking sound to the trainer. She said to ice it and see if it brought some of the swelling down. It worked. Enough said.”
“You gonna be good for Friday’s game?” He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, scanning the rest of me.
“Yes, sir.” I wiggled under his gaze, hoping he wouldn’t ask if anything else was wrong—I didn’t want to tell him about my aching hamstring.
“He’ll be good, Mr. Boudreaux.” The rocking chair creaked as Marion slid to the edge of it. “I’ll go easy on him, lay off those power throws.”
“They need a good meal before they finish their homework and get some rest.” Mama gently squeezed Pops’s shoulder. He braced himself on the edge of the coffee table and heaved himself into a standing position.
“You listen to your mama,” Pops said as he brought her fingers to his lips. She snatched her hand away and cupped her cheek, trying to hide the blush pooling beneath the surface. Pops winked at me. “Go on, get after it. But don’t forget to say grace.”
Marion and I bowed our heads, mumbling a prayer while peeking between our clenched eyelids. The moment Pops sank to a barstool at the kitchen island, Marion and I dove for the heaping pile of food. Our forks dueled with each other for the best slice of meat loaf.
“You’d think we don’t feed y’all,” Mama said as she watched us scarf down food. She shuffled over to our duffel bags by the door. “Don’t forget to throw your uniforms in the laundry. You’ll need clean shirts tomorrow.”
“Oh, that reminds me...” Pops pushed back from the counter and disappeared down the hall. After a moment, he returned with a shirt in his hands. He unfurled it, revealing a custom-made fan T-shirt with my name and number. “What do you think?”
“Pops...”
Cleats and uniforms weren’t cheap, especially on a substitute teacher and plumber’s salary. Our school wasn’t like Westmond. We didn’t have corporate sponsors to provide gear or boosters to subsidize our expenses, which meant the cost fell on my parents. I felt guilty every time they shelled out money for my sake.
“We talked about this.” Mama stared at Pops, her jaw growing slack. “I thought we agreed to use the shirts from last year.”
“I know, but then Noah gave me a good price on the box of shirts.” Pops rounded the counter, putting distance between Mama and the anger brewing behind her eyes. He grabbed a piece of corn bread and popped it in his mouth. “And I just did a job over at Jean’s restaurant. Where’d you think I got all this corn bread?”
“It’s gonna take more than corn bread and T-shirts to pay the bills this month.” Mama reached across the counter, grabbing Pops’s sleeve. His smile faltered, and he chewed slowly like his mouthful of food had turned to cement. Mama’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Can I talk to you in the other room? Now.”
Pops tucked the T-shirt under his arm and took off in the direction of their bedroom at the end of the short hall. Hot on his heels, Mama slung her dish towel on the kitchen floor as she stormed out of the kitchen.
“There they go,” Marion said.
“I wish he would stop.” I stuffed another forkful of meat loaf in my mouth before shoving off the couch. The sound of muffled yells traveled through our tiny house. I slid the accordion door separating the hallway and the front of the house shut.
“At least you got someone in your corner. At least he cares,” Marion said. “Is it still cool to crash here, or should I bounce?”
“Yeah, you can sleep in the tree house,” I said with a smirk, nodding toward the back door. Tucked away in the woods behind the backyard, our old fort towered above the bayou in one of the oak trees. A crumbling relic of our childhood, it was no place to spend the night—especially with a storm dumping buckets of rain on the poorly patched roof. It probably wouldn’t hold his weight anyway.
It was obviously a joke. There was no way I’d let Marion sleep out there on a night like this. But as I bent down to grab Mama’s dishrag off the kitchen floor, I noticed him gripping his bag next to his chair. His legs bobbed up and down like he was ready to be on the move. Marion had plenty of practice disappearing. Between my parents’ fussing and my badly timed joke, his lip jutted out just enough for me to feel bad.
“I’m playing, man.” I tried to laugh it off, tried to make the air lighter.
“Oh, yeah.” Marion breathed a sigh of relief. “Good one.”
The curtain rod above the kitchen sink bowed as I gathered the fabric to the side. The trees swayed in the wind as they were battered by the storm. It was only a mile and a half walk to Marion’s house, but it was on the edge of the parish, near the bayou where the line between wet and dry was murky on a good day—the farthest from the luster of Westmond you could get.
“You heard Mama. We should finish our homework and get some rest.” By now, the dirt road leading to the Bayou Glen trailer park would be waterlogged. Mama wouldn’t want Marion to walk home, and neither did I. “Let’s set up the couch. You know where to find the sheets.”
“You sure?” He tilted his head in the direction of the hallway, where the sounds of bickering still thundered.
“Don’t worry about them. They’ll get over it.”
They always did. I just hoped it was sooner rather than later. Mama was the glue that held the family together. When she wasn’t right, nothing was. And I’d need my house in order to be able to focus on my game, especially the one against Westmond.
3
Gabby strolled through the lunchroom the next day in a lumpy sweater and board shorts, slicing through the crowded room with a tray of food. Her gaze was glued to her phone as she pushed past a sea of acrylics and weaves, of skinny jeans and hoop earrings, obviously uninterested in talking to anyone in her path. This was why people thought she was antisocial, cold even. But she was talking to someone.
She smiled, biting her lip as the fingers of one hand rapidly flew across her phone screen. Someone was making her smile like that, occupying her thoughts. I wondered who it was.
“Do you think she’s seeing someone?” I asked as I watched her take her lunch tray out of the cafeteria. Marion followed my gaze, catching a glimpse of Gabby just before she disappeared down the hallway. He stared at me, his mouth open wide, but I pressed him. “For real.”
“You’re kidding, right?” He shook his head, then slid his tray down the lunch line, bumping mine.
“I mean, she’s always off in that truck, going somewhere.” After I’d seen Gabby last night, she kept drifting into my thoughts. She was always on the move, and that intrigued me. “Maybe that’s why we never see her out.”
“Get real.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Bet her last kiss was with you.”
“Don’t trip.” I bumped his tray, a little harder than he’d bumped mine. “That was like ten years ago.”
It had been nearly a decade, but I could still remember standing barefoot underneath the jungle gym during first grade recess, my toes wiggling in the pea gravel as we leaned into each other. I’d had many kisses since the one I’d shared with Gabby—some better than others. Still, a part of me wondered whose lips Gabby’s had touched since then.
I fished out a few crumpled bills from my pocket and waited for Marion to do the same. The cafeteria was packed, the tables teeming with students, but when we headed to our table, everyone instinctively moved out of the way, parting like the Red Sea to make room for us.
It was a tight squeeze between the mismatched tables that peppered the cafeteria—the old white ones mixed with the new gray ones brought in from district surplus. Underfunding limited our facilities. Then rezoning had filled our school over capacity, and the lunchroom was chock-full of students, all trying to squeeze into the round tables. Of
course, Westmond could have absorbed some of the students—we were in the same school district. I’d heard that their cafeteria was twice the size, with different food stations and endless selections. But the parents complained, threatening to pull PTA funding if the district increased their class sizes.
It wasn’t about class sizes. It was about the type of students that would blemish their pristine halls—poor Blacks and whites from the edge of the district, who could have really benefited from more room and resources. But that wasn’t compelling enough for Westmond, so Jackson packed its buildings to the gills. But Marion and I didn’t need to worry about finding a spot.
We headed to the back wall of windows, over which hung a faded school banner: Home of the Jackson High Jackals. Underneath it was a pair of empty tables.
The football tables. My spot.
I spread my afternoon notebook and readings onto the chipped gray surface, taking advantage of the quiet to catch up on work. I raised my eyebrow at Marion as he swiped through pictures on his phone, resisting the urge to tell him to look over homework rather than the Gram.
I was just finishing up my English homework when Terrance sank onto the chair next to me, followed quickly by Darrell—the biggest dudes on the team. He leaned across the table, reaching for my notebook.
“Yoink!” Darrell plucked the edge of my worksheet right from underneath my pencil, leaving a trail of lead across the page.
“How many times I tell you? Wait till I’m finished.” I snatched my paper back, shaking my head. “I’m not trying to fail just because you need to cram for next period.”
“Man, forget you. Yo, Terrance.” He nudged the quiet giant to his side with his elbow. “You do English last night?”
Terrance rifled through his bag, producing a crumpled set of papers. His face reddened beneath his many freckles, as if he were aware that he had a pitiful excuse for homework. Terrance was really smart—like rewire-your-car-GPS-to-play-movies smart. I groaned under my breath as I read Terrance’s worksheet over Darrell’s shoulder. Terrance had clearly scribbled the summary from Wikipedia onto the page, and I doubted he had actually done the reading. He’d probably been too busy tinkering with his dumpster-found electronics to actually focus on homework. But that kind of extracurricular work didn’t show up on his report card. I shook my head.
“Coach is going to bench you both if you dip below a two-point-five again,” I said.
“No he ain’t.” Darrell wagged a finger, pushing up his dark-rimmed glasses. “I’m the best lineman he got.”
“Hey!” Terrance slapped the table.
“I guess Terrance too.” He shrugged, popping a Cheeto into his mouth. “He can’t afford to lose us. And he sure as shit can’t lose you and Marion.”
“Even if Coach Fontenot and all the other teachers go easy on us, college recruiters won’t. Your ass going to wind up in JUCO.”
“Yeah, dog.” Marion nodded in agreement. Playing junior college ball in the community college circuit was the kiss of death for most ballers. Their level of talent and scouting visibility was nothing compared to a powerful D1 school. He leaned forward, whispering like he had inside information. “Mississippi gonna to be there on Friday. Maybe even Auburn.”
“Oh, I got the field covered for sure. You let me worry about my shit. Gonna light it up!” Darrell held his hand up, and Terrance slapped it. They both withdrew with a wiggle of their fingers, their signature high five they’d done since middle school. “Relax. It’s only the season opener. Deerlake is gonna be a walk in the park.”
“They’re nothing compared to Westmond.” I shook my head, flashing back to last year’s playoffs once more. I couldn’t let that happen again. I scooted over to Darrell. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the D line. When y’all snap up, you gotta—”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Darrell said, cutting me off. “Somebody tell this negro to worry ’bout his own game.”
“Speaking of spitting game...” Terrance said, his eyes gleaming. He tapped Darrell’s phone and licked his lips as Darrell unlocked the screen. He set it on top of my homework, showcasing a picture of a very done-up girl with thick arched eyebrows and plump shiny lips puckered like she was ready to kiss you through the screen. Yeah, she was fine—and she knew it.
“Boom! She cute, right? And she gots friends.” He clasped his hands together, wiggling his fingers. His toothy grin widened. “She bringin’ all them to the party Friday.”
“Dress code—fly.” Terrance held his hand up for another high five. Then he pounded his chest. “Slay the baller way.”
“That means if you invite Gabby, tell your girl she can’t show up in a T-shirt. Or that Mr. Rogers sweater she walkin’ around in today.” Darrell doubled over, slapping the table. I swung around to scowl at Marion.
“What’d you tell them?” My cheeks heated. Marion was a shameless gossip sometimes, and he’d obviously told the guys I was trying to chat up Gabby.
Marion covered his mouth and looked away, confirming my suspicion.
Great.
I was saved by the bell ending lunch. I shoved my notes in my backpack and slung it over my shoulder before pushing away from the table. I had English class with Gabby next period, and I didn’t want to be ruffled before I saw her. I made a beeline for the hallway, making a cluster of students scatter out of my way. Footsteps squeaked behind me.
“Relax. We’re just playing.” Marion slapped my shoulder. “You have our full support. Right, guys?”
They nodded vigorously.
“It’s been a minute since you smashed. Aysha was, like, two, no—three months ago. Hold up. Do we need to have a little birds and bees discussion? Let me learn you something right quick.” Darrell turned around, walking backward down the hallway. He batted his eyelashes and gripped my shoulder. “When a man and a woman love each other very much—”
“Man, shut up.” I swatted his hand away. “It’s not like that.”
“But for real, though. Nerdy chicks are the best. They’re just happy to be with a baller.” His shoulder clipped the corner of the hall, and he lost his balance for a second, which served him right. “I bet Gabby got some real freaky—”
Just then, we turned the corner—right where Gabby was taking a pile of books out of her locker... Her eyes narrowed to slits as she scowled at us. She’d obviously overheard.
Gripping her backpack strap across her shoulder, she shut her locker and strode down the hall in long steps, her arms pumping at her sides, taking her far away from our banter. But the distance would be short-lived because, unfortunately, I had the same class.
“Darrell!” I banged my forehead against a neighboring locker, rattling the cold steel.
“Maybe she didn’t hear?” Darrell shrugged, scrunching up his mouth.
“She def did.” Marion stopped between us. Slapping Darrell on the backside of his head, he said, “Time and place, dog.”
“Run.” I straightened, flaring my nostrils. “Now.”
* * *
I rushed into the classroom, almost tripping over Ms. Jabbar, who was leaning against her desk at the front. She followed me with her gaze as I scrambled to the other side of the room—probably wondering why I was in such a rush, since the second bell hadn’t rung yet.
My desk wobbled as I skidded into my assigned seat, panting. Scooting across the aisle, I grabbed the edge of Gabby’s desk.
“Don’t listen to them.” I took a deep breath, leaning toward her. “They trippin’.”
“Um, yeah. Obviously.” She sighed as she searched my face. For a moment her frown softened, and I thought I’d be forgiven. But then she shoved her bag to the corner of her desk, knocking off my fingers. “I just thought you were different. Guess I was wrong.”
I balked, preparing to defend myself, but the teacher interrupted.
“All right, settle down, y’all.” M
s. J shoved off her desk and clapped her hands at the trickle of students filtering through the door. Her eyes scanned the room, zeroing in on my chair in the middle of the aisle. Folding her arms, she said, “Whatever y’all are talking about, it’s going to have to wait until after class.”
The chatter faded as everyone turned toward her. Darrell slid through the door just after the bell rang, and she tapped her watch, an indulgent smile sliding across her face. I glared at him as he took his seat a couple rows over. He mouthed an apology, his eyebrows upturned, but I shook my head.
“While you get settled I’m going to hand out your graded assignments from last week.” From her desk she grabbed a stack of papers so tall it almost reached her chin. She combed the aisles, placing our short-form papers on each of our desks. My stapled pages landed on my desk with a flutter. She jabbed the paper, right on the B+.
“Very nice, Russell,” she said with a proud flare of her nostrils. My chest warmed. I’d worked hard on this homework assignment, though not as long as I maybe should have. Football had taken its pound of flesh, and that was a full letter grade down from that elusive A+.
When she got to Gabby’s desk, she also paused for a moment. “Excellent. Really insightful.”
Comparing Gabby’s compliment to mine, I knew she’d gotten a better grade than I had. I squinted toward her paper, trying to see what she’d written. How did that brilliant mind of hers work? I was determined to find out.
“Please, get out your packets of E. E. Cummings’s poems. Let me see your highlights, your markings in the margins.” Ms. J flicked her wrists in the air with a flourish as she continued to stroll between the desks. She stopped in front of Gabby’s color-coded highlights to give her a thumbs-up. When she turned to look at mine, I flipped it over to show her my notes jotted hastily on the back page. That earned me an encouraging nod before she moved to the other side of the classroom.
I leaned forward, admiring the scribbles in the margins of Gabby’s packet, the multicolored highlights that splashed across her page. As if she felt my gaze, she turned around, her cheeks reddening before she slid her notes out of view.
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