by Andrea Cale
“How is Whistler?” both professors asked together.
JP’s frustration faded.
“Rooming with him is probably the biggest break I’ve gotten there, believe it or not.”
After a few hours of rare rest, dinner, and conversation with his parents, JP closed his family’s front door and opened the one to the new campus apartment that contrasted starkly with the home where he grew up. Smells of home-cooked meals and pumpkin-scented candles were behind him now, making the artificial aroma of microwave dinners and the fabric spray used to keep the scent of two athletic young men at bay that much more pungent. JP had given up cozy blankets on oversized couches and Grandma Moses paintings for futon furniture and cold walls that were bare except for a team game schedule that hung on the kitchen wall with duct tape. JP knew it could be so much worse.
“What’s up, man?” greeted Whistler warmly.
“My mom sent me with leftovers of her signature sausage and peppers. This container’s got your name on it, literally. Do you want it in the fridge or are you ready for a second dinner, big man?”
“Whoa-oa-oa, saw-sage and peppahs,” Whistler exclaimed in delight. “I knew it would pay off rooming with you. I thought maybe I’d get some extra credit in your ma’s class, but this might be just as good. The dinner surprises the hell out of me, though.”
“I know. She looks like she could be a strict vegetarian or something behind those wise-lookin’ glasses.”
“No, man, forget that, I’m surprised your mom even knows how to cook.”
The jovial friends took seats on opposing benches at a rectangular table made of faux wood. It was far from the round table at home, but it would suffice.
“So, what’s your story, JP? I mean, if you wanna tell it.”
“I thought Flash took the liberty of tellin’ you everything about me.”
“No, man, you know what I mean. Your family story.”
“You mean, the fact that I’m black and my parents are both white,” said JP, knowing that this observation was the second elephant that seemed to follow him through life.
Whistler nodded gently, just once, wondering whether he had pushed the new player too far.
“I’m kinda glad you asked, really. Oftentimes, people stare and try to figure us out. It’s not really a long or complicated story. The woman who gave birth to me was younger than we are now and supposedly wanted to give me a good life. The professors wanted a baby and they raised me from infancy. They’re the only parents I know.”
“I knew I liked that woman, as much as she dislikes me.”
“I think she’s coming around. I put in a good word,” JP said, shifting his weight to ease a bruised tailbone.
“Dude, you’re killing yourself out there,” Whistler said, changing the subject and shrinking the elephant. “You gotta at least knock off the extra practices.”
“The extra practices are steps on my only hopeful path toward my dream.”
A week earlier on the sticky, coarse grass among teammates wrestling foolishly by his side, the comment would’ve earned great laughter from the team’s star blocker. On this night, though, Whistler gave only a nod of respect to the fourth-string running back who he thought might just make it after all.
CHAPTER 14
HENRY
The Shy One
As his mismatched, socked feet touched down from his bed, Henry looked no farther than his closet to predict that it was going to be a bad Monday. Staring into the dark space, he realized that the thrill of having witnessed his favorite quarterback pull his University of Boston Falcons to victory just a couple days earlier was gone. Nerves powerfully replaced the excitement he had felt over the weekend. Earlier thoughts of raising his hand at the next show-and-tell at school now seemed ridiculous. Feeding his anxiety more, his mother closed the restaurant on Sunday nights and had run out of time to do the week’s laundry.
Henry’s live-in grandmother believed in wearing most of her clothes a good four times because, as she often lectured, hers “rarely got soiled and the costs of a wash and dry at the Laundromat were $2 and $1, respectively, peh load.”
So, without a closet filled with clean clothes like some of the more popular kids in his sixth-grade class, Henry was left on this Monday morning with two options. He could pull a top out of the dirty laundry bin like his grandmother often did, or wear the only item left hanging in the locker-shaped space—a tight green button-up with a collar that revealed it was made decades ago. It was the type of shirt he’d seen teenagers wear on Halloween with bell-bottoms and curly wigs. The top wasn’t meant to be a costume for Henry, though. His grandmother had picked it out last December from Brockton’s secondhand store on North Main Street. She had wrapped it up with great pride that Christmas Eve in preparation of giving it to her beloved grandson.
On this morning, Henry wondered about the boy who had owned the unstylish shirt before him. He wondered what the kid grew up to be like. He wondered where his own future could possibly be heading. He was afraid to know all the answers.
Henry dug through the basket containing a week’s worth of dirty clothes for a solution, making a mess on a floor that was otherwise tidy thanks to his constantly working mother. All the clothes looked like crumpled pieces of paper. He would need help with an iron, he thought.
Despite his incessant attempts to muffle it, Henry had a persuasive and kind heart. He couldn’t bring himself to wake up his mother to help him flatten out the wrinkles, so he let her sleep as he shifted his thoughts to the other woman in his life. He knew the act of ironing put his grandmother in a bad mood nearly as quickly as did the Laundromat, so with one eye closed, he reluctantly took the ugly green shirt from its lonely hanger in the closet. As Henry entered the kitchen for breakfast, the look of pleasure on his grandmother’s face almost made the inevitable embarrassment he knew was about to ensue at school worth it.
“Well, looky here, ya handsome kid,” she said. “The girls are going to be fightin’ today, boy. I think you’ve been hidin’ your boyish fig-yah in those big sweatshirts of yours. I do believe. I do so believe.”
Henry watched the woman smile so grand that he could practically count each tooth in her dentures. It was an unfamiliar expression he didn’t quite like, but he made a mental note to wear the shirt again sometime, perhaps on a weekend when no one would see him. He would pick a day when not even his best friend Oscar was coming over.
“Honey-flavahed ‘ohs’ with chocolate milk,” his grandmother said, placing Henry’s plastic bowl in front of him. The wise woman knew that in the day of a sixth-grade boy, even the littlest things can feel bigger than life—chocolate milk in your cereal, a smile to greet you first thing in the morning, a new shirt for school.
“Don’t tell your mothuh about the chocolate pa-aht.”
Henry downed the sugary breakfast especially quickly and found himself belted in the family sedan with his grandmother behind the wheel all too soon for his liking. The pair ventured off toward the boy’s school, leaving Misty peacefully asleep in their little apartment.
His mouth tasted funny from the sweetness of his cold breakfast. He felt warmed, though, by the fact that his grandmother’s sugar-packed meal, exaggerated smile, and gift of the unique shirt were all signs that the woman thought he was great. She might even be the only person in the universe who believes I am perfect, he thought. As he looked at the aging woman with appreciation, Henry could tell something was on her mind. He wondered how long it would take for her to begin one of her signature diatribes.
“You know what I couldn’t help but notice last night at your mothuh’s restaurant?” she fired off as soon as her hand was off the ignition key.
The pair had visited Misty’s workplace the night before to enjoy a Latin-style pizza dinner together. The unusual pairing of Tex-Mex and a pie had become a favorite on the menu for Henry and his grandmother during days when they were regulars at the pizza chain. The elder woman had always been eager to use her daughte
r’s employment there to receive a discount. These days, it was more difficult to get Henry to be her date, but the woman had succeeded in convincing him to go for the first time in months and personally thank Misty’s boss for their tickets to see Devin Madison and the rest of the University of Boston Falcons play. The reason, while plausible, served as a front. In reality, she was much more determined to get Henry closer to the loving mother whom the boy had been strangely avoiding.
“What’d you notice, Gram?” Henry asked as he slid nervous fingers along the smooth, cool door of the sedan with one hand and scratched at his itchy synthetic shirt with the other. Today, he welcomed any of his grandmother’s distractions, especially if they bought him more time before school.
“Well, don’t tell your mothuh I said this,” she said. “You know I don’t often speak badly about anythin’ to do with that angel, but anyway, have you evah noticed that when a restaurant—any restaurant—is busy, the waitah refills your watah glass frequently, checks to see if things are cooked properly, keeps an eye on the progress of the meal, drops the check promptly, and most importantly, doesn’t leave you waitin’ a quarter of an hour for ya change?”
“Grandma, you make it sound like we were at five-diamond dining.”
“Five-diamond dining. What is that?”
“You know. The fanciest restaurants.”
“Five-diamond dining. I’ve nevah heard of that.”
“Grandma, yes, you have. The ratings.”
“Oh, ho, ho. My de-ah grandson, you mean five-stah dining. Why yes, but whey-ah I come from, it doesn’t mattah if you-ah eatin’ on a fast-food table or one with a fancy, schmancy white tablecloth. Good service is good service. Service don’t cost a dime. Besides, yo-ah mothuh’s restaurant is supah fine to me. She even used to have to wayah a man’s tie with her uniform before the managahs changed things up.”
“I think it’s a nice place too, Gram. But what were you saying again?”
“I was sayin’ that on busy nights at restaurants, you get great service. Not that I dine out that often, but you know, in my long life I’ve found this statement to be true. People are on their toes. On slow nights, like last night, things take forevah. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? For me, this is one of life’s mysteries. I couldn’t help but notice last night that of the very few full tables on that giant cascading floor of a restaurant, customahs were waitin’ to place ordahs with menus folded neatly on the edges of the tables too long. People had their credit cahds peekin’ out of the billfolds tryin’ to pay so they could get home and digest. Maybe I should tell your mothuh this. Were you miffed at how long things took for how slow it was, or am I the crazy one? This is fah from the first time this has happened to me, you know, at a wide range of places.”
“I guess I didn’t notice all that. I was just glad it was slow enough for Ma to actually sit down and eat with us.” For the second time in one morning, Henry saw his grandmother beam.
“You liked that, did you?”
“Yes and no,” Henry muttered under his breath and the radar of his grandmother’s aging ears.
The real answer that had been eluding his grandmother, Misty, and even Henry himself was that Henry loved and respected his mother so much that he didn’t want her to find out he was being picked on. His distance, in turn, made Misty worry. Her looks of worry made Henry feel as though his own mother pitied him, making the cycle repeat more intensely.
Henry reached across his shirt to unbuckle his seatbelt. He wished it were colder outside so a coat could stall the grand unveiling of the garment at least until after the playground games. He looked through the passenger window and saw his schoolmates playing punch ball. He thought of his mother’s words to his grandmother on their way home from the weekend’s game, when she hadn’t thought Henry could hear: “We’ve stalled long enough.”
“See you, Gram,” Henry said.
“See you, hot stuff.”
In the playground, Henry’s teacher had what the elementary school staff secretly called “snooty duty,” keeping an eye on the kids as they squealed at, played with, and teased each other. While others on staff disliked the assignment, Henry’s teacher enjoyed watching his kids’ personalities come out away from their desks, where they tended to be on their best—and not necessarily their truest—behaviors. In return, Henry’s classmates adoringly and respectfully nicknamed the man Teach.
Teach was twenty-nine years old. He was young for teaching standards, but mature compared to his best buddies, fellow graduates of University of Boston who weren’t ready to let their twenties end. As Teach successfully influenced and developed young minds, his buddies still slept during the day and held onto their college positions at night. Many were still bartenders and sound-check guys, giving Teach places to spend his evenings.
The young man wouldn’t be hitting any of his usual hangouts throughout Boston’s neighborhoods of Allston and Brighton on this night, though. He had what he considered to be an exceptional date. It was such a special one that he was having a hard time focusing on snooty duty. An eruption of childish laughter snapped him out of it.
“Whoa, look out everybody, it’s Henry, the Incredible Hulk,” said one of Teach’s students as the others’ laughter cranked up a notch at the sight of the boy’s tight green shirt. Teach studied Henry’s face as both of them shared in that moment an identical thought: at least Incredible Hulk was a better nickname than Patsy, Patsy, Four-eyed Fatsy’s handle.
It would be a short-lived relief for both of them.
“I think our class has a new student named Polly,” said the same boy who created Patsy’s nickname. The little bodies on the playground froze for the inevitable punch line. “Everyone meet Polly,” the boy continued. “Polly Ester.”
Teach watched Henry’s face finally turn color as the boy could no longer contain his embarrassment. A cool October breeze ruffled Teach’s hair. He wished Henry had thought to wear a coat.
“Pol-ly Est-er, Pol-ly Est-er,” chanted a couple of the boys.
Acting up in the classroom led to disciplinary action, but Teach believed that recess should serve as a place where kids learn life lessons, street smarts, and harsh realities on their own. He considered interfering just this once, but he didn’t want to embarrass Henry further. By the time Henry stepped up to the punch ball plate with his green shirt and bright cheeks glowing in the autumn sun, Teach had forgotten all about his upcoming date.
The boy locked eyes with Oscar for a moment and wished his best friend could teleport his ability to consistently punch the ball over the mean kids’ heads. Oscar was wishing the same thing. Teach wished it too.
“Over here, Polly Ester,” the first baseman shouted before Henry punched the ball straight to him for another easy out.
Teach gritted his teeth. While the young man intended to keep students on a level playing field within his own mind, one student had already told him this morning, “You’re my best friend,” while another had snapped, “You’re not my father, so leave me alone.” In reality, it was hard for the teacher not to pick favorites. As far as Teach was concerned, Henry and Oscar were secretly his all-stars.
Teach admired the way Oscar kept his chin up despite the incessant jokes about his size. Henry clearly didn’t recover like Oscar did, but Teach found Henry’s shyness to be endearing and sweet. He watched Oscar mutter something to Henry as the teams switched sides. It seemed to help Henry a bit.
As one of the cooler kids in Teach’s class stepped up to the plate in a $59.95 official New England Patriots jersey and punched the ball into the backfield for a home run, the sunlight that had caused Henry’s skin to fluoresce slowly faded behind a cloud. With the depressing situation seemingly under control, Teach let his mind drift back to his upcoming evening.
CHAPTER 15
CAROLINE
The Troubled One
With her mother’s locket around her neck and the contest advertisement tucked inside her pleather purse, Caroline read her psy
chology text atop a fluffy white comforter on her University of Boston dorm bed. She wasn’t as natural in the classroom as she was on the football field sidelines or in the dance studio, but she still worked hard at her studies and felt comforted by her Psych 101 reading. The textbook served as the closest resource she had to a therapist, helping her understand a variety of inner battles taking place within her and others. She felt that she was not alone after all.
“I don’t know how to put makeup on,” squeaked Caroline’s roommate beneath impeccable application. “You sure you don’t wanna come out?” The girl’s black trench coat was nearly buckled with one cuffed, suede bootie near the door before Caroline had a chance to reply. It was Thursday night, a prime time to party on campus. Caroline didn’t understand why these outings were so important, but she never judged her peers for it.
“Nah, I’m good here, thanks. Just geeking out with my homework.” Caroline stretched her lean, toned limbs in opposite directions and yawned.
Her roommate wished she could look like her for even one night as she left Caroline alone on a dorm floor that carried a stale, long-lasting stench of microwave popcorn. A shrill of their landline telephone brought life to the room.
“Hello?”
“Hey girl,” blared a voice that Caroline immediately struggled to place.
“Hey?”
“You don’t know who this is, do you, bi-otch?”
The offensive remark revealed the caller, a teammate named Amie who pronounced her name Ah-ME. “Emphasis on the me,” Caroline had often heard the girl explain in introductions. Amie was a talented cheerleader on Caroline’s squad, but her personality was as overpowering as her high kick.
“What have you got goin’ on tonight?” Amie asked.
“Studying.”
If Caroline’s roommate’s tone resembled a little mouse, then Amie’s belonged in the goose family.
