Lizzy Legend

by Matthew Ross Smith

  “Don’t apologize, Dad.”

  “I’m not apologizing. I’m explaining.”

  His voice was as cold and thin as the mist that came out of the beverage fridge. I grabbed a yellow Gatorade and chugged three-quarters of it. He looked annoyed.

  “What?” I said. “Do you have to pay for these?”

  “No. I mean, yeah. But it’s fine. Some kid came in after school. He put like ten candy bars in his schoolbag, right in front of me, and just walked out.”

  “Do you have to pay for that?”

  “No. But it’s just like . . . I’m standing right here, you know? I’m right here.” He slipped his thumbs inside his fingers—the way someone who didn’t know how to punch would make a fist—and cracked his knuckles.

  I hated when he did that.

  “You eat?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Liar. Take a frozen pizza.”

  “I told you, I ate. They fed us after the game. I’m fine.”

  “Take one.”

  “Nah. I’m good. I have some homework, though. I’ll see you at home.” I shouldered out the door—ding—before he could say anything else.

  Still wearing my game jersey beneath my sweats, I ran suicides at the playground until the light went out. I staggered home, limping on fresh blisters. I ate a half sleeve of saltines and washed them down with a glass of Ardwyn tap (always refreshingly cold in the winter). I ate a half jar of applesauce for dessert, rinsed off in the shower, and collapsed into bed. I was too tired to dress myself, so I just lay there in my towel. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t have any data left, so I just stared at the weird text on my phone until the letters and numbers all blurred together.

  Dad had to work on Thanksgiving, so I had dinner with my second family—Toby’s family, the Sykeses. Around three thirty, I put on my winter coat and jogged across our one-way street, across the desolate basketball court, up the hill, through a hole in a rusty fence, around the abandoned factory, and over to Bryn Auden.

  Though it was less than a half mile away, everything was different up there. The houses all had big yards and three-car garages. Mr. Sykes’s BMW was parked at an angle in the driveway. I entered the four-digit passcode and ducked under the rising garage door. I pushed the button on the inside, immediately sending it back down. I imagined the house opening its mouth to say something, then changing its mind.

  The garage smelled of gasoline. The lawn mower had its own parking spot.

  Inside, the living room walls were scarlet red, with matching furniture. The hardwood floors gleamed. The ceilings were high—I couldn’t jump up and slap the door frames like at our house. Family photos crowded the walls—the three of them at Martha’s Vineyard, by Big Ben in London, by the Coliseum in Rome, by the Statue of Liberty in New York, and so on. I used to joke that they just had a photo booth in the basement and they changed out the backgrounds. It wasn’t one of my best jokes, but it made me feel a little better because Dad and I never went anywhere.

  I followed the smell of roasting turkey into the kitchen. There, Toby’s mom, Karen, was pouring milk over a bowl of steaming potatoes. It reminded me of our science teacher at school mixing chemicals, except she wasn’t wearing a see-through plastic apron, just a red one that said WHAT’S COOKIN’, GOOD LOOKIN’? You know when you buy a bag of ice and sometimes the cubes are clumped together? That’s what her wedding ring looked like. She’d just picked up the mixer when I said, “Hey, Mrs. S.”

  She flew back against the fridge. It sounded like a bird hitting a window.

  She found this hilarious. I have so many happy memories of being in Toby’s house, and so many of them are in that kitchen, cracking up with his mom.

  She still had her hand over her mouth. “Lizzy, you scared me!”

  “Everything scares you, Mrs. S.”

  “Not everything.”

  Pretty much.

  Karen’s hugs were the best part about her. She squeezed you super tight, long enough to make it feel genuine, not mechanical like the assembly-line hugs at school. “You’re lucky you weren’t a robber,” she said, “or I would’ve mixed you to death!”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  Luckily, she was the adult, so she had to talk.

  “They have your dad working today? On Thanksgiving?”

  I shrugged. “People need gas.”

  “It’s a sin. We’ll make him a plate.”

  “Thanks.”

  All this time she was still hugging me. She finally let me go. “The boys are downstairs.”

  “Football?” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know Frank.”

  The Sykeses’ basement was a shrine to Philadelphia sports. Mr. Sykes—Frank—was an obsessive collector. The first thing you saw going down the steps was a huge, framed photo of the Palestra, the legendary arena in Philadelphia where the local college basketball teams—The Big Five—had been battling on winter nights for generations. He also had a pair of boxing gloves autographed by Joe Frazier, a hockey stick used during the 1974 Stanley Cup finals, a creepy-looking white goalie mask, a 1980 World Series baseball, a Super Bowl–used football, and about a thousand other things. He was like a pharaoh who’d decided to get entombed with everyone else’s treasures.

  As I came down the steps Mr. Sykes was yelling at their huge, new, flat-screen TV. The volume was so loud I practically had to wade through it. “Run it!” Mr. Sykes was yelling. “Run the ball!” He was wearing his standard rich-guy uniform: a button-up white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gold watch, and boat shoes with no socks. He always smelled like he’d just stepped out of a barber’s chair—talcum powder and aftershave.

  Toby was across from him, on the recliner. He was spun upside down—head on the footrest, like a giant bug caught in a spider’s web. He was holding his phone out, broadcasting a special upside-down episode of The Toby Sykes Show! live on Instagram. “Another reason why football is dumb,” he was saying, “is that—”

  Somebody fumbled.

  Mr. Sykes shot up. “Get on it! Get on the—oh hey, Lizzy. Get on the ball!”

  “Exciting game?” I said to Toby.

  He ended his broadcast with a fart noise and spun right side up. “Whoa. Head rush.”

  Mr. Sykes went behind the bar (never taking his eyes off the game) and opened the mini fridge. “Sprite, Dr Pepper, Coke, root beer, or ginger ale?”

  “Dr Pepper,” I said.

  Mr. Sykes flipped me the soda can like he was lateraling a football, then flopped back on the leather couch. “Ah, come on!” he yelled at the TV. “Are you blind, ref?”

  Toby rolled his eyes.

  I smirked.

  Mr. Sykes had made a fortune in junk bonds. To be honest, I still have no idea what that means. But they always had at least five different kinds of soda in their mini fridge and, as I mentioned, a parking spot for their lawn mower.

  When a commercial came on, Mr. Sykes said, “Heard you been runnin’ circles ’round those boys, huh?”

  I shrugged.

  “Good. You deserve it. I mean that. I’m leaving for work—you’re there on the court. I get home—you’re there on the court. They probably deliver your mail there.” He nodded over at Toby. “And what’s this one doing? He’s up in his room all day, broadcasting to the six losers who—”

  “Seven.”

  “Huh?”

  “I had seven viewers just now, for your information. Seven. Not six. That’s a seventeen percent ratings spike.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the basement.

  You know, except for the blaring TV.

  “I’m just playin’,” Mr. Sykes said, leaning back, smiling, arms spread like a king. “By the time you’re through, son, Oprah’s gonna be callin’ you, askin’ you for a loan!”

  Toby beamed. “And I’m gonna be like, ‘Who is this? Stop callin’ here!’ ”

  They both laughed; I was laughing too, though at the same time I think
I was a little jealous. Dad never said things like that about me.

  He never said anything at all.

  Two hours later, after stuffing ourselves full of delicious turkey and mashed potatoes and string beans and cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie with homemade whipped cream, Toby and I climbed the stairs to his room. I sat in my normal seat: the tall, cloth-backed chair marked DIRECTOR. “How did your parents end up together anyway?”

  “The man, as you may’ve noticed, doesn’t take no for an answer.” He ran his finger across his Blu-ray collection. “Rocky?”

  “No. Please. God, no. Not again.”

  “Creed ?”

  “No.”

  “Fine. We’ll just sit here and stare at each other.”

  “Fine.”

  We did that for about ten seconds, then he said: “Abracadabra fart brains froggy froggy moose cream choo-choo train.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You ever just wanna say something that’s never been said before? I mean, something totally original?”

  “No.”

  “Try it.”

  I shut my eyes. “Twinkle twinkle couch crumbs photo blender grasshopper wood chips Chewbacca.”

  “Feels good, right?”

  “It kinda does, actually.”

  “Karen’s therapist charges her, like, three hundred bucks an hour for that.”

  He fell back onto his queen-size bed, rolled over, and screamed into a pillow. He did that for about five seconds, then ditched the pillow and said very calmly: “I think that car horns should be a person’s deepest, darkest secret. You could control it by how hard you push. So if you just tap it, it whispers, ‘I killed a man.’ But if you really hold it, it yells, ‘I KILLED A MAN! I KILLED A MAN!’ You know? Then people would only honk when absolutely necessary.”

  I tipped my head back and stared up at the ceiling. It was trippy in there with his red lava lamp clotting and unclotting.

  “What do you think old people daydream about?” he said. “I mean, do you think they still imagine themselves doing new things, like what they could still become, or do you think, like, you reach a certain age when you start daydreaming backward . . . you know, like, remaking the classics?”

  “Why don’t you ask Nana?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s awkward. It’s like saying, ‘Hey, Nana, you’re gonna die soon—what’s that like?’ ”

  “So?”

  “So it’s weird.”

  “What? Death?”

  Toby pulled his knees to his chest and rolled from side to side. “Yeah. But not any weirder than life, I guess.” He shot up. “Question.”

  “Shoot.” He was the shooter this time; I was the rebounder. We took turns.

  “Heaven,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  “How does it, like, work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, if I flew up there now and saw Grandpa Stan, would he still be all old and wrinkly, like we knew him? Or would he be young—you know, the age that he wants to be? And what about kids? Remember Becky Hammond? Does she get to grow up in heaven or is it, like, just because she choked on a grape in kindergarten, now she’s stuck wanting to go to Chuck E. Cheese for all eternity?”

  Toby’s mind was like those green bottles of sparkling water his mom always drank—lots and lots of bubbles rising to the surface all at once.

  I picked up the book we’d co-illustrated in second grade, The Adventures of White Bread and Graham Cracker.

  “That’s a classic right there,” Toby said. “You remember what White Bread says to Graham Cracker at the end, when they defeat Captain Crunch and return back to Doughville to live snackily ever after? She says, ‘You’re my best friend in the whoooole world, Graham Cracker! I loaf you!’ ”

  I cringed. “Pretty lame, man. Pretty lame.”

  He shrugged. “I thought it was sweet.”

  WHITE BREAD & GRAHAM CRACKER

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  You remember how we met, right?

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  [Laughs.] Like you’d let me forget.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  See, the thing you all don’t know about Lizzy Trudeaux is . . . I saved her. Without me, she never would’ve become Lizzy Legend.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  Please.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  I did! It was—what? Second grade?

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  First.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Lizzy was the new kid. The class bully—Tank—already hated her ’cuz she’d knocked his teeth out on the first day. He’d been plotting his—

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  “Plotting” seems like a strong word. This is Tank.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  True. True. So he was . . . gonna get her back. Let’s say that. He’d been waiting for his chance. So one day we’re playing football at recess. Lizzy’s quarterback, of course, I’m offensive line, of course, and Tank blitzes . . .

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  It was on my blind side.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  She didn’t see him coming at all.

  William Richards—Bystander

  I saw the whole thing happening. I was like, “NOOOOOOOO—”

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  At the last second, Toby threw himself in front of Tank. It was crazy.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  [Shrugs.] I saw it on TV once.

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  Tank crushed him.

  William Richards—Bystander

  There was this horrible squishing sound, like an artery bursting.

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  The game stopped. Toby’s rolling around on the grass, holding his heart.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  I’m standing over him. “Are you dead? Are you dead?”

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  And then he’s like, real soft—

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Thank . . . god . . . you . . . were . . . there.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  We have no idea what he’s talking about. Is he talking to himself?

  William Richards—Bystander

  Then he unzips his jacket.

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  He unzips his jacket.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  And I see it.

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  A Twinkie.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  He had a Twinkie in his jacket pocket.

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  It had absorbed the force of the hit like a bulletproof vest.

  William Richards—Bystander

  Splat!

  Sean Dormond—Bystander

  [Laughs.] Cream was all over his new shirt.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  He’s trying to catch his breath, like—

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  It’s . . . not . . . funny! I . . . was . . . going . . . to . . . eat . . . that!

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  It was so funny. [Thinks.] I guess Toby did kind of save me.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  [Beaming.] Yeah. And we’ve been best friends ever since.

  Coach Gulch was extra stressed at practice the next day. His whole body was breaking out in hives. The game against our big rival, Darby, was coming up. “Is that a question, Tank, an actual question, or are you just holding both hands above your head like you’re a bear again?”

  “I’m a bear! Rarrrrrrrrr!”

  Coach Gulch pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a migraine. “I swear that growth spurt damaged your brain.”

  I’d decided today was the day. So long as I didn’t take any preposterous, impossible shots—shots that I normally w
ouldn’t expect myself to make—then who could question me if they all went in? Right?

  We began scrimmaging. The first time down I passed the ball to Toby, who had to play because a few of the boys were out sick that day. It went through his hands and knocked the wind out of him. The other team picked it up, ran a three-on-one fast break (I was the one, of course), and scored.

  Okay, enough of that.

  The next time down, I put my fist up, calling for our standard play, “motion.” The two forwards down-screened and the guards popped out to the wings. The boy guarding me, Sean Dormond, was sagging off a good two feet. I hadn’t shot the ball all season, so I think he (and everyone) forgot that I still could. I pulled up. I shot. The ball rocketed through the hoop.

  Coach Gulch nearly swallowed his whistle. “Heck yeah! Let ’er rip!”

  I let ’er rip.

  Swish.

  Swish.

  Swish.

  Pure swishes, all.

  “Cripes,” Sean Dormond said. “You could do this the whole time?”

  I didn’t say a word. I just kept shooting.

  Just like there are the Five Stages of Grief that we learned about in Language Arts class, there are, I believe, the Five Stages of Being on Fire (that the person guarding you goes through):

  Denial. Okay, you made a few, big deal.

  Curiosity. All right, that was a tough shot. Something may be going on here.

  Acceptance. You, sir/madam, are on fire. Happens. Nothing I can do . . .

  Elation. You still haven’t missed!!! Holy %*#@, this is crazy!!!!

  Delirium. This is beyond me. My tiny human brain can’t comprehend what is happening right now. I am a dog trying to understand the internet. My tail is wagging. My tongue is hanging out of my mouth. I’m slobbering all over the court. Words words words words words words words.

  • • •

  I lost count, but I think I made about forty in a row. When the last one went in, practically trailing smoke, everyone piled on, celebrating.

  “LIZ-ZY! LIZ-ZY! LIZ-ZY!”

  Even though there were eleven bodies piled on top of me—all of us like one conjoined, multilimbed floor monster—I felt no pain.

  I felt like I’d finally stepped into the outline of who I was supposed to be—into a silk-lined dream tailored just for me—and, oh, it fit just right.