by Ryan Gebhart
“I know. You already told me five times.”
I keep my mouth shut — I acted the same way at his age — but she actually only told him once.
We’re driving on the Anthony Wayne Trail, and I have Mom take me to Jenny’s house so I can drop off Alex’s shirt. She pulls into the driveway behind Jenny’s dad’s minivan. Jenny’s Toyota Corolla is parked in the street.
She’s here.
From the side vents, steam is pouring out along with the scent of Morning Mist fabric softener. Rock salt crunches beneath my feet. Grass appears at the edges of the driveway where the snow has melted. I place a plastic bag that’s got Alex’s shirt on their welcome mat. Part of me — most of me — wants to pop in uninvited and see how she’s feeling.
My chest burns with the realization that there’s nothing left for me here. It’s a good realization. I fell in love, in a genuine and imperfect love that made the stars move, and that’s pretty cool.
I get back in the car.
We’re driving away from Maumee, and I know that we’ll be back later on this afternoon and that I’ll see Jenny in Spanish class tomorrow, but getting on the expressway and watching everything I’ve grown so fond of the last month disappear behind me, I imagine leaving it for good. After Mom moves in the spring, what reason would I have to stay? I have no other family in Maumee, and my friends were just two guys I drank and got high and played Mario Kart with.
My family’s in Texas. My friends who don’t treat me like shit are in Texas.
I’d be leaving Jenny for good. I’d be accepting that all those promises she made to me were meant to be broken. And those beautiful children of ours will never be born. We’ll never be the old couple everyone makes fun of on the nude beaches of Costa Rica. I’ll never be asleep with her on the sand, my head resting in perfect peace atop her breastcicles.
Some promises aren’t really promises. They just seem like a fun idea at the time.
We reach the stadium parking lot at noon and merge with the growing crowd at the front gates. This is my first time inside FirstEnergy Stadium, and unlike the Thanksgiving games, this place is packed, resonating not only with the usual Browns fervor, but with the simple fact that we’re all still alive. The glowing banner at the opposite end of the field proudly proclaims “100% Dawg Pound,” and there’s the energy of a billion trillion galaxies dressed in brown and orange and pit bull masks. The sky is drab and gray and perfectly Ohio.
Dad has the aisle seat, Mom’s next to him, and I’m next to her. There’s a kid sitting in the seat Mom bought for Avery, wearing an angry dog mask and fully dressed in winter gear, even though it’s actually pretty nice out. The game’s about to start, so I’ll help him find his parents after the first possession.
The Ravens win the coin toss and choose to receive. The receiver doesn’t call for a fair catch, even though there’s a swarm of Browns players charging him. He catches the ball, then gets hit . . . hard. The Browns recover the fumble and run it in for a touchdown.
Everyone explodes in excitement, barking and jumping and pumping their fists. I lean over and high-five Dad and Mom. I turn the other way, high-fiving the little kid sitting next to me.
“Go Browns!” I cheer.
He’s looking at me through his dog mask, jumping excitedly. “Go Browns!” he cheers back, pronouncing his r like a w with a heavy smoker’s voice.
I look down. He’s wearing purple waterproof boots. He’s bundled up in stuffy winter clothes and a dog mask. It’s Karo. If the crowd sees his sharklike teeth and oversize eyes, he’ll for sure get ambushed and then who knows what. But he came anyway. He traveled four and a half light-years to watch a football game with a friend.
So only ten seconds into the game, we’re up six to zero because our kicker missed the extra point. And back on Jenny’s porch, there’s a plastic bag with Alex’s Lacoste shirt and a small square of folded paper on top. Maybe right now Jenny’s opening her front door, holding up the shirt. Maybe the note slips out. Maybe she’s picking it up right now, unfolding it, and reading the one word I wrote:
teamo
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover illustrations copyright © 2017 by EmojiOne
Tweet from @grumbist
copyright © 2015 by Frankie Azzaratta
Extract from Vsauce video
copyright © 2013 by Michael Stevens
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2017
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
Candlewick Press
99 Dover Street
Somerville, Massachusetts 02144
visit us at www.candlewick.com
