by Heidi Ayarbe
When the air clears, I say, “Coming.” I run my fingers through my hair and open the door with both hands.
Luc sits outside my bedroom door, head banging against the doorjamb. He glares at me from underneath the scrunched-up monobrow. I push past him and get dressed, just the way I need to get dressed. Luc can wait. Everything can wait.
“Guevón, do you think we can leave sometime today?” he hollers through the door. “It’s not like every tomorrow is riding on today. Not at all. Take your time. Can I offer you fucking tea and biscuits?”
He doesn’t get that right now is tomorrow and every other day in my life unless I get it right today. I can’t afford another day like yesterday, trying to put broken pieces together.
Today has to be perfect.
Magic.
I look at the clock.
10:14
Ten fourteen. One plus one is two plus four is six plus ten is sixteen minus one is fifteen minus one is fourteen minus one is thirteen. OK.
I turn from the clock and walk into the hallway. “Ready.”
Luc stares at me, mouth gaping. And I realize he has no idea who I am—his preconceptions of me have evaporated. They’re gone.
And so are mine.
I am crazy.
Seventy-Nine Triggers
Saturday, 10:15 a.m.
Ten fifteen. One plus one is two plus five is seven. OK.
I skip steps eight and four on the way down, touch the grandfather clock, and go into the kitchen, where Mom slouches next to the sink, clutching a thick coffee cup that looks too heavy for her to hold; her thin fingers look brittle like dried twigs, her eyes vacuums of nothingness.
For a second I don’t feel anything but anger. Stop being a victim. Stop being like that.
Stop leaving us.
And this is what Dad must feel when he sees me do my weird-ass things—like a fire consumes his insides and burns slowly until all he sees is red.
I won’t be Mom. I won’t have Dad feel about me like I feel about Mom right now. Parents are supposed to love their kids—be proud of them.
Kasey sits cross-legged on the window seat where she always sits to eat breakfast: a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, half a glass of orange juice, and a third of a cup of fruit. She takes a silent bite of cereal and stares at Luc like he’s evil incarnate. Dad holds the newspaper in front of his face.
We’re silent.
It’s like all appearances have been peeled away this past week. I try to go back to where it all started to go bad. If they hadn’t done that lame-ass breakfast yesterday; if my memories hadn’t been set loose. If Mom hadn’t left . . .
What if Mom was a mom . . . just for once?
I shake the thought off and stare at her. But she’s gone, so I push the anger away. The burning in my stomach dulls to a tired ache. I start to count events, going back, trying to fix the frazzled wires.
Future.
My future is stuck in the past.
My chest constricts and I count the seconds on the grandfather clock, watching the hand tick around. I turn away when the minute hand inches forward and the second hand is on fifty-nine.
10:16
Ten sixteen. One plus one is two plus six is eight minus one is seven. OK.
Kase is wearing one of my old soccer sweatshirts. “I’ll be there early. Everybody’s gonna be there, you know.” She points to my soccer bag. “Got everything?”
“Yeah.”
“Change of clothes?”
“Yeah, Kase. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve packed my soccer bag.”
“Okay. Just making sure.”
“Thanks.” I sigh. Somebody’s got to be the mom.
“Got your back,” she says.
“Got your back,” I say.
She squeezes me hard and smirks with a raisin stuck in her teeth. I crack a smile.
Mom looks up at me with empty eyes. “Jake, honey.”
“That’s okay, Mom. I get it. You better rest.” I push her hair back behind her ears. She always has it covering her face. And she’s pretty. She could be really pretty if . . .
Lots of ifs in this family.
Dad lays his paper on the table. “I’ll be there.”
He looks at me in a way that erases the craziness for a second—like he’s proud for real, not just because he has to say so.
“Thanks, Dad.” And my head feels a little clearer. All I need to do is get on the field and everything will go away.
Luc nudges me. “Enough of the Osbornes, okay? Let’s go.”
I open the door with both hands, then jump into Luc’s car, easing the door shut. He turns the radio up thirteen notches, staring at me from his peripheral vision, as if he’s really seen who I am.
I am real.
This is me.
But that’s not acceptable and I know it.
The pulsing in my head doesn’t get worse. The auras don’t come. I’m going to kill out on the soccer field to erase this morning, these past few days, from Luc’s memory—to get back preconceptions, because it’s way better when people don’t know. What people want to see is better than what is before them. It’s always been that way, and the only person who has ever shifted that train of thought is Mera.
I’ve got to learn to move slower, more deliberate. I’ve got to watch my words so that I don’t say something that will eventually cause a tsunami in Asia. Action/reaction. Cause/effect. Everything is under my control if it’s all contained.
The numbers are mine.
The spiders are mine.
I own them and don’t have to explain that to anybody. And after we win today, they’ll be sent away because I’ll have control.
I look at the time on my watch, and my mind works out the numbers until we pull into Coach’s driveway. Luc turns off the radio.
“Okay,” Luc says. He looks at me weird, like I’m not Jake anymore. That bugs the shit out of me because I’m not different. He’s just seeing me different.
Perception.
Reality.
“Okay,” I say, and open the door.
“Just a sec,” Luc says.
I brace myself because I’m not sure how things will be now that he knows about me—the truth—whatever that truth is, because I sure as fuck haven’t figured it out yet either. We’re walking the line between perception and reality, like too much has gone on the past two days to blow off.
Maybe I can tell him why we need to win—the real reason.
Luc leans his head against the steering wheel and looks me in the eyes. “You were right.”
Silence. I search through my memories to try to figure out what I could possibly have been right about in the twelve years Luc and I have been friends other than the fact that Aquaman is the biggest pansy-ass superhero with virtually worthless powers.
I clear my throat. “About what?”
“Yesterday and me and my dad.”
Exhale. “Nah, man. I was just talking bullshit—”
“Let me say this,” he says.
It’s just us again. It’s time to be real.
Real.
“It’s like he’s still here, you know? He’s this dead motherfucker that never leaves me alone. Sometimes something just sets me off, triggers it, and I go all bloop tube. What if—” He lowers his voice. “What if he never leaves? That shit freaks me out, you know. Like I can’t trust myself. I can’t be him.”
But he is.
And I can’t be Mom. But I am.
But for just one more day.
Then the spiders will go away.
“What triggers it?”
Luc shrugs. “I don’t know. You. Fuck, man, you and your weird-ass shit. And other shit that shouldn’t matter, but just one thing can get me raging. Does that even make sense?”
Every time I’m stuck somewhere, I go back to that day in the closet—the day I first remember the spiders not leaving, figuring out how to get them to by holding fast to the numbers, willing away the sticky webs. Does that ma
ke sense?
It’s all about the trigger, like a domino that falls and collapses a thousand others. If I can just stop the first one . . . I push the slight tingle from the back of my neck down.
“I don’t know,” I say, and feel like the biggest oxygen waster on the planet because I can’t tell my friend how to not be his dead dad. “I wish I knew.” It’s like some vacuum has sucked out all the happy air and left us with a future repeating the past.
We’re all stuck.
The spiders will go away.
I scratch my neck.
Luc claps me on the back and says, “Shit, M&M. Enough Dr. Phil. Just forget about it. I think this game is getting to my head too much.” He practically jumps out of the car. I watch him through the curved windshield. He crunches through the last of the leaf piles on the street like a little kid. He twirls his key chain around his finger and stomps through the gutter, twigs snapping underneath.
Luc returns to the car, tapping the car hood. He rings his thumb and forefinger around his nose. “Marica,” he mouths, and grins.
“Assmunch.” I ease out of the car, then close the door, shutting the truth inside.
Eighty-Three Haunted
Saturday, 10:23 a.m.
Ten twenty-three. One times two is two plus three is five. OK.
We walk up Coach’s porch, a tricycle and sand toys scattered everywhere. His wife opens the door and lets us in. The table looks like it was attacked by mad dogs, but she leads us to the kitchen to plates piled high with fruit and wheat toast, scrambled egg whites, and orange juice. “There’s more,” she says, and smiles.
Coach’s daughters hide behind her.
The guys are playing Pro Evolution Wii soccer. Diaz says, “Dude, Martin, when can we play you on the screen?”
I pretend not to notice Luc flinching and turn to him. “Camacho,” I say, “only with you on defense, man,” and pretend to give him a big kiss on the ass.
“Ahh, shit. Que joto,” Diaz says, and rolls his eyes.
“Hey!” Coach hollers. I didn’t even see him sitting in the back corner, holding his rosary. The beads click together when he makes a fist. “Watch your language.”
Diaz nods and says, “Sí, señor.”
The room is blanketed in silence. Coach’s wife comes in and discreetly covers her nose with a Kleenex. I inhale. There’s nothing smellier than fifteen nervous, sweaty guys who haven’t jacked off for the last twelve hours. It’s like smelling live aggression. I wonder how we can stand each other.
She says a prayer and sends us on our way. We pile into the cars and drive to school, heaving our bags to the locker room.
I put my earplugs in and crank up Tiger Army’s “Ghosts of Memory”:
This place is poison to my soul
Can’t take much more, I’m losing control
I’m haunted.
Yeah. That’s it.
Focus.
I lose myself to the beat of the music, letting the words skip across my consciousness. I sit on the bench closest to the door, pulling on my left sock, then shin guard. Right sock, then shin guard. I put on my shoes and leave them untied, pulling out the laces so they’ll brush the ground. Luc’s listening to 3 Pesos. Everybody plugs in.
In here I’m normal. In here it’s fine to count, to do the routines, because in here everybody knows the team needs them, and everybody has their own: Kalleres changes his laces out every game. Grundy sleeps with his cleats on the night before. Keller hasn’t shaved since the season began.
Here, it’s all okay.
The locker room has the familiar musty-towel smell mixed with lemon-scent cleaning detergent and spicy-smelling deodorant. We’re quiet when we get dressed. There’s something at stake for everybody today.
Everybody.
Coach comes in. He scans the room, looking every one of us in the eyes. “You all know what you have to do. Remember, no one, and I mean no one, comes into our house and pushes us around. This is your game now, gentlemen. And for you seniors, it’s your last one, so make it count, because you will remember it for the rest of your lives. Let’s get ’em.”
We huddle in a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder, head to head, and roar, “Carson, Carson, Carson!”
We follow one another down the hallway to get to the field, falling into pairs—same order, same pairs for the past three years. Luc and I walk behind Diaz and Keller, listening to them bet on Coach’s speech. “Bet you don’t know the movie, man,” Diaz says.
“How much?” Keller asks.
“One Andrew Jackson.”
“A Jackson? Feeling pretty sure of yourself, joto,” Diaz says, and glances back to make sure Coach can’t hear him. Diaz is always talking about everybody else being joto. It’s like everybody’s doing “The Rainbow Connection” in the world of Diaz.
“What? And you’re not?”
“Fine. Twenty bucks.” They shake hands.
“Rudy,” Keller says.
“Rudy?” Diaz pauses. “I don’t know.”
“Look it up.”
“Will do.”
They walk so close together, their knuckles brush up against each other. Diaz turns back and glares at me, stepping away from Keller. “What’s your deal, Martin?”
And I realize we all have secrets.
Eighty-Nine Truth
Saturday, 2:47 p.m.
Two forty-seven. Two plus four is six plus seven is thirteen. OK.
I unclasp my watch and hand it to Marty, our team manager, who wears it for me during the game. When he was in the hospital because he had appendicitis, he sent his girlfriend to do it for me. Marty’s one of the coolest guys I know.
Coach leads us down the hall; we follow in silent reverie, hypnotized by the click-clack percussion of our cleats on linoleum. It’s the sound of battle.
Before heading outside, we clump together at the end of the hall. We form another circle, then on Luc’s command shout, “Ua! Ua! Ua!”—the words echoing down the empty hallway, our cleats tap-tapping on the floor, filling up the long corridor like an earthquake.
Luc raises his hand and we stop.
Silence.
Then two by two we head toward the field.
Luc and I slip through the side door, not touching it. Everybody’s gone out now. They’ll wait for Luc and me so we can make our official entrance.
Luc pulls the door shut behind us, and we’re in that place between inside and outside. I feel like we’re in an aquarium, just swimming around, slamming our noses against the glass.
“This is it, you know?” Luc says.
“What’s it?” I ask.
“This,” he says. “The game. State. Three years in a row. Graduating at the end of the year.” He looks outside at the line of cars coming from Saliman Road to the parking lot. Full house today for the game.
We’re quiet, and I count the cars, trying to let the words in past the numbers.
“There’ll be other games and stuff,” I say.
Luc shakes his head. “Not like this one.”
Luc’s right. He’s not good enough to play post–high school soccer—except for one of those old-guy city leagues where guys with paunchy guts play, blow out knees, and talk about their glory days and enlarged prostates. We both know that.
So today is it for Luc.
And today is it for me.
Three in a row.
We’ll be heroes.
I’m supposed to go to college on some hotshot scholarship. Full ride. Luc’ll work at the family business. Sealed destinies.
The spiders wake up when I think about telling Coach and Dad that I can’t play anymore—perfection can’t be repeated. And I’d rather give up a lifetime of tomorrows of soccer to have normal. Normal.
I clear my throat and try to think of the right words.
For a second that veil of ever-macho Camacho has slipped away and he’s like me: scared shitless.
Maybe I’m not such a freak.
Luc holds out his fist, and I tap it
with mine, like when we were little, returning to the time before this.
“One more time,” he says.
“One more time,” I say.
He cuffs me on the neck and laughs, opening the door to head out to the field, leaving us behind. I hesitate, stuck in that doorway, hoping that somehow it can come together here in the space between inside and outside.
“After you, M&M.” Luc holds the door open; November’s chill enters our glass bubble.
I walk outside and watch the door close behind us and hate that I didn’t say anything real to him.
The crowd roars when we take the field. I look up at the sea of people wearing blue bonnets and laugh. Only Luc could get an entire student body and faculty to wear bonnets. We pull our bonnets out and put them on and the crowd goes nuts.
Luc turns to me. “We are air, Martin. We are air.” He bends down and takes a blade of grass, crosses himself, and kisses the blade before letting it fall back to the field.
And I get that. I get that everything Carson City breathes today is because of us. We are a reason—the reason.
But what if we lose?
The thought snags on a nerve in my brain, then spreads like an electric storm throughout my whole head. What if we lose?
Fuck.
I’m stuck—stuck until I can tear the thought out. I tie my shoes when I hit the halfway line, then double-knot them. My head clears. The routine clicks in—a place where I can do it in front of a thousand people.
No hiding.
Because this is where the magic works. Where it’s accepted.
I run down the halfway line laterally, stop, move forward three steps, and repeat until I complete five rotations, ending up on the opposite side of the field, facing the bleachers, right where the penalty box begins.
The ref blows his whistle, so I loop around the goal and return to where the team is huddled. Luc’s getting ready to call the coin toss.
“Heads,” I say.
Luc nods. “Heads.” He looks at me like I’m Jacob Martin, the last few days erased. He believes in me, in the magic. He knows I’m right when I call heads because we can’t lose.
The what ifs have evaporated.
