by Allen Zadoff
I start to run.
“Cut left!” O. screams, and I do.
I’m halfway down the backyard, when I start to think about April. Only now I try to put her in perspective. She’s nothing special. She’s just a girl. That’s what I tell myself. Instantly I feel this tickle in my chest, and next thing I know, my asthma takes hold.
I clutch at my chest, pretending I’m adjusting my shirt, but I’m trying to do the chicken wing thing the doctor taught me that helps to open my lungs. Sometimes I can stop the asthma before it goes too far. I have to breathe and relax and think about good things.
“Now cut right!” O. shouts, but I can’t. I can’t run anymore. I can’t even breathe.
I stop and lean over with my hands on my thighs, panting like a dog. I have an inhaler in my pocket, but I don’t want O. to see me use it.
“What’s going on?” O. says. He comes over fast.
I try to answer him, but I only wheeze.
“Are you sick? Should I call an ambulance?”
I try to tell him no. I move my hand back and forth to wave him off, but he doesn’t get it. He pulls out his phone to dial 911.
I fight in my pocket for the inhaler. I yank it out and suck hard. Twice in a row.
“No phone,” I squeak. “I’m okay.”
I do my best to stand up. When you have an attack, your body wants to double over, but you need to stretch out and open up. I put my hands on the back of my head and do the chicken wing in front of O.
“Do you need some water or something?” O. says.
I feel the reaction slowing down inside me. I shake my head, give him the “one minute” finger.
“It’s asthma, right?” O. says.
“Yeah,” I say when I can talk again.
“One of my cousins has it. That’s how I know.”
“I’ve had it all my life,” I say. “But it’s gotten worse over the last six months.”
I take slow, even breaths.
“Is that why you don’t have your consent form?”
“How do you know about that?” I say.
“I heard Coach asking you about it.”
“My mom won’t sign it.”
O. looks into the distance, his hands on his hips like he’s thinking about something.
He says, “What if it happens on the field? The asthma.”
“It won’t.”
“It just did.”
“I have my inhaler. I’ll just take a puff.”
“But what if you can’t get to it?” O. says. “What if you’re trapped in a pileup or something?”
I feel panic rising inside me. O.’s right. I haven’t thought it through. What if some guy bangs into me and the inhaler cracks? What if it slips out of my sock and I lose it? What if—?
My lungs tighten again. I put the inhaler back in my hand just in case.
“I have an idea,” O. says. “Do you have an extra one of those doohickeys?”
“The inhalers? Yeah.”
“What if you gave me one?”
“Do you have asthma, too?”
“Maybe I could hold one for you. Then if anything happens, you’ll have a backup on the field.”
I stare at O. “You’d do that for me?”
“That’s what you do on a team. You back each other up.”
I keep forgetting. I’m on a team now. Suddenly I get this feeling like I’m a little kid. I want to cry, and I’m not even sure why.
“I have an idea about the consent form, too,” O. says.
“What’s your idea?”
“I say we forge it.”
child support.
An hour later I walk into Dad’s office with the consent form in my backpack. Dad looks up from his spicy tuna roll, a little surprised. I guess when your sweaty, fat son walks into your office at 6:15 p.m., it’s a shock to the system.
“Why are you sweating like that?” Dad says.
“I rode my bike straight from practice,” I say.
“Your mother wouldn’t give you a ride?”
I have to remember not to bad-mouth Mom. Only say good stuff around Dad. That’s the most important thing.
“I didn’t even ask her,” I say. “I wanted the exercise. I’m an athlete now, Dad.”
“I’m getting the sense of that,” Dad says.
He takes a box of tissues from the credenza behind him and puts them on the desk. I snag a few to wipe my forehead.
“You want a little dinner? We brought in sushi.”
“I’m good,” I say, even though I could probably eat four thousand sushi rolls right now. Line them up at face height and start running with my mouth open.
Dad dips a single piece in soy sauce and pops it into his mouth. I look around his giant office. He’d rather eat dinner alone at his desk than spend an hour with us in the kitchen at home. It doesn’t make any sense.
“To what do I owe the surprise visit?” Dad says.
“The form, remember?”
“Of course. The form.”
I take the consent form out of my backpack and pass it to Dad. I think O. and I did a pretty good job with it. I’ll know in about sixty seconds. Dad puts on his reading glasses and switches into serious mode. “This is a standard PYA,” he says. PYA. That’s Dad-speak for Protect Your Ass. “Crudely written, but it gets the job done.”
Dad looks up at me.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
Dad examines Mom’s signature.
“What did your mother say about it?”
“She’s a little nervous,” I say. I have to keep it realistic or Dad will know something’s up.
Dad chuckles. “That’s the understatement of the year. She’s Chicken Little in a catering apron.”
I hate when Dad talks like that. “She might be anxious, but she believes in me,” I say.
“We both believe in you, Andy. Don’t forget that.”
Dad takes an expensive fountain pen out of his desk and puts it next to the form.
“We play eleven games this season. You can come to some, right?” I say.
Dad sighs. “We haven’t had a chance to talk, you and I. My date has been moved up.”
“What date?”
“My start date. They want me in New York ASAP. November first at the latest.”
“That’s so soon.”
I’m sweating again, and I feel like I can’t breathe. It’s already September and Dad is leaving November first. That’s less than seven weeks away. Seven weeks until our family is destroyed.
“Promise me you won’t say anything to your mother or sister. I want to tell them myself.”
“I promise,” I say.
I feel like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re running, but the location keeps changing so you never know where you are.
“Tell me something,” Dad says. “How’s your mom holding up?”
“She’s holding.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
What can I say to that? Come home. Or maybe, You never should have left in the first place. I sit for a long time, thinking about what I should say to Dad. Finally I give up.
“Sign my form,” I say.
Dad picks up the pen, signs, and slides it across the desk to me.
“Mazel tov,” he says.
I stand up and put the form in my backpack.
“Before I forget …,” Dad says. He takes a check out of his desk. “I threw in a little extra this month. Pay your iPhone bill. Whatever. You know.”
I look at the check. It’s for eight thousand dollars. In the memo line Dad wrote child support.
maybe I’ve changed.
I’m headed out to practice with the guys when I hear Eytan’s voice behind me.
“Is it Halloween?” he says really loudly.
A bunch of football players stop and turn around. Eytan’s standing in the door, half in and half out of school, like he’s not willing to step into the back area with the
jocks. It’s probably a smart choice. You would not want to piss these guys off.
“I’ll take care of that geek,” Bison says, and tugs up his arm band.
“He’s an old friend,” I say.
“Then I’ll kick his ass gently,” Bison says. “Out of respect to your former life.”
“No. I have to talk to him. I’ll catch up to you in a second.”
Bison shrugs and continues on with the guys.
I walk over to Eytan. I suddenly feel really awkward in my football uniform. Standing next to Eytan is like the Hulk standing next to a light pole.
“So it’s true,” Eytan says.
“Who told you?”
“Nancy Yee.”
I make a note to cut off all communication with Nancy Yee. That only means six less words per month, but I’m going to make every one count.
“Not that she had to say anything,” Eytan says. “You’ve missed twelve committee meetings. The last guy to do that was Peter Mercurio, and he was cooking meth.”
“I’m not cooking meth.”
“This is worse. At least with meth we could put you on Intervention or something, cry in a circle and tell you we love you. But this—this is like … lobotomy time.”
“I like football. It’s fun.”
Eytan holds up his hand. “Give me a second. I threw up a little in my mouth and I have to swallow.”
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” I say. “I’m doing something different, you know? Breaking the mold.”
“Playing football? That’s not different. That’s surreal. That’s SciFi Channel shit. I mean, do you even know how to play football?”
“I’ll learn.”
“No. Learning is when you toss a football around in the backyard with your dad on Sunday afternoon. You don’t learn by playing varsity for Newton. That’s the big leagues.”
“Well, that’s where they put me.”
“Doesn’t that sound a little strange to you? You’ve never played in your life and suddenly you’re on the team?”
“Coach said I’m a natural.”
“A natural water boy maybe,” Eytan says.
“Screw you.”
“No. Screw you, dude. I’m your best friend, and you totally went Philip Morris on me.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve been blowing smoke up my ass for three weeks. Now I’ve got sphincter cancer. What kind of person gives his best friend sphincter cancer?”
“I wanted to tell you,” I say. “I kept putting it off, and I don’t know—”
Coach blows his whistle.
“I have to get on the field,” I say.
Eytan looks out at the guys grunting in formation.
“You really fit in with those guys?”
“That’s my team now,” I say.
“I don’t even know who I’m talking to,” Eytan says.
“Maybe I’ve changed.”
Eytan looks out towards the field, then back to the school. “What was wrong with you before?”
I can’t answer that.
Eytan doesn’t wait. He goes back into school and slams the door hard behind him.
O. jogs over, motioning me towards the field.
“What was that all about?” he says.
“My best friend,” I say. “Used to be.”
“That sucks.”
Half of me wants to go back into the school and find Eytan. Forget all about football.
“You know about the party Friday?” O. says.
“What party?”
“We always do stuff with the cheerleaders. Hang out. Dance. Whatever.”
“Nobody told me.”
“I’m telling you. You can come, right?”
“Sure,” I say.
Coach blows a triple tap on his whistle. If he gets to four, it’s bend-over-and-kiss-your-ass-good-bye time.
“Check it out,” I say.
I dig in my waistband and pull out the consent form. O. looks at the signature lines.
“Looks like your parents approve,” he says.
“They’re thrilled,” I say. “Their son is a football player.”
mom picks, I unpick.
I’ve got ten shirts laid out across my bed, and none of them are right. Not even remotely. Definitely not for a party.
I’m not sure what party clothes should look like, but I assume if Mom bought the shirt, it can’t be right. The problem is Mom buys all my shirts because I refuse to go into a clothing store. Every time I go, it’s the same bad news: “Congratulations. You’re fatter.”
Mom drags me to the store once every six months so she can get my size. Ten minutes of misery and then I’m free. For the six months after that, clothes magically appear in my room. It’s like that fairy tale with the cobbler’s elves, only my elf specializes in triple-XL polo shirts.
Even I know that’s not going to fly at a football party.
I look at the clock. Seven p.m. I’ve got half an hour before Rodriguez picks me up.
I wish I could call Eytan and ask him what to wear. He knows about stuff like this a lot better than I do. Unfortunately he hates my guts right now. If he saw my number on his cell phone, he’d probably throw it under a bus.
That leaves me with two options. I can pretend I’ve got food poisoning and miss the party, or I can talk to my sister.
Explosive diarrhea or Jessica. Not an easy choice.
I tap on her door.
“Go away,” a voice says.
“You don’t even know who it is,” I say.
“Now I do. Go away.”
I open her door anyway. Desperate times, you know? She’s standing in front of the mirror in her bra, pinching the fat under her arms.
Now I’m going to have to stab my eyes out.
“What the hell, Andy!”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She covers herself up with a T-shirt and flops down on the bed. She buries her head under a pillow.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, “but I need help. It’s serious.”
I hear an annoyed groan from under the pillow.
“I’m going to a party,” I say.
“I’ll call TMZ and let them know.”
“A varsity-football party. With cheerleaders.”
She sits up and looks at me. “How did you get invited to a football party?”
“I can’t tell you,” I say.
“Then I can’t help you.” She sits back on the bed and crosses her arms.
“Listen. You can’t tell anyone,” I tell her. “You have to promise.”
She waits. I look at my watch. 7:10.
“I’m on the team,” I say.
“Okay, I just slipped into another dimension for a second and my ears stopped working. Say that again.”
“I made the team.”
“You made varsity?”
“Yes.”
“That’s like Ugly Betty winning America’s Next Top Model.” I’d love to fling a couple dozen insults back at her, but I keep my mouth shut.
“What about Mom?” Jessica says.
“She doesn’t know.”
Jessica’s eyes narrow. She loves secrets. She’s just bad at keeping them.
“What do you want from me?” she says.
“Dress me.”
Jessica smiles. “Why didn’t you say so?”
She grabs my arm and pulls me into my room. We survey the clothes spread all over my bed.
“What do you think?” I say.
“Jewish-mother chic,” Jessica says. “You’re doomed.”
“Fix it.”
“Okay,” she says, “this is totally like a Project Runway challenge.” She bites at her upper lip. “Question: In a perfect world, what do you want to wear?”
“Size thirty-two jeans.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Here’s the thing,” she says, and chews on the corner of her thumb. “Football players are big, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So we don’t need to make you look smaller. We just need to make you look good. Big but good. You know what I mean?”
“There’s no such thing.”
“Think hip-hop. Think Ice Cube. Don’t tuck anything in. It’s all in the attitude.”
Jessica walks across the room like she’s tough. She stops in front of me and busts a move.
I stare at her wide-eyed.
“I hope Mom installed a nanny cam, because I’d like to see that moment again,” I say.
“Just give it a try,” Jessica says.
I imitate her, walking across the room like I’m tough.
“How was that?” I say.
Jessica looks horrified.
“We’ll work on it,” she says, and she starts grabbing clothes off my bed.
“One other thing,” I say. “Do you know how to dance?”
get tipsy.
I’m sitting in front of a beer. It’s not the first beer I’ve ever seen, but it’s the first beer I’ve ever sat across from. And it’s definitely the first one waiting for me to drink it. If Mom saw me right now, she’d check me into rehab. Just in case.
There’s a bunch of guys, all standing in a circle and watching me. This is a big deal for them. My first sip of beer. They act like it’s something important, some rite of passage, and I didn’t even know it was coming. At least with my bar mitzvah I had some advance warning.
“Do we have to send you a text?” Cheesy says.
“About what?”
“Beer. In front of you. Smiley face.”
“You gonna hit that, or what?” Rodriguez says.
I sniff the beer. It has a strange smell, like sour bread. It makes me nervous. Plus it’s kind of illegal because we’re all underage. I guess this is what they mean by peer pressure. I’ve never really had peers before, so I haven’t experienced it.
I look at the guys, then reach down and lift the bottle to my lips. The bitter, ice-cold liquid hits my tongue. I cough and spit foam across the table. A roar goes up around me and all the girls at the party look over at us.
“Thatta boy,” O. says.
“How’s it taste?” Cheesy asks.
“Terrible,” I say, and the guys laugh. I take another slug.
“You popped your cherry!” Rodriguez says.
The guys pat me on the back one at a time, and they drift back towards the party.
