Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have

by Allen Zadoff

  “I’ll tell you later,” I say.

  “O. Doug-ass,” Ugo says.

  He cracks his knuckles and starts towards us.

  “I’m serious. Let’s go,” April says. She’s pulling on the back of my shirt, trying to get me to go towards the stairs, but I don’t go. I stand still, and I watch as Ugo takes another step towards us.

  A crazy thought crosses my mind. Ugo looks like a football sled. He’s the same shape, big and rectangular. He’s even the color of a sled, or his sweatshirt is. He’s a sled with an ugly head coming out the top of it.

  And I know what to do with a football sled.

  Run at it.

  That’s what I do now. I run at Ugo. April is saying something behind me, but I don’t hear her. I hear this roaring sound. It begins deep in my chest and pours out of my throat—

  “Aarrrggghhh!”

  I duck my head at the last second and aim my right shoulder at Ugo’s midsection. I tuck my tongue back like Coach taught me so I don’t bite it off.

  Ugo’s mouth opens in a surprised “Oh—”

  And I hit the sled.

  The sled holds. For a second I think it’s not going to budge, but then it gives way, shifting backwards a fraction of an inch. So I push again, harder. Suddenly the sled buckles and flies backwards, and I go with it, pushing and growling, driving Ugo back until we collide with a wall of lockers.

  I hear an “Oomph!” as the breath rushes from Ugo’s lungs and his body deflates under me—

  I immediately back up, toe dancing like I was taught, popping from foot to foot, ready to attack again.

  Kids are coming into the hall from downstairs. “Fight, fight!” they shout. That brings even more kids.

  Ugo is still slumped down by the lockers. I don’t know if he’s ever been down before, but from the look on his face, it’s a fairly new experience. He’s slowly coming out of it, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

  I thought this was a David and Goliath thing, and I could throw one stone and knock the giant out for good. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, right?

  Wrong.

  Ugo gets up.

  He recovers so fast I’m not ready for it. He just leaps forward and swings.

  April screams.

  Ugo hits.

  It’s not like boxing, nothing technical like that. It’s more like his fist is a hammer, and I’m a nail, and he’s determined to drive me into the wall.

  But that’s not the biggest surprise. The biggest surprise is that I hit back.

  I don’t know how to box, so I slap. We stand in the middle of the hall like that, slapping and wrestling, surrounded by people shouting. Suddenly there’s an opening, so I rush him again. I duck even lower and closer to the ground, and I hit him with everything I’ve got.

  We fly backwards again, but this time when we hit the lockers, there’s an ugly smack as his head makes contact with the metal. The fight instantly drains out of him, and he slumps to the ground.

  It’s quiet in the hallway. People stand and look at us. Total shock.

  For a terrible second, I think maybe Ugo’s dead. I have this CSI moment, an animation of Ugo’s fourth vertebrae snapping. I’m sure I’ve killed him, and I’m going to jail for a thousand years.

  Another second goes by, or maybe it’s an hour. I can’t be sure.

  Then Ugo groans and moves around. His eyes open, and he looks at me.

  But he doesn’t get up.

  The crowd bursts into a cheer. People rush forward to congratulate me. I’m trying to hang on to April, but she gets lost in the mass of bodies.

  In one second my whole life changes. I’m not the fat weirdo, a tub of lard, the invisible blob, Jurassic Pork. I’m not even Andrew Zansky, football player, anymore.

  I’m the guy who kicked Ugo Agademi’s ass.

  all that testosterone stuff.

  I’ve seen Warner smile through nearly everything. When Ugo bodychecks him, he smiles. When jocks publicly humiliate him, he plays it off with a grin. When Billy Rodenheiser called him Abs of Flab onstage at an assembly in fifth grade, he laughed along with the whole school. He even smiled in seventh grade when they added swimming to the Phys Ed curriculum, and his bathing suit ripped halfway up the diving-board ladder.

  But here’s something I’ve never seen.

  I’m walking down the hall the day after the Ugo thing when I pass Warner.

  I say, “Hey, Warner,” like I always do.

  His smile drops away. He doesn’t say anything back, only moves to the other side of the hall.

  “Warner?” I say.

  He puts his head down and speeds up like he didn’t hear me.

  At first I think I must have imagined it. But as the day continues, I get strange reactions from everyone.

  The geeks act like Warner. They either pass me cautiously or stay far away from me. I thought I’d be a hero to them, but I’m more like an unknown quantity, something dangerous they might need to be afraid of.

  The powerful kids have an entirely different reaction.

  They simply nod.

  Not just athletes. Socialites. Preps. Even Becky Samuelson, spawn of the superstar.

  It’s so subtle, you could easily miss it. But if you photographed it with one of those high-speed cameras they use to take pictures of raindrops, you’d see it clear as day—heads bobbing all over the hall, little movements that say, You are one of us. You have entered the realm of the powerful, and we are going to acknowledge you now.

  That’s how it goes.

  Geeks and outsiders, the popular and respected.

  It’s like the whole school has split along some invisible fault line.

  Later when I’m on the field running laps before practice, Rodriguez says, “So what’s the deal? You’re a badass now?”

  “Not really,” I say.

  “Don’t screw with him,” Cheesy says, “or he will mess you up good.”

  “I heard the story,” Bison says. He bangs his fist against his chest. “Respect, baby.”

  That’s how the football players react to the Ugo thing. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve grown a pair of balls. Balls are good when you’re on a football team. Big balls are better. And humungous, King Kong–sized balls?

  Excelente.

  All except O. I’m on my second lap when he jogs up next to me.

  “Is it true?” he says. “You beat up that dude?”

  “I didn’t really beat him up. More like tackled him.”

  “The guy who was bothering you a couple weeks ago?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You have to be careful,” O. says. “People get expelled for fighting.”

  “He started it,” I say.

  “When you’re an athlete, they hold you to a higher standard,” O. says. “If Coach finds out, you’re in big trouble.”

  “Are you going to tell him?” I say.

  “Why would I do that?”

  We keep jogging. I notice I can keep up with O. now. It’s not easy, but I can breathe when I’m running. Not like before.

  “O., what happened that day with Ugo? Why did you save me?”

  “No reason,” he says.

  “We never talked about it.”

  “Drop it,” O. says.

  April walks across the field towards us. Players and cheerleaders aren’t allowed to mix during practice, so she’s kind of taking a risk.

  “Hi, guys,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  We stand there, the three of us, while the team runs by pretending not to look at us.

  “Did you hear what this guy did yesterday?” O. says.

  A minute ago he was criticizing me, and now he’s acting like he’s proud. Abracadabra.

  “I was there,” April says.

  “Really? I didn’t hear that part of the story,” O. says. He squints at me. “You were busting out your Heroes moves?”

  “It was scary,” April says.

  “Ugo’s a scar
y dude,” I say.

  “I mean you,” April says. “You scared me. It freaks me out when guys fight. All that testosterone stuff. I think it’s bullshit.”

  A whistle blows from the girls’ field, and April runs off.

  “That sucked,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?” O. says. “It was perfect.”

  “She hates me now.”

  “No, she’s scared of you. That’s much better than liking you. You’ve got an edge now.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Girls don’t sleep with like. They sleep with edge.”

  Coach appears from the back of the school, and O. and I start jogging again.

  “We’re paving the way,” O. says. “When I see her tonight, I’ll make sure she’s moving in the right direction on this.”

  My throat clenches.

  “You’re seeing her tonight?” I say.

  O. shrugs. “Math tutoring. I’m an idiot, remember?”

  a lot can happen in a millisecond.

  Ugo is dancing with Eytan. At least that’s what it looks like.

  I turn the corner onto the second floor, and I see them at the end of the hall with their arms around each other, moving back and forth like they’re practicing a waltz.

  That’s what it looks like, but that’s not what it is.

  It’s Ugo kicking Eytan’s ass.

  I’m not seeing the beginning of it. I’m seeing the end. I know because Eytan’s face is red like he’s holding back tears. Eytan doesn’t cry easily. I’ve only see him cry once, when Sveta went back to Düsseldorf last year.

  When I see Eytan and Ugo now, I freeze, not knowing what to do. Should I scream like a girl? Run to get a teacher? Rush down the hall and get into the middle of it? By the time I get there it will be over. And then what? Another cage match with Ugo?

  I got away with it the first time, but what about now? If a teacher sees me, I’m dead meat. I’ll get detention. Coach will find out, and I’ll be kicked off the team. Then my whole plan is in the toilet. Coach will be pissed, the team will hate me, Mom will freak out, and Dad—

  Forget it.

  All of that, and I haven’t helped Eytan at all.

  This all goes through my mind at the same time. All in a millisecond, you know? And the next millisecond—

  I turn around.

  I’m not turning my back on Eytan. I’m just turning in the direction of class. I can’t help him, so why make a big thing about it, right? Anyway, there are people all over the place, so nothing really bad can happen. I can go to class, and I know Eytan will be fine.

  That’s what I do. I put my head down, and I don’t look back.

  I rush to history class and sit next to April. I breathe in her fruit scent. It’s apple today. Not apple pie, but something more subtle. A bowl of green apples, ripening in the sun.

  Eytan walks in ten minutes later. His cheeks are blotchy and he has scratch marks on his neck.

  “You’re late,” Ms. Hartwell says.

  “I had an emergency,” Eytan says, and he looks right at me. He looks at me like he saw me in the hall upstairs. Like he knows everything.

  April’s thigh touches mine under the desk.

  I’m not a bad person. I’m making choices. I’m putting the team first. That’s all it is.

  I’m not a bad person.

  At least that’s what I tell myself.

  thinner.

  “What’s the emergency?” Dad says on the phone. “My secretary said you’ve been calling nonstop.”

  I can tell he’s irritated. Maybe it’s because I’ve left him eight messages this week to tell him about the game. If he had called me back the first time, I wouldn’t have had to call the other seven.

  “I have a game against Worcester tomorrow,” I say.

  “Tomorrow …,” Dad says. He sounds concerned.

  I look up at the stars on my bedroom ceiling. I remember the day Dad and I put them up. I was too short to reach the ceiling, and Dad had to boost me from the waist so I could stick each one on.

  “Can you come?” I say.

  “Definitely don’t want to miss it,” Dad says. “It’s just that I’m mid-trial. Anything could happen.”

  Dad holds his hand over the phone and says something to someone.

  “I’m back,” he says. “So … the game. Will your mom be there?”

  “Definitely,” I say.

  I don’t know why I lie about Mom. I want Dad to think she’s excited for me. Maybe he’ll be excited, too.

  “If she’s there, then you’ll have support,” Dad says.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say.

  “In case I get tied up.”

  “She’ll be there for me.”

  “I have to run now, Andy, but let’s stay in touch around this. E-mail me, okay? I’ll be there if I can. I promise.”

  There’s silence, neither of us knowing what to say next.

  The Dad Gap. That’s what I’m going to call it from now on.

  “Bye,” I say just before the phone cuts off.

  I look up and Jessica is standing in the doorway.

  I’m about to get angry with her for eavesdropping, when she says, “Dad’s a jerk sometimes.”

  “It’s true,” I say.

  “But what can we do?” Jessica says. She shrugs her shoulders and holds out her arms like an old Jewish man. It’s funny and sad at the same time.

  “Do you want to come in?” I say.

  She walks in and plops down on the floor. I toss her a pillow so she has something to sit on. I imagine it hurts to sit on such a tiny butt.

  I look at her in her giant T-shirt. It’s not just her butt that looks smaller. It’s all of her. It doesn’t seem possible that she could have lost any weight. There’s nothing for her to lose.

  “Is everything okay?” I say. “You look kind of skinny.”

  Her face turns ugly. I probably sound like Mom, trying to get her to eat. Mom’s got a tough job. She has to feed Jessica and starve me at the same time.

  “I’m not criticizing you,” I say. “I mean, look at me. I’m the size of a school bus.”

  “You look fine, Andy.”

  “Maybe on Elephantania.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the fat planet,” I say, and I point to a star on my ceiling.

  Jessica looks up. “Is that near FlatChesty-5?”

  We both laugh. Then Jessica says, “I guess I haven’t been hungry lately. But it’s not a problem.”

  “If it is, will you talk to me?”

  “Maybe.”

  I leave it at that. “Maybe” is better than nothing.

  “You never told me about the party,” she says. She tucks the pillow under her and stretches out on it.

  “I told you it went okay,” I say.

  “That’s boring. I want dirt.”

  “There’s no dirt.”

  “What happened with the girl?” Jessica says.

  “Like five million things. I couldn’t even tell you all of them. Anyway, I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Because of the game tomorrow?”

  Damn. She heard me tell Dad. “You can’t say anything!”

  Jessica’s eyes light up. “Can I come?” she says.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Why not?”

  “Mom’s not going to let you go out alone on a Friday night without a major interrogation.”

  Jessica pouts and punches my pillow. She sticks out her tongue like she does when she’s thinking hard.

  “How about this?” she says. “We can go together.”

  “Yeah. Great idea.”

  “If you take me, you’ll have the perfect cover. You can say you’re taking me to a game. You don’t even have to lie.”

  “Mom won’t believe we’re going to a game. She knows we hate sports.”

  “Then we’ll say it’s something else.”

  “Like what?” I say. And then it hits m
e. “A play.”

  “What play?” Jessica says.

  “Huckleberry Finn.”

  I look over and Jessica is biting her thumbnail. “I don’t know anything about Huckleberry Finn,” she says.

  “But I do.”

  game face.

  “Don’t let her out of your sight,” Mom says as we pull up to school.

  “I promise,” I say.

  “I mean it. You have to hold her hand every minute.”

  Jessica reaches over from the backseat and makes a big show of clenching my hand.

  “Oh, that’s so sweet,” Mom says. “I haven’t seen you two hold hands like that since you were little kids.”

  “Don’t get sentimental,” I say. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mom says.

  Jessica climbs out of the car. “Love you, Mommy,” she says, and bats her eyelashes.

  Academy Award material. Jessica might end up being a model after all.

  “I wish I was coming with you,” Mom says. “I really love the theater. But I have to do this cocktail party.”

  “Next time,” I say.

  We both wave and smile as Mom pulls away. As soon as the car turns the corner, Jessica lets go of my hand.

  “This is awesome,” she says.

  A black 4Runner pulls into the rear of the parking lot. I point it out to Jessica.

  “You see that?” I say. “That’s O. Douglas’s truck.”

  “No way!” she says. “Will you introduce me?”

  “Promise to behave yourself?”

  “I won’t tell him you sleep in pajamas, if that’s what you mean.”

  We wait while O. parks. I figure I’ll make a big show of introducing Jessica. Between that and the game, she’ll be in my debt forever. I’ll never have to watch another episode of Gossip Girl.

  O. gets out of his truck and stretches. I’m just about to call his name when the passenger door opens …

  … and April gets out.

  “Is that his girlfriend?” Jessica says.

  we’re on the same team.

  Our team jogs onto the field, and the crowd goes crazy. That’s how it is when you’re on a team. You don’t have to do anything except show up in a uniform, and people react to you. It’s a far stretch from Model UN.