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

by Allen Zadoff

  “I don’t see why it’s irresponsible to let a boy grow up a little. You can’t coddle him forever.”

  “Look at him,” Mom says.

  Dad looks at me. They both do.

  “Look at his weight,” Mom says.

  They both look down at my stomach.

  “I hate you,” I say to Mom.

  “Hate me all you want,” Mom says. “It’s my job to take care of you. That’s what a parent does.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Dad says.

  “He needs to hear this.”

  “He needs to hear that he’s fat?” Dad says. “He knows he’s fat.”

  “I’m going to my room,” I say.

  “That’s a good idea,” Dad says. “I’m sorry you have to be a part of this, Andy. Your mom and I obviously have a few things to work out.”

  “Stay there,” Mom says to me. She turns to Dad. “This is not your house anymore. You don’t call the shots. As difficult as that may be for you to comprehend.”

  Dad takes a deep breath. I can see him trying not to lose his temper, say something he’ll regret later during a settlement negotiation.

  “Guys, can I say something, please?” I say.

  “No,” Mom and Dad say at the same time.

  “He shouldn’t be playing sports in his condition,” Mom says.

  “That’s not what the doctor said.”

  “How do you know what the doctor said? In fifteen years you’ve never gone to an appointment.”

  I say, “Remember how the allergist said it would be good for me to play sports? He said it would expand my breathing capacity.”

  He also said we should move to Arizona and I should play a wind instrument, but I don’t mention those things. I spent two miserable years taking clarinet lessons, and I’ve never gotten over it. Fat people should not be forced to play thin instruments. It’s a cruel visual joke.

  “That allergist was a long time ago,” Mom says. “Things change.”

  “Clearly,” Dad says.

  “This is not a conversation about asthma,” Mom says.

  “Exactly,” Dad says. “It’s about your misplaced anger.”

  “Since when am I angry?” Mom says.

  She says it so angrily, it almost makes me laugh.

  Dad doesn’t say anything. He goes to the window and looks out through the curtains. The streetlight is on in front of the house, a single pool of light in a black frame.

  Dad takes a breath.

  “I’m going to New York sooner than planned. Did Andy tell you?”

  I hear a gasp from the top of the stairs. Jessica is up there eavesdropping.

  “He didn’t mention it,” Mom says.

  Mom looks at me. I can see that I’m going to be spending a lot of time in my room in the weeks to come.

  “When?” Mom says. Her voice is soft now.

  “November first.”

  Mom takes a breath. “That’s it, then.”

  “Not entirely. I’ll be commuting for a while.”

  “Still,” Mom says. “You’re going away.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wish you well, Edward.”

  It gets quiet in the living room. Dad walks slowly to the liquor cabinet where he keeps his scotch. When he opens the door, it’s empty inside.

  “Where’s my Glenlivet?” He says.

  “Nobody drinks here,” Mom says. “Not anymore.”

  Dad runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. He looks at me on the sofa.

  “What about his form, Elizabeth?”

  “Absolutely not. He almost died out there. I will not sign that form under any circumstances.”

  Dad holds his hands out to me. “I tried,” he says.

  I look at Mom and Dad standing at opposite ends of the room, their arms crossed.

  I tried, too.

  Nobody told me you could try your best and still end up failing. They don’t write about that kind of stuff in kids’ books. If they told you that when you were a kid, maybe you wouldn’t grow up.

  twisted.

  Ugo is roughing up Warner. It’s easy to miss at first because they’re standing really close to each other at the end of the hall. If you didn’t know they were enemies, you might think they were friends sharing a secret together. Except for the fact that Warner’s crying, and Ugo has two fingers clamped on his nipple.

  Titty Twister.

  I know what that’s like. It hurts like hell, but the worst part is not the pain. It’s the fact that you can’t twist what’s not there. Titty Twisters remind you that you have titties, that you’re a fat kid who maybe deserves to get twisted.

  First Eytan, now Warner.

  I can’t be sure what this is, but I know what it feels like: Ugo can’t get to me, so he’s targeting my friends. Or my ex-friends. Whatever. I’m sure there’s no difference to him.

  The question is, what am I going to do about it? I can keep walking away and spend the semester watching Ugo slaughter the rest of the geeks. Or I can stand up. What would O. do?

  “Stop it,” I say to Ugo.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” he says.

  Warner is crying behind him. Ugo lets go of his nipple and pushes his chest, pinning him against a locker.

  “The rest of your team,” Ugo says. “I don’t see them around, either.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Which means you have no protection,” he says.

  “I don’t need protection. Remember?”

  “Is that what you think?” Ugo says. He yawns, entirely unconcerned. Not at all like someone who got his ass kicked last week.

  That gets my mind going. I beat Ugo once. It’s true. But I had the element of surprise on my side. What if I can’t do it again? What if I get into real trouble?

  Maybe the team comes to back me up. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re pissed at being lied to, and they leave me out here alone. I can’t be sure.

  Ugo takes a fast step towards me, and I flinch.

  A dark grin spreads across his face. Guys like Ugo, they may not be smart with the books, but they’re smart in other ways. They’re smart with reading people.

  And I just gave myself away.

  “See you around,” Ugo says, and throws me a little salute.

  He gives Warner one more nasty tweak on his nipple, then he slogs down the hall, walking slowly and dragging his feet, making sure his work boots squeak against the linoleum so I can hear every step.

  just plain Zansky.

  I go in the other direction towards AP History class. I walk down the same hall I’ve been walking down for the last six weeks, but everything feels different.

  I try to walk like the old me from freshman year.

  Who was I back then?

  Smart Andrew. Geek Andrew. Fat Andrew.

  I thought I was doing okay in those days. I knew I wasn’t cool, but I didn’t think I was a loser. At least I never felt like a loser when I was hanging out with Eytan.

  Of course back then I didn’t know what being a winner felt like.

  As I walk, I try to wipe out the memory of everything I’ve learned and seen in the last month. Eternal Sunshine my brain. Go back to the beginning when I was just plain Andrew. No love at second sight. No football parties. No hanging out in O.’s backyard.

  I take ten steps, walking just like the old me. I’m hoping it will feel familiar and comfortable, but it doesn’t.

  It feels like I don’t know who I am anymore.

  a feeble attempt to recapture the dream.

  I jog onto the field in my football uniform, picking up pace as I pass the cheerleaders. April looks up, surprised.

  I glance at my watch. It’s 3:45 and I’m fifteen minutes late for practice, so I’m really going to have to apologize to Coach.

  Coach sees me coming. “Zansky!” he calls. He whistles me over.

  The Neck watches silently.

  “Did your mother change her mind?” Coach says.

  “Not exact
ly.”

  “So you don’t have the form?”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  Coach grits his teeth. “I can’t let you play,” he says.

  “It’s in process, Coach.”

  “Sorry. They’ll put my ass in a wood chipper.”

  “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

  Coach puts his arm around me. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, son.”

  “Can’t I just practice for one day?” I say.

  He takes a step back and twirls his moustache. His voice gets loud. Coach-mode.

  “I want you off this field immediately,” he says. “Take some downtime. Hit the books.”

  The guys are staring. The cheerleaders are staring. I think about the game on Friday, sitting on the field with oxygen strapped on my face, my mom sitting on the field ten feet away with her own oxygen.

  “Please, Coach.” It comes out like a whimper. Desperate. Pitiful.

  O. lowers his head.

  “It’s out of my hands,” Coach says.

  He reaches across and grasps my shoulder for a second. Then he turns his back on me.

  private practice.

  I walk home from school alone. Even though I’m depressed as hell, I jog a little. I figure just because I can’t practice with the team doesn’t mean I can’t practice on my own.

  I imagine I’m on the field and I hear the whistle blow. Coach is watching me. April is cheering. O. is depending on me.

  I sprint to the corner. Then I walk a tight circle with my hands on my hips—the guys call it sucking wind—then I sprint again. It feels dumb doing it in my street clothes with a backpack on, but that just makes me push harder.

  The longer I do it, the more it seems like a great plan. I’ll have my own private practice every day. I’ll stay in shape until I find a way back onto the field.

  I pick a point all the way down the street, and I run there as fast as I can. I’m three quarters of the way when I get a terrible cramp in my ribs, and I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and grasp my side in pain.

  A BMW slows down by the side of the road. The window goes down, and a lady looks at me.

  “Excuse me,” she says.

  I ignore her, rub my chest.

  “Young man?”

  “What!” I say, breathless.

  “Are you having a heart attack?”

  Jesus Christ. A fat kid can’t even stop and breathe in the street without someone calling 911.

  “Do you need help?” the lady says.

  “Leave me alone.”

  I keep walking, trying to rub the pain out of my side. She drives slowly alongside me, watching me carefully.

  “I could drive you to the emergency room,” she says.

  “Screw you,” I say.

  That does it. She rolls up the window and pulls away.

  the sound of salad.

  My head is filled with the sound of Caesar salad. The crunch of croutons between my teeth. Crisp lettuce being destroyed in my mouth. When I start to think about football, I chew louder. I reach for more croutons to drown out the thoughts.

  I’ve had to chew a lot lately to keep up. I’ve spent a week burying April in pizza toppings and crushing O. with pretzels. When I remember the game, I eat chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream by the tablespoonful. I drown the memories in an avalanche of icy cold cream.

  Jessica, Mom, and I sit at the table tonight, chewing in silence. Maybe they’ve got their own things to drown out. I don’t know.

  I look at Jessica’s plate. There are six lettuce leaves in a pile, and she’s wiping dressing off of one. She won’t eat it until it’s practically bare. Mom is moving salad around on the plate but not really eating. Just making angry scraping sounds.

  That’s our dinner. Three silent people and one empty chair. Lots of lettuce.

  And then the doorbell rings.

  Our doorbell never rings. Not at this hour. Not at any hour.

  “Are you expecting someone?” Mom says. It sounds like an accusation. Like she’s had enough surprises for one year.

  “No,” I say.

  This is the most conversation we’ve had in seventy-two hours.

  “I’ll get it!” Jessica says. She’ll use any excuse not to eat.

  “Be careful,” Mom says.

  While Mom is distracted by the door, I put a second huge tong of Caesar salad on my plate.

  “Mom!” Jessica shouts. Her voice sounds funny, like there’s some kind of problem.

  Mom gets up and goes to the door. I drop the tongs and use my fingers to pick croutons out of the bowl. Big fat ones.

  “Andrew! Come here!” Mom shouts.

  What the hell’s going on out there?

  I walk into the living room and I see—get this—half the football team standing in our doorway. O. is in the front with Cheesy next to him. April’s there, too. So is Lisa Jacobs and some other girls I barely know.

  “Are these your friends?” Mom says.

  Are they? I’m not sure.

  O. says, “We’re sorry to bother you at home, Mrs. Zansky, but we were hoping to talk to you and Andy.”

  “Who are you?” she says.

  “We’re the football squad,” he says.

  “Varsity,” Cheesy says, as if that makes a difference to Mom.

  Mom looks at me strangely, like maybe I planned a surprise attack.

  “It’s okay with me,” I say.

  Mom sighs. “Who’s hungry?” she says.

  I was wrong about it being half the team. Actually, it’s the whole team and the entire cheer squad. They’re stuffed into our living room now—sitting, standing, leaning, girls sitting cross-legged on the floor. Mom quickly goes into catering mode, whipping out trays of mini egg rolls. She’s doling them out defensively like little missiles.

  Nobody has said why they’re here yet. They’re just chewing and thanking Mom. Cheesy tries to pick a mini egg roll off the tray. He’s got hands like snow shovels, so he really has to concentrate to take just one.

  Jessica’s eyes are jumping around in her head. She’s got twenty hot guys in her house, and ten beautiful cheerleaders. She goes from flirting with guys to being shy to asking the girls about their hair. She keeps walking past O., trying to get his attention.

  I sneak looks at April. I want to be angry with her, but when I see her in my house, it’s impossible. My head is angry, but my heart keeps opening up all on its on. It pisses me off that I can’t just close it and keep it shut.

  Mom runs back to the kitchen for more missiles. I’m wondering how long this is going to go on when O. finally says, “If it’s all right with you, Mrs. Zansky, we’ll get down to business.”

  Mom freezes like a trapped animal.

  “Of course,” she says, and smoothes down her apron.

  She looks for a place to sit. Rodriguez jumps out of the armchair and brushes it off for her. Mom hesitates. It’s Dad’s chair, but Rodriguez wouldn’t know that.

  “Andrew is a very important part of this team,” O. says.

  Mom sinks into the chair.

  “We know he made a mistake, and he has some health problems, but we’d like to help him if we can.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mom says.

  “We need him,” April says.

  “You do?” Mom says.

  I feel like I’m going to faint.

  O. says, “We’re hoping there’s some way we could work this out.”

  Mom looks upset. “Of course I want Andrew to be happy,” she says.

  What else is she going to say? She’s sitting across from a thousand pounds of offensive linemen.

  “Andrew’s our boy,” Rodriguez says. “You should see him out there on the field, Mrs. Z.”

  “I did see him,” Mom says.

  In an oxygen mask. But she doesn’t say that.

  “Things won’t be the same without him,” April says, and she bats her eyes at Mom. I notice Mom soften a bit.

  “Andrew has a serious asthma prob
lem,” Mom says.

  “Is there medicine he could take?” O. asks.

  “There is medicine …,” Mom says tentatively. She glances at me. I keep my face neutral. “But football is a dangerous game, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a tough game, there’s no question,” O. says. “But there’s a lot of protective technology that’s applied in our gear. Safety comes first. Always.”

  “And we’re a team,” Bison says. “We protect each other.”

  “Yeah!” the guys grunt. It comes out really loud in our living room. O. holds up his hands like he doesn’t want things to get out of control.

  Mom looks around the room, her eyes flitting nervously from person to person.

  “I didn’t know Andrew had so many friends,” she says. She looks at me proudly. “It’s nice for a mother to see.”

  I try to see what she sees. Thirty people, all here to support her son. That’s when I notice it’s not the entire team. There’s one person missing. The Neck.

  “Andrew,” Mom says, “do you want to play football?”

  The whole team looks at me. It’s a really strange moment. Mom never asks me questions directly like this, like I might actually have a choice in the matter. She always decides things for me, then we fight over her decision.

  “Andrew?” Mom says.

  “Earth to Andy,” April says, and everyone laughs. But they do it in a nice way, like we’re all in this together.

  “Do you want to play?” Mom says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Even after what happened?” Mom says.

  “More than anything,” I say.

  The room goes quiet. Cheesy crunches down on an egg roll, and it sounds like thunder.

  Everyone’s waiting for Mom now.

  “Okay, then,” Mom says softly. “We’ll find a way to make it work.”

  The team bursts into applause.

  I get up fast and go to my room to get the consent form. Before she can change her mind.

  the sidewalk, the moon, and april.

  The party lasts for an hour after Mom signs the form. Everyone is in a great mood, and Mom keeps the hors d’oeuvres flowing. It feels like we just won a game together, only we did it in my living room.