Initiation

by Phil M. Williams

  “Thanks,” Carter said raising the plastic bottle.

  “I have to admit, you are pretty fast.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It would be cool if we could both start this year.” Ben took a swig of Gatorade.

  “It’ll happen.” Carter half-smiled and took a drink.

  Ben exhaled. “I hope so.”

  – 2 –

  Three’s a Crowd

  Carter opened the refrigerator and grabbed a gallon of milk. He filled his glass and his bowl of cereal. He sat on a stool at the counter bar in the open-plan kitchen. From the next room he could see a rerun of Magnum P.I. playing on the thirty-six-inch television. He heard light steps from the adjoining stairway. He saw thin legs, short shorts, and a tank top with exposed bra straps. The girl carried a duffel bag.

  “Where are you going dressed like that?” he asked.

  “None of your business,” Alyssa said.

  Alyssa Arnold was short and thin, bumps developing on her chest. Her body reflected her twelve years of age. Her face was cute, from her button nose to her round blue eyes. Her hair was dyed blonde, the ends heated into curls. Her smile was infectious and loaded with metal.

  “Dad’s right downstairs,” he said.

  She put a hand on her hip, the other clutching her bag. “So.”

  “If he sees you wearing that – ”

  “I got a change of clothes.” She held up the duffel bag.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “What do you care?” She slammed the front door behind her.

  Carter drank the sugary milk from his bowl and washed it in the sink. The front door opened. His mother appeared, loaded down with shopping bags from clothing outlets. Her thin arms were taut from the weight.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” she said as she breezed into the kitchen.

  Grace Arnold was proud of the fact that she’d stayed thin even into her late thirties. Her dark hair was shoulder length, parted on the side, no bangs. Her face was caked in high-end makeup, her small blue eyes enhanced by the optical illusion of the eyeliner. She wore designer jeans that were more high school than mom. Her low-cut T-shirt exposed her protruding collarbone and skin that had seen one too many tanning bed sessions.

  She kissed Carter on the cheek with tacky lipstick.

  Carter discreetly wiped his cheek on the shoulder of his shirt.

  “What are you doing, standing here all by yourself?” she asked, her head cocked.

  “I just finished eating. I was gonna go over to Ben’s in a few minutes.”

  She was quiet for a moment, listening. “What’s your dad been doing?”

  He frowned. “When I went running this morning, he was on the computer. When I was lifting this afternoon, he was on the computer. Wanna guess where he is now?”

  His mother exhaled and pursed her lips. She stomped downstairs to the basement.

  Carter heard sharp voices.

  “Is this what you’re planning to do with your life?” she said.

  “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want – I’m retired,” his dad said.

  “We can’t live on your retirement. Especially not around here.”

  “You’d better get a job then.”

  “I thought D.C. was full of defense contractor jobs?”

  “You need to get off my fuckin’ back.”

  “I knew this was going to happen. It would all fall on me. I can’t count on you for – ”

  Carter heard the squeak of the computer chair, and the slamming of something against the wall.

  “What did I just say?” his dad said.

  Carter gripped the handrail at the top of the basement steps, his knuckles white. He took one step down.

  “If you ever fuckin’ talk to me like that again,” his dad said.

  Carter released the handrail, turned around, and marched out the front door. He stood on the stoop, humid air settling on his skin. The sun was setting, the sky a searing orange. He took several deep breaths. There was a faint crash from the basement. Carter jumped from the stoop and dashed down the sidewalk. He stopped at the end unit townhouse, just seven lots down from his own. The front door was on the side wall of the house a floor up. He took the steps two at a time to the landing and rang the doorbell.

  The door swung open. The spicy, sweet smell of cooking oregano, basil, and tomato wafted outside. “Carter, honey, how are you?” Mrs. Wheeler asked.

  “I’m good,” he said, looking away.

  “Come in, come in… Ben’s in his room.” She stepped aside and motioned with her hand.

  Carter stepped inside. A black cat with white paws rubbed in and around his legs in a figure of eight. He bent down and petted her head.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner? We’re having spaghetti and meatballs.”

  He stood up. “It smells really good.”

  She smiled. “It’s settled then. I’ll add a chair to the table.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “Tell Ben it’ll be ready in twenty minutes.”

  With each step up the stairs, the scratching of records and the pumping of bass grew a little louder. Carter knocked. Ice Cube was talking about goin’ toe to toe with the police. He knocked harder.

  “Come in,” Ben said over the bass.

  Carter opened the door and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. A single bed sat along the right hand wall with a disheveled Washington Redskins comforter. The walls were covered with football heroes and bikini models. A desk with a computer sat in one corner, while a Kenwood stereo with stacks of CDs and tapes stood in the other. Across from the bed there was a forty-eight-inch television and a black leather chair. Ben sat holding a game controller, scoring touchdowns with tiny pixelated football players. He wore a North Potomac Marauders Football T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His arms were veiny.

  Ben glanced at Carter and lifted his chin, then went back to his game. Carter turned the music down, wheeled over the chair from the desk, and sat down next to him.

  “You don’t like N.W.A.?” Ben asked, his eyes glued to the screen.

  “N.W.A.?”

  “Niggaz Wit Attitudes. This shit gets me pumped.”

  Carter smirked. “Are white people allowed to say that?”

  “It’s not the N-word. It’s niggazzzz, with a Z.”

  “Seems like the same thing to me.”

  “Damn, Panama must really be behind the times.”

  “Would you say it to one of the black kids on the team?”

  “Well, no. But if I did, it’d be cool.”

  Carter nodded.

  Ben glanced at Carter’s loose khaki Bermuda shorts and his black “Cerveza Panama” T-shirt.

  “What do you listen to? Panama salsa or some shit?” He looked back at his game and called another play.

  Carter shrugged. “Your mom said dinner is gonna be ready in twenty minutes.”

  “You’re not staying, are you?”

  “Your mom invited me.”

  Ben paused the game and tossed the controller to the floor. He turned to Carter with a scowl. “Sarah’s coming over. I can’t have you cock-blocking.”

  Carter smiled, shaking his head. “Have you told her how you feel?”

  “I’m working up to it.”

  “She thinks you guys are friends.”

  “If she didn’t like me, she wouldn’t be hanging around all the time.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Seriously, man, I’m sorry, but you need to go. She gets all weird when you’re around. It’s like you’re this novelty, being the new kid and all.”

  “All right.” Carter stood up.

  The door burst open. “What up, bitchez,” Sarah said with a grin. She wore short blue athletic shorts and a white T-shirt.

  Ben turned toward the door. “You could knock,” he said.

  “Afraid I might catch you jerking off?”

  Ben blushed. “Funny.”


  “Hey, Sarah,” Carter said with a smile.

  Sarah smirked, pushing her red hair off her glasses. “Hey, Carter.” She looked at Carter, then to Ben, back to Carter, and then back to Ben. “You two don’t have something going on, do you? If you want to come out to me, I’ll be cool with it.” She glanced at the stereo. “Now Dr. Dre on the other hand, he might have an issue with it.”

  Carter laughed.

  Ben shook his head. “That’s enough with the gay, Sarah. It’s really not funny anymore.”

  “Carter’s laughing,” she said.

  Ben narrowed his eyes at Carter.

  “I was just leaving,” Carter said.

  He started toward the open bedroom door. Sarah stood with her arms spread apart, blocking his exit. She had a crooked smile, her dimples on display.

  “Not without the magic word,” she said.

  “Abracadabra?” Carter asked.

  “No.”

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  He looked at the ceiling, then back to her. “Sarah’s the coolest girl in all of Virginia, and I wish I was as cool as her.”

  She blushed and put her hand over her chest. “What a good guesser you are. I thought you’d be stuck in here forever … with your lover.” She smiled wide.

  Ben scowled.

  “So where are you going?” she asked.

  Carter shrugged.

  “What kind of an answer is that?”

  He shrugged again. She punched him in the arm.

  “You hit like a girl,” Carter said with a grin.

  “Didn’t want to hurt you. If I did, your mom would be upset. She’d call my mom. My mom would get mad at me and tell me how I’m not supposed to use my superpowers. Then I’d have to explain that I was just trying to toughen you up for football – that it was for your own good. Then the government would find out about my powers and I’d be on the run for the rest of my life, living in the shadows, fighting for justice. It would have been a big mess.”

  Carter laughed. “Clearly … I’ll see you guys later.”

  “No seriously, where are you going?” She pressed out her lower lip.

  “I have work to do at home.”

  “Oh bullshit. Mrs. Wheeler made you a place for dinner. She already thinks you’re staying. It would be super rude to leave now.” She looked at Ben. “Don’t you think Carter should stay?”

  Ben shrugged.

  “Not you too.” She frowned.

  “He can do whatever he wants,” Ben said.

  “At least stay for dinner. Then you can go do whatever boring shit you have to do. Pleeeeeeze.”

  Carter shook his head. “Okay.”

  Ben exhaled and returned to his game.

  Sarah and Carter strolled to the computer chair and stood next to Ben.

  “You can sit,” Carter said. “I’ll sit on the floor.”

  “Nope!” She put her hand on his chest and pushed him into the chair. “We can sit together.”

  “Wait – ”

  Sarah sat down on his lap, her curves in all the right places. Carter felt the blood rush to his groin. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands. She felt warm on his lap. Ben gaped at them, his eyes narrowed, his face beet red. Sarah looked at him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said, turning back to his game.

  “Since when did you start cutting your sleeves off?” Sarah asked.

  Ben ignored her.

  “Sun’s out, guns out.” She giggled. “You look all veiny. Were you pumping up for me?”

  Ben’s face went red again. He smacked controller buttons unnecessarily hard.

  Carter couldn’t contain his erection. He needed a graceful exit.

  “Can I turn you?” Carter asked, hoping to get her groin off of his. “You’re kinda hurting me.”

  She blushed and stood up. “Oh sorry. It’s just my fat ass. I’m going to go help Mrs. Wheeler set the table. I’ll leave you two lovebirds.”

  And with that she was gone.

  Ben threw his controller, bouncing it off of his Nintendo. He eyed Carter, his jaw set tight. “Nice job, asshole.”

  – 3 –

  Two-a-Days

  Carter sat on the wooden bench in front of his locker. He was bent at the waist, tying his cleats. A thick haze of body odor hung in the air. It was quiet except for the rustling sound of pads being shoved into pants and girdles, the plastic parts of shoulder pads smacking together, and the click-clack of cleats across the tile floor. He tied a double knot and sat up straight. Ben sat next to him, rigid, his face pale, his cleats tapping the tile.

  “Are you all right?” Carter asked Ben.

  Ben was dazed.

  “Are you all right?” Carter said again, louder this time.

  “Huh?” Ben said.

  “You look a little pale.”

  Ben’s eyes blinked into focus. He shook his head and grabbed a handful of his white jersey. “This fucking jersey is bullshit.”

  “What’s wrong? It doesn’t fit right?”

  Ben exhaled. “You don’t know, do you?”

  Carter shrugged. “Know what?”

  “Your jersey color.”

  “What about it?” Carter looked down at his white number 20 jersey.

  “Look around,” Ben said. “You’ll figure it out.”

  Carter glanced around the locker room. Zach, Noah, and Luke stood in the center talking, paying no attention to the traffic jam they were creating. Zach and Noah wore black, Luke wore red. The biggest, most athletic kids wore black jerseys. Others, slightly smaller, wore gold. Everyone else wore white.

  “They already decided?” Carter asked.

  Ben glowered. “They act like everyone has a chance. Coach Pitts said last year that I had a good chance to start if I worked hard. It’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not a big deal. It’s only the first day of full pads. They haven’t seen anything yet.”

  Ben shook his head. “You’re delusional. This isn’t Panama. Those black jerseys rarely change hands. We never lose, so the coaches never have a reason give anyone else a shot. Once kids get that black jersey, they never give it up. Occasionally a gold jersey moves up to black, but never us.”

  “Us?” Carter raised his eyebrows.

  “We’re the scout team. So get ready to get your ass handed to you every day for the rest of the season. Don’t worry though. On Friday nights, we’ll get a good view from the sideline.”

  “You’re looking at this all wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “We’re gonna have an opportunity every day to make the first string look bad.” Carter stood up and slammed his locker shut. “Eventually they’ll have to move us up.”

  Luke Brewer strutted past, his helmet in hand.

  “Hey, Luke, what’s up,” Ben said, smiling.

  Luke scowled in response. He was tall, tan, and chiseled. He had a square jaw and a symmetrical face.

  “What about the red jersey?” Carter asked.

  “That’s for kids you can’t hit, like the quarterback, or Dwayne over there.” Ben motioned to a tall, muscular dark-skinned kid checking himself out in the mirror on the inside of his locker. “He was second team all-state last year, but he’s got shoulder problems.”

  “So?”

  “So he’s really good, and the coaches don’t want him getting hurt in practice.”

  Carter grabbed his helmet from the bench. “I’ll see you out there.”

  Ben glanced up at the analog clock on the wall. “We still have twenty minutes.”

  “I need to warm up and stretch. Flexibility’s important, remember?”

  “Whatever.” Ben stood up and slammed his locker shut.

  Carter was shouldered from behind as Zach and Noah walked past.

  “Hey, Zach, Noah,” Ben said. “You guys look like you’re ready to hit someone.”

  Zach looked Ben up and down as if he were calculating his value. “You look like
you’re about to shit a brick.”

  Ben looked down.

  Zach had long, white, beefy limbs and a blond crew cut. His face was full, his blue eyes small and deep set.

  “If you’re scared, say you’re scared,” Noah said.

  Noah was short and stocky: the physique of a bodybuilder. His face was young and bright, more boy-next-door than meathead.

  Carter glared at them.

  “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” Zach said.

  Carter stood silent, his eyes locked on Zach. His knuckles were white where he clutched his helmet. Zach and Noah laughed and left the locker room. Ben’s eyes hadn’t left the ground. Carter turned to him, smacking him on his shoulder pads.

  “Hey, forget it.” Carter smiled. “First day of hitting, let’s have some fun.”

  Carter jogged from the locker room to the practice field. The morning sun burned bright. He passed racially segregated groups of his teammates walking.

  “What you runnin’ fo?” a gigantic dark-skinned kid said, his gut hanging over his belt. “Ain’t no coaches ’round to impress.” Mike Townsend was scrawled across a piece of athletic tape stuck to his helmet. He must have been over three hundred pounds, his chubby face full, his eyes mere slits.

  Carter continued jogging. He stood on one foot at the edge of the practice field holding onto a chain-link fence. He pulled his leg back, his heel touching his butt. A group of black kids sauntered by, joking.

  Mike Townsend said, “Coach Ware’s so black that if he had a red light, he’d be a motherfuckin’ pager.” The kids laughed.

  “I got one,” Dwayne said with a grin. “Coach Ware’s so black that the oil light turns on when he gets out the car.” They laughed with bright white smiles.

  “No, no, no,” Mike said. “Coach Ware’s so black when he goes outside the street lights be comin’ on.” Laughter erupted.

  Dwayne shook his head with a smile and said, “Coach Ware’s so black Oprah Winfrey says, damn you’re purple.” Raucous laughter ensued.

  Dwayne eyed Carter.

  “Hey, white boy,” Dwayne said. Carter looked over. “That Jane Fonda shit ain’t gonna help you today.”

  Carter nodded, still stretching.

  A whistle blew. A handful of coaches marched onto the practice field. The players sprinted to arrange themselves neatly along the white lines. Carter stood in the back, white jerseys all around him. They spelled Marauders with jumping jacks and performed various stretches to a ten count. Head Coach Cowan and the offensive coordinator Coach Ware paced between the lines, inspecting players for defects.