In Real Life

by Lawrence Tabak

  As if he’s reading my mind Garrett looks up from his cereal and says, “That girl of yours, Hannah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have to hear it from me, she is really something, and not just hot. I’m not kidding, if you weren’t in the picture…”

  “Thanks for the consideration,” I say, sarcastically.

  “She didn’t bat an eye, the other morning.”

  “It was the afternoon.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, don’t screw it up.”

  Just what I’ve been thinking. So I ask him, “How do I screw it up?”

  This seems to snap something in Garrett. He pauses and shakes his head. “Jeez Seth. I don’t have near enough time…”

  I can see his mind spinning, tabulating all the lost Kimberlys. “Sometimes you never know. And sometimes,” he smiles slowly, “Sometimes you can’t forget.”

  I admire his honesty, but don’t see much actionable advice here. So I scoop up another spoonful of Lucky Charms and just say, “Right. Don’t worry. I won’t get caught in bed with her sister.”

  “Shit,” Garrett says, choking on his cereal. “You know about that? How the hell would you…”

  And then we’re both laughing so hard that I’m afraid milk is going to come out of my nose.

  After breakfast I help Garrett load up his car. When he’s behind the wheel and about to pull out he motions me over.

  “One more thing,” he says. “Not that I know squat about this gaming world. But I’ve been around sports a long time. Remember Mitch Hudson—played center for us last year?”

  I nod, although I don’t.

  “Anyway, the guy is six-eleven. A real horse. Not much finesse, but come on, how many guys are there that size? So first he waits for the draft. Nothing. Then his agent, who must be a complete loser, keeps telling him that a call will be coming in any day, for a tryout. He waits and waits. Almost flunks out last semester, he’s so stressed out. Nada. Nothing. He’s playing in Greece this year, for peanuts. Anyway, what I’m saying is, the longer you don’t hear from those Korean guys…”

  I tell him I know. Then watch him as he drives away, faster than he should, as always. As I head upstairs to the computer the place seems somehow emptier than it has ever been before.

  46.

  Hannah and I have our last shift before school on a Wednesday, and I’m hoping we get assigned in the back together, but Jake, the night manager, he sticks me there with this new kid while Hannah runs the register. All the managers seem to like her up front. Either she’s really good at balancing the register or she makes a good impression. Actually I think it’s both.

  So I’m halfway through the shift, resigned to dealing pepperonis for another couple of hours when Hannah sticks her head into the kitchen and calls for me.

  I hop over to the door. Hoping she’s going to say something personal or ask if she can come by my place after work. I glance down at my white apron, which has more than its share of tomato sauce.

  “Hey,” she says. I’m confused by her smile. I give her a questioning look.

  “There’s a girl out front asking for you.”

  “A girl?”

  “Yeah. She’s really pretty. Says that you two are pals from school.”

  I take off the apron, throw it onto the counter and step out of the double doors. Brit and some guy I recognize from North are standing at the register. She’s waving at me.

  When I get to the counter she says, “Hi Seth! I heard you were working here!” Then I realize Hannah is standing next to me.

  “Yeah. Hi to you too. And…” I’m looking at the guy with her who is really familiar but I can’t remember his name.

  “Luke,” he says.

  “Yeah Luke. Yeah, it’s good to see you guys.” Then I look over at Hannah who is just standing there, taking it all in.

  “Um, Brit. Luke, I’d like to you to meet my friend. Hannah.”

  They all say hi to each other. “She just moved here this summer and is going to be at North with us.”

  Brit asks her what year and when Hannah says senior she moans and says that it must be horrible having to move before senior year.

  Hannah nods and then glances at me and says, “Well, it’s not all horrible. I mean I’ve already met some really nice people.”

  Brit is looking right at me and I think she’s got it all figured out. I’m always amazed at how quickly some kids can do this social processing. Like you have to just spell it out for me, but people like Brit, they can do social calculus the way I do regular math.

  “You know you’re working with the biggest brainiac at North,” Brit says. “He personally salvaged my A in history last semester.”

  I’m shaking my head, blushing. “Not true,” I protest. “Innocent on both charges.”

  Hannah seems to be enjoying this exchange immensely.

  “If you get a break come sit with us for a minute,” Brit says, looking at both me and Hannah. Then just at me. “You’re making this pizza for us?”

  “I could. Or I could delegate it to one of my many minions in the back.”

  Brit laughs and says that I should make it. That she likes the personal touch.

  I go back and take her order off the screen and put on a lot more ingredients than Mr. O’Neill would be happy with. When I get it in the oven I stick my head out and see that it’s slow out front and Hannah has snuck off, pulled up a chair to Brit and Luke’s booth. They seem to be getting along famously.

  I’m thinking about joining them when Jake picks up the phone and types in a five-pizza order. Then some women’s softball team comes in. By the time we get all caught up Brit and Luke are gone.

  That night, when we’re cleaning up, Hannah says that it was nice to meet some more kids from North.

  I tell her that she’ll fit right in. That the key thing was getting involved. And then I realize that I’m just saying stuff my mother used to tell me all the time. The fact is, I’m not involved in anything at school other than spending as little time there as possible.

  As I put away the mop I’m hoping that Hannah will want to do something after work. Maybe come over to my place. But as we help Jake lock up she says, “I promised I’d head straight back. Mom wants me to get into going to bed on time, to get on schedule for school.”

  That sounds like a mom. My van is in back, just next to Hannah’s and I stand with her as she unlocks her car.

  “By the way,” Hannah says, standing with the door open. “Brit says you had this major crush on her last year. She thought it was so cute.”

  “She said what?” And I’m thinking how to deny it. But I’m pretty sure my jaw just dropped about a foot and that I must have looked, in that pose, like an embarrassed idiot. Which is just as good as saying, “Just because I browsed her Facebook page a hundred thousand times doesn’t mean…” Hannah swings inside the van. Just after shutting the door she rolls her window down.

  “Come over here,” she says. I do. She leans out of the window and I step in next to the van and we’re kissing. Then she leans back into the van, looking completely happy.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Hannah says. “That hunky guy she was with? Luke? Dumb as a doorpost.”

  And she leaves and I just stand there in the lot for minute, watching her tail lights. Wanting to jump in my van and chase her, like some romantic idiot in a Hollywood movie. Chase her down and make her stop and jump into her van and pull her to me and just hold her as tightly as I can.

  That’s what I think about as I drive home alone.

  47.

  My college course starts a few days before high school, so on Thursday morning I get drummed out of bed by my alarm about three hours before I’d prefer. I drive the van downtown, find commuter parking and throw my park
ing pass on the dash. I sit there for a few minutes, wondering how bad I’m going to stand out. Second year calc, probably mostly sophomores, who are what, twenty years old?’

  I know where the math building is and it’s not hard to find room 211. It’s not like a high school classroom. More like a mini-theater. About twenty students are already there and I find a place in the back row, near the door, so no one really sees me. Once I sort of scrunch down in my seat I feel immediately better. More students wander in and take seats, but no one pays me any mind. Then the professor comes in. He’s wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt stretched over a round stomach, and has wild black hair, sort of like a young Einstein.

  He seems happy to get started, starts yammering in this thick accent while writing his name and phone number up on the board. I take out my cell and enter it—Otto Wacwalick. Polish, he says, in case anyone was curious.

  And without any more small talk he’s writing the first formula on the board. As the class goes on, I’m thinking it’s a good thing he likes to write on the board, because I’m missing half of what he’s saying. But the math is easy to follow—stuff we covered in my last AP class. So by the end of the class I’m feeling better about handling it. I want to test how long it takes to get back, to see if I can make my fifth period when high school starts. Plus, if I scoot fast the college kids won’t get a good look at me.

  So, Tuesdays and Thursdays I’ll be going downtown for math. But that means I’ll have a three-hour break from high school Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I can get home in like five minutes, get online and get some serious gaming in.

  When I get back from my first math class I pull up Team Anaconda’s site. I’ve been keeping an eye on the guys on Team Anaconda. They’re not currently the top team in Korea, but they’re close. I try to picture them in training, wondering how they work together. Starfare is about to introduce a new map and I can imagine how intense that must be, with a dozen or so people just plugging in and exploring every inch of it, looking for where the resources are buried and what sorts of obstacles are going to be generated and how they can be defeated.

  I keep checking my phone, because Hannah said she’d let me know when she was free, and that was days ago. So now I’m worrying that she’s lost interest. I drive over to her house three times but I end up just wheeling around the turnaround, hoping she doesn’t see me. At least I don’t see any other cars out front.

  In the meantime, DT and I IM about how crappy it is that school starts in four days and then we play a couple two-on-twos. Just as we finish the second game the doorbell rings. I tell him I’ve gtg, but I’m thinking it’s probably Mormons or the UPS guy. Maybe Mom sent me another package.

  I open the door and it’s Hannah. She’s smiling and holding a wrapped package the size of a large book. It’s hot outside, as usual. I feel like Hannah’s dog, being held back by the leash of my consciousness. If I had a tail, it would be wagging uncontrollably.

  “Come on in,” I say.

  “OK, but can’t stay long.” She holds the present out to me. “Go ahead and open it!”

  I set it down on the table, happy that I had moved the dishes to the sink. Sit down and Hannah sits across from me. I’m fidgeting in anticipation. I take my time, trying to stretch out the moment. Me and Hannah, the excitement.

  I slowly pull off the Happy Birthday wrapping paper, which is decorated with pictures of trains and balls and balloons. Hannah saying, “I know, it’s awful paper but it’s all we had at home. Stuff my mom got years ago for little boy birthdays.”

  Inside is a silver picture frame, which initially is backwards. I turn it around. It’s the picture of me and Hannah, leaning backwards, kissing. Just like the original. Except the background. It looks like a New York street, but it’s all messed up, full of dust and debris. It might even be the same street, but barren and wrecked and deserted, cars along the side coated in gray, and I recognize it as a photo taken on 9/11.

  “Wow,” I say. Because the effect is really something. There we are, all black and white and clean and neat while the rest of the world, in color, but barely, looks like a war zone.

  The weird thing is, you can see my face perfectly, but you can’t really see Hannah at all, just the back of her head, the back of her white-sheathed legs, her hair hanging down.

  “Wow,” I say again. “That’s amazing.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for being, like, a good sport. And definitely, going into the portfolio.”

  “I do make a pretty good sailor,” I say. “Maybe I should be thinking Naval Academy.”

  “Don’t think you’re the military type,” Hannah says. “Although you’d be great at working those drones.”

  “Something to drink?” I ask. Wondering if we have anything in the fridge.

  “Nah, got to go. Mom needs the car. But I see that we both have Friday off. How about doing something then?”

  I’m nodding like a bobble head and then she’s out the door.

  I take my present and go back to the computer, try to get psyched up for a game. Somehow I’m just not in the mood. I keep looking over at the picture, which I’ve set next to the monitor. Thinking about what it felt like to be kissing Hannah.

  After a while I give up and decide to get my math assignment out of the way. A bunch of problems from the back of the first chapter. Routine, although there’s one towards the end that is kind of interesting, because I can see two ways to solve it. One way that uses the proofs in the chapter, but another way that relies on some stuff we touched on first semester in Calc BC. So I do it the alternative way and get it done in three steps instead of the five that I might have used. So at least I feel good about that.

  48.

  So all day Friday I’m wired about getting together with Hannah that night. I spend most of the afternoon playing some half-hearted Starfare against noobs and reading message boards. I really get into this two-hundred-page thread about a guy getting divorced because his wife is disgusted with his gaming. Everybody’s got an opinion or another story about how gaming either screwed up a relationship or—a decided minority—brought a couple together.

  So when my cell rings the first thing I think is that it’s Hannah. I punch it on and say hello, trying to sound cool and not all breathless.

  “Mr. Seth Gordon?”

  Now I am breathless. I recognize the heavy accent immediately, Coach Yeong. Thinking, well, it’s nice that they would call and personally tell me that they picked someone else.

  “Yes?” I choke out.

  “Mr. Gordon? This is Coach Yeong!” Then he pauses.

  “Yes?”

  “From Team Anaconda?”

  “Of course.” Then I worry that I’ve been rude. I’ve heard that you can insult people from other cultures in a thousand ways without even knowing. Saying “Of course,” has got to be one of them. So then I add, idiotically, “And how are you?”

  “Fine. Very fine. Thank you. Thank you very much.” There is another long pause, so that I wonder if we’ve lost our connection. Then I hear Yeong clear his throat.

  “I call with news.” Count to ten. I’m thinking, is this like a two-way radio conversation? Where you have to say “ten-four” or something before you can talk?

  “We have spent many hours talking about this decision. Very big decision for team. To have our first player from West. Many, how do you say, considerations?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “And it is our opinion that you, Mr. Seth Gordon. You are the player with great potential. We agree, you could be great Starfare champion.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Did I hear that right?”

  “Oh yes. Of course, this is big decision for you also. To leave home. Family. To train so hard, like Korean pro. It is very big decision.”

  “You want me to join Team Anaconda?”

  “Oh y
es. We very much excited to have you come and join team.”

  “And you’re wondering if I’m interested?”

  “Yes. You. Family. Everyone.”

  “When do I start?”

  “Excuse. I do not understand.”

  “When can I begin? I’m ready now.”

  I hear Coach Yeong laugh and then speaking Korean to someone, away from the phone.

  “Very good. Mr. Seth Gordon. Very good. But we have much to talk first. You are very young…”

  “Sixteen, sir.”

  “Yes, well, still very young. And much to do before. We have many papers to read. Parents must sign. And league rules.”

  “League rules?”

  “Yes. Yes. We cannot make contract with player if there is no, how to do say, finish gymnasium?”

  I have no idea what he is talking about. “Gym class?”

  “No, no. School. Must finish school. Get paper from school.”

  “Diploma?”

  “Yes, yes. Diploma. Very good. Must have this from what you call tall school.”

  “Tall school?”

  “Yes, before university.”

  “Oh, high school.”

  “Yes, yes. High school. League says must have high school paper before or while you play first year of contract.”

  “But I won’t graduate from school for, like, two more years!” My heart sinking.

  “Understand. No hurry. Contract is for next season, not one playing now. We can extend. We wait. But we also do investigate. You hear of school over Internet?”

  “Yes.” I’d looked into it. Was ready to go that direction if I had won the $30k. “We do research. Many Americans get diploma studying over Internet. You talk to school. We send package. You will find many papers, contract. Then we talk again soon.”

  “OK,” I mutter.

  “Package coming. You, parents read carefully.”

  “OK,” I say. “OK. Great.”

  And then I hear the connection drop.