Stick

by Michael Harmon

  I felt the warmth of the afternoon sun on my cheek. Mr. Reeves and I had had an interesting talk, and even though I still didn’t know what decision I should make, I knew what decision I was making. “I don’t know. To help people?”

  “People help other people because it makes them feel better about being selfish.”

  “There are tons of people who are good.”

  He smiled for the first time since I’d met him. “I wasn’t talking about tons of people. I was talking about you,” he said, then walked away.

  I’d never been a glutton for punishment, but I couldn’t get the image of him sitting calmly with egg all over him out of my mind.

  I watched him shuffle off, walking like a gangly duck, and went to my car. Get in, turn the ignition, put it in gear, drive. As I drove out of the parking lot, I couldn’t help myself. I pulled up alongside him and rolled the passenger window down. “Okay, I’m selfish, and I do feel guilty, but I had no idea it was going to happen. Will you get in the car now?”

  He kept walking. “Why should I want to make you feel better? Why would I even want to know you?”

  I stopped the car, thinking. Then I pulled forward and leaned over. “You shouldn’t. But maybe I want to know you.”

  That stopped him, and he faced me. “You want to know me?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, I’m not gay. And yes, I do. Now get in.”

  He did.

  “Where’s your place?”

  He buckled up. “I’ll show you. Just head to Monroe Street and go over the bridge.”

  I pulled away from the curb. “So, how’d the counseling go?”

  He looked at the middle console, where a crunched-up McDonald’s wrapper lay. Next to it was an empty Red Bull can. There were various bags and wrappers strewn about the floor. My car wasn’t the cleanest, and the backseat was full of months-old crap, too. He picked up the wrapper and held it, staring out the window. “It went fine. I think she’s doing well with it.”

  “She? With what?”

  “The grieving process. She’s following it precisely. Straight from the book.”

  I drove. “Did she lose somebody?”

  “No. I did. The state wants to make sure I’m coping correctly, so I check in with her. The school is very concerned about my emotional well-being.”

  “Who did you lose?”

  He picked up the empty Red Bull can, then began slowly scrunching the wrapper inside. “My dad. Six months ago. See, we’re supposed to go through stages of grief. She thinks we’re at stage four, which is depression and loneliness.”

  I glanced at him. He’d picked up an old straw and was idly folding it into the can. “She thinks?” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah. A couple weeks ago she moved out of the anger and bitterness stage.”

  “She? I’m confused. You’re not grieving about losing your dad?”

  “Of course I am. Just not the way she needs me to.”

  “Why don’t you tell her that?”

  He inched his hand toward a gum wrapper, hesitated, then picked it up. He rolled it into a ball. Into the can it went. “Why would I tell her? I don’t need her help, and I don’t feel like arguing about where I am in her process.”

  “Well, then tell her you don’t need counseling.”

  “It’s just a check-in. Like mini-counseling. I have a regular counselor. He thinks the same thing, though. I think they talk.”

  “I’m totally confused, Preston. You’re seeing a counselor that you don’t need, you go to the school counselor to help her with your grieving process, and it doesn’t bother you at all?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why?”

  He stuffed a used napkin in the can, twisting and turning it in. “Because it gets me what I want.”

  I glanced at him. He was systematically cleaning my car. “What? A neurotic need to clean my car?”

  He set the can down, self-conscious. “I have a compulsion to keep things in order.”

  “No kidding? I never would have guessed. So, what is it that you want?”

  He looked out the window. “How did your counseling session go with Mr. Reeves?”

  “It wasn’t a counseling session. He just wanted to talk.”

  Preston shrugged. “Going to see a counselor to talk is called a ‘counseling session.’ It’s the definition of it.”

  I sighed. “It went fine, except that when I get home, all hell is going to break loose.”

  “Why?”

  I turned left on Monroe. “Because I know Coach Williams called my dad, and the shit is going to hit the fan.”

  “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

  I took a left on Madison Avenue. “I’m thinking of quitting football.”

  “Why would you care if your dad was mad about that?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re kidding, right? It’s just like if you quit school. Wouldn’t your mom be mad?”

  “No, but if she were, that’s her issue.”

  I gaped. “She wouldn’t be?”

  “She’s not the one going to school.”

  I took a breath, again not knowing where to go with that statement. “So, what you’re saying is that my dad, who has lived through me for the last three years because he loves football more than life, shouldn’t be upset if I quit? And he shouldn’t be pissed that I’d most likely be giving up a scholarship that could eventually get me into the NFL?”

  “I’m not saying he shouldn’t. He could be if he wanted to, I suppose. But what does that have to do with you playing your game or not?”

  “Well, I guess my world is different than yours.”

  He pointed to a parking lot for me to turn into. “Only because you want it that way.”

  I pulled into the lot. “Nothing is the way I want it.”

  “What if you told your dad that it was none of his business? What if you ignored everything he said? What would he do?”

  I smirked. “You don’t know my dad.”

  “Would it make you bad?”

  “Bad?”

  “Yes. Like, bad. Like, a bad person.”

  “I don’t know, Preston. You lost me.”

  “How is it his business?”

  I stared out the window. “He’d make it his business.”

  He studied my face with those big eyes, and it made me uncomfortable. “How?” he said.

  “He just would.”

  He opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I glanced around the empty parking lot. Clinkerdagger, a fancy restaurant, stood off to the left. “You live in a parking lot?”

  “No.” He pointed. “There.”

  I gazed upward, and what looked like a fifteen- or twenty-story office building stood looming over the river. “I always thought those were office buildings.”

  “No. Apartments.”

  “Huge windows for apartments.”

  He grabbed his backpack, then quietly slipped the Red Bull can into a side pocket. “They call it ‘luxury condominium living.’ ”

  “Wow. What floor do you live on?”

  He got out, then shut the door. “The top one.”

  I sat in the car, my head swimming. I didn’t want to go in. I wished my dad was out, but since he worked from home, he was always there.

  I thought about Preston and what he’d said. Or not said, but asked. That was the strange thing. He never really said anything; he asked everything. From being distracted by wrappers in my car to not understanding why anybody would be upset that I quit football, he confused me. What if I did tell my dad it wasn’t his business? What would he do?

  I turned the car off, hopped out, and walked up the driveway.

  He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking a beer. There wasn’t a day after four o’clock when he didn’t have a bottle in his hand. Our house wasn’t big enough to hide in or for me to go to my room without him knowing I was there, so I did what I knew I should. “Hi.”

  He look
ed up. “Coach Williams called.”

  I leaned against the kitchen entry. “Yeah.”

  He set the paper down and took off his glasses. He was a big man, but not huge; I got my height from him. At six three, he was an inch taller than me. He didn’t have the build of a football player, but back in his day, he was. A receiver, just like me. He’d been good—great, from what I heard. Got a full ride to Washington State University, then blew his knee out his first season. End of story. Now he was a business consultant. He looked at me. “I spoke to your math teacher. Not much for football players, but you’ll be fine to play if you get the extra credit done,” he said, then squinted at me. “And by the way, you’re grounded for disobeying an order. Don told me what you did in his office.”

  Don was Don Williams, or Coach Williams. I rolled my eyes. Lucky me that they would have a bromance together. “Dad, he was totally out of line. I already talked to my teacher. I talked to Mr. Reeves. I did everything I was supposed to. There was no problem with anything. The guy just gets off on using his power to crap on people.”

  He put his glasses back on, then picked up the paper, talking to it instead of me. “We’re five games into taking the championship, and you hold the key. Roger Silvia, the scout from UCLA, is flying up for Friday’s game, and you know why. He wants to meet, and I arranged a get-together here on Saturday. I’m pretty sure he’s coming with an offer.”

  I stood in the doorway, staring at him while he ignored me. Sometimes I think he literally didn’t hear a fucking word I said. What if you ignored everything he said? What would he do? Preston’s words came to me, and as I watched Dad, I didn’t know what to do. As far as he was concerned, I didn’t get to have an opinion on what I wanted to do. I’d spent the day listening to one man hammering it into me, and now I was listening to another man treat me like I was a chess piece in his game of life.

  Everything rolled around my head like a spinning bingo basket. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Dad.”

  He took a swig of beer. “Keep your eye on the goal, Brett.”

  Anger boiled through me. “What goal is that? My goal or your goal?”

  He stopped mid-swig, then laughed. “You keep this up and you’ll be grounded for the rest of the year. Be a smart-ass somewhere else, huh? There are much more important things going on than how you feel about being put in your place. Quit whining and be a man.”

  I was tempted to grab that beer and shove it down his throat, but I didn’t. I turned around and went to my room. Invisible things don’t talk, so I didn’t.

  Football players wore their jerseys to school on game days, just like the cheerleaders wore their uniforms. Banners strung across the hallways supported and celebrated the team, and an electric air filled the school with an underlying hum of excitement. The Saxons would be kicking ass and taking names.

  In the first five games of the season, we’d outscored our opponents by a total of fifty-three points. I’d caught twenty-one receptions, for over four hundred yards, and had scored six touchdowns. My high school career included more completions and touchdowns than any other player in the history of the school, and I was well on the way to holding a state record for yardage. We’d taken state last year, and if we took it this year, the consecutive wins would be the first in history for Hamilton High School.

  I was a star.

  Lance Killinger, our quarterback, caught up to me in the hall after second period. Killinger and I didn’t like each other, and it was well known that we didn’t. It all started when he was born. He came out of the hatch looking down on the world, and for however much he thought his crap didn’t stink, it did.

  But he could throw and I could catch, and no matter how much of an arrogant assclown he was, that’s all that mattered to anybody. He was the kind of guy I’d be happy to never know, but we flowed together on the field like twins. He bumped my shoulder, looking at my T-shirt. “Where’s the jersey, Stick? You forget it?”

  I had four minutes to get to class. “No.”

  “You slacking? Skipping weights in the morning, no-showing at practice yesterday. What’s your deal?”

  “Been busy is all.”

  “You gotta represent, man. We’re the kings of this school.”

  I kept walking. “Kings, huh? Is that right?”

  “What’s up your ass?” he said. “Big guy nervous about tonight?”

  “Just heading to class, Lance. Nothing special.”

  “Yeah, sure. Heard a UCLA scout is going to be here. Wow for you, even though I can nail a dime at forty yards, and the only reason you’re good is that I hit your chest every time.”

  I faced him. “You know what I’ve never told you?”

  He met my stare, the challenge there. “What is that, Stick? You want to tell me something?”

  I thought of everything I wanted to say but hadn’t. What I wanted more than anything was my fist punching his face inside out. “I wanted to tell you that you’re an awesome quarterback, and I know you’re going to kill it tonight.”

  He paused, a question in his eyes. “Yeah, sure. You know it. West Valley equals big-time fail. They suck.”

  “You got it,” I said, taking a quick left into my class.

  Sixth period let out, and I hustled to my car. As I neared, I saw Preston standing next to it. He was staring at something at his feet. I took my keys from my pocket. “Hey. Here to finish cleaning my car out?”

  He looked up. “Hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You just stand around people’s cars?”

  He looked at me, unsure, his eyes wavering. Like he was nervous, but not. “I was wondering why you’re failing math. You didn’t answer me yesterday.”

  I almost laughed. Math. Okay. My life was turned upside down, there was a huge game tonight, and he was wondering about math. “Because I suck at it. I told you that.”

  He looked at me. “I suck at football, but at least I know why.”

  “Why, then?”

  “Because I’m five feet six inches tall, I weigh one hundred and seventeen pounds, and I have a tendency to fall down when I run.”

  I stared at him, wondering where he’d come from, and why. “Well, I just suck at it. The numbers get all jumbled in my head.”

  “I could probably help you if you want.”

  “Why? I thought you didn’t want to know me.”

  “Because I’m brilliant.”

  I laughed.

  He cast his eyes down. “Cool. Anyway, good luck with the game. Bye,” he said, turning and shuffling away.

  “Jesus, Preston! I wasn’t laughing at you!” I called to him. He kept walking. “I was laughing because you say shit that’s just so out there. Stop! Come on!”

  He did stop, then turned and faced me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders slouched.

  I pointed to the passenger door of the car. “Get in. I need my car cleaned.”

  His eyes brightened. “Really?”

  I opened the door. “As long as you can stand the garbage, yeah, really.”

  As we pulled out of the parking lot, I checked my mirrors, then drove down 37th Avenue. “So, where are you from?”

  “A womb.”

  “Okay…where are you from, as in where did you come from before you started at Hamilton this year?”

  “Chicago. We moved here after my dad died.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “He was murdered for seventeen dollars.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Preston drummed his fingers on his knee methodically. “You didn’t do anything.”

  “I know. I just am, though. Did they catch the guy?”

  He shook his head.

  “So, you’ll tutor me?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. “Cool. Thanks.”

  He looked at me, totally serious. “I don’t want to be your boyfriend. It’s not that way.”

  “Damn,” I said. He fidgeted, eyeing a pop can. I
could almost feel his need to clean. I laughed. “Go ahead, OCD boy. Have at it.”

  He picked up the can. “Being that you are alive today, your dad didn’t kill you Tuesday night.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse. Being completely ignored or being stomped on.”

  Preston frowned as he stuffed the can in a fast-food bag. “Why is being ignored bad?”

  I turned, heading downtown. “Because I’m not me to him. Or anybody. I’m what other people can get for themselves. Just like you said. Have you ever just had somebody completely ignore you?”

  “Considering I still have egg on my backpack and the burn of being ostracized by my cooler peers is still hot in my belly, I would appreciate being ignored more often.”

  I realized then that even if I had an idea of how much he was bullied, I would never truly know what it was like, and I felt a stab of guilt. “That won’t happen again if I’m around.”

  He reached into my console, scooping up a handful of change. “My gay stalker is going to protect me now. Yay. I’m saved.”

  “I’m just saying, you know? It was a crappy thing to do, and I guess I’m seeing things differently now.”

  He began separating the pennies from the rest of the change. “I don’t need anything from you, Brett. I can take care of myself just fine.”

  I shook my head. “Yeah, like having guys like Tilly make you into a fool in front of everybody.”

  He turned those big eyes to me. “Is that what he did? Made a fool out of me?”

  “Well, you got egg all over you.”

  He looked down and stacked the pennies. “I suppose the definition of ‘fool’ depends on what side of the line you’re on.”

  He was right. “Tilly is the fool.”

  Preston stacked nickels. “It doesn’t matter what he is. It matters what I am. What time does it start?”

  “What time does what start?”

  “Your game.”

  “Three hours. Game time is seven.”

  He continued organizing my change, so I took the long way. I figured if we took a drive in the country, he’d have my car spotless in no time, but I was just happy to have a drive-in maid. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot. “So, about the tutoring thing.”

  “Yeah.”