So why is it that I am so compelled today to tell her something real? To talk about Dmitri?
I sink into the too-soft couch across from Sheila in her black leather chair. Her laptop screen sets her silky smile alight in blue, and she begins our session in the same way she always does: “So how are things?”
Normally I answer with a standard “Fine,” and we sit for several minutes in silence while she types grand sentences about how we are sitting in silence. Today, and I immediately kick myself for doing so, I say, “Good, I think. I’m going to a football game with a boy from my school.”
She types. I hate her. “Is this a date?” she asks.
“I wouldn’t call it a date. We barely know each other. It’s more of a social get-together with a bunch of other kids. Plus football.”
Sheila goes into a long lesson in boys and dating, which I immediately tune out in order to have a conversation with myself. Would it be too obvious if I put my earbuds in? I nod a lot, “Mm-hmm” a bit, and hope she doesn’t realize I have blocked her out completely. I’m too busy thinking about what is actually going to happen when Dmitri and I have hours of time together in a sporty place. Will it be fun? Romantic? Will we bond over women’s professional wrestling? I’m kind of excited about the whole thing. Which makes me smile, which makes Sheila smile, and I gather I’ve responded in a way that satisfies her for this session.
“Next week?” she offers, as I hand her the check my mom gave me for the appointment.
“Yep. Same Bat time. Same Bat channel,” I say.
“Bat?” she asks, and I groan inwardly that she doesn’t get the basic Batman reference.
On the bus, earbuds in, I envision me and Dmitri on the bleachers, wind blowing through our hair, the sun setting dramatically behind us. Then a football soars through the air and breaks my nose. Or I try to casually stand and cheer for the home team, and I accidentally forward roll down the bleachers. Or learn Dmitri just asked me out as a friend.
It’s possible that this is the Jewish side of me, the part who repeats (but never says aloud because I’m not ninety-three years old) “keinehora,” a Yiddish expression used to ward off bad luck. It feels greedy to think that I only deserve good things, so I automatically assume something bad has to follow anything good. Yin and yang. Which is totally not Jewish. I’ve found, in my vast fifteen years of life experience, that bad stuff always follows the good stuff. Always. Period. End of discussion.
It’s the when and the how that keeps me guessing.
Dmitri
“Does anyone know anything about football?” The panic in my voice is a living, breathing thing. I’ve ridden the high of Eliana saying yes to our date all the way to Friday morning, without actually stopping to think how the date will go. I woke up realizing I know absolutely nothing about football. What if she’s an expert? I’m going to look like an idiot.
My mother is doing her whirling-dervish thing through the kitchen; my father sits at the table looking like an antique statue of a twentieth-century man, reading an actual paper edition of the Star Tribune; Nicky munches on cereal while reading a different book from last time, the cover of this one sporting a handgun in a colorful crocheted knit thing set against a black background; and Yia Yia leans against the door frame, sipping the mud she calls coffee. They must sense my anxiety, because they all stop and look at me.
“Óχι.” No, my mother says.
“Now you want play football?” My father is confused. “You music already take too much time. You need focus on schoolwork.”
“I don’t want to play,” I answer. “I just want to know something about it.”
“Why?” Nicky looks up over the top of his book.
“I’m going to the game tonight.”
“The Vikings?”
“What? No! The high school game.”
This piece of information makes Nicky cock one eyebrow—damn, I wish I could do that. “Why?” he asks again.
And there it is. Do I tell them I have a date? It’s the only plausible explanation for wanting to see the Mondale Cropdusters play the … the … crap! I don’t even know who we’re playing! Anyway, I don’t think I’m ready to open the “Dmitri has a date” can of worms yet, so I lie. “Some friends are going and they invited me.”
Nicky holds my gaze for an extra second before going back to his book, as if he’s already figured out my secret. Sometimes it’s like having Yoda for a brother.
“Refrigerator Perry,” Yia Yia says. We all turn our attention to her, waiting for more. She doesn’t disappoint. “Super Bowl Shuffle,” she says, and then she does this strange little dance.
What.
The.
Hell.
I want to go back to bed.
I open my mouth to say something, but nothing good is going to come out, so I shake my head and say, “Never mind, I’ll Google it.”
It’s not like I’ve never watched football before, I’ve just never paid attention. The Wikipedia entry—which I try to decipher on the way to school—confirms what I already know: Football is a ridiculous and confusing game.
I’ll just have to make sure Eliana and I are so deep in conversation about movies and Harry Potter that we don’t even notice the action in the field.
Not much of a plan, I know, but it’s all I’ve got.
I smell my pits as I enter the building for first period; I hope I used enough Axe body spray.
Eliana
“It’s cool, Mom, you don’t have to drive me.” I shove my feet into my Converse, wondering if I should be wearing some kind of furry boot matching my school’s hideous green-and-gold color combination instead. I have zero knowledge on what to wear to a football game, and even less about what actually happens during the game. Based on commercials, I assume there will be something to do with giant foam fingers and scoop-shaped chips. Also, shirtless dudes with paint on their stomachs.
None of these facts are making me want to go to this game. What if Dmitri is a massive sports enthusiast, and we have nothing to talk about? What if he takes his shirt off midgame to reveal his green-and-gold tribute art? What if everyone we are meeting secretly knows that I am a football virgin, and they pour pig’s blood on my head from above?
If only I had Carrie’s telekinesis.
Envisioning myself destroying the football field with my brain powers isn’t getting me out the door any faster.
My mom approaches me with my Hufflepuff scarf in hand. “You should probably bring this. It gets cold sitting still for hours.”
I take the scarf and wrap it around my neck several times. “Like, how many hours are we talking?” I ask.
“No idea. I’ve never been to a football game, either. The good thing about a high school football game versus a professional one is that the stands won’t be filled with drunk idiots. At least I hope not. Call me if they are, and I will come get you.”
A text from Dmitri told me to meet him outside the game entrance on the home side of the field. The only times I’ve been near these grounds were on the infrequent occasions when a gym teacher wanted us to run laps outside. Not a common occurrence in Minneapolis.
It feels wrong to be here, like everyone knows I’m a sports imposter. Or worse, like I’m entering the Hunger Games. I would suck as a tribute. I would absolutely, no question, be the first kid killed. Maybe even eaten. I have no discernible skills except for walking quickly, watching mass quantities of movies, and getting good grades. What will good grades get me when I’m attempting to outwalk a kid who’s been trained to poison me with a blow dart?
“Hey!” Dmitri greets me from behind, and I jump. I hope he doesn’t have any darts. I turn around quickly and lightly shove him.
“You scared me!” I say. He looks shocked.
“I did not expect you to be that strong.” He rubs the spot on his chest where I pushed. Maybe I’d do better in the Hunger Games than I thought. Also, does that mean he has already spent time assessing my strength attributes?
“I lift weights the second I get home from school. And when I wake up. I’m actually training for the Olympics,” I joke.
“Really?”
“No.”
“I’m both relieved and disappointed.”
“Then we’re off to a great start!” I enthuse.
Surprisingly, Dmitri looks charmed. Maybe there is actually a boy in this world who finds awkward conversation and brute strength appealing.
“Ready to go in?” he asks, and offers up a bent elbow.
I carefully link my arm through his and announce, “We’re off to see the wizard!”
“What wizard?” Dmitri looks at me blankly.
“You seriously don’t know that reference?” I’m appalled, until he breaks into a huge grin to let me know I’ve been played.
“You scared me for a minute there,” I admit.
“Then I’m two for two.” He nods proudly.
“Is that a sports reference?” I ask.
“Why don’t we go in and find out?”
Together we skip between rows of bleachers until we hear a chorus of “Dmitri! Up here!” from the top row of seats. I look up and barely manage to contain the “ugh” that escapes my lips. Amid the sports fans I spy with my little eye is one Daisy King, also known as my-ex-friend-who-dumped-me-because-of-my-depression. Ugh again. Dmitri attempts to lead me up the stairs, but I give an involuntary yank on his elbow. “You cool with this?” he asks. “Those are some of my friends. And their friends.”
“How well do you know these friends?” I can’t help it; the question just flies out of my mouth.
“Like on a scale of one to ten?”
I shrug and Dmitri shrugs back. Then he points to each person in succession, one eye closed for precision, and names them off. When he reaches Daisy he claims, “And that’s a blond girl I don’t really know. So those are all of the people!”
“All of the people,” I repeat. From the looks of it, Daisy is in full-on ignore mode, pretending to be engrossed in whatever is happening on the field. I’ll take it. The space left for me and Dmitri is one row down and several seats away from her, so I suppose I can handle it for one game.
We sit down, Dmitri’s shoulder close to mine but not quite touching. I try to watch the game, but there is a buzz emanating from Dmitri. Or maybe that’s the dry autumn static. Either way, I feel compelled to look at him every few minutes. Most times he’s looking back at me and smiling. Is this normal?
“So who are you rooting for?” Dmitri asks.
“I have a choice?”
“Of course. I think we should scream out random names. Like, ‘Go, George! Get ’em, Ronaldo!’ Stuff like that.”
“You don’t come because you like football?” I ask.
“Nah. Aggressive sports aren’t really my thing. Unless we’re talking WWE…”
“Oh my god! I love WWE! It’s like staged, but real at the same time. And they’re such crazy-good athletes. Can you imagine standing on a bunch of ropes and throwing yourself off them to land on another person? Sick! In another life, that’s totally what I’m going to be.”
“So you believe in reincarnation?” Dmitri asks.
“I don’t know if I believe in it. I don’t quite know what I believe, actually. I think it’s important to imagine there is something else, something good at least, after we die. Not necessarily because that’s where we’re going to go but because that’s where people we love end up. But reincarnation or heaven or hell? I haven’t made up my mind yet. What about you?”
“I believe I’d like a hot pretzel.”
“Dmitri.” My voice is the audible equivalent of an eye roll.
“Okay, okay. My parents are pretty religious. They make me and my brother go to church every week, and I went to Sunday school for ten straight years, so I guess I’ve been brainwashed.”
“So you’re a believer?”
“See, that’s the thing. I’m not really. I know I’ve been brainwashed, indoctrinated. It’s like a cult. And really, when you think about it, the whole bearded-white-guy-in-the-sky thing just seems silly. And if he is real, where’s he been for the last two thousand years? I mean, if there was a God, wouldn’t football be less stupid?”
That makes me laugh out loud.
“But,” he continues, “they got to me young, and drilled their ideas into my brain for a whole lot of years, so while I don’t intellectually buy it, I sort of feel it. Confusing, I know.”
“Confusing,” I agree.
The audience around us lets out a group “Ohhhh!” and I see a player from the other team writhing on the field in agony.
“You got this, Sampson!” Dmitri yells.
“Sampson?” I ask.
“Poor guy.” Dmitri shakes his head sympathetically.
“Poor Sampson,” I concur.
“Hey!” a voice calls from above. It’s Norm, one of Dmitri’s friends. Who still names their kid Norm? “We’re going to head to Denny’s. You want to come?”
Dmitri looks over at me. I want to say yes. I want to spend more time with him because I’m having a really good time despite, you know, sports. But when I watch Daisy stand up and I catch her eye, there is no friendship there. No kindness. I can’t deal with that. I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.
“Off to Denny’s, then?” Dmitri puts his arm over my shoulder, which makes what I say next painful.
“I think I’m going to go home.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s kind of late. I’m really tired. I have to pray for Sampson,” I joke.
Dmitri offers a half smile. “You sure? How are you going to get home?” he asks.
“My mom. We live close. It’s cool.”
“You sure?” he asks again. I can tell he’s disappointed. And probably confused. I don’t blame him, but I’m not about to tell him why I won’t go with the group.
“Yeah. Totally. You go and have fun. Tell me all about your lukewarm coffee and breakfast potatoes when I see you on Monday.”
“Okay, I guess. You want me to wait with you until your mom gets here?”
“Nah. I’ll sit in the stands until she lets me know she’s here.”
“That doesn’t feel right. How about I sit with you and make everyone else wait to leave for Denny’s?”
“Really? I don’t know…”
“I insist.”
Dmitri walks up the steps to discuss the delay with Norm. He throws out a thumbs-up signal, which makes me shiver the tiniest bit at the chivalry of it all. I text my mom to pick me up, and she replies that she’ll be here in five minutes. Two of those minutes are spent waiting for Dmitri to make his way back to me while he discusses things with his friends. I play a Jumble game on my phone until Dmitri slides next to me with a pleasant shoulder bump.
“I’m going to wait by the pickup circle,” I tell him.
“I’ll come with you!” he enthuses.
Dmitri walks ahead of me down the metal stairs, and I envision myself tripping and rolling down the stairs, into Dmitri, and onto the field. Surprisingly, this does not actually happen. Does this mean I officially don’t have telekinesis? If I did have it, why would I use it to throw myself down the stairs? I really hope Dmitri isn’t a mind reader.
Can you imagine what dating is like in the X-Men school?
We arrive at the pickup spot, hands in pockets, closed-mouth silly smiles on our faces.
“Thanks for inviting me tonight. Sorry to bail so early. Big group activities aren’t usually my scene.”
“I get that. Maybe next time we get together it can be more intimate.” I look away and blush. “I mean, not like that, but like a smaller group. Or just a group of two?”
“Yeah, that would be good,” I agree. My mom pulls up, and I silently curse her for being so prompt. “That’s my mom.” I nod toward the car.
“Cool. Thanks for coming tonight,” he says.
“Thanks for having me,” I say, then think to myself how stupid that sounded. Having me
? Ugh.
With my mom in the car next to us, we both ruminate on how to end the night. I have no idea what to do, and I can tell by Dmitri’s furrowed brow that he’s not sure what to do, either. I thrust my hand out for a good-night handshake. He laughs, takes my hand, and we shake one, two, three times.
“Good night,” I say.
“Good night, Eliana.” Even though it’s my name that I’ve had forever, hearing Dmitri say it now gives me goose bumps.
Inside the car, my mom asks, “How did it go? Did you root root root for the home team?”
“I think that’s baseball, Mom. And no, I did not. I rooted for Sampson,” I say, and laugh to myself.
Dmitri
“So how was your date?”
Dammit. I don’t ask Nicky how he knows I was on a date. I just accept the fact that my brother is in tune with the universe in a way most of us can only aspire to be.
“I’m not sure?” His patented raised eyebrow asks the question for him. “Well, I think we were having a really good time,” I continue. “We totally have the same sense of humor, she hooked her arm in mine, we have a similar view of the afterlife—”
“You talked about the afterlife?”
“Yeah, isn’t that what people talk about on dates?”
“How would I know?”
I’m reminded Nicky, his wisdom aside, is two years younger than me and has never been on a date in his life. Or at least not that I ever heard about. On the other hand, he’s so mysterious that for all I know he has a wife and two kids in Iowa.
“Anyway, it was going good, but then it ended really abruptly.”
“How?”
“Some of my friends were going to Denny’s and invited us along, but she slammed the door pretty hard.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like Denny’s.”
“No one likes Denny’s. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
Girl on the Ferris Wheel Page 6
