by Sarah Bumpus
I interrupt him. “Just forget about it, Bryce. What’s done is done, and I’d like to just focus on the matter at hand.” I give him none other than my infamous this conversation is over, look. I really don’t feel like arguing again.
He sighs in defeat, most likely not a usual thing for him, but he accepts it. “I think you may just be more stubborn than I remember, Joy.”
I ignore the comment and reach for his binder and open it. I finally get to review his notes. This is progress compared to Tuesday.
The first few pages look decent, headers underlined with major battles and important dates highlighted. There really is no distinct organization or outline format and after flipping further through the binder, I come to a stop. There’s an absurd amount of pages scribbled with rows upon rows of X’s and O’s. I pry open the binder and remove the sheets of loose leaf paper. Waving the stack at him I say, “Well maybe if you stop playing Tic-Tac-Toe and listen to the lectures, you wouldn’t be starting off the semester with a D.”
“It’s not Tic-Tac-Toe.” He looks slightly amused and offended at the same time. Grabbing the pages from my hand, he glances down at them and says, “They’re football plays…and I can’t help it. As soon as the teacher starts rambling on about battle dates and stuff, I just loose interest.” For a moment he loses his confident demeanor and looks slightly embarrassed.
Despite my causticness, I feel bad for criticizing him. I have to keep in perspective that football is as important to him as academics are to me. Even if he did chose the sport over our friendship. To keep this whole situation from going south, I sigh and ask, “So what are the X’s and O’s then?”
He relaxes slightly, turns the paper around, and slides closer to me on the edge of his bench. He picks up a pen which looks disproportioned in his Kong sized hand, then starts to draw multiple X’s in a row. “So, these X’s represent the defensive line,” he now switches to making O’s, “and these, offense.” He stops and looks up at me to see if I follow. “The line of scrimmage or ‘trenches’ as we call it is this imaginary line that you can’t cross until the Center snaps the ball. After the snap…”
He’s still rambling on about positions and play options, but only one word stands out to me during this whole explanation, trenches.
“Bryce, I think I know how we can get you to pass history!” I actually smile. “Soldiers dig trenches along the front line for protection on the battlefield, right?” I pause a moment to think then propose my idea to him. “If you can compare certain aspects of the war to that of football…something which interests you, it may help keep you focused in class.” I sit back, pleased with my idea, but I don’t want him think I’m going to do all the work for him. “The first thing you need to do is take better notes, but when you’re listening to the lectures, try thinking in terms of your offense and defense.” I slide his binder back in his direction.
Bryce nods. “Yeah, OK. That makes sense.”
“Good. Making sense is what we need right now.”
“You must think I’m such an idiot,” he says bluntly.
I find this is odd coming from him. Bryce comes across as having a ton of self-confidence. Why would he even care what I think? Taking a moment to formulate a reply, I finally answer. “No, you just have different priorities… Besides I don’t even know how much I can help you with this, I know nothing about football.”
He smiles, “Well, have you ever actually watched a game?”
When I admit that I haven’t, Bryce jumps up from the table and makes his way into the living room. He locates the remote control wedged between couch cushions and flicks on the TV.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I exclaim in disbelief. “We are supposed to be studying!”
He flops down into our beige sectional and starts flipping through the channels until he locates an NFL game. “You said it yourself, there’s nothing we can do until I take better notes.”
Hmm…I don’t remember saying it quite like that.
“Come sit, I’ll explain the game to you.”
Now the one defeated, I close his binder and make my way over to the couch. I chose a seat at the opposite end of the couch.
Bryce leans forward and instantly becomes absorbed in what’s happening on the screen. “OK,” he starts, “We’ve already gone over offense and defense, right? So, basically the team with the ball gets four tries, called downs, to move the ball up the field at least 10 yards. The goal is to cross into the opponent’s end zone and score a touchdown. Take this play here, 3rd and eight...which means it’s their third chance and they have to move the ball up eight yards…”
I watch the screen, still a little confused. Bryce is rambling on about all these different scenarios that could happen on 4th down, and now I’m totally lost.
The quarterback (at least I know that position) has the ball and he’s wiggling around his team mates trying to decide what to do with it. He reaches back and throws a long, deep pass. It sails all the way down the field, right into the arms of an open player who runs into the end zone and starts to do some silly victory dance.
“Touchdown!” Bryce exclaims, reveling in his own silly dance moves. And I guess that means I don’t need to worry about a 4th down.
A commercial break starts, featuring a guy on a motorcycle with a scantily clad woman straddling the back. There’s a whirlwind of explosions and screeching electric guitars, and by the time it ends, I’m still confused as to what the advertisement was for. I scratch my head and Bryce laughs.
“Man-mercials,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what I call these over-the-top commercials during sporting events. They have a tendency to target a male audience. You know…trucks, beer, chicks in bikinis eating hot wings.”
“Hot wings…really? You are such a guy.” I toss a throw pillow at him in mock disgust, and we both laugh as it weakly hits him in the chest and bounces off.
The game comes back on and Bryce starts commentating again. “OK, so since the Pats scored, they have to kick-off the ball…”
As much as I love watching pig piles of men in spandex, I can’t help to keep my eyelids from drooping at the sound of his voice. It certainly has been an emotionally exhausting week. Bryce stops talking when he sees that I’m starting to doze off. I look up and find his eyes locked on my face. For a split second I see a flicker of something in his gaze that I can’t decipher, but he starts to get up and it’s extinguished as quickly as it sparked.
“You look so bored.” Bryce laughs. “I’ll take off.” He walks to the kitchen, grabs his stuff, and pulls on his hat. I walk with him to the front door. Before he leaves he turns towards me. “So, Missy told me all about the dance.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you guys will have a blast,” I say, with as much sincerity as I can muster.
Bryce looks away. “We aren’t actually together right now…just friends. It’s hard to have a relationship when I’m so busy with football.” He stops short realizing what he just said.
It’s funny how our conversation can seem so common place and then one little slip of the tongue can change everything. For a short time it felt almost natural to be watching TV in my living room with Bryce, like we never stopped, but suddenly it’s become a total slap in the face.
“I’d better go,” he says, awkwardly.
I don’t reply, but open the front door for him.
“Thanks, Joy. I really do appreciate this….second chance. I promise I’m going to give it my all.”
With that he leaves and I shut the door, left alone to think about what I’m really giving him a second chance at.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BRYCE (Freshman Year)
Making varsity as a freshman definitely has its perks. Even though I don’t get a lot of offensive playing time, I’m ready. More physically than emotionally, but ready none the less…for when it’s my turn. Most of the upperclassmen on the team are alright dudes and even though Carver’s not on th
e team, it’s sort of accepted that he’s part of the club, because he’s a friend of mine.
In between classes one day, I’m walking with Carver when Bobby Dawson comes up to us. No Blondie as arm candy this time, however.
“Bryce, I’m having a get together tonight.” He looks at Carver. “This one is going to be more laid back than the rest, not really a party, just some of the guys from the team.”
“Alright, man. See you tonight.” I nod and Bobby heads off down the hall.
“So, I think we should just get a ride this time, since it’s a school night.” Carver says after he’s gone.
“He said team only.”
Carver puts his arm around me and smiles. “Dude, he wouldn’t have told you in front of me if he didn’t want me to go.”
I don’t have the time to argue about it as the bell rings, so I just shrug, leading Carver to take that as an agreement.
When my mom drops us off at Bobby’s house that night, I ring the bell, and this time someone actually answers. Bobby’s mom smiles at us and ushers us in. She leads us through the house to a door off the kitchen. “The guys are all downstairs, just head on down.” Then she disappears, going back to whatever she was doing before we interrupted it.
I open the door and Carver follows me down the carpeted stairwell to the finished basement below. You can definitely tell its Bobby’s lair, a workout area set up with a weight bench is in one corner, and TV with a video game system hooked up in the other. Two mismatched love-seats are angled, facing towards it. A glass coffee table in the center is home to a scattering of open sports drink bottle and back issues of Maxim magazine. There are two seniors, one on each couch playing Call of Duty, and a handful of on lookers sitting on the floor. I’d say about four or five of the guys including Bobby are upperclassmen, and as I look around at the ones on the floor, I realize the rest are the few new freshman players that made the cut.
“Colton.” Bobby comes up behind me. “What’s he doing here? I said team only.”
I shoot Carver a dirty look that says, I told you so.
“Hey, I’m cool, man. Don’t worry.” Carver smiles and I wonder if it would be possible for him to bottle up and sell me some of his confidence. If I drank it, then it would hit my insides and penetrate my entire system. Actually having it would be better than living with the false pretense on the outside.
Bobby looks at me. “Yeah, well you’d better hope so, Colton. It’ll be on you, if he’s not.”
What will be on me?
Confused I just nod, and Bobby leads us over to the group of gamers. I say hi to Quincy and sit down next to him on the floor.
Bobby slides some of the magazines out of the way and places down a black leather shaving kit. He unzips it and methodically starts taking things out, while the two seniors stay focused on their game. I watch as he places a handful of packaged sterile hypodermic needles, and small vials of…I lean in closer to read the label, but I already know what they are. Steroids.
Suddenly I realize why it’s mostly underclassmen here, it’s a recruiting party. I look over at the senior players and judging by their size, they’re the ones on the team already using. Bobby gives a little speech on how much stronger and amazing our performance will be on the field compared to what it is now. I only half listen, still in shock about what is being laid out before me. Obviously, Bobby gives us the option, but emphasizes the fact that we will become meatloaf, if those that decline shoot off their mouths. Well, he actually said it a lot more crudely, but you get the idea.
He starts talking one on one to a teammate, and Quincy turns to me. “No way,” he whispers, “I’m not down with this. That shit could screw up my chances of a scholarship.” He gets up and casually thanks Bobby with a bro hug, before heading up the stairs.
Carver elbows me and says something, but the sound of rapid gunfire from the video game prevents me from hearing him, each blast further drilling into my head the fact that these drugs are wrong, and illegal. Like Quincy, I’m dreaming of a scholarship one day and like my dad, I hope to lead my team to a championship. Neither of those things are going to happen if I get caught using, trying to get there. I don’t need them anyway. I’ve been working hard for the last ten years at this. I made varsity without roids, I know I can play without them.
“C’mon,” I nudge Carver. “I’m going too.” And just maybe, some of that confidence has already made its way inside me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At the end of practice on Thursday, a few days after the ‘thing’ at Bobby’s, I take a quick shower then leave the locker room as soon as possible. Between the stifling hot steam of the showers, and the uncomfortable divide between the players using and the non, the atmosphere inside is suffocating. When I push through the door, I feel like I can finally breathe. I take a moment to look through my backpack, making sure I have everything I need for tonight’s homework, and realize I forgot my math book. I walk down the deserted halls, which is actually a calming change from their usual daytime activity. I find myself able to do something I hardly ever can at North Tide, take off my mask and relax.
Finishing up at my locker, I’m just about to slam it shut, when I hear what sounds faintly like someone crying. I close the metal door quietly and start to follow the sound. When I get closer to the girl’s bathroom, I start to hear a female pleading. I jog towards the door and aware of the fact that I’m about to enter a female restroom, I pause and lean my ear against the door to listen. A male voice says, “C’mon, baby…I’ve heard you like it rough…” and with that, I make the decision to enter. Dropping my bag, I push through the door.
The smell of disinfectant is overwhelming and a small part of my brain understands that the bathroom must have been recently cleaned, while the immense amount of pink tile and the unfamiliar layout causes a second of disorientation. But something that I’ve learned how to do on the field is to be easily adaptable, and with the blink of an eye, I’ve sorted out the play before me. Carver has Missy pressed up against the wall between two hand dryers with his back towards me. His left hand is covering her mouth, while the other has disappeared underneath the fabric of her maroon cheerleading skirt. Missy rolls her head in my direction and when she sees me, her wide eyes plead for help.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I exclaim, and yank Carver off, slamming him into the tile.
Carver rips free of my grasp, and Missy sinks to the floor. The prick of tears begin to form in her eyes, and she tries to will them back.
“Fooling around with my girlfriend, what the fuck are you doing?” he growls, pushing his hair back with both hands.
I glance at Missy who looks back at me with scared eyes. “That’s not what it looked like.”
“How would you know what it looks like? Have you ever even fucked a girl?”
His response causes me to snap and I grab his shirt, shoving him against the wall. “What the hell is your problem?”
Carver starts laughing then calmly takes his time to muster up a reply. “Obviously it will be you, if this…,” he motions in the general vicinity of Missy, “becomes one.”
“Are you threatening me?” I spit, tightening my grip on his shirt. “What have you even got?”
“Oh, hmm…I don’t know, something that involves juice?…And I don’t mean apples or oranges.”
“Fuck you. I didn’t take the roids and you know it.”
This guy is a diabolical asshole. I should have seen it, the signs were there. I mistakenly passed it all off for confidence because I wanted to give him a chance as a friend.
Carver pulls free from my grasp and starts walking to the door, “Yeah, but remember what Bobby said, if word ever gets out…it’s on your head.” He doesn’t even glance at Missy before walking out the door.
I’ve become Missy’s protector. She hasn’t really talked too much about what happened with Carver, nor have I pushed her to do so, other than trying to convince her to tell her parents, or even a teacher. However she won�
��t budge, not wanting me to get in any trouble, since I was the one that ‘saved her’.
One day after school I’m walking Missy towards her bus, and she tells me that she quit cheerleading. She can’t stand the thought of wearing that little skirt ever again. Missy grabs my hand before climbing onto the bus and over the loud hum of the idling engine she says, “You know I was interested in you the whole time right? I was just using him to get to you. Looks like I got what I wanted,” she acknowledges sickly, then gives me a light kiss on the lips. “You’re my hero. Thanks for saving me.”
And with that we officially become a couple, and Carver and I, officially become enemies.
Honestly I start to feel more and more like a superhero. My mask is never off and I’m constantly watching Carver to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else, and Missy to make sure she’s safe. Deep down inside I know it’s because I never did it for Joy, when I should have, after her dad died. And since I’m too damn chicken to try and make amends with her, I attempt to do it at least with myself. Deep down inside I also know that I’m really a coward, not a hero……my reason to hide behind a mask.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JOY
Glad to be done with the last week of October, I welcome November with open arms. Yet, it seems as the month rolls over, Mother Nature decides that she has been too generous with the mild temperatures. She makes up for it in full force, there’s a chilly wind and the overcast sky and is threatening rain. I even put my heat on low as I drive home, warming up my feet though the thin canvas of my sneakers.
I head inside and take off my jacket, deciding to make a cup of cocoa to warm up. I’m just about to hit the start button on the microwave when my doorbell rings. I open it, thinking maybe Devon forgot his house key again, but I’m surprised to find a solid six foot wall in his place. “Bryce, what are you doing here?” I shiver as a sudden gust whips my hair across my face.
