by Allen, Jacob
Not anyone I can think of.
I called Nick next.
“Yo,” he said.
“Nissan Stadium. Come. Kevin’s getting beer.”
“Dude, did you forget that I play football?” he said with a laugh. “I’m literally getting changed in the locker room right now.”
“Fucking hell, I don’t know why you try, you’re not as good as your brothers.”
There was no faster way to turn Nick from a quiet gentleman into a raging bull than to remind him of his own athletic inadequacies. Ironically, he was by far and away the best athlete of the four of us. He could do things on the football field and the basketball court that the other three of us, even with our heights, could only dream of. But compared to his brothers, who received scholarships to SEC schools, he was a pittance.
“Fuck you, Adam,” he said. “Have fun pursuing Emily with your third-grade bully ways and then wondering why you’re a pissed-off asshole all the time.”
Now it was my turn to feel furious. I screamed “the fuck you just say?!” but he had hung up before the words reached him. I felt my nostrils flare like volcanoes on the verge of erupting, but I calmed myself by the knowledge that Kevin would have some good—it had better fucking be good—beer within the hour.
The last person I needed to call was one that always pissed me off, but only because… well, he was my fucking brother, so I had to say I loved him.
“What do you want?” Ryan said.
“Afternoon to you too, dick,” I said. “Come to Nissan Stadium. The bitch is bringing beer. We can chill.”
Ryan usually had a smartass response to moments like these, but laughter was not typical—and he seemed to have a lot in store.
“Dream on, asshole,” he said. “Mom and Dad are cooking pasta tonight, I—”
“He’s not your goddamn father,” I said.
Nick was right. I was usually an angry asshole. But usually, that was just a default state; it didn’t actually reflect any present anger or concerns. But whenever Ryan called that man his father and not his stepfather…
I understood that our actual father died when Ryan was just three years old. I got that at that age, he probably wouldn’t have any real memories. But fuck him. How fucking disrespectful could he be to the man that helped bring him into this world.
“He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a father, and so I’m going to call him a father.”
Fuck. You. Asshole. Maybe you should just learn to grow the fuck up and not rely on having a daddy figure. I’ve done it and I’m just fine.
And if you think the old man is worthy of being a father figure, there’s a shitload of things you don’t know about that man.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
“And you’re a fucking bitch,” Ryan said.
“Call me a fucking bitch one more time.”
“Fucking bitch.”
I lost it. In anger, I punched the dashboard, breaking a few of the buttons on the radio display. My hand hurt like a motherfucker; it felt like I had just punched the side of an old-school television with all those dials on the side. It was bleeding, but I wasn’t about to get it checked out. I’d put some bandages on it later.
“Whatever you just hit, I hope it was worth it,” Ryan said. “Have fun. Hopefully the pasta won’t be cold when you get back.”
The line went dead, and I screamed again. Fuck!
I hated my stepdad!
I hated that he pretended to be some pious asshat when he had a sadistic trail of lies and sins behind him. I fucking hated that he pretended to be my father when he’d already said he didn’t give a shit about such a role. I fucking hated everything that man stood for.
One more fucking year. One more fucking year, and I’ll never need the reminder of what I can’t have.
A real father figure.
I shook my head in frustration. I didn’t need a father figure. I’d survived without one just fine since five years old. I was here, getting good grades in school. I had a circle of friends that bowed before me. I had every girl in the school ready to get on her knees and suck my cock.
Except for Emily Zane.
But fuck her. She wanted to get close, and she should have known better.
She should have fucking known that…
That…
You don’t have a father figure. You’re not worthy of being loved. Your stepdad hates you. Your mom keeps her distance.
No. Fuck that! I am the fucking man.
And what has that gotten you? Boring ass sex? Three seconds of orgasms a few times a week? Losing the one girl who you actually cared about?
I pulled out of my stupid fucking thoughts a few minutes later when Kevin’s car pulled up. Thank fucking God—I could hear the damn clunker from the other side of town. The Titans could have won the Super Bowl, the city could have lost its damn mind, and I’d still be able to hear the rusted piece of shit that Kevin drove across town.
His car was supposed to be a Honda Civic, but I was pretty sure it came from the 20th century. I never failed to mock Kevin for it, never failed to use it as another leverage point in comparison to me of how awesome I was. He parked two spaces over from me—good thing he remembered not to contaminate my ride by parking right next to it—peeked his head out, swiveled it like a fucking dork, and then got out with a twelve pack of Yuengling.
Huh. He picked my favorite beer. I guess he is worth a shit in some fashion.
“Proving yourself worthy of my friendship, I see,’ I said as he got in the car.
“I remembered that you liked it, so I figured it would make for a good choice.”
“Not bad.”
It was as much as I was giving him.
“So, what’s going on?” Kevin said. “Can I help you—”
“Stop treating this like a goddamn therapy session.”
As if to emphasize the point, I instead blared “Down With the Sickness” from Disturbed at as loud as my speakers would go without blowing out, making the deep hacking sound right along with the band when they opened the song. I looked at Kevin, who seemed content to sit back and just bounce his head.
Fucking typical. I was the one getting into the good shit, and Kevin was the one on the sideline.
“Stepdad being an asshole, huh?” Kevin asked.
“When is he not?” I said before resuming my humming along of the lyrics.
I opened the first Yuengling, chugged it as quickly as I could, and then tossed it out the window.
“Man—”
“Pick it up when I leave if it bothers you that much,” I said.
Kevin went mute, and finally, the song ended with “Madness has now, come over me!” I banged my head twice as the drums ended, and I turned the music down slightly in preparation for whatever the next song was.
“So, what’s going on with you and Emily?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what did I just say about this—”
“People are saying you two banged in the girls’ locker room.”
I had gone to grab a second drink, but Kevin’s words gave me pause.
“Say that again,” I demanded.
“People are saying that you went into the girls’ locker room to fuck her,” he said. “It’s not anything widespread, but some of the guys definitely think it happened. Like you were trying to make a point that you could go anywhere and everywhere on campus.”
“I can,” I said, but I was losing myself in thought.
Was this rumor better or worse for what I wanted? Would it give me greater control, or would it somehow backfire on me? On the one hand, calling Emily out for being a supposed whore who had banged me in the locker room might have made me look like the boss on campus, but for many, it might have also been a line too far. I didn’t give a shit about the lines, but I did give a shit about my ability to seal the deal with girls later on. If some cheerleader wouldn’t get on her knees for me because people thought I was a locker room peeping tom, that wouldn’t do any fuckin
g good.
“So, did you?”
“Did I what?” I said, knowing full well what he meant. I just liked to see him work for it.
“Did you bang Emily in the locker room?”
I chuckled.
“She wanted it bad,” I said. “But no. I’m not that crass. I have some fucking standards.”
Funny thing was, I didn’t think I was lying that much. I remembered Emily’s look and the vibe I got between us. There was definitely some strong tension there. If I actually had made a move, well, who the fuck knew?
But it wasn’t going to happen. That would have gone back to some painful days that I didn’t need to revisit.
“She wanted it bad?” Kevin said, surprised. “For the way you treated her last Saturday?”
Kevin was doubting me?
“Yeah, you find that hard to believe?” I said, accusation in my voice.
“Well, I mean, I know that it’s possible,” Kevin said in the most groveling, apologetic voice ever. Fucking pathetic. “I’m just saying, we’ve all tried to figure out why you’ve been such an asshole to her. And you’re saying she wants you? That just—”
“Well, bro,” I said, emphasizing “bro.” “You’re not going to find out, because it’s none of your goddamn business. Understand?”
Kevin bit his lip, grabbed a beer, took a swig, and sighed.
“She’s a nice girl, man,” Kevin said. “There’s a whole lot more bitches you could target. She’s—”
“She can’t fucking be trusted!” I roared. “Girls can’t be trusted. At all! Not my mom. Not Emily. No one. Got it?”
My own fucking mother. Leaving me to fend for myself when my father died.
My fucking stepfather. Telling me I was worthless and so was my mother, except for sex.
My fucking ex, Emily. Pushing me away as hard as she did after I made it clear it wouldn’t work.
“I’m not a fucking moron like I was in middle school. I’ve grown up, Kevin. I’ve seen the way women work. Maybe you should get some common sense knocked into your fucking skull. Might do you some good.”
“OK, I’ll try.”
I rolled my eyes. Of course Kevin would try. That’s all he fucking did was try. It didn’t mean he ever actually learned, though.
I finished my second beer before deciding I didn’t want to have anymore or spend any more time with Kevin. There was only so much sucking up I could take before it just turned into a giant chore that I had to deal with. I more or less kicked him out of my car, though it wasn’t quite as rude as it usually was.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, motherfucker.”
That was my way of being polite. I mean, I didn’t call him poor or anything like that. I didn’t hate him for not going through the shit I did. So that was a start.
I didn’t want to go home, though. Not while the damn pasta was waiting for me, not while I would have to deal with the fake bullshit of being a family hung over my head. Mom would smile, Dad would say something fake sweet, Ryan would just eat his food, and it would be up to me to complete the idyllic family picture.
Fat fucking chance.
Instead, I decided a movie would kill a good two or three hours. I didn’t even have a movie in mind when I rolled up. I eventually just chose the new Godzilla film—I figured a move about a giant monster destroying everything in sight, including other monsters, would prove entertaining enough.
It was a stupid film, honestly. Most films were. Most things were. But it did succeed in passing the time. I got to sit in the back silently and alone, munching on popcorn. I didn’t have to deal with my Broad Street Boys asking me stupid questions about Emily, and I didn’t have to deal with Emily annoying me.
Even if I did find myself wondering what would happen if she just happened to appear. Oh, how much fun that would be.
I exited to concerned texts from my mother. I rolled my eyes, but I told her I was on my way home. I had to get some homework done, after all. I was a rebel, not a fucking blind anarchist.
When I walked into the kitchen, a warm smell hit me—but it was not the smell of pasta.
“Pizza?” I said as I walked in.
“The pasta did not go off as well as we would have liked,” Mom said with a half-hearted chuckle. “So I ordered pizza. Emily delivered again.”
“Again?” I said.
Since when had she delivered before? Since when was Emily Zane coming over to my house more than she had before? Since when was my mother suddenly talking to her?
“Yeah, I told her how you talked about her this week.”
I did? Oh, fuck. I mentioned she sprained her ankle at class. Since when the fuck did that turn into me talking about her “this week?”
“Uh huh.”
“She’s a very sweet girl, Adam, I don’t know if—”
I grabbed a slice and stormed out of the room. It took all of my effort to not chuck the slice of pepperoni against the wall. Why couldn’t people see that I had no interest in Emily Zane?
Maybe I needed to get out of this house sooner rather than later.
Maybe my plans to get back at my stepfather needed to accelerate.
7
Emily
It was a Friday afternoon. The parking lot was filling up with students, alums, and parents alike, many drinking beer, including a few of my peers. The team had not yet even gone to the locker room, but already, as was customary here in the South, Friday night football would soon become the beginning of the religious rites that would reach their crescendo with NFL games Sunday evening.
And I was in the library, studying and trying to get ahead in my classes.
Well, get ahead wasn’t quite the way to put it. I had soccer practice in about forty minutes at an adjacent field, and as soon as that started, my day was almost certain to be filled until Sunday evening. Sometimes, when I was bored studying, I’d think about my weekly schedule and wonder if it would get any easier in college.
School from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. Monday to Friday. Soccer practice Monday, Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, with weekday practices from 4 to 6 p.m. and Saturday’s 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. Our games were every Wednesday. I had my job delivering pizzas on Sundays from 10 to 6 p.m. and Thursday from 6 to 10 p.m. Oh, and sometimes, on Saturday afternoons, I liked to volunteer at the local animal shelter.
It was kind of a miracle that I ever had time for school.
It was definitely a miracle I ever had time to reflect like this.
But someday, it would all be worth it. No more 18 hour days. No more Adam. No more distant parents. I’d be an independent woman, getting a good paycheck, and in a city far, far removed from all of the stresses.
That was the idea, at least.
I began to read the last chapter of “A Prayer for Owen Meany,” entitled “The Shot.” I loved reading books like these because they allowed me to escape the real world. In books, the bully got their comeuppance; in books, the beaten-down girl went on to change the world; and in books, the evil villain had a chance to redeem themselves. Things that will probably never happen in real life.
I heard the door open. I looked up, fearful of Adam walking in… and felt a mixture of emotions when I saw Nick walk in.
As in, Nick Locke, he of the Broad Street Boys, the one whom I had discussed with Samantha asking out. I stared at him as he walked in, studying him like I had never studied him before. He had short, blonde hair that spiked at the front, white skin, hauntingly handsome blue eyes, and a casual smile. If he had not been in the Broad Street Boys, I suspected many of the more stable, less hormone-driven women in our class would have had a thing for him. I always thought that Samantha, for example, would make a great match for him.
But as I looked at him, I wasn’t thinking about what Samantha would think. I was trying to will myself to be attracted to him. He’s got really nice eyes. Really nice eyes. And his body seems pretty limber and lean. I’m sure he’s got some muscle. Maybe even a six pack. It’s certainly possible. Why couldn’t he be lik
e that?
I tried so hard to believe that Nick was someone that I could be attracted to.
But I couldn’t fake the spark that I felt when… ugh, can I vomit… I thought of Adam.
Granted, I knew that the intense feelings Adam elicited could often be confused for attraction. Arousal and fear both produced extremely heightened sensations, so I supposed that for someone like me, it was possible to confuse or mix the two. There was nothing about Adam, in the present day, that made me want to kiss him, let alone sleep with him or date him.
For sure, though, Nick just didn’t elicit anything. He seemed like a nice guy who had fallen into a terrible clique that influenced him to let stupid things happen. But there was no primal drive, no fantastic thoughts, no warm glow rushing through my body when I stared at him.
This got put to the test when he sat at the same table as me, diagonally across. Granted, part of that was that the other tables were taken, but if ever there was a moment that could have made me feel aroused to see him, this was it.
“You mind?” he asked.
Could his voice get me excited? Could his gaze, maybe? What about the slight smile forming on his face?
Nope. Nope. And nope.
“Not at all,” I said.
I turned my attention back to Owen Meany. I couldn’t believe I’d even considered going to homecoming with Nick, as if I would sacrifice my own self-respect to get back at Adam. Who was I, anyways, Adam Collins? I kept to myself, fought back when people came at me, and stayed close to my friends. All of this nonsense with Adam…
Samantha had her heart in the right place. But her mind had seemingly guided her in the wrong direction.
“What are you reading?”
Nick?
I looked up from the book, smiled at him, and gave a curt nod.
“‘A Prayer for Owen Meany,’” I said. “For English class.”
“Ah, yeah, I’m not smart enough for your AP course,” he said.
“You could be,” I said. “It just means a lot more reading.”
“Nah, don’t be polite,” he said. “I’ve gotten dinged up on the field too much for that to happen. But I appreciate the thought.”
