by Kara Bietz
His eyes meet mine and he gives me a crooked smile. “Parsley sounds good,” he says. “Let me get cleaned up first, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll get it ready,” I say, drying my dishes and putting them away.
Julian walks toward the shower, and I have to take a deep breath. Being that close to him in an empty house stirred something in my gut, and now all I want to do is grab him and kiss him right here in the kitchen. I’m going to need to calm myself down a little bit. Grinding the parsley will help.
I hear the shower turn on and I get to work, using the back of a spoon this time instead of the end of my toothbrush. Once I have a good paste, I bring the bowl down the hall with me. The shower has already stopped, and I hear Julian shuffling around in his room. I knock on the door, the bowl of parsley paste in my hand. “You ready for me yet?”
He doesn’t answer, so I push the door open a smidge.
He’s sitting on the bed, hair still dripping from the shower. I sit next to him, the bowl of parsley balanced in my hand. “You okay?”
He looks over at me, his eyes sad and dark. “I’ve got to tell you something and I don’t know how,” he says.
· twenty five ·
JULIAN
Elijah’s face goes pale as soon as the words are out of my mouth. He sets the bowl of parsley down on the floor. “Just say it.”
“Figg told me what happened twenty years ago,” I start, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.
“Yeah, you already told me about that,” he says. “My dad got the whole team in trouble, and they had to forfeit the game.”
Words tumble around in my gut, and I don’t know how to pull them out and put them in the right order. My damn ribs burn. “That’s not… that’s not exactly how it actually happened,” I finally say, haltingly.
Elijah stands up and wipes his hands on his shorts, kicking the bowl with the parsley in it. A hunk of mashed parsley lands on my carpet. “Oh, shit.” He crouches down and tries to clean it up with the corner of his T-shirt.
I sit down on the floor with him and grab his wrists. “Hey, don’t worry about that right now,” I say, moving my head so that he’s looking me in the eye.
He picks his chin up. “Hi,” I say when his eyes land on mine.
“Hi,” he says back, looking worried.
“It wasn’t your father’s fault that the game was forfeited. He didn’t start the fight,” I say, my stomach whirling.
Elijah frowns. “He didn’t? I thought… I thought it was my parents the Taylor Titans were making fun of with those beach balls,” he says. My hands don’t leave his wrists, and he twists his hands and holds onto my wrists, too.
“It was,” I tell him. “But it wasn’t your father that started the fight. He actually… um… he actually tried to stop the fight.”
Elijah pulls his hands from my grip and stands up. “Wait… what? Who started it, then? Why?”
“It was actually my father,” I say, looking down. “He and your dad were friends, and he couldn’t handle the Taylor team making fun of him like that.”
I explain everything while Elijah stands very still, braced against my dresser. The whole time I’m talking, he never looks up from the floor.
“Even Figg didn’t know the real truth until after we were born,” I finally say.
Still Elijah doesn’t talk.
He leans against my dresser, bracing himself on his hands, and looks at the floor. His breathing is measured and even, but his eyes dart around wildly, like he’s trying to make sense of this huge puzzle.
“You okay?” I ask.
Slowly, he raises his head and looks at me. “No. Not even a little bit.” He turns and leaves my room and goes into the guest room. A second later, I hear the door slam.
I wait a moment before following. “Hey.” I knock on the door softly. “Can I come in?”
“Go away,” he says, his voice muffled behind the door.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know it might come as a bit of a shock, but… but why are you so mad?” I ask.
The door swings wide open. “Why am I so mad? Are you kidding me?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he doesn’t stop to let me speak.
“All it would have taken was for your father to have told the truth and maybe… maybe everything would have been different!” he yells. The door closes in my face again.
I knock again. “What do you mean, everything?”
“I mean everything!” his voice yells behind the door. It swings open one more time. “Everything, Julian. Think about it.” I watch him from the doorway as he paces in front of the window. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. I’m thinking that most of the shitty decisions my father made came after he stopped playing football. I’m thinking that I don’t remember many good things about him, but most of the good things we did share revolved around playing football, or listening to him tell me stories about Guardsmen football. I’m thinking that if he had never stopped playing football, things may have looked very different for Eric Vance.” Elijah’s voice shakes with anger. “For me. For Frankie. For my mom. Even for Coley.”
That earlier niggling guilt intensifies, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“And now, here you are telling me that the only reason he stopped playing football is because he took the fall for someone else? Because he was being a good friend? Sorry, you just tilted my world, Julian. In more ways than one. You’re going to have to forgive me if it takes me a minute to process all of this,” he says, walking toward me until I back up into the hallway. He slams the door again, and I hear the lock click into place.
I stare at the door, my nose just inches from it, and finally lean my forehead against the wood.
“’lijah,” I say. “Please let me in.”
“Go away. I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he answers.
Out in the living room, the front door opens.
“I’m home, boys!” Birdie calls. I hear the crinkling of several plastic bags, and her keys jingle as she takes them out of the lock.
I leave Elijah in his room, behind the locked door, and try to fix my face as I walk into the living room.
“Let me get some of those, Birdie,” I say, pulling several grocery bags from her arms.
“Oh, Julian,” she says, balancing the rest of the bags. “We were looking like Mother Hubbard’s kitchen this morning. Come on, help me put some of this away.”
I unload several bags’ worth of canned goods and frozen vegetables while Birdie washes fruit in the sink. She hums while she works.
“Where’s Elijah? Doing some homework?” she asks between hums.
“He’s… he’s not feeling well,” I lie, my gut twisting. “He went to bed early. I think he pushed himself a little too hard at practice or something. It was a hot one out there today.”
“You can say that again. I’m ready for the cold snap, I’ll tell you what,” she says, dropping apples into a bowl on the counter and starting on the grapes and clementines.
When I finish putting all the other groceries away, I join Birdie at the sink. “How was your meeting?” I ask her.
Birdie stops humming. “Let’s go on and sit down for a minute,” she says.
Turning off the water, she wanders out into the living room and settles into her La-Z-Boy. I sit on the couch, my legs folded underneath me.
“Pastor Ernie is going to buy me out,” she says.
“Wait a minute, you’re selling?” My heart races, and a lump forms in my throat faster than I can stop it. “You’re actually selling it?”
“Shhh, it’s going to be okay, Julian,” she says. “Just listen for a minute, son. Pastor Ernie wants to follow exactly what your father’s plans were for the place. He’s going to do everything exactly how Jeffrey wanted to do it.” Her voice cracks when she says my father’s name.
My heart slows and the lump starts to dissolve. I blink and a few tears escape. “So why are you stepping back? Why are you selling it?�
�
“It just makes more sense like this. I’ve got a college education to think about, don’t I?” She smiles and holds her hand out to me. I reach out and let her squeeze my hand. “Mr. Figg is probably going to retire in the next couple of years, and he’ll take over running the business. I’m going to help, of course. Pastor Ernie and I have already discussed my role as director,” she says. “Your father would be so proud of you, Julian, even if we’re not the ones who own the center.”
I let my hand drop, and that guilt comes sneaking back into my chest.
“Birdie,” I say. I want to tell her everything. That I know my dad was the one who was responsible for the Crenshaw forfeit. That I know Eric Vance took the heat for it and I made the mistake of telling Elijah. That everything I thought I knew about my father has come crumbling down around me and I don’t even know who I am right now. But what good would it do? I don’t think it will make me feel any better, and sometimes talking about my father makes Birdie’s eyes look sad. I don’t want to be the reason she looks sad.
“What is it, my sunshine? You look like you’ve got the whole world on your shoulders tonight,” she says, her voice soft.
“I… I think I’m going to go to bed early,” I say.
“Okay, then.” She stands up from her chair and holds her arms open for a hug. I fall into her, and she smooths the hair on the back of my head. “Everything’s going to be okay, Julian. I promise,” she says.
I lie awake in my bed way past the time Birdie turns out the lights in the living room and the house falls silent. I turn Elijah’s words over and over at the same time that Figg’s story about the Taylor forfeit tumbles around in my brain.
They were friends, Elijah said. Figg admitted it, too. What happened? I grab a flashlight from my nightstand and throw on my heavy black rain boots.
The shed is creepy at night. It’s creepy enough during the day, with cobwebs stretching across the corners and the musty smell of old stuff permeating the wooden walls and floor. But at night, it’s like something out of a horror movie. I keep the flashlight as close to the ground as possible, so I don’t accidentally shine it into Elijah’s bedroom, which has the only window that faces the backyard. It doesn’t take long for me to find what I’m looking for. A large cardboard box with the name JEFFREY written in bright blue marker on the side teeters on top of a bunch of Rubbermaid bins and old Christmas decorations.
I pull the heavy box down carefully and bring it inside, clicking off my flashlight first. I walk carefully through the house, knowing one wrong step on a squeaky floorboard will wake everyone.
In the safety of my room, I click on the desk lamp and open the box. On top are several newspaper articles about my father’s accident. I flip past those and see his football team pictures. Just like the ones Elijah pointed out to me outside the locker room in the trophy case. Then, an article from the Meridien Register. My father and Eric Vance smiling broadly for the camera, loading wrapped Christmas presents into the back of a pickup truck. The headline boasts:
HIGH SCHOOL ATHLETES LEND A HAND WITH LOCAL CHARITY
Beneath it is a story about Jeffrey and Eric as high school juniors, volunteering their time to collect toys for a shelter a few miles away from Meridien. “The two boys have made it a habit to volunteer all over Crenshaw County,” the article states. I put the clipping to the side and pull out the next stack of pictures and memorabilia. Snapshots of football players goofing around on the beach during a campout. Programs from several football games. Newspaper clippings from homecoming parades. If you look past the haircuts, these pictures and articles could easily be about my class of Guardsmen.
Eric Vance shows up in almost all the pictures and articles that feature my father. When I reach the section of pictures and papers from their senior year in high school, my father is alone.
JEFFREY JACKSON SIGNS LETTER OF INTENT TO PLAY FOOTBALL AT COASTAL TEXAS COMMUNITY COLLEGE
LOCAL ATHLETE JEFFREY JACKSON NOMINATED FOR GOVERNOR’S SERVICE AWARD
JEFFREY JACKSON AWARDED FIRST TEAM ALL-STATE QUARTERBACK POSITION
Underneath all that is a picture of Eric and my father in shorts and Crenshaw T-shirts. My father smiles widely with his arm around Eric, who is holding a tiny bundle in his arms wrapped in a pink blanket.
I lean back against the bed, and my hand brushes against the forgotten bowl of parsley paste on the floor. Gently, I lift my T-shirt and paint it on my ribs myself.
· twenty-six ·
ELIJAH
I wake up way before my alarm goes off. In fact, the sky is still dark when I open my eyes. I try to close them again, try to quiet my head and go back to sleep, but there’s no way that’s going to happen. I glance at my phone. It’s only about an hour before I’m supposed to be awake anyway. Screw it.
I get dressed and throw some extra clothes and toiletries into my backpack and sneak quietly out of the house. I pull my backpack straps as tight as I can and do some stretches in the dark in the driveway before I take off running toward school. I know the weight room at Crenshaw opens at six for anyone who needs to lift in the morning instead of after school. That’s the plan I have in my head as I take off, working up a good sweat as I run down Main Street.
Frankie would probably say I’m running from something. Thoughts in my own head. The expectation of a ton of people here in Meridien that I’m just a screwup. The thought that I’m always going to make the wrong choice. The fact that all these perceptions are possibly based on a giant lie my father told to protect his best friend twenty years ago.
Did I screw up in the past? Absolutely. I own that shit. I know breaking the window and thinking about taking that car wash money was wrong. It doesn’t matter what my reasoning was; it still wasn’t a good choice. I know my dad’s reputation didn’t help anyone’s opinion of me, but it was my stupid choice that got me in trouble. Not my dad’s.
But what if Jeffrey Jackson had taken responsibility for his own actions?
How would things be different right now if my father hadn’t stepped out in front of the entire town and admitted guilt for something he didn’t do? The whole thing makes me so incredibly angry I just want to scream. And why is Julian so clueless?
I don’t think anyone has ever truly understood, except maybe Frankie, what it was like to grow up in the shadow of Eric Vance’s mistakes in a town this small. In Houston, I was invisible. But here? There was no escaping that reputation.
Julian had the memory of Jeffrey Jackson behind him, a great big shining beacon of perfection. A single dad raising his perfect quarterback son. Football heroes, both of them. Both of them trying to lead Meridien to what they’ve always dreamed about: Texas football glory. Will Meridien ever make it to a state title? Probably not, but that doesn’t keep the town from pinning their hopes on the shoulders of their current Golden Boy. This year it’s Julian. Twenty years ago, it was his father.
I wonder what life would have looked like for me if, twenty years ago, Meridien had pinned its hopes on Eric Vance instead.
Everything could have been so different.
The sun is barely starting to peek over the horizon as I run up the Crenshaw driveway and right into the gym doors. The weight room is empty, but I can see Coach Marcus in his office, shuffling through paperwork. He raises his hand to me, and I wave back, eager to get to the leg-press machine and load it up with as much weight as I can stand. The only way for me to get rid of all this crap inside me is to sweat it out.
I get almost an hour of time with the weights before a couple of the other guys start trickling in. Nate and I spot each other doing bench presses without talking. I wonder if he’s escaping his own head, too. Whatever he’s doing, he at least doesn’t talk too much other than to ask if I need more weight.
Yes. The answer is always yes. Put as much weight on me as you can, and I will always lift it.
“You okay, Elijah?” Coach stops me on my way to the shower. “You were here awfully early.”
“I�
��ve got a lot on my mind, Coach. Needed to burn a little bit of that off,” I say, somehow knowing Coach Marcus will probably understand without asking too many questions.
“I get that,” he says. “I’m here before six every morning except Fridays if you need me, yeah? A little extra weight-room time is never a bad thing, especially with St. John’s coming up at the end of the week. Taylor is right around the corner.”
“Yes, sir.” I nod at him. “Thank you.”
“Hey, you’re doing an outstanding job,” he tells me, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently.”
I head to the shower. Sore, but feeling a lot more settled than I was before the sunrise. I stand under the steam, knowing the only thing I can do today is keep to myself. I don’t even want to talk to Julian.
I probably especially don’t want to talk to Julian.
I wish he could comfort me. I wish he could say that he’s sorry about what happened with our dads and magically it would make all these shit feelings disappear, but I don’t think it would.
All through first period, Camille keeps whispering my name and trying to pass me notes. I keep my head down and eventually put my earbuds in to get my reading done. She finally gives up, and I race out of the classroom as the bell is still ringing.
At lunch, I get to the football table first and take out a brown bag with a peanut butter sandwich and some fruit. Julian sits down next to me.
“Can we talk?”
“I can’t talk to you right now,” I say.
“Later? Can we talk later?” he asks under his breath as the rest of the guys sit down with their lunch trays.
“I don’t even know what to say right now,” I tell him, and I turn away from him, toward the rest of the team.
“Well, the pigs got out last night,” Bucky says loudly as he pulls the skin from an orange.
The rest of the guys laugh because they know an Epic Bucky Story is about to follow.