by Jen Doll
I touched lightly on the grass and sprinted out of my yard, hunched over and tight, like I had a football clutched between my arms and was headed for the end zone. By the time I got to the Humphreys’ backyard, six doors from mine, I’d broken a light sweat and felt pretty good. I slowed down and started walking, traipsing through the sprinkler systems that folks had set to go off after dusk, for peak absorption. (This is according to Brian, who runs a lawn recovery service.)
Brod’s condo is part of a neighborhood that my mom always lifts her nose at a little. It’s not that far away, but it’s different: a few rows of attached townhouses with carports rather than full garages, and tiny little slips of backyards. They’re each about a third the size of our two-story house. “Houses like that are for divorcées and bachelors,” I heard Mom tell a friend on the phone when the condos started going up a few years back, cheaper housing for “transitional types,” as she put it. “They’re going to bring down the value of the neighborhood.”
My mom’s concerns are founded, even if she doesn’t know exactly why. After Brod graduated, back when I was still in middle school, his parents moved to Florida, and he took over his parents’ lease and stayed around to run his own little 24-7 party house in their absence. I guess my mom was right: He is definitely a bachelor.
Brod’s parties started out pretty awesome. There were people his age there, which lent a level of excitement beyond the regular high school party vibe, though plenty of sophomores and juniors and seniors and even a few popular freshman showed up, too. Why wouldn’t we? There was always so much beer, so many tacos (ha, ha), so many hot girls, and you could do whatever you wanted, no chaperones, no rules. Especially for me. Whenever I walked in, someone would hand me a drink, pat me on the back, say something nice. If the team had just won a game, people would actually stand up and cheer. After homecoming sophomore year, a bunch of people lifted me in the air and hailed me as the reigning champion of the school, the town, the world.
Now when I walk in, it’s different. With the team off at camp, it’s pretty sparse. Which is actually a plus. When I arrive, Brod’s still wearing his collared Family Mart shirt and khaki work pants, but he’s put on his flip-flops and is leaning way back in his dad’s old La-Z-Boy recliner, his feet in the air. The room is cloudy with smoke. There are a couple of guys I kind of recognize who have long since graduated. They’re playing Grand Theft Auto One Million or whatever, and they all look like they have a raging case of pink eye from something that is most definitely not pink eye.
“HEY, BUDDY!” Brod yells, raising a beer at me with one hand and lowering his legs to the floor as he works the recliner knob with the other. Drunk Brod gets effusive. “It’s been a while!” He stands up and grabs me in a bear hug around the waist and lifts me in the air. I pat him on the back a couple times before I extricate myself from his grip.
It’s been only a few days, but I guess in Grant and Brod time that translates to practically a long-distance relationship. This girl walks into the room then, and I try to place her. Long, dirty-blond hair. Long, tan legs in ratty cutoff jean shorts. A bunch of thread bracelets around one thin wrist.
“Brod, you got any rolling papers—oh, hey-o!” she says when she notices me. “Grant Collins! Where you been hiding yourself?”
I must have a blank look on my face, because Brod interjects, “You remember Mercer,” he says, and it’s a statement, not a question.
“Maybe I’m not that memorable,” says Mercer, confident that she most certainly is. “Grant’s a big shot; he gets what he wants.” She comes up close, draping a sinewy arm around my shoulder. Her nails are long and pointed and have pink polish chipping off them. I can smell her perfume, and underneath that, her sweat. Despite myself, my body is responding. I laugh and head to the kitchen, where I grab a beer from the fridge. This girl’s gotten me rattled because I have zero recollection of hooking up with her, but it’s clear that I must have. I pour myself a bracer of Jack in one of Brod’s mom’s old Christmas mugs, chug it, and go out back to get some air.
“Hey, Grant,” says this kid from my class, Nicky Weaver, who’s standing there in calf-high grass (no lawn recovery service for Brod) staring out at the sky. He’s one of those superachiever student-government types, so I’m surprised to see him, but I guess summer changes things. He lifts his beer toward mine, and we let the aluminum cans ting against each other.
“Whatcha been up to?” he asks. “Last time I saw you outside the hallways of our humble high school, you were scoring for the wrong team.” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Sorry, bro.”
Since I’ve been pretty much in hiding lately, I haven’t really had to deal with too many people who saw me mess up the way I did, running the wrong way down the football field and ultimately scoring for the other team. After that, I remember falling. I remember my head feeling like it was on fire. I remember the sound of cheering, but also the sound of booing.
Later, I remember walking into the party and how different it felt from all those times when we’d won, when I’d been the hero. The faces around me were hard and cold. I drank anyway. It felt better to drink. I think I finished a bottle of whiskey. I don’t know. I remember leaving and insisting on driving, and the fear on Chassie’s face when I started to lose control of the car. I remember the moment of clarity as I hung from the seat belt, suspended upside down. I hated myself as much as I thought I possibly could—except it turned out, I could hate myself even more.
From then, everything’s a fog, but I know what people told me in the hours and days that followed. I took off running from the car, even though Chassie was hurt. Leaving the scene of the crime after breaking my girlfriend’s arm by driving drunk makes me about the most massive coward in human history. I don’t want that to be the guy I am, but people say it’s true, and you can’t argue if you don’t remember.
Chassie dumped me the next day from her hospital bed. In one night, I totaled both my car and my relationship.
Now Nicky’s practically daring me to talk about it. I wonder how much he really knows.
“Yeah, man,” I say, taking another swig of my beer. “Don’t rub it in.” Maybe I’m having sympathy pains for that night; I swear I can still feel my head throbbing.
“You scored, and then you literally flipped over on the field; it was like you tripped on air,” he says. “You were airborne, and then you were facedown on the field, and then a bunch of other huge dudes were right on top of you. Damn.”
I nod and force a light laugh. He doesn’t know about the car accident, at least.
Brod pops his head out.
“Y’all in for bong hits?” he says.
“Yes, sir,” says Nick. He looks at me. “You coming, too?”
I nod and we go inside. We all sit in a circle, and Mercer plants herself on my lap, and pretty soon I stop thinking about football or much of anything at all.
* * *
I head back to my house when the sun is just peeking over the horizon. I leave Mercer sleeping in Brod’s guest bedroom, kissing her forehead as I go because it seems the gentlemanly thing to do, even though I’m pretty sure nothing about me counts as a gentleman at this point. I climb back up the tree, and Lord help me, I think I’m still drunk, but I hang on tight and don’t fall. I make it to my window, and there’s a moment when I think I see a shadow of my mom sitting in my room, but no, it’s just the reflection of the tree. I get into bed and pass out until the sun starts streaming hard-core through my bedroom window. I’ve forgotten to close the blinds.
After I get up to shut them, I can’t fall back to sleep. It’s Sunday, and even though I’ve got a dull ache in my brain from the whiskey, I have this funny idea: What if, instead of rolling over and closing my eyes like usual, drifting in and out of consciousness for the next few hours, I get out of bed, go downstairs, and eat breakfast with the twins and Mom and Brian before they go to church? This thought is so compelling that I actually rise and plant one foot in front of the other until I reach
the bathroom, where I brush my teeth thoroughly, adding some Listerine for good measure and splashing cold water on my face. I notice a hickey on my neck and go back to my room to put on a shirt with a collar I can pop to conceal the evidence.
When I get to the bottom of the steps, which face the kitchen, the twins see me and start shouting, “Rant! Rant! Rant!” my home version of the cheers I used to get back in the stadium, except they still can’t pronounce their G’s. I see the surprise on my mom’s face.
“Morning, honey. I didn’t think you’d be joining us!” she says. “There’s toast and eggs, still warm. Help yourself.”
I’m ravenous. I pile some food on my plate, then go sit next to the twins. Brian’s on the other side of them, reading the paper. He looks up at me and smiles, offering me the sports section.
“No, thanks,” I say quickly, taking the local news instead.
“Rant!” the twins shout again. It’s like a spike in my head, but I ignore the pain. Mikey tries to feed me a spoonful of egg.
“Nom nom nom,” I say, pretending to eat it, and they giggle. Brian sets aside his section of the paper.
“So, how’s the new job going?” he asks. My mom is pouring herself more coffee in the kitchen and turns to look at me as I answer.
“It’s pretty good,” I say. “You know, it’s weird.…”
“Oh?”
“Well, we unpack all these suitcases that people have lost,” I say. “So we never can predict what we’re going to find. The other day, there was this one suitcase, and when we opened it, there was nothing in it.”
“Your mom packs like that!” says Brian.
“That’s right,” she says, walking over to wipe the twins’ mouths. They’re babbling at each other with yellow egg all over their faces. “You never know when you’re going to need a little extra space for shopping.”
“Well, we really think you’re doing great,” Brian adds. “We’re very proud of you.”
I can’t really accept this praise, but I can’t exactly tell them the truth, either.
“You know what we were thinking?” asks my mom. “What if you call your dad and tell him everything you’ve been up to lately? I know he’d love to hear from you.” She comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder.
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” I say, shrugging her off.
“Honey,” says my mom. “You two should have a relationship. It’s important. He has been reaching out, trying to mend things.”
I stand up, dropping my fork on my plate with a clang. “Why should we mend things? So you can get rid of me?” I say, and my voice gets louder as I go. “I’m not going to forget what he did just because you have. Why should I talk to him? He is the asshole. Him reaching out doesn’t change a damn thing.”
“Please don’t use words like that in my kitchen,” says my mom. Brian is frowning at me.
“Why not, Mom? He cheated on you and left us both and decided to have a whole new family. I think that makes him an asshole, and I’m not going to stop saying it just because it’s not ‘polite.’ Did you put him up to calling me the other night?”
She presses her lips together and breathes in slowly through her nose. I notice the twins staring up at me. Mikey looks like he might cry.
“Aw jeez,” I say. “It’s OK, buddies.” I put my hand to his little cheek, and for a second, everybody’s quiet.
Then Brian stands up. He’s putting an end to this nonsense. “Ready, honey?” he says, looking at his watch. “Let’s get the twins in the minivan.”
Mom wipes her hands on a dish towel. “I need to fix my lipstick,” she says, and heads into the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind her, hard.
Brian takes a kid under each arm like a football to tote them outside. He looks at me half-angry and half-apologetically, like he, too, is bummed I got the dad I did, or maybe he’s just bummed about me. “You should think about what your mom said,” he tells me. “Giving your dad a call could really help things, in ways you don’t even know right now. And it would give your mom some peace of mind. She’s hurting from all this, too. Don’t take your anger out on her. There’s no call for that.”
For the peace of the family, I nod, even though I plan to think about my dad as little as possible. Brian goes outside to put the twins in their car seats, and Mom comes out of the bathroom. I wait for the yelling to start, but she’s surprisingly calm.
“You know I don’t want curse words in front of the boys,” she says. “I expect you to respect those wishes when you’re living under my roof.”
“I know,” I mumble.
“Maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I haven’t been there enough,” she says. “I’m trying to do the best I can. Everything since your accident has been…” Her eyes well up, and I feel like a shithead yet again.
“It’s not you,” I say, because it’s really not, and the last thing I can deal with is this guilt on top of everything else. “It’s me. I’m sorry. It’s all my fault.”
This is why I’m better off hiding out in my room, hiding out at the store, hiding out at Brod’s. Other people shouldn’t have to deal with me.
Brian honks the car horn. “We can talk about this more later,” she tells me. “But will you do me a favor?”
“Nothing to do with Dad,” I say. “I just can’t.”
“Maybe you can talk to Dr. Laura about it, then?”
I nod again. It’s so easy to nod. Nodding doesn’t mean a thing.
“And maybe you’ll think about coming to church with us again? When you’re ready?” She’s so hopeful I hold off from saying there’s no way that’s going to happen. They’ve let me off the hook for a while now since my weekends were usually taken up by football, and now that they’re not, I’m too fragile to push, or so they think. I’d like to keep it that way. With everything I’ve lied about, I’d feel like a hypocrite sitting in the aisles and praying.
Once she’s gone and the house is quiet, I glance down at the paper. There’s a new recycling program the town is trying to get off the ground. Somebody’s Shiba Inu has been stolen from outside the Family Mart. (I glance down at Rusty sleeping under the kitchen table and feel grateful for the nonjudgmental nature of dogs.) Cops are cracking down on speeding motorists on Main Street. Two drunks got in a fight outside the hospital, but handily, when one cracked the other’s ribs, the emergency room was right there. Ba-da-bum. (I’m here all week, folks!) Aspirin is on sale at the drugstore. The town theater is putting on a performance of Jesus Christ Superstar next week. That reminds me of how Calvin Buttress stole the baby Jesus doll from the nativity back when we were in fifth grade. Not only did Doris locate the doll, she also found Calvin Buttress hiding in a stack of choir robes. (Because he was only eight, he was forgiven.)
Oh, and here are the DUIs.
All of a sudden I’m grabbing my phone, looking for a number I’ve never used. On my first day at the store, I watched her type in her digits carefully, admiring the way she was so purposeful about everything. I’m sure she meant me to have it for work reasons. But I really need to talk to someone, and none of my current friends can provide that service.
I text, Doris—it’s Grant. You around?
I barely expect her to respond. I’m pretty sure she hates me for any number of reasons, even if lately in the stockroom things seem OK between us. A long, long time ago, back when we were kids, we were friends. Then, for a handful of years, I was somebody girls like her tend to hate. Now I’m not sure who I am.
It’s a milestone, I think wryly. This may be the very first time in the post-puberty history of Grant Collins that I’m getting in touch with a girl without the intention of trying to get in her pants.
19
Doris
I catch up with Nell and link my elbow with hers, and she hands me the paper wristband that grants me admission to the water park.
“You didn’t have to do that!” I say.
“My parents insisted,” she tells me. “They’re alr
eady inside with my little brother. Want to meet them? I don’t think you really have a choice—they’re adamant about getting introductions to all of my ‘new friends,’ and, um, you’re kind of the only one.”
“Of course I do,” I say, and Nell leads me over to the section of the wave pool where her mom and dad and brother are sitting in lounge chairs. They’re this perfect, adorable family; they even have matching towels with a fancy insignia on them. Nell sees me looking. “Those are from my dad’s alma mater,” she says. “He’s obsessed with college merch.”
They all stand up to meet me and shake my hand, Jack included, which takes me by surprise. In my town, you’re more likely to get hugged than to have your hand shaken, and when I see a hand coming at me, it takes a second for me to remember to put mine out, too. Then Jack goes, “Mah pleasure, dahling. It’s so very nice to meet you,” in a faux-Southern accent, and I nearly burst out laughing.
“The pleah-shuh is all mine,” I respond, in equally plummy Southern tones.
“Do you like wave pools?” Jack asks, his voice returning to normal.
I glance over at the water. It’s a virtual sea of kids, yelling and floating and bumping into one another atop a film of sunscreen and whatever else is in that murky blue. I have to admit, it’s less enticing than it once was, but I don’t want to be one of those people who grows up and starts hating everything they used to think was cool. I still love stickers and teddy bears and chocolate pudding, so why not be a wave pool enthusiast, too?
“I bet it feels really good to jump in on a hot day like today,” I tell him.
“Will you go in with me? Please?” he’s asking, and I’m about to say, Damn the grossness, forget about the chaos, I’ll do it. But Nell is dragging me away.