I surveyed the clothes AJ had left me: a pair of fluorescent orange sweatpants, boxer briefs, socks, and a bright red Phillies T-shirt. What a freaking crack-up that guy was. Even in his hungover state (although admittedly, he appeared to be handling the condition a million times better than I was), he had thought to make me — a die-hard Yankees fan — wear a Phillies garment. Angelika called my name and knocked on the door. I looked at the Phillies shirt. I sighed, said, “Hang on, I’m getting dressed,” then blushed furiously as I reached for the mound of clothing.
Well, one thing I could say for this getup: The socks fit. Aside from that, I looked like some kind of gangsta sock puppet. Between the garish color scheme and the fact that AJ is nearly a foot taller and forty pounds heavier than me, I was not going to be featured in any fashion shows wearing this ensemble. Angelika knocked again. I started to open the door, but then realized my disgustingly filthy clothes were sitting in a pile on the floor. Thinking fast, I grabbed them up, dumped out the little bathroom garbage can onto the floor, took out the plastic trash bag inside it, scooped the garbage back up from the floor into the can, and tied the clothes inside the bag.
Whew, I thought, that was a close one. I took a deep breath, and opened the door. “Good morni —” was all I got out before Angelika stormed into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. She was wearing a pair of AJ’s sweats, too, but the look was a whole lot cuter on her.
“NEVER do that to me again!” she growled, stamping her foot.
“What did I do?”
“You put me in a bad situation, Peter! You passed out, and left me in a strange house, with no way to get home.”
“It’s not a strange house. It’s AJ’s house, and he’s —”
“Shut. Up. I only want to say this once: If you ever, ever get drunk when you are supposed to be my date, you will never be my date again. Got it?”
That Advil simply was not going to be strong enough to take away all the pain I was having. Rubbing my temples with one hand, I nodded. “Good,” Angelika said. “Now. Are you OK, Peter?” The next thing I knew, she was hugging me. That’s the bad thing about dating somebody who thinks faster than you do: You never quite know what the heck is going on.
A pounding on the door made us jump apart. It also made me grab the side of my head again. Angelika touched my cheek gently, then spun and turned the knob. This time, AJ’s mother stormed in. She looked at Angelika, said, “Out!” and then wheeled on me. Angelika tiptoed past her, left the room, and closed the door softly. This was just what I needed: another angry confrontation. I didn’t get it. AJ’s mom had always been completely uninvolved. There had been dozens of nights when I had slept over without even seeing her in the morning. We’d come downstairs, and she’d already be gone out to do errands with AJ’s brothers or something. The closest I got to contact with her on most of those mornings was the note she’d leave on the counter:
Boys —
Make your beds. There’s coffee made, and the Hostess donuts are somewhat fresh. Be good —
M.
So why, on this of all mornings, was she all agitated?
“Peter Friedman,” she said. “I am so mad at you. I trusted you. I always trust you. You are supposed to be AJ’s smart friend. I have never felt I had to worry when AJ was with you. Do you know what it’s like to be a single mother, Peter? No, of course you don’t. You can’t. So I’ll tell you: Being a single mother means not having enough time. Not being able to take care of everything you need to take care of. And worrying. All. The. Time. But you’ve always been so levelheaded and responsible that I’ve felt good about leaving AJ alone with you.”
She left off for a moment with that thought, and paced back and forth several times. I felt like I was locked in the bathroom with an enraged mama bear. “Um, Mrs. Moore, I’m really sorry I —”
“You think you’re sorry? You stay out till all hours of the night, you bring my son home drunk, and then in the morning I find some strange GIRL in his bed?”
“Wait, she’s not a strange girl, she’s —”
“She’s who? This ought to be good.”
“She’s my girlfriend. Angelika.”
“Your girlfriend? In AJ’s bed?”
I nodded and gulped. When she put it that way, it sounded kind of upsetting.
Mrs. Moore put her palm on the side of my head, and gave me a sort of half shove, half smack. “That’s for AJ.”
I stood there, trying not to sway.
She gave me another half smack. “That’s for Angelika.”
I was swaying. I was definitely swaying. I strongly hoped AJ’s mom was done with forcibly moving my head for a while. She wasn’t. She stepped close one more time, put her palms on both sides of my face, and shook me a few times. I thought my eyeballs were going to pop out onto her fuzzy bedroom slippers.
“That’s for you,” she said, and stomped out of the bathroom.
As you might imagine, breakfast was a little awkward, although Angelika and Mrs. Moore got along like long-lost sisters. AJ’s brothers chatted up a storm, too, while AJ sat there and didn’t say much. Meanwhile, I was engaged in a desperate battle against the forces of nausea. AJ had told his mom that we had gotten drunk on fruit punch, so she had gotten some special revenge by preparing this meal:
Apple pancakes with strawberry sauce
Strawberry-banana-kiwi juice
Orange yogurt
Grapefruit
Wildberry Toaster Strudel
Froot Loops
But somehow I survived long enough to stagger out of there and walk Angelika home. Then I hiked my way back to AJ’s house to pick up my putrid bag of laundry. When I got there, AJ was the only one still home. All I wanted to do was lie down on the couch and take a three-hour nap, but sadly, AJ had other plans. As soon as I walked in, he threw my old catcher’s mitt at me and said, “Guess what. It’s spring training time!”
Where had he even gotten that thing? Wherever it had come from, it hurt. I groaned, and said, “What are you talking about? It’s November.”
“Yeah, but you’re out of shape. You didn’t play soccer or basketball this year, and it shows. Look at you! You’re all fat and soft. If we don’t start working on you now, you’re going to look like a marshmallow in your uniform by the time tryouts roll around.”
“But —”
“No buts, Pete. Do you want Ange to dump you for someone who can run across the street without doubling over and gasping for air? Someone who doesn’t suffer from the dreaded affliction known as muffin-top-itis?”
“Dude, I’m not —”
He patted me on the stomach, harder than strictly necessary, and said, “Yes. You are. You so are. Look at this jelly roll. Now let’s go.”
Muffin top? Jelly roll? AJ was nuts. On the other hand, I had nearly died of a heart attack running to Grampa’s house. “Fine,” I said. “Bring it. I’ll show you who’s in shape.”
He was beaming now. “That’s my boy,” he said. “Finally showing some competitive fire. Now get your glove on and get out there so I can pitch to you.”
“Uh, AJ, I’m still not allowed to throw.”
“I know, I know. The physical therapist has you on a special program, right?”
I nodded. What I didn’t tell him was that the program consisted of me relearning how to do extremely basic low-impact movements. Like tying my shoe, for example.
“So, no worries. You won’t throw today.” He grabbed the glove out of my hand. “You’ll run!”
But first, I had to start a load of laundry. For the record, I would just like to point out that I didn’t throw up while I was putting my clothing in the washer. It was touch and go there for a while, especially when I had to peel the folds of my shirt apart where they had been glued together by whatever goop I had brought forth from the depths of my stomach, but I held on to my revolting fruity breakfast.
I would also like to point out that I didn’t vomit during the two-mile run that AJ subjected
me to. I felt like my head was going to burst open like a rotting, gas-filled pumpkin, and every step made my guts lurch and roll, but again, there was no display of liquefied Froot Loops. Even after the run, when AJ said, “So much for the warm-ups. Now it’s sprinting time!” I held it all together through several rounds of suicide drills on the school’s outdoor basketball courts.
But when we got back to AJ’s house, his mother was home. As soon as we walked in, she smiled wickedly at me and said, “Oh, good! You’re up and about! That’s the way to handle your first hangover. I’m proud of your fortitude.” I smiled back at her, but I’d imagine it was a weak and sickly little grin. Then she hustled into the kitchen and came back holding a huge tumbler full of garish hot-pink fluid. Thick, garish hot-pink fluid. “I’ve made you a little post-workout treat, Peter. How would you like a nice glass of watermelon smoothie?”
I managed to get half of that sucker down. Then I threw up.
By the time Monday rolled around, my head and stomach had mostly settled back into feeling like parts of my body. My legs were extraordinarily tight and sore, but other than that, I was ready to get back to school. I was even eager to get to photography class to see Angelika.
I walked in and found a quote written on the board:
WE PHOTOGRAPHERS DEAL IN THINGS WHICH ARE CONTINUALLY VANISHING, AND WHEN THEY HAVE VANISHED THERE IS NO CONTRIVANCE ON EARTH WHICH CAN MAKE THEM COME BACK AGAIN. WE CANNOT DEVELOP AND PRINT A MEMORY. ~HCB
I sat down, and Ange came in right behind me. Ange? Ugh. Now I was calling her that. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if she would still be mad from my weekend escapades, but she smiled and said, “Feeling better today?” I smiled back and nodded. “Did you go running with Adam?” I nodded, but thought, How does she know that? I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to have Angelika getting all palsy-walsy with AJ.
Mr. Marsh strode in and said, “Hey, guys, happy Monday! Now, we got lots ta do today. I wanna check out yer candids, or at least the ones ya got so far.”
Several people walked up to the board and pinned up their photos. Mr. Marsh walked down the line of prints, saying, “Crap, crap, ka-rapppp! ka-rappp! crap, decent, decent, crap, ka-rappp!”
Danny, the senior dude, muttered, “Tell us how you really feel, Mr. Marsh.”
“Danny, did you take these three photos in the middle?” Mr. Marsh tapped on a trio of close-up shots of a bunch of cheerleaders hanging all over each other in front of some lockers.
Danny nodded. “Yeah, I did. So? They’re all in focus, right? And even though the light in the senior hallway is horrible, the exposure looks good, too. Doesn’t it? Plus, look at the composition. See how the girls’ faces make a pyramid? I thought that had great visual irony. ’Cause they’re cheerleaders, right? And it’s a pyramid. So …”
“So,” Mr. Marsh said, icily, “you ignored the stated assignment completely. These aren’t candid shots. They’re the most posed pictures I’ve ever seen!”
“Yeah, but —”
“Danny, in twenty-five years, is this how these girls will want to remember their time at this school?”
“Sure. Why not? They were loving the camera. They were the ones who were getting all excited about posing. Plus, in twenty-five years, they’ll probably be, like, all sagged out and old, right? So they’ll go to their yearbook, and they’ll show their daughters these shots. And they’ll say, ‘See? I was a complete babe when I was your age!’”
“I see. And is this how their fellow students will want to remember them?”
“Uh, I know this is how I’ll want to remember them.”
“San,” Mr. Marsh said, “what was it you said the other day about the goal of candid photography?”
San had been in his usual near-comatose state of relaxation, leaning all the way back in his chair with his feet perched on his desk. He suddenly sat up straight so that the front legs of his chair slammed to the floor with a sharp Spanggg! “Truth, Mr. Marsh.” He put his feet back up, rearranged his hands behind his head, and within three seconds, he was totally still again.
“Truth!” Mr. Marsh said. “These shots might be in focus, Danny. They might have textbook-perfect exposure. They might be well-composed. But they’re not the truth. They’re, like, the High School Musical version of the truth. And I am not tryin’ ta produce the Walt Disney High School yearbook.”
Erika, who probably felt like she should stand up for her fellow senior, chimed in: “So what are you telling us? Are you saying we’re not supposed to make people look good in their own yearbook?”
“Of course ya want ’em ta look good, Erika. But Henri Cartier-Bresson would tell you it isn’t yer job ta make ’em look good. It’s yer job ta catch ’em lookin’ good! That way, they have the moment forever. In fact, ya know what? That’s yer new assignment, guys: Find somebody — anybody — and catch ’em lookin’ good.”
After school that day, Angelika and I were hanging out on the steps. Her mom was going to pick her up a little late, so I decided to keep her company. She was kind of pumped up with Mr. Marsh’s new idea: Catch ’Em Lookin’ Good! “Pete, this is perfect! Your grampa used to take pictures of all your games, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because this year, obviously, he won’t be shooting the baseball games.”
“And that’s perfect how?”
“Well, somebody has to shoot those games so Adam has pictures to send to his dad. In fact, that’s going to be my project. I’ll make a portfolio of Adam in action.”
“Why AJ? Why not me?”
“You know why it won’t be you.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked away from me and said, “Pete, I know.”
Have you ever gotten that sudden heart-lurching feeling, like your heart just stopped and it’s not going to beat again? That’s what happened to me at that instant. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you’re not going to be playing baseball, OK? My dad is an X-ray technician. I told him about your osteochondritis dissecans thing, and he asked around.”
“Uh, well, I —”
“Don’t lie to me, Peter. I forgave the drinking thing — once — but I don’t do lying.”
I didn’t say anything for what felt like minutes. When neither of us could take another instant of silence, she said, “It’s true, right? You can’t play baseball anymore?”
I nodded. She said, “I’m so sorry, Pete. And I’m not mad at you for not telling me. But why haven’t you fessed up to AJ?”
“I’ve tried to tell him. Like ten times. He doesn’t listen. I say, ‘I don’t think I’m going out for the team,’ and he just goes, ‘Yes, you are, dude!’”
“But you haven’t just told him the facts, straight out. I know you haven’t. He talked to me about it the other night when you were, um, sleeping.”
“This isn’t about AJ. It’s about me.”
“So your best friend doesn’t deserve to know what’s going on?”
I felt a flash of anger. “It’s not AJ’s problem, is it?”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“AJ’s not the one who screwed up, is he? AJ’s not the one who knew he was wrecking his arm, but didn’t freaking tell anyone for a whole season. AJ’s the one who can throw eighty miles an hour all day without even sweating, so AJ never had to worry about trying to throw harder and harder until his elbow exploded. And now AJ’s going to be the stud pitcher as a freshman. So I don’t see how it’s AJ’s freaking problem that he’ll be getting his picture taken by my girlfriend while I’m sitting in the stands alone eating a stupid hot dog!”
Oopsie. That might have come out a tad more forcefully than I’d meant it to. Angelika didn’t seem pleased. “Well, maybe it won’t be that way,” she said.
“What do you mean? I just admitted I’m not going to be playing, OK?”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Maybe your girlfriend won’t be taking pictures of AJ. Because if you don’t trust pe
ople with your secrets, and if you get this jealous all the time, maybe I won’t be your girlfriend!”
Ouch. “Wait, I wasn’t trying to yell at you, OK? It’s just — this year has been really horrendous for me.”
She raised an eyebrow. I barreled on. “I had this whole fantasy. AJ and I were going to be the big star pitchers of the school. And instead he’s going to be the star, and I’m crippled. Meanwhile, my grandfather is losing his freaking mind, and my parents don’t believe it. Plus, he’s telling me to lie to cover up for him.”
Angelika looked like I had just slapped her or something. “Ooh, you’re right, Pete. This has been a terrible year for you. I’m sorry your life sucks so much! Gee, if only you had met somebody special this year, or something …”
I had put my foot in my mouth again. Great. If I kept this up, pretty soon I’d be the only guy I knew with a case of Athlete’s Tooth. Just then, with the perfect timing that I enjoy in so many aspects of my existence, Angelika’s mom pulled up. “Uh …” I said.
“Bye, Pete.”
“Wait!” I shouted. Angelika’s mom looked nervously at me, at her daughter’s red face, and then back at me. “Can’t we talk?”
“Gotta go,” Angelika said. “Why don’t you tell AJ the truth? Then we can talk.”
Sitting alone on the front steps of school is embarrassing enough when you haven’t just been left in the dust by a girl. But this was mortifying. So of course everyone I knew was staying late that day and happened to walk by while I was deciding what to do next. It was a veritable flood: AJ, surrounded by a group of his basketball friends. Danny from photography. My homeroom teacher. My biology lab partner, Matt. Then, finally, when it seemed like the entire building had to be empty, San Lee.
Everybody else accepted my weak little half-wave maneuver and kept walking, but San actually sat down next to me. It was kind of weird. He and I had never really spoken — in fact, as far as I knew, he rarely spoke much at all. Yet, here we were: a very tense freshman and a junior who looked like he might fall asleep any second. “Hey,” San said, stretching his legs out in front of him so he was leaning back on his elbows. “What’s going on?”
Curveball: The Year I Lost My Grip Page 11