Are we—Teddy braced himself against the dashboard—are you, like, pumping the gas?
Dave glanced at his feet.
Can you open a window? said Teddy. Now.
Dave fumbled for the controls. Are you going to be sick?
It was true that Teddy had been a barfer as a kid, and now he trotted out his old tricks: breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth; keep your eyes on the horizon; let the blustery air in.
Should I pull over? asked Dave.
Teddy shook his head. How to tell him that it wasn’t the way he was driving, it was that he was driving, carrying Teddy to the far reaches of his comfort zone.
Can you slow down or something? asked Teddy. You’re shaking the wheel.
Dave rolled his eyes but eased up on the gas. Edgy and cool in his horn-rimmed glasses, black jeans, and Charlie Brown T-shirt, Dave didn’t care what people thought of him. Teddy cared deeply. He cared what they thought of his girlfriend, his friends, his parents, his sister. Teddy would’ve loved to have had a normal sister or brother, the way so many of his classmates had siblings and cousins—even aunts and uncles—scattered throughout the grades, clansmen disguised by different last names, ready to fight when called to arms.
Dave was like family. He’d been Teddy’s only friend at Nonz’s funeral, the rest having scattered for spring break. While Teddy had shaken one adult’s hand after another, he’d thought about how Nonz used to scrub his feet with a scratchy washcloth at bath time, between each toe, behind his ears, in the creases of his neck, going after dirt like it was a playground bully, polishing and shining him like a first-place trophy, her best prize. She’d never missed a home baseball game, never forgotten his birthday, never failed to give him ten dollars on Valentine’s Day, and as these thoughts had inched closer to Teddy’s consciousness, he’d felt tears brimming, getting ready to fall.
Then suddenly Dave had pushed through the greeting line, wearing a three-piece suit and bow tie. Hey, he’d said with his hands in his pockets, no need to shake. You know who’d get a huge kick out of this whole thing? Dave had looked left, then right, then said, Nonz.
I’m okay, said Teddy now. It’s just—his mind shuffled a stack of words, pulled one out, tentatively played it—college, he said, blowing out the candle, breathing in the flower.
College? Dave repeated.
Yeah, said Teddy. I don’t know. Everyone keeps talking about it.
Right, said Dave. Well, we’re going. Then, Are you worried about Kim?
Teddy shrugged, started to speak, stopped. He was not very excellent with words.
Dave said, You know there’s going to be like a million new girls there, right?
Suddenly Teddy flashed to a memory of a five-year-old Dave pulling the beautiful Laurie Youngblood onto the swing with him and hooking her legs to either side of his body so that they could pump together, a four-legged, four-armed insect in a brilliant new game. A softness washed over Teddy, a lightness. Maybe they weren’t lost. Maybe they weren’t disappearing. Maybe they weren’t too young for it all.
Teddy felt his nausea give way to hunger pangs, his second-most familiar feeling. I’m kind of starving, he said, and Dave agreed that he could eat.
In Sharon Springs, they turned into the Stewart’s parking lot and Dave killed the engine. What do you want? he asked.
Teddy placed his order, forked over a five, then asked if he could drive.
If it’ll keep you from getting sick, said Dave. He blessed Teddy with the keys.
Teddy jogged around the front fender and slipped into the driver’s seat, locking the door behind him. Eyes closed, he shifted through the gears one at a time, gently fondling the smooth gear knob, paying special attention to where first and third needed a little finesse, a lover’s touch. Was it wrong that this turned him on? He checked to make sure there was no one near the car, then put his left hand down his pants. There wasn’t enough time to do anything, but for thirty seconds he was happier than he’d been all day.
Dave beat on the store’s plate-glass window and waved.
What? asked Teddy, returning his hands to the wheel. Dave held up a sixteen-ounce Coke; check, said Teddy. Then a giant bag of Cheetos; Teddy nodded. Had Dave forgotten his Sno Balls? But no, Dave had a mind like a fly strip; he would’ve skipped a grade after Seedlings if he’d been able to hold a pencil, and Dave would not let him down.
When Teddy saw Dave crossing the parking lot, he reached across the console to open the door from the inside.
Don’t spill, said Dave, handing him his Coke. I just had the car detailed.
Teddy ate while Dave filled the tank, then Dave gave him the green light and they pulled back onto Route 20, heading east.
Go easy, said Dave as Teddy shifted into third. Push the clutch all the way in. Don’t shift too early! See the RPMs? Then, Shift, shift, shift! until Teddy told him to calm the fuck down.
Let’s play a game, said Teddy.
Twenty questions?
No. Teddy shook his head violently. No, like Hump Island.
Oh, God. Fine. Jean Seberg in Breathless, Patti Smith on the Easter cover, Dagny Taggart over her desk.
Nice, said Teddy about the desk.
Dave shrugged. Hump Island’s only fun when it’s plausible, he said.
Right, said Teddy, feeding the word back to him. So make it plausible.
Dave cocked his head. Okay. Ava Streeter. Louise Hart.
Teddy nodded. Good choices. He’d had sex with both of them sophomore year.
There is one girl, said Dave. He folded his hands in his lap and Teddy could tell that it was no longer a game.
Okay, said Teddy, settling into the conversation. He was an expert at talking about girls. He knew all the right questions. Is she hot? he began.
She is, said Dave. In a coltish way.
And? Teddy prompted.
And in a not-coltish way.
Dude, said Teddy. What does she look like?
Pretty, said Dave. Smart.
A senior? asked Teddy.
Sophomore.
Hannah Quigley? She was in Teddy’s Spanish class and always seemed to be getting a drink when Teddy was coming out of the bathroom. Chocolate-brown eyes, round muscular calves. Teddy could definitely see wanting to date her.
No, said Dave.
Who?
Dave looked at him.
I don’t know any other sophomores, said Teddy.
Right, said Dave. You only live with one.
Teddy felt his mind circling Dave’s words, trying to get purchase. There was no way Dave was talking about his sister. Was he?
Do you even know Julia? asked Teddy.
She’s your fucking sister, said Dave.
Right, said Teddy. They were probably in rocket science together. Well, she’s kind of annoying.
What’s the deal with her and Sam? asked Dave.
No clue, said Teddy. He stole a glance at Dave and pictured him visiting Julia from New Haven while Teddy was home from Oneida, his house filled to capacity. It wasn’t the worst idea.
Dave pushed the eject button on the stereo and began rooting through his glove compartment for a new tape. Before Teddy could suggest the radio, Dave selected a yellow cassette and pressed it into the tape deck, then cranked the volume.
Automatic for the People—the suicide song.
No, said Teddy.
Yes, said Dave. Or get out of my seat.
Teddy drove on, through Carlisle, Sloansville, Esperance. Past empty storefronts, empty fields. In front of a double-wide trailer, a plywood 4-SALE sign leaned against a John Deere tractor, and Dave said, You could buy that and save five hundred bucks, then laughed with his mouth open.
Teddy consulted the dashboard clock and was stunned to find that it was only nine thirty. Gym would just be ending; next stop, math, which suddenly sounded better than Michael Stipe. He could feel his mood starting to slip and tried to soothe himself with images of his Jeep: white with a soft black cover, ste
reo with a CD player that Rick Delaney had installed himself. Not only that, but Rick had put in two subwoofers behind the backseat that absolutely throbbed when Rick trailed up and down Main Street. Teddy needed that Jeep. He needed a space in the world where he could play Phil Collins as loudly as he wanted, go when and where he wanted, bring with him whoever he wanted. The Jeep would be Teddy’s safety net between life as he knew it and the dining halls, dorms, and roommates waiting below. Worst-case scenario, Teddy couldn’t hack college and the car would catch him, carry him home.
They made it to Albany as Major League Collectibles was opening, but Teddy still didn’t have a game plan for selling his cards, so he steered them toward a diner he’d spotted on Western Avenue.
Again? asked Dave.
I need to think for a minute, said Teddy. Over eggs.
It wasn’t until they were inside the restaurant that Teddy remembered he and Dave were cutting school. They were the youngest patrons by fifty years, the only diners with color still in their hair. Men reading newspapers, couples eating in silence, a woman with a smoker’s cough who picked at a plate of pancakes: the tables were mostly occupied, but the booths were completely empty. Arthritis, knee replacements, broken hips. It took effort to scoot in.
Jeez, said Dave. It’s like visiting my grandmother in Florida. Then he seemed to remember where he’d last seen Teddy’s grandmother and quickly apologized.
Whatever, said Teddy, nabbing a choice booth by the front window. He passed Dave a laminated menu, then took one for himself.
Dave held up his utensils and said, There’s crap on my fork.
Teddy squeaked, This dirty old fork is too dirty, while continuing to scan his menu.
Seriously, said Dave, there’s no way this place passed mustard with the department of health.
Teddy shook his head. Whatever the fuck.
When their waitress appeared, Teddy sat up straighter, older, the word truant echoing around in his head. But it wasn’t Teddy who was the problem. Across from him, Dave absently combed his sideburns with the tines of his fork.
Are you ready to order? she asked. Teddy read her name tag: Michelle. Heavy blush, aqua eye shadow, foundation that Kim, an aspiring makeup artist, would’ve called streaky. But there was a softness around her mouth that Teddy found alluring. He tried to catch her eye, do the Teddy thing.
Could I have a new fork? asked Dave.
Michelle turned and lifted a set of silverware from the empty booth behind them, then carefully laid it in front of Dave, paper napkin and all. Good? she asked.
Good, said Dave.
Teddy ordered an egg sandwich and a large Coke, while Dave went for the dry toast and a chamomile tea.
Teddy smiled—chamomile tea!—but Michelle wasn’t looking at him, at either of them.
Anything else? she asked.
No, said Dave. That will be all.
When Michelle was gone, Dave announced he was getting the paper, then scooted out of the booth and headed to the box by the entrance.
Teddy watched Michelle make the rounds with a pot of coffee. A million new girls in college. It was an enticing prospect, and it buoyed Teddy’s mood. He liked Kim—maybe he loved Kim—but he didn’t want to marry her. If Teddy ever got married, it’d be to someone as smart and pretty as his mom.
Dave returned and sprawled sideways in the booth with his sneakers hanging over the edge, his shoulder to Teddy. With fanfare, he flapped open the paper, shook it, then began to read.
Behind the counter, Michelle filled a plastic cup from the soda machine, then located a mug for Dave’s tea. She reminded Teddy of Jess at Gabriella’s, and not because they were both waitresses. Teddy had never been with an older woman. It was definitely on his list.
She crossed the dining room with an oval tray hoisted over her shoulder, her blond ponytail swishing in time with her step.
Egg sandwich, said Michelle, setting a plate in front of Teddy. Toast, she said to Dave.
Could I get some lemon? asked Dave.
Teddy rolled his eyes, but Michelle said, Sure, then smiled conspiratorially at Teddy, the corners of her mouth turning up just for him.
So, said Dave, folding his paper. What’s the plan?
Teddy applied ketchup and Tabasco to the underside of his bun.
You do know Rick Delaney’s an ass, said Dave. There’s no way that car is worth seven hundred bucks.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, said Teddy. It runs.
Really? asked Dave. Have you taken it to a mechanic?
Teddy snorted and said, No, Dave, I don’t own it yet.
Dave stared at him. You do that before you buy the car.
Teddy frowned. Did everyone know that? Right, he said, but I still need to be ready with the money for when the mechanic gives it the okay.
Dave squared himself to Teddy. Okay, he said. So which cards are you selling?
Teddy got serious. If I only go with the big ones, I’ll never make it to seven hundred, he said. My ’83 Ryne Sandberg is worth sixty bucks, and I have two of them because I also have an ’83 complete set. So that’s one-twenty. Then I have an ’84 Dwight Gooden, which is worth twenty-seven, and an ’85 Roger Clemens.
Don’t sell that, said Dave. That’s going to be worth a shitload one day. What about your doubles?
I tried that, said Teddy. Not enough.
Dave nodded. How much would you get by selling the big ones?
I’d be breaking up complete sets to do it, said Teddy, so it makes more sense to look at the value of the sets as a whole. My Topps ’83 through ’88 are worth about four-fifty total, but that’s only because they include my rookie Wade Boggs, Tony Gwynn, and one Ryne Sandberg. My ’85 Fleer set is worth two hundred, but that’s with the Clemens. Teddy dropped his hands. There’s no way I’m getting to seven hundred without selling the big cards, and once you’ve done that, you might as well sell the sets.
Or, said Dave.
Or what?
Or you could sell one card.
Teddy shook his head. That’s not my card, he said.
Your dad gave it to you, Dave said.
To hold, said Teddy. It’s not even his.
Come on, said Dave. You must’ve looked it up.
Teddy had looked it up.
Well? asked Dave.
Six-fifty, said Teddy. Dave raised an eyebrow.
No, said Teddy.
Sell that card, said Dave, come up with another fifty bucks on your own, and you have a car. If you walk in there with a backpack full of complete sets, you know they’re going to rape you.
Teddy shrugged. Maybe, he said. He chewed on a cuticle.
In the car, Teddy called out directions while Dave drove and in less than ten minutes they were idling in the parking lot in front of Major League Collectibles.
Dave cut the engine. Do you want me to come in with you? he asked.
Teddy shrugged. Do you think it’ll help?
I don’t know, said Dave. I look sort of young.
You look about twelve, Teddy agreed.
Dave smiled and reached for his newspaper. Good luck, he said, and Teddy suddenly felt twelve, too. He socked Dave in the shoulder, then grabbed his backpack off the floor of the car.
Major League Collectibles was a single room dimly lit by fluorescent lights, with dusty blinds blocking out the sunlight along with the view of the parking lot. It took a minute for Teddy’s eyes to adjust. Slowly he saw a worn industrial carpet, whirring ceiling fans, and a 1986 Mets World Series poster above the front counter—that’d be it for his father; they’d be out of here. Teddy approached the display case with his backpack clutched to his chest.
The man behind the counter was jacked, veins like ropes under his skin. He wore a muscle T cut halfway down his sides so that Teddy could see his abs flex when he leaned forward over the counter. This guy was no baseball player. Too pumped, too groomed. Something. Teddy could just tell.
Can I help you? he asked.
Is there a manager I cou
ld speak to? asked Teddy.
That’s me, said the man.
Teddy swallowed. I’m here about selling some cards. He set his backpack on the counter, building a wall between them.
The manager nodded toward Teddy’s bag. What do you have?
Complete sets, said Teddy. Mint. He slid out the first binder, including his Topps Traded from 1986, priced by Beckett at twenty-four dollars. The manager flipped through Teddy’s Topps, bored. He didn’t even pause to admire José Canseco or Barry Bonds.
Ten, he offered.
Ten?
Ten dollars.
Teddy looked around the store for someone else he could talk to. It’s worth twenty-four, said Teddy.
To who? asked the manager, and Teddy felt his neck and face start to burn.
That’s not enough, said Teddy firmly. The manager closed his mouth and opened it again. Teddy shifted, crossed his arms over his chest, tried to steady himself. Twenty, said Teddy.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
Twelve, said the man again. Teddy swallowed, nodded. The manager turned to the next set in the binder.
On a black solar-powered calculator, the numbers were added up. Twelve. Sixteen. Thirty-nine. They were never going to make it to seven hundred. Once, Teddy tried to bargain harder, but the manager shook his head, said, Keep it, and Teddy backed down, sold his 1985 Fleer set for a third of what it was worth. There went the Roger Clemens. Now the manager pulled binders from Teddy’s backpack without asking, turning pages, calling out figures, and Teddy’s palms began to sweat and there was a familiar ringing in his ears.
Sixty, said the manager.
Teddy nodded.
Twenty-two.
Please, said Teddy. The manager glanced at him and Teddy nodded and the manager added the binder to his growing stack.
Love All: A Novel Page 16