The Book of David

by AnonYMous

  I’ve dealt with my secret for long enough to know what I have to do to stay under the radar. I know where to keep my eyes in the shower. I’ve been practicing not getting a boner in the shower since I was in seventh-grade PE. My voice isn’t too high. I carry my books against my hips and not my chest. I know how to talk about girls. I know how to talk to girls. I know how to get the captain of the cheerleading squad to be my girlfriend for two years. I’ve got this down to a freaking science. The one thing I can’t figure out is how to keep from blushing. I’ve got blond hair and blue eyes, and even though I can get tan and don’t burn in the summer, I blush like a little girl. It starts on my ears and spreads down the back of my neck, then shoots around my entire face.

  Tyler knows this, and when he decides it’s my turn on the chopping block, there’s nothing I can do about it. I covered pretty fast, but Tyler saw the blush. And even though I covered, even though I did what I always do and take the douche thing he’s doing and give it right back to him, even though I jumped up there in my underwear and roared and yelled about shooting his lion with “these guns” while I flexed my biceps, Tyler knew he’d gotten to me. He saw the blush, and he knew I was pissed. He knew what it was about, too, ’cause as soon as everybody went back to the general business of padding up and getting dressed, he came over to his locker right next to mine and said, “Dude. Chill out. I thought you’d be happy about Oklahoma. Not trying to steal your thunder.”

  The truth is, Tyler has been like a brother to me. I just don’t know if I want to have to keep dealing with this weird competition with him for the next four years.

  I just looked at that last sentence and realized that I do know. I don’t want to continue this weird competition with Tyler.

  Of course, I didn’t know how to tell him that at the time. How do you find the words to tell your best friend why you don’t want to play college ball with him? That you don’t want to have to put up with his bullshit antics anymore?

  If he knew who I really was, would he still hurl all those jokes my way? Does he actually already know somehow? Is that why he’s making these cracks? Is that why they feel like grenades aimed right at my head?

  I hate myself for being a coward. For not being able to say these things to his face or to ask him these questions. If we’re really like brothers, shouldn’t I be able to?

  But there he was, doing that thing he does, coming back and giving me as close to an apology as I ever get: “Chill out, dude.”

  I hated myself for blushing. I hated myself for not being just a normal guy who could take anything he dished out without getting all freaking sensitive about it. None of the other guys had caught on, but Ty sure did. He knows me better than anybody else—as well as I’ll let him know me. That’s the double-edged sword of having a best friend.

  That’s also why I can’t stop thinking about what happened next. Namely, that we went out and started losing to Jefferson. Bad. We won the coin toss; then three plays after kickoff, Tyler threw an interception. It wasn’t really his fault. Corey Tracker, one of our wide receivers, had his hand on the ball and just tripped. Tracker is a sophomore. He’s fast as a mofo, but he gets excited and forgets to do things like check his shoelaces. He went down hard, but not before batting the ball right into the hands of a Jefferson safety, who ran like a goddamn greyhound all the way down the line and right into the end zone. Nothing went right for us after that, and just before halftime, Jefferson scored a field goal.

  Coach lit into us like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. I decided I’d rather be crushed at the bottom of a tackle than come back into the locker room without a touchdown in the second half. Tyler must’ve had the same thought, because as soon as Coach broke his clipboard and told us to get the hell back out on the field and play the game like we’d been playing all summer in practice, Ty bumped my knee with his and whispered, “First play is the Snap.” I said no way. Coach had told us both to hold on to that one. He wanted to practice it a few more times before we used it in a game. Tyler just looked at me and said, “Jesus. Grow a pair.”

  So I did.

  He called the play in huddle. We broke. Ball snapped. I circled, and Tyler pulled off the fake perfectly. He didn’t even look. He dropped back to pass at precisely the right moment and just trusted me to be there when he dropped the ball backward and threw his arm forward. I was in the end zone before Jefferson even realized he hadn’t thrown a pass. The crowd went berserk. Tracker was right behind me and came running at me. He grabbed my helmet, and it was while we were roaring at each other through our face masks that the crowd went silent.

  I turned around and saw the huddle in the middle of the field and I knew exactly what had happened. Tyler had gotten nailed after the fake.

  This weird fear that had been hiding out behind my sternum since Ty told me the OU scout was gonna be there tonight exploded up toward my throat and down toward my stomach. Then I was running back down the field. The silence of the crowd was eerie. It all happened so fast that by the time I got to where he was, Tyler was being loaded onto a stretcher. I knew it was bad. They don’t bring out a stretcher unless they think it’s an injury that has to be stabilized. If it were a sprain, or a hard hit, they’d have walked him off.

  Coach turned around and looked right at me and shook his head once. “You’re up.” I nodded, but I was staring after Tyler, and Coach got in my face. “Hey. He’ll be fine. I need your head right here in this game.” I said, “Yes, sir.” He hit my butt and said, “Hey, do that touchdown thing again, will ya?”

  I did.

  Twice.

  I was a machine. Whatever weird fog had settled over us in the first half lifted completely. Those Jefferson monsters were hitting hard, but I kept dropping back and nailing Tracker and our other running back, Mike Watters, and if neither of them was open, this fast freshman kid we’d been calling Flash all summer would just magically appear and we’d pick up twenty yards, then thirty yards, then blam: end zone. I hardly heard the crowd. I couldn’t even hear Monica cheering. I could only feel the guys shoulder to shoulder in the huddle, the words of the next play on my tongue, the rough snap into my hands, the ball spinning off my fingers. I passed for almost as many yards in the second half of last night’s game as I’d passed total in every practice this summer.

  When it was over, we were up by ten, and as the clock ran out on Jefferson’s last play, Coach and I watched from the sidelines for a second as the crowd spilled out of the stands and went running toward a pileup in the middle of the field. A split second before Tracker and Sears Tower hoisted me up on their shoulders, Coach looked me right in the eye and said two words I’d never heard him say in the three years I’d been playing for him:

  “Thank you.”

  I saw the water cooler get emptied over Coach’s head right as Monica and a bunch of the cheerleaders and their friends descended on me. Somehow my parents found me at the exact same moment, and it was like a massive group hug and celebration dance, with people shouting and screaming and crying and generally acting like idiots.

  Finally the crowd started to die down. Monica was talking one hundred miles per minute, and she had that new kid from English with her. I almost didn’t recognize him ’cause his hair wasn’t wet. He was smiling and wearing a T-shirt that said THE CURE. She kept calling him Jon and talking about how they met, but I didn’t really catch the story. I didn’t know she knew him, and I was really surprised to see him there. He walked up and stuck out his hand and said, “Congrats, man. Nice game.”

  It was the weirdest freaking thing. Like, all this pandemonium is going on all around us, and he isn’t yelling or anything. He just smiles and says, “Nice game,” sort of quietly. And even with all the noise and the crush and the craziness . . . I heard him.

  I reached out and shook his hand, and it was like everything else just faded down to a dull roar—like in a movie where everything goes slow motion all around the main character, and all he can see is the big explosion that’s taking place ri
ght in front of him. Only this time it wasn’t an explosion. It was just me staring into Jonathan’s eyes. He held my gaze as I shook his hand, and for a split second it was like there was nothing else in the world—just me, and him, and our . . .

  Connection.

  My dad had been tailgating before the game with Tyler’s dad. They always broke the rules and smuggled beers in from the parking lot, and he was still pretty drunk. He was almost crying with joy, and he stumbled into Jonathan and knocked us both sideways, hooting and hollering and belching the smell of Miller Genuine Draft all over the place. Jonathan laughed, and I snapped back to the present. Monica was giving me instructions to hurry up and get cleaned up because the party at her house was already starting and it was going to be “off the hook.” I saw Jonathan turning to leave and heard myself say, “Wait!”

  Monica thought I was talking to her and stopped too, but I was looking at Jonathan. Monica said, “We have to hurry. They’re meeting us with the . . . supplies.”

  “No—” I didn’t know how to ask. “Is he . . . ?”

  Monica got this weird look on her face and followed my gaze to Jonathan.

  “Uh, yeah. Jon is coming.”

  Jon. She calls him Jon.

  “I’ll be there.” He smiled at me again, and I felt myself blushing, but I didn’t care. Monica ran back and pecked me on the cheek, pulling my face down to look at her.

  “Hurry!” she commanded. “The whole party is for you, birthday boy. At midnight you’re eighteen!”

  This all happened in the general craziness while Dad was hugging me and kept shouting, “That’s my boy! That’s my boy!” over and over again. As Monica and Jon headed across the field, Mom told me I did a good job and kissed me on the cheek, then dragged Dad back to the car. He turned around and shouted, “Stay out as late as you want. You earned it.” He almost took down this blond woman wearing a business suit and high heels who was standing over by the bleachers by the entrance to the locker rooms.

  She looked like a lawyer you’d see on one of those TV shows about cops where there’s a different killer every week. She was tapping away at a smartphone, and when Dad almost sent her into the stands, she didn’t yell at him or anything. Just dropped her phone into her bag, smiled at them, and righted herself. Then she turned and raised her hand like she was hailing a taxi and called my name.

  I was sort of shocked. I’d never seen her before in my life, and I was a little annoyed because I was hoping the scout from Oklahoma had hung around, but I didn’t seen anybody who looked like a scout, so I was getting bummed out pretty fast. What if he hadn’t made the game? What if he’d left after Tyler got hurt and didn’t see me pull this one outta the fire? What if he was waiting for me on the other side of the locker rooms by the doors that led out to the parking lot? I had to get over there to check.

  I smiled back at the woman as she ran a hand through her long blond hair and then extended it to me. She had dark red nails, and as I shook her hand, I was vaguely aware that Tyler would have called this woman “a total MILF” and my dad would have referred to her as “a stone-cold fox.”

  She introduced herself as Alicia Stevenson.

  “Good game tonight, sir.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I had to keep walking. Couldn’t get stuck chatting up somebody’s . . . mom? Aunt? She didn’t look old enough to have a kid in high school. . . .

  “Do you have a second to chat about college?” she asked.

  “College?” I was confused.

  “Won’t keep you,” she promised. “That cheerleader and her friend seemed to be planning a big party that requires your presence.” She pressed a business card into my hand. It was thick, heavy stock, and I could feel the print raised against my fingertips. When I glanced down at it, I saw an Oklahoma logo and it hit me:

  “Wait, you’re—you’re the . . . ?”

  “Scout. Yep, that’s me. Call me on Sunday, when you have a minute. I want to talk to you about the possibility of coming to play for us at Oklahoma. I think there’s a place for you with the Sooners.”

  “Wow—sorry, I didn’t . . . I mean, I wasn’t expecting—”

  She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “A woman? Don’t worry. No one ever is. And I wasn’t expecting you to pass like a pro out there tonight. Came to see Tyler, but we’ve already got a great running game, and—well, let’s just say I’m convinced this worked out for the best.”

  She turned and walked on her toes across the sod toward the concrete so her stilettos wouldn’t sink into the grass. When she reached the sidewalk that led to the parking lot, she turned and waved. “Talk to you Sunday!”

  I watched her heels click-click-click toward a sleek gray car. She opened the door, flipped her mane over her shoulder, then melted into the seat. The last thing I saw was her long leg disappear into the driver’s side door.

  It’s weird when something happens that you’ve been hoping would happen for a really long time. I guess I always thought it would make me jump up and down and scream like an idiot, or lose my freaking mind, but it was strange. That’s not how it went. Instead this feeling of certainty washed over me and made me feel like anything was possible. It wasn’t a big crazy rush. It just felt . . . right.

  When I walked into the locker room, I felt like I was floating. I stood under the shower with all the guys whooping and hollering and running around snapping each other with towels, and all I could think was, I did it. I’m gonna play ball at Oklahoma. I felt calm and sure of myself. I felt like this was supposed to happen, that this is where all the hard work of the last few years was supposed to lead—to being ready to step up in this moment. This conversation with Alicia Stevenson was the next logical step after working as hard as I could to be the best I could possibly be. This was all that dedication—all the sweat and swollen knees and jammed fingers—finally paying off.

  I turned off the shower and grabbed my towel. There were so many high fives and slaps on the ass by the time I got back to my locker, it’s a wonder I’m not bruised. I just smiled and felt so certain—so sure of myself. For the first time in my life, I felt like . . . a man. I knew what I wanted and where I was going, and finally I knew the road to take to get there.

  As I was getting dressed, Coach came by and asked, “Did she find you?”

  I just looked up at him and smiled. I didn’t have to say a word. Coach nodded back. “Attaboy. Go have fun tonight.”

  I asked him if Tyler was okay. His face told me the whole story. “He’s at Baptist. I just talked to his dad a minute ago. They’re doing a CAT scan. Looks like it might be his ACL.” Coach shook his head, then shot me a look. “Don’t you worry about any of that tonight. Go celebrate. You deserve it.”

  I did want to celebrate, but I felt bummed about Tyler not being there. I headed out to my truck, and instead of driving toward Monica’s place, I turned and drove to Baptist Hospital. I parked and walked in through the emergency room doors. I saw Erin sitting there with her mom. Her legs were long and bare under her cheerleading skirt, and she was wearing a big sweatshirt and a Windbreaker. It was freezing in there, and it took her a second to recognize me. She smiled when she did, but I could tell she’d been crying. There were tracks of mascara and glittered eye shadow shining on her cheeks. She came over and hugged me.

  “Heard you did good,” Tyler’s dad said.

  “No fun winning with Tyler hurt.” I’m not sure why I said that. It just seemed like the right thing to say, and I could feel Tyler’s dad soften a little when I said it. “How is he?”

  Tyler’s dad shrugged. “Screwed.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Nah—they’ve got him all trussed up back there. Doing MRIs and crap. Taking a million dollars’ worth of pictures to tell us what we already know. He’s out for the season.”

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as we think.” I felt helpless. It was a mistake to come here. Tyler and I were competing for the same spot on the field, the same scholarship money, the same hea
dlines in the local sports section, the same attention from the same scouts. Alicia Stevenson had basically confirmed it. There was no way that Tyler getting hurt wasn’t good for my football career. This was a fact that hung in the air over all of us like the smell of gasoline when you accidentally drip it on your shoe. It fills the car, and there’s no way to ignore it.

  Erin held up her phone. “Sounds like you did great tonight. Everybody’s still texting and tweeting about it.”

  Tyler’s dad huffed through his nose, then tried to cover it up with a quick smile. “Yeah, champ. Thought you’d be out celebrating.”

  There was nothing I could say to make this better. “Well, Tyler’s my best friend. I wanted to at least come see how he was doing. I’m worried.”

  At that moment, Tyler’s mom pushed through the big double doors from the ER into the waiting room. Her face lit up when she saw me. She hurried over and hugged me.

  “It will mean so much to Ty that you came to check on him,” she said. “He was so happy you mopped the field with those guys.”

  I smiled sheepishly. I felt guilty about doing a good job now.

  “What’s the word?” Tyler’s dad was all business.

  “Won’t know for sure until the morning, but it looks like they can fix it with some surgery.”

  Tyler’s dad huffed again. His mom patted his shoulder and then turned to me. “Don’t you worry about Ty. He’ll be running around causing trouble in no time.”

  “Not on the field.” His dad’s eyes were watering. “He’s done with football in high school. He’ll be lucky to keep the offers he’s got.”

  Tyler’s mom shot his dad a look, then smiled at me. “You kids should get going,” she said. “I think there must be a celebration going on somewhere, and Tyler’s sleeping here tonight. Can you give Erin a ride?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m really . . . sorry. About all this. Will you tell him I came by?”

  Tyler’s mom hugged me again. “Of course, sweetheart. This was not your fault. You have nothing to feel sorry about.”