by AnonYMous
I laughed out loud in my truck, and I couldn’t stop smiling all the way home. I don’t even know how to explain how weird it felt—how happy I was.
And how scared that makes me.
I mean, if Tyler or my dad or my mom, or . . . well . . . anybody, really . . . saw my phone and read those texts, they’d know that I was flirting. With a guy. Was he serious?
Am I?
I haven’t responded again to Jon’s text, but I want to. I want to feel the rush of waiting for his reply. It feels dangerous—like I’m a little out of control.
Okay, here it is: the truth . . . Shit. I can’t believe I’m gonna write this down.
The truth is, I’ve been lying here awake ’cause I can’t stop thinking about pushing Jon up against my truck and kissing him instead of Monica. What would that feel like? What would it be like to kiss a dude? It wouldn’t taste like watermelon—that much I know for sure. I even went online and searched “boys kissing.” Some of the videos that popped up were just guys horsing around being stupid, and some of them were kind of gross, but there was one of these two guys on a beach. They looked like they were about my age, and they were just sitting in this big tidal pool making out as the waves rolled in behind them. It made my heart speed up the way that getting Jon’s text tonight did. These dudes didn’t seem like they were afraid of getting caught, or of anybody seeing them. They were just kissing each other like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to feel Jon’s lips on mine now. And it’s, like, one a.m. and I really need to get to sleep, or I’m so screwed for the game tomorrow.
Friday, September 7
English—First Period
Holy crap. I was up way too late last night.
When I finally drifted off to sleep, I had another dream. Only this time, instead of Tyler chasing Jon, he was chasing me down the football field. I was running as fast as I could, but the end zone kept getting farther and farther away. I looked back, and Tyler was chasing me with a crutch that he held up like a rifle and started shooting at me.
I’m so tired today, I’m not sure how I’m going to make it to the game tonight. When I saw Jon this morning, he just grinned and tossed his chin at me, like What’s up? He didn’t say anything about our texts. Maybe he was just joking around. Maybe I was too. Then why am I having these whacked-out dreams about Tyler? And why can’t I stop thinking about Jon? And what if I walk out on the field and choke? What if last Friday was a fluke?
I can’t afford to be this tired. Coach is always after us: “Keep your head in the game.” My head is everywhere but the game right now.
What the hell am I doing?
Saturday, September 8
I am writing this from hell.
Actually, it’s my bedroom, but Tracy just downloaded the new Boison album. Get it? Like “Poison” only they’re “Deadly to Boys,” as the title track has reminded me for the past thirty-two minutes. They’re this sixteen-year-old girl group that came from some TV show for kids, and they sing the worst pop singles of all time. They’re fast and stupid, and have terrible lyrics. They sound just like the color hot pink. You can totally picture eighth-grade girls jumping up and down and screaming along. The track Tracy is singing to right now has this awful chorus about how some dude is “the one I’ve always wanted,” and they say that like five hundred times in a row. She’s had this album on repeat for two days now. I’m about to lose my shit.
Anyway, in better news, we beat Central High last night. Didn’t choke. We were up by three at the half, but it could’ve gone either way. I got sacked twice really hard the first two plays of the second half, and on the second one, the ball got away from me. Somehow the defensive lineman from the other team who was closest to the ball kicked it as he scrambled for it, and I grabbed it—but I got piled on pretty hard.
That put us at third and fourteen on our own forty-yard line. I was not feeling good about it. If we had to punt, I knew Central would score, and I knew we’d give up the momentum. The hardest thing in football isn’t scoring. It’s keeping the momentum. Getting the ball down the field when you’re behind because you had to punt is somehow twice as hard. The number of yards to the end zone is the exact same as if you’re ahead, but the challenge is all between your ears, as Coach likes to say, and it feels like trying to run through knee-deep mud.
I knew we had to make the first down or we’d be in serious shit.
Walker, our center, smacked my helmet when we came out of the huddle and just said, “You got this.”
And I realized he was right. I could do this.
He snapped me the ball, and I dropped back. For some reason, our line was screwed, and none of my guys were where I needed them to be. I saw the same dude who had kicked the ball on the last play break free and barrel toward me. I took a couple steps to my right, ready to run for it, but just those two steps to the right gave me a whole new view of the field, and I saw Mike Watters wide open way down on their ten.
It’s a weird thing to just be in the moment and act on instinct. I’d never completed a pass quite that long before. If I’d had the time to consider that, I’d have psyched myself out. I didn’t have time to think about it—I just knew it was right. So I cocked my arm and let it rip.
I watched the ball arc down the field in a perfect spiral. I don’t know if the crowd actually went silent, or if I just couldn’t hear them, but when Mike Watters reached out and got his hands on that pass, the whole stadium exploded, and I wound up on the bottom of a pile again. This time it was my own guys, roaring louder than the crowd. We scored one more touchdown after that, and then I got Casey, our kicker, in field-goal range with a minute left and he kicked a thirty-yard field goal as the clock ran out. That’s what I mean about momentum. That pass sealed the deal for us. It wasn’t even the points. It was the power of knowing that we were in charge.
After the game, Jon was waiting with Monica and Amy. Monica ran up and hugged me. She and Amy were hoarse from cheering. I saw Erin and Tyler were a little bit behind them. It was slow going with Tyler on his crutches, his leg wrapped in a big white Velcro sheath to keep his knee from bending.
Jon held up a hand for a high five. I smiled and smacked it. “Hey, man.”
“What’s up, ace?” he said. “Nice pass.” Something about the way he was smiling let me know he’d seen that moment with the pass—that split second before I saw Watters down the field and the split second after.
“Thanks.” I smiled back at him.
“You know how to give a guy something to write about,” he said. “This game is another great story for the paper.”
Tyler and Erin had made it over by that point, and Tyler snorted. “It’s so freaking gay to come to a football game to write about it for the school paper.”
When Tyler said “gay” like that, it was like somebody had knocked the wind out of me. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
Monica, of course, is never at a loss for words. She turned to Tyler with her patented withering look and said, “Hey, douche bag. He wasn’t just here for the paper. In fact, I’m not sure how he’s going to write that article. Most of the time he was watching Amy cheer.”
Erin and Amy giggled like, well, schoolgirls. As they did, Jon flinched. Nobody else would have noticed it.
But I did.
I’m not sure about much of anything these days, but I’m sure that Jon wasn’t watching Amy cheer.
At that moment, this guy came up and tapped me on the shoulder, and I recognized Roger Jackson from his column in the sports section of the paper.
“Great game.” He smiled. “Can I get a couple comments from you?”
I knew Monica wanted us all to go out, but when Roger showed up, Jon said he had to go.
“Yeah, I gotta get Erin home.” Tyler had this look on his face when he said it and was staring at Roger. It was so weird, like we all had this awkward thought at the exact same moment: This shoul
d be Tyler’s interview. If he hadn’t gotten hurt, he’d be the one talking to reporters.
He left to “get Erin home,” which I didn’t realize until right now is sad and funny at the same time because she has to drive them everywhere now—but he said his knee was hurting anyway.
I watched Jon head across the parking lot as Roger asked me how it felt to complete that pass.
“How did it feel?” I blinked at him. “Is that a trick question?”
He laughed. “You’re right. I assume it felt great.”
“Hell yeah,” I said.
“Was it luck?”
I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out next week.”
Again, Roger smiled as he scribbled a couple notes down, then held out his hand. “Thanks for talking with me. See you next Friday.”
I shook his hand, and as he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. “Nice work out there. You really see the field.”
When he was gone, that left me, Monica, and Amy. Amy said she didn’t want to feel like a third wheel, so we all walked to the parking lot, and Amy took off.
At that point, Monica was all smiles. “Looks like I get you all to myself tonight. Finally!”
I smiled and tried to get excited about that idea, but my heart wasn’t in it, and she could tell.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Just tired.”
“You need me to kiss it and make it better?” she said, wrapping her arms around my neck and pressing her whole body up against mine.
“I think I need to get home,” I said.
She pouted and sighed. “Jeez. So much for a wild Friday night your senior year.”
“I’m sorry, babe. I’m just beat.”
She raised her eyebrow and smirked. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’m coming over tomorrow to watch you play with your gun.”
I’d forgotten until right then about the whole plan for today. She should be here any minute.
Later . . .
Sometimes I start to write in this journal and I’m sure that I’m losing my freaking mind. If you’d told me two weeks ago that Tyler wouldn’t want to stay for dinner when my mom offered, I’d have assumed you were smoking crack. But that’s exactly what happened tonight. Tyler is crazy about my mom’s cooking. His dad remarried after his mom left when he was a kid, and his stepmom is what I like to call “kitchen-challenged.” So, usually, anytime he comes over, I suspect he’s sort of coming to hang out with me but mainly coming for my mom’s cooking.
He and Erin showed up a few minutes before Monica. Tyler talked with my dad, looking at my new rifle while Erin and I walked the fence row behind our place, setting up some old coffee cans we use for target practice. There’s a big meadow that a developer owns but never developed behind our house and then a line of trees along the steep drop that leads down to the river. We can shoot these cans without worrying about hitting anybody by mistake because you can see anybody coming from our backyard for about a quarter mile before the trees start at the river.
Erin and I were talking about Tyler and when his surgery was set to be scheduled. She looked up toward the house and said, “Monica’s here.” I turned around and saw Monica. Then my heart crashed into my toes when I saw Jon step out of the back door onto our deck, nodding and talking with my mom.
What is he doing here?
At that moment Erin started up toward the house and then looked at me and said, “What?”
I said, “What?” back.
She laughed. “You have this big grin on your face. The one you get before you crack a joke.”
I just shrugged, but I realized she was right, and that made me even more nervous and giddy at the same time. I remembered our flirty texts, and I was so happy that Jon was here, but I was nervous about what Tyler would say. And what about my dad? This had the potential to be a total shit show.
And I was grinning like an idiot. And I couldn’t stop.
I marched up toward the house with Erin. Monica skipped over from where she was talking with my dad and Tyler and hugged me. She pecked me on the lips and squeaked, “Surprise!”
I looked up at Jon, who was smiling at something my mom said. Mom turned to me and said, “Sweetheart! You didn’t tell me about your new friend.”
I nodded. “Sorry. Slipped my mind.” I smiled at Jon. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
This made his lips purse and twist into that smirk he has that makes me weak in the knees. Why do I feel like such a rock star when I make that smirk happen?
“Sorry to show up unannounced,” he said.
I shrugged. “The more the merrier.”
Mom had disappeared inside and returned with Cokes, a big plate of cheese and crackers, and a platter of cookies. She tapped the screen of her iPhone, and the wireless speakers Dad had rigged up outside sprang to life with the satellite station of old-school country classics that was Dad’s favorite. Mom is like the most practical version of Martha Stewart ever. On speed.
Tyler took the first turn with the new rifle. He was off balance because of the crutches and kept hitting the fence post just below the cans. I could see him getting red in the face, and my dad was not helping matters by teasing him.
“C’mon, Ty. Just ’cause you banged up your knee doesn’t mean you can shoot like a chick.”
Monica marched up at that point and eased the rifle away from Tyler. “Excuse me, Tyler. Mr. Morris, you might want to see how a ‘chick’ does it. Take notes.”
She turned around and promptly blew a coffee can to smithereens. My mom whistled and cheered.
“Attagirl, Monica. Don’t you let him tell you what you can’t do.”
Dad turned to Jon. “So, you new around here?”
Jon nodded. “Yep.”
“How’d you meet this motley crew?”
The very thought that my dad was having a conversation with a guy I’d traded flirty text messages with was making my hands shake. I was glad Monica was still holding the rifle.
“First-period English.” Jon smiled.
“Speaking of periods, he’s in the musical with Monica,” Tyler said. I froze. This was not the way I had wanted this conversation between Jon and my dad to go.
Erin responded with a nervous laugh, but Monica rolled her eyes. “Tyler, if you hadn’t taken that gun from me already, I would shoot you with it.” She whirled toward Dad. “Jon has the best singing voice this high school has seen since . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she tried to think.
“Johnny Cash.”
We all turned to look at Jon. He was pointing up in the air toward the speaker near the porch.
“Ain’t nobody can sing like Johnny Cash, son.” Dad sounded more serious than he was.
“Oh . . . no way, man. He was the master. I mean, I love this song.” Jon smiled, and we all heard the music he’d been pointing at. “Ring of Fire” was coming out of the speakers, and Dad raised an eyebrow.
“Where you from again?”
“Just moved down from Chicago.”
“And you know Johnny Cash?” Dad was incredulous.
“Know him?” Now it was Jon who couldn’t believe it. “He’s one of my all-time favorites. Top-five songwriters. Easy.”
Dad cocked his head and looked at Jon in a new light. “You shoot as well as you sing?”
Jon smiled. It was dazzling. This kid could charm a bear off a bee’s nest. “Not with a gun. Only hunting I ever did up north was with a bow.”
Tyler snickered like a sixth grader laughing at a fart joke. “You wear tights with your bow and arrow, Robin Hood?”
“Paula!” Dad called for Mom, who had stepped back into the kitchen with an empty tray and returned with more cookies.
“Yeah, sugar?”
“Grab your bow. Jon here’s an archer.”
Mom had her bow out of the garage in about two minutes, and I had a knot in my stomach the size of a grapefruit. Why did I feel like Dad was putting Jon on trial? Why was I so worried whether Dad
would like him? I felt like I was watching The Hunger Games live in my own backyard.
As long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget watching the afternoon sunlight bounce off of Jon’s triceps as he pulled that bow back. His T-shirt said PAVEMENT (another band I guess?) and the words “like a rock” flashed into my head as he stood there, focusing, every muscle tensed for just a split second, then: fwwwwiiiiip/CRASH.
After he knocked the three remaining cans off the fence, Dad let out an awed, “Holy shit,” and handed Jon a Budweiser. Tyler saw this, and we both knew what it meant: Jon was “in” with my dad. It wasn’t even a full minute later that Mom called Monica and Erin in to help her set the table, and Tyler said his knee was hurting so he couldn’t stay for dinner.
Over Mom’s famous fried chicken, Jon filled the whole family in on his move from Chicago, his dad’s new position at UAMS, the teaching hospital in town, and he and Dad talked classic country until Mom finally put her foot down and said they could talk more music after Jon helped her dish up dessert. There were homemade brownies with caramel on top, served warm with vanilla ice cream.
Afterward I walked Jon and Monica out to her car. Monica put on her seat belt and rolled down the window. I leaned down, and she kissed me long and hard on the lips. When I looked over at Jon, he was watching with that smirk, and I knew he was thinking about our texts the other night.
As I watched them pull out of the driveway, I sent Jon a message:
Nice shooting today.
Two seconds later his reply popped up:
I’ve got moves you’ve never seen. ;)
Sunday, September 9
Sitting in church. Here’s the genius of keeping this journal: I can write in it while Amy’s dad is up there preaching, and everybody just thinks I’m taking notes on the sermon. My mom has a little notebook she brings to church to take notes in and copy down Bible verse references. When I got this out and started writing in it, she just glanced at me and flashed a small smile. She thinks I’m taking interest in church. I feel a little bit guilty for misleading her, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.