Fantasy Football

by Jennifer LoGalbo

  “Do you love me?” Mom had the prominent deer in the headlights glare. “Can you even recall the last time you said, I love you?”

  “Oh, Parker.” She rose from her chair and strolled over to the kitchen counter to snatch a handful of pinwheels. “Of course I love you. Do you need me to say it everyday?”

  I swiveled in my chair and stared straight into her eyes. “Yes, Mom. Isn’t that what parents should do? Nikki’s parents say it morning, noon, and night. They tell her she’s beautiful, smart and you can see the pride in their eyes.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I told you I love you everyday as well?”

  She didn’t get it. And why would she? It just wasn’t in her character. “I don’t want to force you into something you’re not comfortable with. I mean, didn’t your parents tell you every day?”

  “Oh, please!” She laughed, throwing her head back. “My folks treated me and my siblings as though we had a highly contagious disease. We were such a burden on them.”

  I’d only met my mother’s parents once, when I was around four or five-years-old. Although I was a young tot, I still recall their brief visit from California. And the only reason why their visit sticks to me like glue is because my grandmother kissed me on the lips and my father had a conniption shit-fit about germs.

  He made me rush to the bathroom and wash my mouth with soap and water, then follow-up with Listerine mouthwash. And while spitting in the sink I recall thinking, who would have thought Grandma Ida had cooties?

  As time went on I knew my grandparents occasionally wrote to Mom. None of us kids ever received a birthday card or Christmas gift from them. They were indeed non-existent. And I had no clue why…until now.

  “I blame my parents for my lack of parental guidance,” Mom said, taking a tiny bite of her pinwheel. At least now I knew it wasn’t laced with cyanide. “Why they bothered to have children is beyond me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They didn’t care. We were all placed in foster homes, to which I just ran away from.” I had no idea. And how would I? This was the most my mother shared with me about her childhood. “I never even finished high school,” she said on a sigh.

  “Where did you go?”

  “I became a waitress and lived in a tiny studio apartment. That’s how I met your father.” She chuckled in her memory, and I swear I saw my father’s reflection in her eyes. “He was a very generous tipper.”

  That sounded like my dad. Whenever we went out to eat he would tip the food server twenty percent, even if the services were crappy. He would always say, next to a receptionist, a food server was a thankless profession.

  “Why are you just now sharing this with me?”

  My mother glanced at me with a sympathetic grin. “Because, I don’t want us to have the same estranged mother-daughter relationship I had with my mother. I know it’s hard to believe, but I really do love you and care deeply.”

  A strange day indeed.

  Just like my mother’s folks, I never met my father’s parents…ever. I was told why a few years ago when I was old enough to understand. They were snobs. Rich snobs. And when they learned my mother was a poor girl with no college education, they immediately disapproved of my father’s courtship with her. I had no idea there was more to the story.

  He was in love. My father couldn’t care less what his parents thought. And when he announced his engagement, his parents vowed to disown him should he go through with the marriage. He would lose his inheritance as well and never be welcomed into their home.

  Really? What parent disowns their own flesh and blood? It wasn’t like he was marrying a mass murderer. Just because my mother did what she could to survive after being rejected by her own parents, she shouldn’t be blamed or penalized. It was utterly disgusting!

  My father still invited his parents to the wedding. Not a big shocker they didn’t attend. From that day forward my father wanted nothing to do with his parents. And quite frankly neither did I after hearing that story.

  When both his parents passed away a couple years ago, he didn’t attend either funeral. I had mixed feelings on that one. I thought he should attend to pay final respects. Right or wrong, the Bible clearly states to honor thy mother and father. But Dad wasn’t religious.

  With my mother, however, I felt the damage was already done. What was I supposed to do, pretend to have amnesia and forget all the horrible things she’d ever said to me?

  For example: Just a few weeks ago I bumped into her attorney at the mall when shopping for clothes. When she met with him to go over who knows what last week, he mentioned to her of our encounter and told her I was turning into a beautiful young woman. Her response? It was, “Are you sure it was Parker you ran into?”

  Her exact words, I swear. She made it a point to mention it to me at dinner in front of my sisters. Mom cared about me. Really?

  I couldn’t respond to my mother. I didn’t know how. If I allowed us to start over it certainly would be a long road to forgiveness. I’d be a fake loving daughter who pretended to care. But if I rejected her, I’d be no different than my dad’s parents. It was solely up to me to break the cycle. I had to honor thy mother. I was going to be sick to thy stomach.

  “I’d really like to start over,” I said, my voice filled with phlegm. I cleared my throat and continued, “But I can’t promise it will be all roses.”

  “We can take baby steps, Parker. What if we start off by keeping the lines of communication open?”

  It sounded like a rational request, and baby steps I could handle. “Sure. But how does this all relate to how you treat me?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “You make it a point to dig a knife in my self-confidence. I’m not pretty or smart enough, and you despise my fashion sense.”

  There was a void expression on Mom’s face. After a few beats her eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, Parker. I don’t recall ever belittling you. And if I did, I plead insanity.” She rose from her chair, carrying her plate to the sink. After she rinsed it off and placed it in the dishwasher, she turned to face me. “Do you have enough cash for your Homecoming dress?”

  Ah, she changed the subject. Something she does often when she knows she’s done wrong, or in an argument she didn’t have a chance on winning. Baby steps indeed.

  “I have plenty, thanks.” This time it was my turn to place my plate in the dishwasher. “It’s the shoes I’m not so keen on.”

  “I can give you some money.”

  “It’s not that. I have plenty of funds. I’m just dreading wearing them. I’ll probably fall on my face. And what am I going to do with them after the dance?”

  Mom laughed. It was a hearty and meaningful laugh. Something I hadn’t heard escape from her lips in a long time. Apparently the same visual popped into her head as mine. Me, walking around in three-inch heels was equivalent to a high-wire act. I was doomed to fail, and fall.

  “You can borrow a pair of mine. I’m sure you’ll be able to find a pair to match whatever color dress you decide on.”

  I shrugged. “Sounds great.”

  Hey, look at us! A mother-daughter moment that didn’t involve yelling, eye rolling, huffing or disowning. It felt odd. It really wasn’t all that bad. Perhaps I could handle baby steps. Kudos to us both!

  Our heads snapped simultaneously to the front door when we heard it fly open with such great force; the doorjamb recoiled with a loud twang. Sounds of whimpering soon followed. Mariah or Emily had entered the foyer with such vengeance of fury; the vibration of the door slamming sent photos mounted on the hallway wall crashing to the hardwood floor.

  Somehow, none of the glass set in the frames shattered. If it were I who just slammed the door shut, I wouldn’t have been so lucky. No doubt the glass would have busted in every direction. I’d then have to clean it up, be banished to the basement, and I would have forfeited my cleaning allowance to pay for new frames.

  “Emily! What on earth?” Mom scolde
d. That was a first.

  “Why me?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face.

  After securing the frames that hung askew on the wall, Mom picked up the unscathed frames from the floor. “What’s with all the dramatics, Emily?” she huffed.

  Emily collapsed on the over-stuffed beige couch in the living room. She snatched a few Kleenex from a box on the coffee table and pressed them against her eyes as she lay crying.

  “Aaron broke up with me!” she sobbed.

  Although the Kleenex blocked Emily from noticing a coy smile spread across my face, I still turned my back on her. I was ecstatic by her announcement, and not because I was jealous of her good-looking boyfriend. It was because Aaron was a bum of a loser.

  What Emily saw in him was a true mystery. Aaron was a schmuck and a moocher. He dropped out of high school two months before graduation last year. Apparently he convinced himself he could make a living being a professional on-line gambler. He sits in his bedroom all day playing poker on the computer. In the past six months, his winnings have accumulated to an impressive three hundred dollars.

  Therefore, Emily paid for everything when they went out. Movies, dinner, and gas for when he drove his piece-of-shit Cavalier. The car had more rust holes than a slice of Swiss cheese. The car reaper should have condemned his car to junkyard hell forty thousand miles ago.

  If Dad were still alive Aaron would have been buried under a slab of concrete at one of his job sites from day one. He’d never allow a degenerate high school dropout near his baby girl. Problem was Mom suffocated a fragile Emily knowing damn well Aaron was a rebound from Trent.

  I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that really a bad thing?”

  Mom shoved me toward the kitchen. “Get your sister a glass of water.”

  “That’s too small to drown Aaron in,” I joked. Mom stretched her arm out and pointed her finger toward the kitchen. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying.”

  “Did you want to talk about it?” Mom asked Emily, stroking her hair.

  “Aaron said…” Emily sobbed. “we should,” she blubbered, “see other people.”

  The tears flowed faster and snots were bubbling out of Emily’s nose. A mental image of me throwing the cup of water in her face flashed in front of my eyes. She really needed to settle herself down…not to mention, clean the liquid goop off her chin.

  “Come on Emily. You know boys will come and go,” Mom said, her voice soft and soothing. “Aaron was a pathetic loser, anyway.”

  If I had a mirror I probably would have amused myself at seeing my mouth hit the floor, and my eyes bug out of their sockets. I glanced at the glass of water in my hand and nearly tossed it in my face to see if I was dreaming. I couldn’t believe what I just heard. Mom actually said something intelligent.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Emily whined. “Why do guys keep breaking up with me?”

  I handed the glass of water to Emily and said, “Because they’re scum suckers. They think there’s always someone better for them.”

  “Maybe I should just start sleeping with them?” Emily sniffled.

  “Absolutely not!” Mom and I screeched at the same time.

  “What am I supposed to do? I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

  Mom laughed. It wasn’t a mocking laugh, but almost one of amusement. “You’re only eighteen. Men will come and go; it’s just how life is. I didn’t meet your father until I was twenty-one.”

  I thought it was only fitting to add my two cents. “Hey, look at me. I’m seventeen and I’ve never had a boyfriend. And you can’t count Dugan Wheeler, either.”

  Emily smiled. I knew dropping Dugan’s name would. He was our neighbor until two years ago, when he and his family moved to Ohio.

  Dugan was eight years younger than me. He was a cute seven-year-old when he developed his first crush…on me. He would pick me fully blossomed white hydrangeas from his mother’s garden and buy me Hershey candy bars with his allowance.

  Being fifteen I pictured my boyfriend to be equal in age. A year older or younger would suffice, as well. But a seven-year-old? Dugan was adorable, and I didn’t have the heart to send him home to Barney. I accepted his flowers and shared my candy treats with him. But a few months later when Dugan started the second grade, he began sharing his candy bars with another girl. Dumped by a seven-year-old. How pathetic was I?

  “That’s it,” I said flinging my arms out. “I think I’m going to turn gay.”

  “I think I’ll join you,” Emily added.

  Chapter 7

  Blurting out I was going to turn gay may had been a bit melodramatic, but I was at my wits end. I’ve lusted and ogled over boys since kindergarten when David Bacardi fell from the monkey bars and pretended to be hurt. He asked if I’d mend his wrist and kiss it all better.

  In the second grade Derrick Moody vomited his breakfast all over my desk and my new dress. He came to school the next day with a single red rose that he carefully handpicked from his mother’s flower garden, and told me he truly was sick. He also drew me a picture of us holding hands, writing under it, Friends to the End. Second grade was the end. He and his family moved to St. Paul, Minnesota later that year.

  And in the fifth grade Devin O’Grady and I were paired up as partners for the Minuet. Our History teacher made the class perform the seventeenth century dance in front of the entire school. It was embarrassing. And the way Devin kept touching me and gazing at me, I kept waiting for him to kiss me. Which he did; on the cheek when no one was looking.

  That was the extent of my love life up until now.

  To come to the realization I never had a steady boyfriend was actually depressing. I’m not homely. I don’t have a unibrow, fuzz peach on my lip, or stray nose hairs. So, what was it with me that had the guys running in the other direction?

  It was time to swallow some pride and get down to the nitty-gritty of my faults. There was only one person I was in cahoots with who’d be able to peel back the layers of that stinky onion.

  I never deleted his number from my cell phone from when he called me the other day. With a painful stretch across my bed, I snatched my phone from the nightstand and scrolled through my received calls for Boyd’s number.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Parker Collins. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” My brain went numb. Did I truly want to know my faults? Was I ready for the bashing of my life? “Parker, are you there? I can hear you panting.”

  “I…”

  “If you’re trying to prank me with an obscene phone call, the next time, you may want to block your number,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Ha, ha.” Always the jokester. “Actually, I’m a little hesitant in asking a very serious question.”

  Boyd puffed out some air. “Games, Collins. You know I don’t like them.”

  “Okay, okay.” I closed my eyes and took the plunge. “Why do boys hate me so much? I mean, am I that grotesque looking?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Boyd was probably searching the deepest depths of his brain for a proper answer that wouldn’t offend me or hurt my delicate and precious feelings. I could actually feel a little perspiration forming in my pits, as though I’d just jogged two miles around the track. Ugh, I hated running. Running and I never got along.

  “I don’t understand your question,” Boyd finally responded.

  “What makes me so undesirable to the male species?” Boyd laughed. And when I say laughed I mean the whole heartily fall-out-of-the-chair hysterical laughter. “I don’t see the humor in this, Boyd.”

  “I do. Have you not been paying attention for the last few years?”

  For someone who hated playing mind games, he sure the hell mastered in the craft of cat and mouse. “Care to elaborate?”

  “You’re probably the most beautiful girl in the school, next to Nikki of course, but you have an ugly personality that scares all the guys away.”

  “Ugly personality?” I was confused and a bit miffed. />
  “All the guys in school think you’re hot, but they won’t touch you with a ten foot pole because they’re afraid you’ll go postal on them.”

  I was stunned; dumbfounded and pissed. And not at Boyd for opening my eyes to the truth, but at myself for turning a blind eye to the bitch I’d become. In the back of my brain, I knew the world would someday turn against me, so I decided to beat it to the punch. I turned my back on everything, and everyone.

  It was now my turn to dig deep into the depths of my suppressed memories to figure out when, where, why, and how it all began. There was no doubt my mother played an integral part in me not trusting my own family members, but she wasn’t the sole reason I became so defensive to the human race. The protective barrier happened many years ago, back in the sixth grade.

  The school year was coming to an end and finals were wrapping up. I was about to kiss elementary school behind and join the semi big leagues of junior high. But first I had to make-up an algebra final I missed after being out with tonsillitis.

  I made arrangements with Mrs. Musick to come in thirty minutes before school started to take my test. I had math first period, so if I went a little over it was no big. Because my parents wouldn’t drive me to school, Mariah allowed me to ride her new ten-speed bike. Dad had the day off and wanted to relax. It was a decision he later regretted.

  Call it intuition, but as I pedaled up my street I knew what was going to happen. Yet I continued on in my journey. I made a right off my street and let the bike coast down the soft hill. The next street coming up I had to take a hard left. Only one problem, a car was barreling up the street.

  There was no way I could turn left unless I wanted to become the car’s hood ornament. I made a hasty decision to turn right and thought to myself, once the car passes, I could turn the bike around.

  After safely turning right on the street, I waited for the car to pass. Suddenly, in the corner of my left eye I saw the car’s fender hit my back tire. My bike stopped but I didn’t. I flew head first over the handlebars thinking I was done for. I was about to crack my head open on the asphalt street.