Kickoff again. The back ran it to midfield. The guy was happy. The kid was not. Hanley had no chance. He could go home. Or play pool. But no one went to Patterson’s during games. So he had to stay. Or his apartment by himself.
A pass. Forty-something yards. The guy jumped. High-fived his kid. Who didn’t care. But tried to. For his dad.
11.
THE GAME IS TONIGHT. I’M GONNA meet up with those guys. I hope Mary is there.
* * *
Oh my God I feel sick. My head feels like it’s gonna explode.
* * *
I’m gonna barf.
* * *
(gap in tape)
* * *
I left the recorder out last night. Next to the bed. Anyone could have come in and found it.
I guess this is a hangover.
It sucks.
Don was out in the living room when I got up. I musta barfed like three or four times. I thought he was gonna hit me. When I went to the kitchen I had to walk by him. He started laughing and said you have the virus, huh?
I was like I don’t know what you’re talking about.
He laughed again and said a girl like you never had the virus before?
I didn’t get it.
He said you have a hangover. You drank too much at the game.
When I said I wasn’t hungover he laughed even louder. Oh please, he said. I could smell it all the way down the hall. Whiskey and beer.
He was right. Wine, too.
He said I could tell even before you started yakking. You were something at the game.
Did I see him there?
He said you don’t remember. Boy, you tied one on.
Then he said don’t think you’re off the hook. Your mother will be home soon. Then we’ll talk.
When I asked about what, he said school. And the crowd you’re running with.
I started to tell him I’m not running with a crowd but he cut me off and said you probably don’t remember half of what you did last night. There are more important things than yourself, you got that?
I said like what, my brother?
He stood up and said family. Then, you need to show more respect.
I said you’re not part of this family, without even thinking. It just came out of my mouth. And before I knew it I was on the floor.
Something was on my chin. I felt it.
Blood from my lip.
I wish I had taped it. I could play it for Mom. Or the cops.
He said you don’t remember how you got that.
You just hit me, asshole.
He said no, you don’t remember. Because you blacked out. Drank too much. One of those boys did this. Or you fell down.
I said no, this was you. You did this. And I almost got up.
He said you didn’t hear me, did you?
I stayed down.
He said this family’s got enough to worry about without you making an ass of yourself. Or failing out. Then he said get up.
I said I never fail out.
He said your mother hasn’t seen a report card. Why not?
I didn’t say anything.
You hid it. Or burned it.
He was right.
Then he said get up.
I went why, so you can hit me again?
He said maybe. Keep hanging with that crowd and you’ll wind up in jail. They’ll do way worse to you there.
I said no.
He kicked me and was like your mother spoils the shit out of you. That’s why you’re like this. You need some discipline. I know about discipline, believe me.
I couldn’t breathe.
I tried to say something, but I couldn’t.
He said you don’t remember that, either. ‘Course, your mother won’t see that one. One of your boyfriends might. Slut. You tell them you don’t remember what happened. You blacked out.
It took a while before I could breathe again. When I could I stood up.
He said cut the shit, you hear me?
* * *
I don’t remember all of it. But there are parts I do.
I met those guys at the Pines. Steve and Earl. Arnold and Gil and Kelly, who I guess goes out with Gil. They made out all night. And Mary.
Their cars were parked outside a house. I went in and like always Steve said what’s up, Dixon? and threw me a beer.
I drank it fast. I guess I was nervous. I felt it hit me.
He said you excited for the game? I was like yeah, whatever.
Steve told everyone that Ross was my brother and they looked at me different. Mary said I heard he’s going to some big school and I was like yeah, maybe.
I saw she had this look on her face like she already knew the answers but was gonna ask the questions anyway. Because it was me. I was cool with that.
She said there’s always college people at practices. I said you guys go? She laughed and said yeah. Nothing else to do.
The guys all wanted me to drink flasks. I did. I thought it would make talking to Mary easier. I don’t like whiskey. It warmed me up, though.
They started passing a joint. It came to me and I hit it and passed it to Mary.
Everyone was talking about school and how hard it was to find jobs. The guys said the only way to get out of town was to join up but then you might come home in a bag. I started talking about restaurant row. Gil said I should talk to some guy named Gary at the Burger Hut. Kelly was like God, that guy is gross. The guys laughed and Earl said if I really wanted work I could talk to him. I told Earl I put in a resume and everyone laughed. He said Dixon’s too good for an application! Mary said I think it’s smart.
The joint came around. I hit it again and when I passed it Mary started asking about English class. She moved here from Maine. She told me about concerts she went to.
So we stood there for a while talking and it felt good. It started to get dark and Steve was like ready to go? We got in two cars. Steve was driving one and that guy Arnold was in the other. I started to get in with Arnold but Mary grabbed my hand and pulled me over to Steve’s car. Earl was in the front seat. Steve lit another joint and passed it to Earl, who passed it to Mary, who passed it to me. I hit it and almost dropped it when I passed it up because Mary took my hand.
The whole ride the guys were talking up front. I was, too, to Mary. It was like watching a recording of a conversation I was in. I could feel my mouth moving but I didn’t know what I was going to say next. I guess I was surprised. I thought a lot of what I said was cool. But I can’t remember what I was talking about.
We got there and parked. I remember being kinda scared that Mom would be there with Don. They do Saturday afternoon games sometimes, but she works Fridays. And Don doesn’t usually go by himself. But as we went to the bleachers I kept thinking about it. It was like I was stuck. What if they got off early? Would they see me? It was hard not to think like that.
I didn’t know what was happening with the game. All I knew was that I had to watch out for my brother when the defense was on the field. Number fifty-four. I remember him being happy about his number because some guy named Beer Can on the Patriots used to have it. I elbowed Mary and said that. She thought it was funny. When I did the same to Earl he passed me a flask.
Ross stuck up his hand and knocked the ball down. I started clapping and yelling. People got into it. Everyone was doing ROSS! DOVE! ROSS! DOVE! After a while they were cheering for me, not for him. Steve kept yelling SHE’S ROSS DOVE’S SISTER! and people would all clap. Mary thought it was wicked funny. She said you’re usually so quiet. I felt myself smile.
It was fun hanging out but I don’t know what happened. I mean, I think they won, but I don’t know why or how. Someone gave me a water bottle full of warm beer and I split it with Mary, and the wine they poured into plastic juice bottles, and the flask. I drank everything.
Things got fuzzy.
I remember some stuff but not in order.
I was in front of the whole bleachers, pointing at one side yelling ROSS an
d the other yelling DOVE and everyone was yelling with me. That was awesome.
Then we were back in cars, going to the Pines.
Mary was laughing. That was after the game.
Someone had a flashlight. We walked from the Pines to the quarry. There was more beer. And a box of wine. And a joint. Mary laughed at things I said but can’t remember.
Then I was home.
I want to go to all of the games.
But I need to figure out how not to puke. I’ll look at the library.
My brain feels slow. Like my thoughts need to get through a big sponge before they come out.
I hope I see Mary in school Monday.
12.
ZACHARIAH SHIVERED, WISHING HIS DAD THOUGHT shirts were weather-appropriate. He felt the chill of fall despite his new weight. He had worried throughout the summer about the implications of his newfound bulk: would his dad be excessively optimistic about his son’s warmth because of his newfound poundage? The answer, unfortunately, was yes. Time and again, Zachariah removed body paint from fresh flab with cold cream he had bought with his meager allowance. The addition of so much surface area to his frame meant new and exotic places for leftover blue and white to hide. Any paint he didn’t remove yielded an itchy rash the next day, inevitably left unattended because of awkward location: underarms, stomach rolls, and, worst, under his newly acquired sagging breasts. No matter how thorough his post-game removal sessions, he always managed to miss some.
The playoffs were growing closer, and the team, with its lone loss to Schaferville, seemed a lock. The bleachers began to fill with faces out of context—familiar from the halls, yet alien to games.
Like Dixon.
Zachariah couldn’t believe his stupidity. She shouted at the crowd from the front of the bleachers in the second quarter. What did she care about the defense? Of all people, why would Dixon—with her smell and snarl—attend a football game? Had she sought him out for further humiliation?
No.
As she screamed, Paul Tietz rolled his eyes. “Gotta watch out for girls like that,” he said. “Nothing but trouble. Can your believe her?”
“No,” Zachariah said, thinking she’s been giving me titty twisters pretty much every week since school started. She tore up one of my notebooks—not the game show one, thank God—and threw it up in the air right by her locker, near the front door. Everyone saw. Except for the ancient security guard who was always standing there. How did he not see it? And she pushed me into the girls’ bathroom. But nothing since my powers started a few weeks ago.
He had a momentary, reckless urge to tell his father about the end of the Schaferville game, how his newfound abilities had manifested and had kept him safe since (though its boundaries did not extend to verbal attacks—or to his father).
“He’s gonna go All-State,” his father said, nodding his head toward one of the players on the sideline. “Maybe All-New England. Even when we won the whole thing, we didn’t have anyone go All-New England.”
Zachariah nodded.
“I hope you appreciate what you’re seeing here,” Paul said. “This kid has a chance to go pro. When he does, you can tell your kids that Ross Dove played right here at Armbrister High. First player in town to get to the big show.”
The defense ran onto the field after a punt. As if on cue, Dixon appeared in front of the bleachers.
“That girl again,” Paul Tietz said.
She pointed at one side of the bleachers. They yelled with her.
Then the other side yelled something else.
“At least she has good taste,” Paul said.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s having everyone yell Ross Dove’s name,” he said.
Zachariah felt sick.
He listened to the crowd: ROSS! DOVE! ROSS! DOVE!
Dixon.
Dove.
Oh no.
He’d heard both names used together around the halls, but somehow never made the connection. Dixon Dove.
Ross Dove was her brother.
She’d be at all the games.
It was bad enough being called Piss all the time. And he hated wearing makeup. If Dixon—Dixon Dove—saw him at a game, Zachariah felt sure she would make his time at school even worse.
I hope she never sees me at a game, he thought.
Then: I just used my power.
He’d be careful. He had to be. In the back of his mind was the nagging suspicion that he had no powers; maybe the pass hadn’t been picked off because of his mind. Maybe it was just the right guy in the right place at the right time.
But he believed in it. More than anything, he wanted to believe it. And wanting it so badly was part of the process. Right? It had to be, in the same way that working on Love Balloon would get him out of Armbrister. Had to.
Believing didn’t mean he could live dangerously, though. At school he’d continued to spend time in the library rather than the cafeteria, where he knew—powers or no—that kids would make his life miserable.
The powers were like an insurance policy, maybe. A safety net.
He couldn’t get out of going to games with his dad. He knew that. But hopefully his powers would protect him from being embarrassed by Dixon Dove at a game. Zachariah imagined his father’s anger: You’re gonna let a girl treat you like that? Don’t you have a pair?
Down front, Dixon Dove continued motioning to the bleachers, leading the crowd in chanting her brother’s name.
Her brother. He felt the knowledge in his stomach.
“Do you know her?”
“I’ve seen her around school,” Zachariah said.
“Girls like her are nothing but trouble,” his dad said. “Stay away from her.”
Zachariah was happy to say he would.
13.
ONLY WAY TO GET IN SHAPE to walk was walking. Apartment too small for exercise. Woke up and did push-ups and sit-ups. Crunches. Not enough. Cheap place. Floor might cave in if he did jumping jacks.
Thought about a gym. Could barely pay bills. Far away. Would need to drive. Didn’t want to. Felt a headache behind his eyes thinking about it. Wouldn’t walk home sweaty. Freeze like that. So he just walked. Laps around the common. To the woods. By the quarry. Saw another deer up there.
Had some deer once. Guy his mom dated. Only one he liked. John. Garbage man. Smelled a little. Can’t ever wash it off, he said. Not all the way. But for twenty-two an hour you take it.
He brought some venison over. And a little grill. Cooked it up. Mom made potatoes. Frozen beans. Tasted so good. Still remembered. Eight, maybe. Wanted to say keep this one. Not yell all the time. Eat good food. Throw a baseball. Holidays. All the stuff on TV. But real. But he stopped coming. Not right away. But close. A week, maybe? Two?
One morning he got tired of common laps. Seeing the same things. Leg still hurt but fuck it. He’d go. To Schaferville. Ask Artie if they needed help. Finally.
Up one hill, down another. The entire way. Felt his breath. Sucking air.
Basic. All the running. Fifteen miles. Packs. Up hills. Back down. Never got easier. Thought he was going to die. Stared straight ahead. Didn’t want to scrub more bowls. What the fuck, Donaldson said. Like we’re gonna have to run fifteen miles in the desert in full gear. That’ll never happen. But if it does, Long said, we’re ready. I will kiss McSorley square on the lips and give him a reach around if I ever have to run fifteen in the desert, Peck said. Felt a laugh come up. Bit it down. Didn’t want McSorley to rip his head off.
All that gone now. Came home. Walked. Not the same. PT. Still hurt. The guys he met at the hospital said wow, you’re lucky. Hard to think about.
The job would help. The garage. Be around people all day. Artie. Fix cars. Get strength.
Longer than he thought. And he thought it was long. Hours. Working late would suck. No shoulder. Cars close. Sometimes old people walked out there. They waved. He waved back. They wore reflectors. Vests, straps. Thought they looked dumb. But made sense. Night, h
ard to see. Didn’t have light clothes. Fatigues. Sweatshirts. Navy blue. Always his favorite.
Downhill was bad. Almost worse than up. Felt it in his knees. His leg. Got rubbery. Probably the same on the way home. But worse. Have to walk it until he got a bike. But snow. Maybe Artie could drive. Wasn’t far. By car. But the time. There and back. Couldn’t ask. Too much.
Artie used to drive him everywhere. That car, Oldsmobile. Dead grandfather’s. Boat. Shit mileage. Big backseat, though, Artie said. Elbowed him. Roy smiled, nodded. He knew. From videos. Not until basic. Weekend pass. Guys knew a place.
No money for driver’s ed, Auntie Blake said. Sorry, Royal. We both know after driver’s ed comes a car. And insurance. I have a job, he said. If that’s the case, you’ll have to learn on your own. He told Artie about it.
What a bitch, he said.
Maybe she resents it.
What, having to put you up?
She does, he said. She does. And Artie taught him to drive. I don’t mind, he said. Means I can drink. You’re the designated hitter. Laughed. But he didn’t mind. It felt good, being useful.
Cars whizzing by. Close. Broad daylight. Didn’t see him. Weren’t looking. Bad road. Only way to Schaferville. Bus once a day. Noon. Why not more he didn’t know. Made no sense. Back four hours later. Four. That one might work. Walk in the morning, early shift, bus home. Not bad. Sit in the same seat. Talk to the driver. Get to know him. Joke around. Meet the other people on the bus. Everyone would know he worked at the garage. Come by with their cars. Say hello, Roy. Artie’s boss, whoever he was, would see him bring business. Job security.
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