Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have

by Allen Zadoff

  Coach keeps me off the field for the kickoff because I can’t run very fast. I sneak over towards the cheerleaders and tap Lisa Jacobs on the shoulder.

  “That’s my kid sister,” I say, and I point to Jessica. “Would you keep an eye on her?”

  “No problem,” Lisa says.

  Sometimes I forget that Lisa is nice. I automatically want to hate her because she’s so pretty. It’s not really fair of me.

  Lisa waves to Jessica, and Jessica’s face lights up. Now Jessica knows a cheerleader. I’m going to own the TiVo for the rest of my life.

  “Good luck,” April says as I walk back towards the team. I ignore her. If I open my mouth right now, I don’t know what’s going to come out.

  Coach puts me in when we take our first possession. I should be excited, but everything feels bad right now. I keep looking over at April to see if she’s looking at O. I look at O. to see if he’s looking at April. It’s like watching a tennis match, and it makes my neck hurt.

  When O. puts his hands on my back, I flinch. I’m so angry, I don’t even want him to touch me.

  “Easy,” he says, and pats my back. He must think I’m nervous.

  “Haaaa-eeee!” O. screams, and I snap the ball back a second too late. I feel it crunch against his fingers. He adjusts immediately and snatches it up. He completes a pass to Rodriguez for a quick five yards.

  “We’re off to a good start,” he tells everyone in the huddle.

  We set for the next play. This time I snap too far back and miss his hands altogether. He has to scurry after the ball, grabbing it off the ground and converting it into a pass before getting crunched by a couple of linemen.

  When we get into the huddle this time, O. is pissed.

  “Get your head in the game!” he says.

  “It’s jitters,” Cheesy says. He pats my shoulder like he’s burping a baby. “He’ll settle down.”

  But I don’t settle. I keep sneaking looks at April when I should be thinking about football. I try to hear the music in my head again. “True Colors.” But it’s not there. Only static.

  I keep telling myself that it shouldn’t bother me. April got out of O.’s truck. So what? It’s not like they kissed or anything. But as the game goes on, I feel more and more upset.

  We’re at fourth and ten when the linebacker from Worcester hits me at an angle, then fakes to his left and scoots past me. He knocks down O. before he can get off the pass. The ball goes spinning across the field, ending up between the legs of a Worcester player who dives on top of it.

  A quarter of the crowd stands up and goes insane. The Worcester fans. They’re less than popular with the home crowd right now. Only slightly less popular than me.

  O. stays down for a couple seconds, just long enough that people start to worry. Even I feel a little panic inside. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe the first game of the season will be his last, and it’s all my fault.

  It seems to take forever, but O. finally crawls to his knees and stands up, and the crowd bursts into applause. O. limps off the field slowly. As he passes by, he grabs my collar and yanks me along with him. The coach calls a quick time-out.

  “What the hell is going on out there?!” Coach says.

  “I need a second with my boy,” O. says.

  “Make it fast,” Coach says.

  O. pulls me away from everyone. I catch sight of Jessica watching us, fascinated.

  “What’s going on?” he says.

  “Jitters. Like Cheesy said.”

  “Bullshit. We practiced this. We did it a thousand times. Why are you freaking out?”

  O. grabs me by the face mask and pulls my head in towards his.

  “You gave her a ride,” I say.

  “Who?”

  “April. I saw her get out of your truck.”

  “Big deal,” O. says. “I was being decent.”

  “What does Lisa think about that?”

  “She’s got her own car,” he says.

  “So she doesn’t know.”

  “Don’t threaten me, dude.”

  “It wasn’t a threat,” I say.

  “We’re playing for the same team, remember?” O. says.

  “Oh, I remember,” I say. “We have each other’s backs, right? You, me, and Apes.”

  Silence.

  “Maybe I’ll give Lisa a ride home,” I say. “Just to be decent.”

  O. smiles. “Well, if your mom has room in her Volvo …”

  “Screw you,” I say.

  O. sighs heavily.

  “Jesus Christ, Andy, we’re in the middle of a game.” He points to the white line painted on the field. “You cross that line, life stops. That’s how it has to be.”

  The ref is blowing the whistle now. The crowd is shouting, anxious for us to get started.

  I don’t move.

  O. says, “There’s nothing going on between me and April.”

  More whistles blow.

  “Are you angry at me?” O. says.

  “Yeah.”

  He knocks hard on the side of my helmet.

  “Use it,” he says.

  Coach comes charging at us.

  “Are you ladies done with your picnic?” he says.

  “Ready to play, Coach!” I say.

  “We need you on defense,” Coach says to me.

  Coach warned me that he might put me in. A defensive tackle hurt his ankle last scrimmage, so we’re short a man.

  I jog onto the field while O. heads for the sideline to rest up for our next possession.

  O. is right. Everything else has to go away. If I don’t get it together, Dad will never see me win a game. April won’t know how special I am. Jessica will think I’m a loser.

  I take the line.

  I shift my strategy from offense to defense. It’s like I’m in an alternate universe. Instead of protecting my quarterback, I’m supposed to destroy the other team’s.

  I squat and wait for the snap. When their center’s hand moves, I hit hard, trying to pierce the line.

  Another snap, another hit.

  Slam. Snap. Slam.

  I glance over to the sideline. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. Something draws my attention.

  It’s O. He’s talking to April.

  They stand together, away from the other cheerleaders. He’s probably reading her the riot act, making sure she knows there’s nothing going on between them. He’s working his magic for me, just like he said he would.

  Worcester snaps, and I press the line. I don’t get through, but I try my best.

  I look to the sideline again.

  O. is still talking to April, only now she’s laughing. She doesn’t look like someone who’s getting let down easy. She looks like she’s having fun. O. is relaxed and smiling, his helmet balanced in the crook of his arm.

  Worcester snaps. I wrestle with a linebacker. When I hit this time, I use my elbows. I make sharp angles and try to stick them into him. Two or three attempts, and my elbow connects in the space beneath his pads, and he crumbles.

  Worcester’s quarterback appears in front of me, unprotected.

  I can see April and O. over his shoulder. O. has his hand on April’s arm.

  I charge, crashing into the quarterback with all my might. We go down in a tumble, smacking into the ground with a loud crunch.

  The ball spins loose. I dive for it. People dive on top of me, scrambling for possession.

  The weight of all those people presses down on my back. Suddenly I can’t breathe. Guys start punching. The ref can’t see what happens in a pile. It’s every man for himself.

  I start to panic. I can’t breathe with so much weight on me. I reach for my inhaler, but I can’t move my arms. I struggle to get to my sock, but someone pins my shoulders. He thinks I’m fighting to get the ball, but I’m not.

  “Get off,” I wheeze.

  More guys pile on. A knee crushes my shoulder blade.

  “I can’t breathe,” I say, but nobody hears me.

 
I feel the familiar clenching in my lungs. I’m sucking air through a straw, unable to get enough oxygen, my heart beating faster and faster.

  I’m going to die. That’s what my head tells me.

  It’s probably not true. I mean, people do die from asthma attacks, but it’s rare. I’m trying to remember the exact statistics, any little piece of information that might calm me down, but nothing comes. My head is screaming, telling me I’m drowning.

  I’m going to die, and O. and April will come to my funeral together then comfort each other in the limo on the way home.

  That thought makes my lungs clamp down even tighter.

  The weight on top of me suddenly lightens. They’re yanking people off the pile above me. One by one guys get up. Finally I’m clear, but I don’t move.

  I should reach for my inhaler. My arms are free now, but they’re heavy as stone.

  “Andy!” someone shouts, but the voice is far away.

  I hear my breath coming in short pants.

  I look up from the corner of my eye. Guys stand around me in a circle looking down. Coach is there, too.

  “We need an ambulance!” he says.

  Coach leans over and puts two fingers on my neck. He’s checking for a pulse. Maybe he thinks I’m having a heart attack.

  “Get out of the way!” It’s O.’s voice, but it sounds like he’s a million miles away.

  He appears above me, pushing Coach to the side. He digs in his sock, trying to get at something. I remember April writing her number on the napkin at Papa Gino’s. I think O. is going to take it out now and wave it in front of my face.

  Do you see this? he’ll say. This is what happens when you trust someone.

  But that’s not what he does. When his hand finally comes out of his sock, I see what he was looking for.

  My backup inhaler.

  He screams something, but I can’t hear. Only wind in my ears.

  O. leans next to me and cradles my head against his knee. He shakes the inhaler and holds it to my lips.

  He puts his head by my ear. “Breathe, Andy,” he says.

  He presses the inhaler, and I feel the moisture spray uselessly against my lips.

  “Take a little breath,” he says. “You can do it. One, two, three—”

  He sprays, and I try to inhale. Maybe I get a little bit into me.

  I see Jessica over his shoulder. She’s talking on her cell phone, and she’s crying, her face puffy with fear.

  “Again,” O. says.

  I hear a siren in the distance.

  “One, two, three—”

  I time my breath as he presses. The fist in my chest releases the tiniest bit.

  “One more time?” O. asks.

  I nod, but just barely, trying to say yes with my eyes.

  “One, two, three—”

  I suck down the medicine. Almost a full dose this time.

  “Make way,” Coach shouts. Two paramedics fight through the crowd and kneel down next to O. I see the orange of their med kits out of the corner of my eye.

  “He’s got asthma,” O. tells them.

  “How long has he been down?” the paramedic says.

  “Four or five minutes,” Coach says.

  “What’s your name?” the other paramedic says to me.

  “An—” I say. I can’t get out my whole name.

  “Andy,” O. says.

  The paramedic is examining my inhaler. His partner says, “Andy, I’m going to give you a shot of epinephrine. Have you had that before?”

  I nod. That’s what happened when Mom took me to the emergency room when I was little. I got the shot.

  One paramedic puts an oxygen mask on me, while the other one injects epinephrine.

  “Just relax,” the paramedic says.

  He rubs my chest in slow circles, like something a dad would do for a little kid. I gasp, tears welling in my eyes. I think I’m crying, but I don’t know why. I gasp again, trying to make up for all the oxygen that’s been missing.

  “Take slow breaths,” the paramedic says.

  “You’re okay, buddy,” O. says.

  I’m breathing again. And I can see where I am.

  I’m lying in the middle of the field. There are bleachers full of people looking down at me. Football players are scattered around pointing at me. The cheerleaders are in a little huddle to the side. April is there.

  Now I’m mortified.

  “Oh my God. Andy!” It’s Mom’s voice.

  Mom comes running onto the field, her hair flying in all directions. She’s wearing a chef’s jacket smeared with something that looks like chocolate sauce. Jessica runs towards her, crying hysterically.

  “What are you doing? What’s going on here?” Mom is asking a hundred questions at a time. She’s jumping up and down, pumping her fists like a maniac. It would be funny if it wasn’t so scary.

  “Will somebody tell me what’s happening!”

  Coach Bryson says, “Please calm down, Mrs. Zansky. Your son had an asthma attack during the game, but he’s all right now.”

  “What game?” Mom says.

  “The football game.”

  “My son doesn’t play football.”

  She looks at me lying there in my uniform, an oxygen mask on my face, surrounded by paramedics. Her eyes are darting around like a crazy woman—taking in the field, the fans, the other players.

  I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them this will all be a dream. I’ll be back on the line with O. behind me, one hand on my back, getting ready to call the snap.

  I open my eyes.

  Mom has collapsed to the ground. She’s sitting with her legs sticking straight out and an oxygen mask pulled over her head. Just like me.

  Meet the Zanskys. On oxygen.

  April tries to get my attention, but I look down at the ground. There’s a spray of white paint across the grass, each blade white as a snowflake. I imagine I’m buried in an avalanche, and they don’t find my body for a long, long time.

  Maybe they never find it.

  That would be better.

  mom on a rampage.

  Jessica is sitting on a bench outside the principal’s office. When she sees me, she bursts into tears and grabs on to me.

  “I was so scared,” she says.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Just a little asthma.”

  That just makes her clamp down and cry harder.

  “Is Mom in there?”

  “She’s on a rampage,” Jessica says. “It would be a good time to move in with Dad.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered it.”

  Jessica laughs a little. She wipes tears out of her eyes.

  “Do you want me to go in with you?” she says.

  “No way,” I say. I feel guilty enough as it is. Poor Jessica isn’t even in high school, and she’s already in the principal’s office.

  “Sit and relax,” I say. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

  The second I walk into the office, I know it’s not going to be quick. More like slow and painful. Our principal, Caroline Whitney-Smith, is sitting with a single white piece of paper in front of her on the desk. Mom and Coach are talking in angry voices. They stop when they see me.

  “Are you feeling better?” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.

  “Much better,” I say.

  She won’t let students call her Mrs. Smith, or even Mrs. Whitney-Smith, because she says it makes her feel like a stranger. We have to say her whole name every time. She calls it a bonding exercise. I call it neurotic.

  “Caroline Whitney-Smith and I have been talking,” Mom says.

  I stare at the paper on the desk. The consent form.

  Caroline Whitney-Smith holds it up. “Why don’t you start by explaining this paper?”

  “That’s not my signature,” Mom says.

  “How did your mother’s signature get here?” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.

  “I put it there,” I say.

  Coach looks at me like I just pissed in h
is whistle. “You forged it,” he says.

  “I copied it,” I say.

  “Semantics,” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.

  She’s right. It’s a stupid thing to say. But you say stupid things in that situation. You think you’re going to be really cool, but you’re not.

  For a second I consider bringing O. into it. If I wanted to take him down, this would be a perfect opportunity. But then I think of him leaning over me pressing the inhaler to my lips, and I can’t do it.

  “You’re right. I forged it,” I say.

  “I risked everything to give you an opportunity—” Coach says. He suddenly moans, sits back, and rubs his belly. “I’m dying for a Tums,” he says. He looks at Caroline Whitney-Smith. “Do you have a Tums?”

  “I do not have a Tums,” she says.

  “I have a Tums,” Mom says. She digs in her purse. Mom doesn’t go anywhere without the contents of a medicine cabinet in her purse.

  Coach says, “I had no idea, Mrs. Zansky. Otherwise I would not have allowed this to happen.” PYA mode. Smart.

  Mom turns bright red. “What if he died out there?”

  I put my face in my hands.

  “My husband is an attorney,” Mom says. “This will not end here, rest assured.”

  Caroline Whitney-Smith picks up the consent form.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Zansky, but is this your husband’s signature?”

  Mom stares at the form, then at me, then back at the form.

  “That son of a bitch,” she says, and a pack of Tums falls out of her hand and spills onto the floor.

  things change.

  “How could you not know?” Mom says.

  “What do you want from me?” Dad says. “It looks like your signature.”

  I’m sitting on the couch in the living room watching Mom and Dad fight. Just like the old days.

  “You don’t know my handwriting after all these years?” Mom says.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t send it out for expert analysis,” Dad says.

  “It doesn’t require an expert,” Mom says, “just a father who pays attention.”

  “If we’re going to play the blame game,” Dad says, “I have to point out that I’m the one who knew he was playing football. He felt safe enough to come to me.”

  “Exactly,” Mom says. “You’re the irresponsible parent who let your asthmatic son play football.”