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

by Allen Zadoff

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “It’s all a little too much sometimes.”

  “It’s going to be okay, Mom,” Jessica says.

  Mom sniffles. “It’s my job to say that.”

  Mom shoots through a stop sign. Jessica and I trade worried looks.

  “Maybe we should go to Papa Gino’s,” I say, because it’s right down the street, and if I’m going to die, I’d like to do it in the vicinity of pizza.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Mom says.

  We pull into the parking lot, and a few minutes later we’re sitting with a large sausage and pepperoni in front of us. We also get a big salad on the side, but it’s mostly for show. We put some on our plates, then we concentrate on the pizza. Even Jessica has a slice.

  “The sausage is delicious,” Mom says.

  “Definitely,” I say.

  Mom put us on the Kosher Diet last year, but it didn’t last long. We both realized we liked pork too much to commit.

  After a while, Mom starts to tell us a story about her own high-school days. She tells us how she got a crush on a boy and how he didn’t like her back. She talks about another boy who liked her too much, and she didn’t like him back.

  “How did you meet Dad?” Jessica says.

  I try to kick her under the table to shut her up, but I don’t get to her in time. I’m waiting for Mom to freak out, but she just gets quiet for a minute, and then she starts to talk.

  She tells us about the first time she saw Dad playing baseball in college, how good he looked on the field, and how she had to work really hard to get his attention. “All the girls wanted a piece of him,” Mom says, “but they couldn’t cook like I could. One night I made him a lasagna and brought it to his house after the game with fresh pecorino cheese and a grater. I think the pecorino sealed the deal.”

  “You can get a lot of mileage with a good cheese,” I say.

  We sit in Papa Gino’s—just the three of us—eating pizza, telling stories, and laughing a little, almost like the old days. I eat four pieces of pizza. I’m about to reach for five when Mom gives me the eye, and I have to stop.

  I know we have problems, but tonight they don’t bother me so much. I don’t know why it is, but everything feels better when I’m eating. I guess I’m just built that way.

  expansion.

  Eytan and I are walking to AP History together. I’m looking around the school, thinking about all the different things I’ve done since the beginning of the year.

  “What’s on your mind?” Eytan says.

  “The whole world,” I say.

  “That’s a lot.”

  “No kidding. My head’s killing me.”

  “Maybe you could think about half the world at a time. Like Monday, Wednesday, Friday you do Western Hemisphere, and Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday you do Eastern.”

  “What about Sunday?”

  “Sunday is for sex. Twenty-four hours of the most depraved and perverse sexual fantasies.”

  I laugh and punch Eytan in the arm.

  “Careful. You’ve got serious guns now,” he says.

  I make a muscle and Eytan squeezes it.

  “Geez,” he says. “You should start wearing T-shirts. Show those babies off a little bit.”

  “I don’t like T-shirts.”

  “Forget what you like. Do it for me. We could use a few more ladies in our social circle. That’s not to say you’re not excellent company. But for the purpose of expanding our horizons—”

  “It’s important to expand,” I say.

  “I cannot disagree with you,” Eytan says.

  “But you’ll have to do it without my T-shirts.”

  A couple of cute girls pass us, and they look our way. One of them, a redhead, even smiles.

  “Have a beautiful day, ladies,” Eytan calls after them.

  They giggle as they go down the hall.

  Eytan looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “Expansion,” he says.

  “In your pants, maybe.”

  He smiles, then his face suddenly gets serious. “Quick question,” he says.

  “Hit me.”

  “With all this football stuff—the parties, the practices, the new friends, the cheerleaders, all of it—”

  “What’s the question?” I say.

  “Did you get any?”

  “No.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  football players only.

  I’m waiting outside the locker room after school. It feels strange to be in the hall without going in. A bunch of the guys pass by in a group.

  “What’s up, badass?” Rodriguez says. We bump fists.

  “Not much,” I say.

  “You miss us, don’t you?”

  “Not at all,” I say.

  “Bullshit,” Cheesy says. “It’s tough to shower alone. Admit it.”

  “It’s true,” I say. Then I pause. “So it doesn’t count if my mom is in there with me?”

  “Holy crap,” Rodriguez says. “You did not just say that.”

  The guys bust out laughing. Cheesy starts to choke, and they have to slap him on the back. We’re all there—Rodriguez, Cheesy, Bison, even the Neck. It’s like we’re on the line again, just for a second.

  “You maybe change your mind about us?” Bison says.

  “No,” I say.

  “Why not? Is there something wrong with us? I mean, other than Cheesy’s BO,” Bison says.

  “It’s not you guys. It’s just—I have other things I want to do.”

  “That’s friggin’ lame,” Bison says.

  “Easy,” Rodriguez says.

  “No, I’m serious. We schooled the boy, and he turns around and screws us.”

  Bison flings open the locker-room door. He stops and looks back at me. “So I’ll tell you what, dude. You can suck my hole now.”

  He disappears, slamming the door behind him.

  The guys shift uncomfortably. Who quits football, right? Maybe it’s a little scary to them. When someone leaves, it feels like they’re rejecting you, even if that’s not what’s going on.

  “Don’t mind him,” Rodriguez says.

  “No,” I say. “He’s right. You guys did a lot for me.”

  “That’s the game,” Cheesy says. “That’s how it works.”

  “Coach and I had a heart-to-heart,” I say. “He told me I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “Coach is messed up over this,” Rodriguez says. “He’s been eating pork lo mein by the truckful.”

  “Seriously. We’re gonna have to get the guy a friggin’ Weight Watchers membership,” Cheesy says.

  “Is he right?” Rodriguez says. “Is it a mistake?”

  I shrug. It’s one of those answers I might not know for a long time.

  Just then O. comes around the corner whistling. He sees me and the whistle dies.

  “Okay,” Rodriguez says. “I’d better see your ass at some games, huh?” We bump elbows, then he signals the guys, and they head into the locker room.

  “Football players only,” O. says. He walks past me like he’s going straight into the locker room.

  “I came to say thanks.”

  O. pauses. “For what?”

  “For everything.”

  “I thought I set you up and ruined your life.”

  “Not true,” I say. “I was being dramatic. And I was pissed at you. For a pretty good reason, I think.”

  O. blows out a breath. “I’m not proud of what I did,” he says. “But I’m proud of the things we did together.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Anyway, I forgive you.”

  “Screw you, dude.” O. clenches his fists. I think maybe we’re going to get into it, but he stops himself.

  “You know what? I forgive you, too,” he says.

  “Forgive me for what?”

  “For using me to get famous.”

  “Am I famous now?” I say.

  “Pretty famous.”

  “That doesn’t suck.”

  “No, it most
certainly does not,” O. says.

  There are catcalls inside the locker room. Guys horsing around. The team vibe. I miss it. At least that part of it.

  A tiny part of me feels like I am making a mistake.

  “I got to motivate,” O. says.

  “So what now?” I say. “Do you think you can be friends with someone who’s not a football player?”

  O. opens the locker-room door. “You don’t know me well enough to know the answer to that?”

  He’s right. I already know.

  “It was a good game,” he says. “But it’s over. Now I have to get ready for the next one.”

  He nods once, and then he goes inside to join the guys.

  buses come and they go.

  “Andy! Wait up a second,” April says.

  I’m on my way out of school, and I think about ignoring her, rushing out the door so fast she can’t catch me. The thing is, I see her in AP. I see her in Gym. It’s not like I can avoid her forever. So I stop.

  “What’s up,” I say.

  “You know,” she says. “Lots of things.”

  We walk out together. I don’t think we’ve ever walked out the front of the school together. It’s a new experience for us.

  “We didn’t get to talk after the game,” April says.

  “You heard that I quit?”

  “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “They’re angry,” she says. “But I think it’s because they miss you.”

  They. Not I. Big difference, right?

  “I think I’m going to write for the lit journal,” I say. “Try something new and different.”

  School buses fill up and rumble away in clouds of black smoke. I haven’t been out here at this time in a couple months. It’s funny how you can go away and come back, and things are just the same.

  “How do you like being a cheerleader?” I say.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I mean, I think I’m pretty good at it.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “The truth is it’s not really my thing, you know?”

  “So why do you do it?” I say.

  “Why did you play football?”

  “I quit football.”

  “But why did you play in the first place?”

  “There were things that I wanted from it,” I say.

  I look in her eyes. Soft blue, even softer than when I first met her. Maybe she’s changed her contacts.

  “Those things you wanted,” she says. “You don’t want them anymore?”

  “I want different things,” I say.

  April looks off into the distance. She shivers and pulls her sweater around her.

  “You could quit, too,” I say. “Drop the cheerleading. Get back to something—I don’t know—more your style.”

  “I’m different than you, Andy. I actually like being popular.”

  “I didn’t exactly hate it,” I say.

  She laughs. “Anyway,” she says, “I can’t quit. The girls need me.”

  “For what?”

  “I help them with their homework.”

  “I knew you helped Lisa, but—”

  “All of them,” she says. “We have a study group together. How do you think I got into that clique in the first place? Half of them would be going to state schools without me. So it’s pretty much guaranteed they’ll keep me around.”

  “Wow. Isn’t that … I mean, isn’t it—?”

  “Kind of creepy? Definitely. But it doesn’t really matter now. Once you’re in, you can make changes. Influence things. Maybe bring someone into the group that you actually like. You know what I mean?”

  “It’s an interesting idea.”

  “You can’t do that from the outside,” April says. “From outside you’re behind the window looking in. What can you do from out there but tap on the glass?”

  Another bus rumbles away. I look at April, the sun hitting her from the side and lighting up her hair. She’s still beautiful and smart and has great teeth, but there’s something different about her now.

  No, it’s not her.

  It’s me. I see her differently. Everything in her life is a chess move, and I don’t like it.

  “I have to get to cheer practice,” she says. “See you around?”

  She says it like it’s a question, like she’s expecting me to make a move. Or at least try to.

  The old me would have gotten really excited about that.

  I say, “Take care, April.”

  And I get on a bus.

  i see yee.

  I’m sitting alone in the cafeteria.

  Eytan has some UN thing to do during lunch today, so I’m not hanging out with him until later. There are a lot of people who don’t want me at their table now that I’m not a football player. Some people are calling me a quitter, saying I abandoned the school. Other people don’t care so much, or they missed the whole thing entirely.

  There are a few places I could sit if I wanted to, but I don’t feel like it. When you sit with people in high school, it’s like you’re declaring your allegiance. Kind of like registering to vote for a particular party. I’m not ready to be with any party. I want to be independent for a while.

  Hip-hop music is booming through the cafeteria. A few hundred students signed a petition last week, and Caroline Whitney-Smith agreed to pipe in the school radio station while we eat. It’s better than people sneaking in iPod speakers and having music turf wars.

  Nancy Yee walks by with a tray in her hands. She doesn’t look at me.

  I don’t know why, but I say, “Do you want to sit, Nancy?”

  “Why? So you can insult me again?”

  “So we can talk a little.”

  She bites her lip like she’s having trouble making up her mind.

  “Just be warned,” I say. “I’m kind of radioactive right now.”

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Guilt by association.”

  “I don’t believe in that,” she says.

  “The rest of the school does,” I say.

  “That’s their problem.”

  That does it. She sits down and arranges her tray. Salad and french fries, with nine packets of mustard stacked along the side. I look at her like she’s crazy.

  “That’s a crime in some countries,” I say.

  “I love condiments. So kill me,” she says, and she rips open a packet with her teeth and squeezes mustard all over the fries and salad. “You want a taste?”

  “I try not to trigger my gag reflex in public.”

  She laughs and pushes her hair back from her face with two fingers. Her acne is still there, but it’s so faint now, she just looks like she’s blushing.

  “Your face looks pretty good,” I say.

  I’m not sure if you’re supposed to say things like that to a girl. Probably not.

  “Thanks,” she says. “My mom took me to the dermatologist. The doctor said my hair was making my face break out. I don’t get how my hair and my face can’t work together. I mean, they’re both on the same body, right? They’re even right next to each other. You’d think they’d get along better.”

  “I get what you mean,” I say. “I wonder why I feel hungry if it’s only going to make me gain weight. I’m already fat, right? So why would my body make me hungry if it will only make the situation worse?”

  “I know, right?” she says. “I think our bodies do whatever they want. They kind of have their own agenda, and we don’t get a vote.”

  I forgot that Nancy is kind of a genius. I always think of her as this scrawny, weird girl with acne, but she’s not. Or she is, but she’s a lot more, too.

  “You hate me because I don’t shop at the Gap,” she says.

  “It’s not hate,” I say. “More like shock and awe.”

  I notice that Nancy has pretty eyes. Dark black and very bright. Naturally dark.

  “Anyway, I was being a jerk,” I say.

&nbs
p; “I agree,” she says. “But if you want to shop at the mall, that’s your prerogative.”

  “I’d love to shop at the mall. But nothing fits me there.”

  “Oh,” she says. She rearranges the fries on her plate so they spell her name. N-A-N-C …

  “I’ll try one of those if you’re still offering.”

  “Okay, but if you’re going to puke, face towards the jock table.”

  Nancy slides her plate to me, and I eat the N. French fries with mustard. Kind of like a salted pretzel. Nancy may be on to something.

  “I have this theory” she says. “Do you want to hear it?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, everyone in school fantasizes about having a different life, right? They daydream about who they want to be and the things they’re going to do when they get there. But nobody does anything about it. And when you look at adults, how many of them actually went and lived their dreams?”

  Nancy stabs a french fry, then a chunk of salad, then another french fry. I watch it turn to yellow mush in her mouth.

  “So what’s the theory?” I say.

  “Dreams have gravity. You think a dream is pushing you forward, but it’s actually sucking you back towards it. That’s why people get stuck. That’s my theory, at least.”

  “So we should all stop dreaming?”

  “No. We should do something about it. Take action. Like you,” she says.

  “What did I do?”

  “You broke through the gravitational field. You played football.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “How did you think of it?”

  “I thought I was a sellout,” I say.

  “No way. You’re kind of like an astronaut.”

  “When you put it like that, I sound pretty cool.”

  “Speaking of gag reflexes,” she says, and clears her throat.

  That makes me laugh. Suddenly I get a strange feeling in my chest, and I start to sweat under my arms.

  “Do you want to get a pizza bagel after school?” I say. “You can put mustard on it.”

  Nancy looks at me, surprised. I’m pretty surprised, too.

  “You mean like a date?” she says.

  “Kind of like that,” I say.

  The fourth-period bell rings. Kids groan all around the cafeteria. Nancy doesn’t move.