Gut Check

by Eric Kester

  * * *

  I decided to wait in the car while Mom paid for the polyester suit rental. I couldn’t stay in there any longer. When she was done, she climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned to look at the suit, half on the back seat, half on the floor, dangling limply where I had flung it down. A smattering of fat raindrops began to splat and trickle down the windshield. Mom turned and looked at me, then at the piece of untied twine on the car mat at my feet, then finally at the brick of half-eaten fudge in my lap. I tore off another piece from the brick and stuffed it into my mouth.

  “Wyatt,” she said softly.

  I kept eating, breaking off the next piece before I swallowed the last one.

  “Wyatt!” she shouted. Then she ripped the brick of fudge out of my hands. Without hesitation, she tore off a giant piece of chocolate and stuffed it in her mouth. I watched, stunned, as she tore off a second piece and jammed it in with the first. She handed the remaining fudge back to me. We looked at each other and tried not to cry but we knew we were going to cry and we listened to the smacking of the raindrops and the smacking of our lips as we worked through our mouthfuls of chocolate. Then she twisted in her seat and leaned over the center console and pulled me in for a long hug.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her cheeks were wet and her breath smelled like her fudge. Like our fudge.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  “It’s really pretty straightforward. Don’t be intimidated by its size.”

  “Brett, if you sat on a seesaw and I dropped this ginormous playbook on the other end, you’d literally catapult into a new dimension.”

  Our playbook (man, I’ll never get tired of writing that: our playbook) lay between each of our paper plates in the cafeteria. Brett looked down at it with furrowed brows, like he was seeing it for the first time.

  “I guess it is kind of big.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “But we can power through it together. What’s your biggest worry with it?”

  I leaned back in my flimsy orange cafeteria chair. I was thrown off by Brett’s question, and I wasn’t sure why. Then it occurred to me that this entire situation felt so weird, almost dreamlike. Here were me and Brett chatting it up during lunch, in public, with Brett asking me how I was feeling, what I was worried about. I had to fight back a smile. Things were trending upward since the brawl in the shower. Since Trunk had dislocated his shoulder—the result of “slipping in the shower,” according to all witnesses, including Trunk, who knew better than to admit that he’d gotten in a tussle with the town’s quarterback—I’d been elevated to starting right tackle. The coaches were none too pleased about this development, but since the other backup tackle was out for the year with a torn ACL, and since Brett shot down Coach Crooks’s first idea of playing with no right tackle at all (in hopes of bewildering Blakemore into paralysis), I was reluctantly penciled in at the top of the depth chart. This was easily the most we’d ever talked over a two-day span, and even though I was still deciding whether I should be pissed at him for not coming to my defense faster in the shower fight, I couldn’t help but feel lucky, even, dare I say, hashtag blessed to be talking football with the Brett Parker—the man, the myth, the legend. We never discussed the fight, and instead strategized together with hushed urgency about off-tackles and zone blocks and bubble screens—the language that only the few and the chosen could understand.

  “I have the fundamental blocking schemes down,” I said. “But the audibles make less than zero sense to me.”

  “They’re not bad once you get the hang of them,” he explained.

  “Brett, this audible system is disguised so that not even elite Russian hackers could decode it.”

  He laughed and looked at me, grinning, like he was seeing me for the first time.

  “Naw, it’s more intuitive than you think. So to start off, if you hear me shout ‘Austin’ at the line of scrimmage, then the play is flipped to the reverse side. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Of course, if I shout ‘Austin’ a second time, then the first ‘Austin’ is a decoy, and you should wait to hear if I shout another state capital.”

  “Okay, so you shout Montpelier or whatever—what does that mean?”

  Brett opened the small bottle of chocolate milk that we’d bought at the 7-Eleven on our walk to school, then poured half of it in a cup for me. Lately we bought stuff for lunch at 7-Eleven because it was slightly cheaper than the cafeteria food, and every dime counted since red tide came. No fishing money would come until the water was clear, and that could take months.

  “Well, it depends,” he said. “You’re waiting to hear a second state capital, right? But only below the Mason-Dixon Line, because a city above the line would mean that we’re actually running a third-down pooch punt.”

  “Okay…”

  “Or a fake third-down pooch punt, if the number of letters in the city name equaled a prime number. But ultimately if the city is below the Mason-Dixon, then the original play has been switched to a play-action pass or, conversely, a half-back draw, depending on the current phase of the moon.”

  I stared at Brett, my mouth hanging open. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  Brett laughed. “Yeah, man. Relax. I’m kidding.”

  “Thank god.”

  “But only about the moon part.”

  “Great…”

  “Hey, you got any money left over from 7-Eleven? They’re selling bananas half-price up there because they’re kind of brown and mushy.”

  I dug into my pocket and pulled out a one-dollar bill and three dimes. Most days I didn’t have a huge appetite in the cafeteria because it reeked of leftover microwaved fish that kids brought from home. That’s what Brett and I did for most lunches, but of course fish lunches were gone now.

  “A dollar thirty,” I said, handing him the money.

  “Thanks. Also, did Mom bring you any of her fudge the other day?”

  Brett must’ve been really hungry, because typically fudge was way out of bounds for his meticulously healthy diet. Of course, I didn’t have any of it to share since Mom and I downed the entire brick outside the tailor’s shop.

  “Naw,” I lied. “But did you see that someone left a baked-ziti casserole at our door the other day?”

  “Ms. Smolinkski, you think?” She was our landlord, who lived in the two floors below our apartment. She was a nice old lady who mostly kept to herself.

  “Could’ve been. Doesn’t matter either way. Dad tossed it. Said he’d die before the Parkers would be viewed as a charity case.”

  Brett shook his head, smiling bitterly. “What an asshole.”

  Such a simple, profoundly true statement, and hearing it from Brett sent a rush of unadulterated relief through my entire body.

  “What an asshole,” I echoed.

  “Alright, I’m gonna go grab a couple of bananas.”

  As Brett waited in the food line, I flipped to a new page in the playbook and reviewed the secret tackle-eligible pass play. Without taking my eyes off the diagram, I reached for the 7-Eleven hot dog on my tray. I didn’t get a good handle on it, though, and the hot dog slipped out of its bun. It landed on the top of the page and rolled all the way down, smearing the page with nauseating light green grease. The ink became fuzzy, then started to run in the slime.

  “Crap,” I said aloud, frantically grabbing napkins from the dispenser in front of me.

  “Sodium bicarbonate.” Nate had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He reached for napkins and helped me dab the stained page.

  “Sodium what?”

  “Bicarbonate. It’s baking soda. Sprinkle some on this page tonight, and it will make the page readable again.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I thought you were mad at me.”

  “I am.”

  “Don’t blame you,” I said. I waited to see if Nate had something to add, but he just stood there, arms crossed. I had to try anothe
r avenue in. “So how does it work?” I asked. “Chemically, I mean.”

  Nate took the bait. He couldn’t help himself. “Sodium bicarbonate is a base, which neutralizes the oil stain, which is acidic. It raises the pH level of the liquid to make it more basic.”

  “So it’s like a grease eraser.”

  “Basically.” His pun made the corners of his frown rise just slightly.

  “Nice one,” I said, extending my fist for a pound.

  “I’m still mad at you, but I’m going to accept your pound because frankly I deserve it. This is not a full pound I’m giving you. It’s, like, an ounce.”

  “Okay, I’m not sure that last pun worked,” I said, testing to see how Nate would respond to the playful jibe.

  Nate smiled. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “So are we good?”

  Nate rolled his eyes.

  “I’m sorry about the hit. Really. It’s just in the moment, all these things … I don’t know. Coach Crooks. Trunk. Brett. I wanted to turn some heads.”

  “By practically knocking mine right off?”

  “I was desperate. I wanted those guys to respect me so badly.”

  “At the cost of my respect for you.”

  “I know,” I said. “It was stupid and idiotic and dumb. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Well, neither can I.”

  “Please, Nate,” I said. “I don’t want a five-second thing to erase thirteen years of us being friends.”

  Nate didn’t say anything.

  “Nate, I wish I could explain better how desperate I was. It’s just, like, my whole life I’ve been trying to get Brett to—”

  Nate held his hand up, motioning me to stop. “I get it,” he said. “I understand.”

  Those two sentences summed up Nate perfectly. I get it. I understand. He’s an amazing student because he can read books and instantly “get it.” With me, though, he’s a great friend not because he “gets it,” but because he understands.

  “Thanks, Nate. Really.”

  “Just promise me you won’t become a d-bag just because you’re on varsity now.”

  “I promise.”

  “Alright, good,” Nate said. “Now I’m guessing you need some more help with that playbook, so let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  He pulled up a chair next to where Brett had been sitting. I loaded the 7-Eleven hot dog back into its bun and took a bite, thinking about how much easier these next few weeks would be with Nate and Brett by my side.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  I can read body language as easily as you can read this very sentence. It’s what happens when you live with a dad and brother who only say about ten total sentences a day. You develop a sixth sense, pick up meaning from even the most subtle movements. Take the way Brett closes the bathroom door. If he just casually flings it shut, then that means he’s going to take a leak. But if he closes the door softly and lets the doorknob twist back into place with a gentle click, then he’s going to take a dump. I have no idea why he does this, and I bet he doesn’t even know he does it. But I notice it. And yes, I realize that devoting brain space to the intricacies of pre-deuce kinetic rituals seems weird at best. But when you live in a cramped two-bedroom apartment with limited air circulation, you need to know when it’s time to clear out.

  Then there’s Dad: His entire mood is communicated through the way he holds his beer. If in between gulps he thumbs the tab of the can by pushing it down then releasing it so it vibrates, poing-g-g-g-g like a tiny springboard, then I know Dad is restless. And when he’s restless, watch out.

  Two nights before the Blakemore game, I was sitting at the kitchen table battling math homework when I heard the familiar poing-g-g-g-g come from the adjacent living room. Dad was on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune, from the sounds of it. The iconic clicking noise from the spinning roulette wheel drifted into the kitchen, followed by a muffled groan from the audience. The contestant must’ve landed on the “Bankrupt” slice. The host, Pat Sajak, said, “Oh, shucks.” There was no reaction from my dad. Just another poing-g-g-g-g.

  I squinted down at my homework, trying to direct my focus back onto my math problem. This one question about factoring binomials was kicking my ass:

  (3x2 + 2y)(x3 − 12y)

  My brain felt wobbly, like a roulette wheel spinning around a question and landing on everything but the answer. I was so distracted I couldn’t remember stuff I knew well just the day before. In what order was I supposed to multiply all the variables in the parentheses? And when combining exponents, do you add them together or multiply them? Do they need a common base? Could I just smash x’s and y’s all up on each other, like 2xy or something? Do they need to stay separated or do they just throw their hands up and say let’s get nasty together?

  Poing-g-g-g-g.

  Muffled audience applause came from the living room as a contestant spun the wheel, then guessed a few correct letters to the hangman puzzle. From my chair I could see into part of the living room—one of the armrests of the couch and part of the TV. The screen flickered light onto the walls and ceiling of the dark living room in staccato flashes, like a silent lightning storm through your window in the dead of night. On the floor next to the couch was a toppled stack of empty beer cans. I counted seven. Number eight must’ve been in Dad’s hand. Poing-g-g-g-g. My stomach churned.

  Concentrate, Wyatt. I looked back down at the question. On the line beneath the problem, I tentatively started to work through the binomial, writing down 4×6. As soon as I crossed the x, though, my brain skittered into the depths of my football playbook: all of those X’s and O’s that I’d crammed into my head the past forty-eight hours; all of those blocking schemes and audibles, the 43-34 off-tackles and 24-25 halfback crosses and wedge blocks on the two-technique sliding into a second level double X.

  … ThreeXSquaredPlusTwoYTimesX …

  Poing-g-g-g-g.

  I noticed my right leg was bouncing anxiously. I stuck my pencil eraser-first through the thickest part of my hair and let it chill up there for a little while. I do that when I’m antsy for some reason. From the bedroom directly upstairs, there was a low grinding sound as Brett sharpened his pencil. He was doing his homework at our desk, which was essentially his desk, since he was the only one who used it. The kitchen table was where I always did my homework. It had a small square surface and was a little chipped, and it got wobbly whenever the piece of cardboard became unwedged from underneath its back right leg. One side of the table was pushed up against the wall opposite the entry to our apartment, and if you want to hear about one of the worst thoughts I ever had, I’ll tell you how it got positioned in that spot. See, the table used to sit in the middle of our kitchen, a chair on each side for Mom, Dad, me, and Brett. It was a pain in the ass, that table, because it took up most of the space in our little kitchen, and everyone, even Brett, who as you know is agile as hell, would bump into its corners. The door to our apartment led directly into the kitchen, so as soon as you walked in you were practically on top of the table. We all complained, but what choice did we have? No table? Then Mom left to live with Aunt Jackie temporarily. “Just a few days” became just a few weeks became just a few months became just drop it, Wyatt, and stop asking when Mom is coming back.

  One day I came home from school and stubbed my toe on the corner of the table. I’d jammed my foot on the table a billion times before, but for whatever reason this one got me really mad. I hopped around on one foot cursing the worst curses my eight-year-old brain could muster, and during that outburst I had the sudden thought, or more like the vision, of Mom’s chair and her whole side of the table pushed against the kitchen wall, a logical move that would’ve opened up all that wonderful space in the middle of the room for the people who still lived here. I immediately took back the thought, deeply ashamed that for a moment I wanted to trade Mom’s spot at the table for a few more square feet. I remember storming into the bathroom and staring at myself in the mirror
. I felt like screaming but instead I made a fist and punched the wall. I probably cracked a knuckle, to be honest, because it swelled up and hurt for, like, six months. Anyway, the table stayed in the center of the kitchen for a few more weeks until one day I came down for breakfast and boom, there was the table in its new spot, Mom’s edge pushed up against the wall. Her chair was against the wall, too, its seat and legs tucked under the table and half of its rounded back poking up from the table’s surface like a gravestone. Brett, Dad, me—nobody ever acknowledged the move, like who did it or how the opening of the extra space meant the closing of something much larger. Instead we just ate our cornflakes at the table like nothing had changed at all. Pass me that OJ. Did you see the Patriots traded for a new defensive end?

  Poing-g-g-g-g.

  I took the pencil out of my hair, erased what I’d written down, and stared at the problem some more. I thought about asking Brett for help—he’d taken the class a couple of years ago—but I’d never asked him for advice on anything other than football, and I was nervous to start now. Besides, usually I was pretty decent at math. Like when Dad would send me to the general store for toilet paper, I could calculate in my head that twelve rolls at $6.70 was a better deal than ten rolls at $5.90. I can even calculate how many more oddly specific bathroom references I can make in a single chapter before you start to wonder if I had some kind of permanent Freudian disaster when I was potty trained as a toddler.

  But I just couldn’t figure out how to multiply this binomial. I started plugging away at a few new approaches to it but got lost each time. Poing-g-g-g-g. Poing-g-g-g-g. I erased, started over, erased again. I stared at the problem real hard. No luck. I even narrowed my eyes at it, like the problem would be intimidated into complying with my furrowed brow.

  Then suddenly—magically—I was struck by that incredible feeling you get when, after wrestling with a problem forever, everything just clicks into place and your brain somersaults into the euphoric realization that—aha!—the answer is in the back of the book.