by Eric Kester
That’s the other thing that annoyed me about Bonkers. He didn’t experience new things, he “discovered” them. Nate’s family was always going on about their precocious cat and his “discoveries.” Today Bonkers discovered Mozart. Today Bonkers discovered hummus. Today Bonkers discovered the scent of lavender. Today Bonkers discovered existentialism. And on and on.
“Uh, I think Bonkers may be discovering that plant over there.” I motioned to the corner of the dining room, where Bonkers was fertilizing the soil of a potted fern. As he squatted and did his business, he stared right at me. I swear it.
Mr. McConnell went into the kitchen and came back with a pooper scooper and baggie. “Bonkers has discovered how to mark his territory,” he declared proudly.
I wanted to change the subject, so I asked Nate’s older brother, Owen, how he liked his new job. Owen had just graduated from a two-year junior college and moved back in with his family to help his dad with the pharmacy. A good dude, Owen. Super smart like Nate. Looked just like Nate, too, with his lanky frame, bony shoulders, and thin face. Main difference was that he had clear skin. When they were together, the brothers looked so much alike that their one difference, Nate’s acne, stood out even more. It seemed unfair.
“Job at the pharmacy is good,” Owen said. “So far my boss seems decent enough.” He grinned over at Mr. McConnell, who was scooping Bonkers’s butt nugget out of the plant pot.
“Things slowed down at all with red tide?” I asked, one eye politely on Owen and the other ravenously on the chicken platter, which was making its way around the table.
“Yeah, for sure. People aren’t buying as many inessential items—you know, magazines and chocolate and—hey!”
Owen popped up an inch in response to an under-the-table kick from his mom. “Oh, that’s not to say that you and your mom—I mean, like, that fudge is inessential or whatever.” Flustered, Owen attempted to regroup with a big gulp of water. “Anyway, prescription medication sales haven’t dipped much. You’d think antidepressants would go up, but god forbid if anyone in this town abandoned their ‘grin and bear it’ mentality.”
“Are you helping the pharmacist or something?” I asked.
“No,” Owen said, grinning proudly. “I’ve actually been appointed the pharmacy’s chief financial officer.”
“You work the cash register,” Nate interjected.
“Yeah, well, it’s a big responsibility.”
“You literally count pennies for your job.” Nate admired his brother, he really did, but I wasn’t surprised by his edge here. I’m pretty sure Nate’s worst nightmare was that he’d work his ass off in school, get a scholarship to college like Owen did, sharpen his already brilliant intellect, and still end up back where he started, in Grayport, working at a counter in the pharmacy. I don’t think Nate blamed Owen, but he blamed the town, which he claimed sucked people back in like a black hole.
Still, just getting to college was more than I could ever imagine, at least until the Boston College scout mentioned that he could get me accepted in two years as part of a package deal with Brett. It seemed unbelievable, but then again, some pretty unbelievable promises have been kept for top end college recruits. The thought of going to BC excited me so much that I tried to squeeze it out of my mind altogether. If it fell through, I knew I’d be crushed.
Mr. McConnell returned to his seat, took some chicken from the platter, and passed it to me. “Help yourself.”
I served myself two slices from the breast and an entire thigh. The delicious brown drippings from the chicken spread across my plate and were absorbed by the mashed potatoes and my hot dinner roll, which had been split agape, a slice of butter melting at the hinge of its mouth. I could feel myself salivating, but I was careful not to tear into the food like a crazy person. I was nervous that in my hunger I’d forgotten how to eat at a normal, civilized pace, and I didn’t want to give away just how bare the fridge was at the Parker residence. I decided to mirror Nate, taking a bite of food whenever he did.
“Owen, did you hear about Wyatt’s big catch against Blakemore?” Mrs. McConnell asked. “It was spectacular.”
Owen nodded. “Of course I heard about it! There was even a little blurb in the Boston Globe about the game. Nice going, man. That must’ve felt incredible. What went through your head when you got to the end zone?”
The honest answer was that I wanted to find Brett to celebrate, but that sounded too mushy. I knew I was bad at answering these types of questions, so I panicked a little and relied on my strategy of copying what I’d heard NFL players say.
“I don’t know, I guess I just thought of how God is good.”
An awkward silence fell over the table. I took a sip of water. From another room, we heard a small thud as Bonkers discovered a perfectly clear glass door.
“Oh, nice,” Owen finally said. “I’m so impressed by all you guys, to be honest. Takes some serious guts to strap the helmet on these days. I’m not sure I’d have played football if science knew everything it knows now.”
A knot formed in my stomach. “What do you mean?” I asked. But I knew what he meant.
“Just with all the research on concussions,” Owen answered. “Last spring I took a neuroscience course and we did a unit on concussions.” He tore a piece off his dinner roll and stuffed it into his mouth. “People used to think that concussions were just bad headaches—‘getting your bell rung’ or whatever. But the lasting cognitive effects are wild. Atrophy of the primary motor cortex and horizontal diplopia, to name just a couple.”
“Your elbow is planted in the butter dish,” Nate said. “Stop it with the fancy words.”
Owen extracted his elbow and wiped it with a napkin. “I’m talking about reduced memory recall. Trouble with balance. Double vision. Clinical anxiety and depression. The loss of reasoning capabilities. And maybe worst of all, reduced sex drive.”
“Owen!”
“Sorry, Mom, but they need to know. Stuff is serious. And I haven’t even started on CTE.”
“Sorry—what’s CTE?” Mr. McConnell asked.
“Chronic progressive encephalopathy,” Owen replied.
“We get it, Owen, you know big words,” Nate said.
“I was just answering Dad’s question.”
“What are the effects of CTE?” I asked, trying to seem interested but not too interested. “The symptoms?”
“It’s easier if I just show you. Mom, can I use my phone at the table?”
“I suppose.”
Owen pulled out his phone and typed something. He handed it first to Nate, who then passed it to me. “The left half of the image shows a healthy brain,” he explained as I looked at the image. It was pink and spongy and robust. To its right was a brain labeled CTE. It was festered with large patches of black tissue and looked like it was rotting with decay. It was dried and withered, like a decomposing lump of cauliflower that not even mealworms would want to eat. I quickly handed the phone back to Owen. Looking at the image any more would make me sick.
“I know, right?” Owen said in response to the look on my face. “You read about patients with CTE, and it’s just so tragic. Their brain deteriorates and they’re consumed by paranoia, hopelessness, and rage. Suicide isn’t uncommon.”
“Can we change the subject?” Nate said. “Not exactly an uplifting dinner conversation here.” Earlier that day I’d told Nate about Brett’s head and made him swear to secrecy. I appreciated that Nate was trying to protect my feelings now, but I needed a more complete picture of Brett’s current situation, and the risks if he kept playing.
“So how can you tell if someone’s had a bad concussion?” I asked softly. “Besides, you know, them having headaches and stuff.”
“Mismatched or foggy eye pupils, slurred speech, moodiness, nausea,” Owen recited. “Concussions can mess with more than your brain—they can screw with other internal organs, too. It’s crazy to think how your stomach can puke because of a hit all the way up at your head. It’s li
ke crapping your pants from stubbing your toe.”
I hadn’t seen or heard Brett puke yet. But some of that other stuff—the moodiness, the foggy eyes—I’d definitely noticed. Earlier that afternoon at practice Brett threw the ball well, which I hoped was a sign that his head wasn’t bothering him as much. But the practice was noncontact, so fairly low stakes, and I noticed that in between drills he kept taking off his helmet, which he never used to do. Relief would wash over his face for a moment, then the whistle would blow and he’d plunk the helmet back on, wincing like he’d just put his head in a vise.
God, what was I going to do with all this? I was the one who put Brett into this mess, first by missing the block on Leopold, next by setting up the rematch on Friday. On our league’s website I learned that you could report someone to the league’s concussion hotline, and an independent neurologist would give him a test to determine if he could play. Brett would fail that test for sure, and his brain would be safe. But I remembered there being talk around town last year that the reporting system was no longer anonymous since a mysterious person (who everyone knew was Coach Crooks) called the hotline about seventy times in a row to report every single player on the Blakemore team. They had no choice but to spend an entire day of practice meeting with the independent neurologist. Obviously the system was flawed. So after that the hotline remained, but the reporting process was fully transparent. If I called about Brett, the entire town would know about it. Brett would never speak to me again. Dad would kill me. Bonkers would dance on my grave.
“And is it true that the second concussion is always worse than the first?” I asked.
“Well, I think it depends on the severity of the original concussion and the impact of the next blow,” Owen started. “See, after the first concussion, the brain diverts all of its resources—especially the sugar energy in glucose—to try to repair the initial damage. This makes it extremely vulnerable to another blow. A bad enough hit could cause internal bleeding, leading to a coma or even death.” Owen forked a piece of asparagus and bit off the tip of its head. “Or the damage could severely limit your brain function, reducing you to a vegetable-like state.”
“Wyatt, are you okay?” Mrs. McConnell asked. “You’re flushed.”
I nodded.
“Owen, you’re being so dramatic.” She put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, hon, all that stuff won’t happen to you.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
“What do you mean, you’re not getting the soup?” Nate asked. “We’re at a “soup kitchen. It’s the house specialty!”
“Stop talking like we’re at a freaking five-star restaurant,” I snapped back. “See this? It’s a spork.” I jammed the plastic prongs of the spoon/fork hybrid into my tray. “It’s a culinary mutant.”
“It’s an engineering marvel, but whatever,” Nate said. “I can’t wait for you to eat something so you’ll stop being so cranky.”
Of course I was cranky: My hunger had finally surpassed my pride, so here I was at a charity meal center trying to decide what color of mush to have for dinner. I don’t think Nate’s family would ever not let me eat at their house, but I was conscious of wearing out my welcome there, so I limited my dinners to once or twice a week. The rest of the time I was on my own with food. It was nice of Nate to tag along, but he couldn’t understand what I was feeling. Money was tight for his family, too, but his dad’s pharmacy was doing well enough to keep food in their fridge. So he got to experience the soup kitchen as a sort of field trip, an anthropological expedition. While a single mother of three tried to spork-feed a bowl of split pea soup to a screaming toddler, Nate could sip “the house specialty” and swish it around his mouth like he was analyzing its flavor profile for a goddam Yelp review.
I hadn’t been to the soup kitchen since red tide hit when I was a kid. It seemed darker inside than I remembered—a few overhead lights were out—but otherwise everything looked the same. About a dozen volunteers were lined up behind a long row of tables, slopping out single scoops of soup, creamed corn, wilted salad, refried beans, and chicken casserole. The drink station was in the same corner with two ten-gallon dispensers of water and pink lemonade. The Jell-O was even the same color. Mom, Brett, and I used to call it Frog Belly Green. I can’t remember why, but we got a real kick out of it.
Waiting in line now, I was surprised by a little pulse of nostalgia. It used to be a fun adventure coming here. The food wasn’t great or even decent, but the soup was warm and so were the people. I remember one time sitting next to an old fisherman who was missing an eye, and he slowly rolled his remaining eye toward me and said, “I bet you’re wondering how I lost my eye.” Ummm, yes times infinity squared. The fisherman entertained Brett and me for an hour with stories of his voyages out at sea. There was just a feeling of community here, you know? People actually sat down together and ate, talked, told jokes. But really my good memories weren’t defined by the people who were there, but the person who wasn’t: Dad. He refused to accept charity of any kind. We were relaxed without Dad there. Brett would actually talk sometimes. He’d take risks, try jokes, think creatively. He’d look at the lime Jell-O and say Frog Belly Green.
“Screw it. I’ll try the soup,” I said to Nate when we finally reached the front of the serving line. A man with a white goatee and yellow sweater vest ladled me some soup, then poured some for Nate. Nate said thanks and grabbed the lip of the flimsy paper bowl, causing it to bend and spill a bit over the opposite edge.
“Ah, you must be new here,” the volunteer said, dabbing the blotch of soup on the table with a paper towel. “Hold the bowl from the bottom. Also, welcome. I’m Stewart.”
He extended his hand for a shake, but at that moment a woman with a clipboard tapped Stewart’s shoulder. Next volunteer group was here, she said. Thanks for your help—dirty aprons go in the bin by the door.
The swinging doors from the kitchen flung open, and a stream of beefy dudes lumbered to the serving tables. They were all wearing white aprons over shirts that looked suspiciously like the navy-and-white uniforms of—
“Blakemore,” Nate hissed. “You gotta be kidding me.”
There were about fifteen Blakemore football players total, and they strode to their positions at the servery with shit-eating grins stretched across their tanned faces. Some of them were wearing their stupid Under Armour headbands, you know, just in case their frosted tips got sweaty from all that scooping and plopping.
The previous volunteer group must have also been from Blakemore, because Stewart, when he saw the football team roll in, practically began hyperventilating, reacting as though he were Nate meeting the inventor of the spork. He shook each player’s hand, thanking them for all they did for the town and, presumably, the universe. I gave him a dirty look. Stew, I thought I knew you.
It’s crazy how quickly a room can go from feeling warm and supportive to cold and belittling. Sure, we beat them in the game Friday, but now as they stood behind the pots of food and enforced the one-scoop limit, it felt like they were beating us at life. And they knew it. The guy serving the refried beans flung down a scoop onto my plate with a thwack that was just hard enough for me to bobble my paper plate, just hard enough to show me who had the power here. He then turned to a teammate next to him, and in a voice just loud enough for me to hear, said, “I thought starving people were supposed to be skinny.” I wanted to shrivel up like one of the petrified bugs stuck in the fluorescent lights above us.
The player working the creamed corn station was worse. Way worse. I slid my tray in front of the serving bowl and looked up—way up—into the barren black eyes of Derek Leopold. He somehow looked even more enormous without pads on. His neck was like a tree stump, sloping straight from his ears into his shoulders. The serving ladle looked like a teaspoon in his hand.
Nate tapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”
But something weird was going on inside of me. Even though I desperately wanted to
leave, an even larger part of me wanted that creamed corn. I was hungry, dammit, and I deserved to eat. What did these assholes do to deserve food? They were born in Blakemore; that’s it. Total chance. A few degrees of latitude north and they’d be standing on this side of the table, clutching their sporks. And in that case they’d deserve food just as much as anyone else. Maybe that’s what was getting me so fired up: the injustice of fate. Random chance is blind, but it gives birth to privilege, whose narrowed eyes home in on the weak and vulnerable.
I picked up my plate from my tray and held it out toward him. “Creamed corn, please.”
Leopold didn’t react. His cold stare tunneled straight into my brain. But I’d had plenty of practice deflecting evil glares. Leopold had nothing on Bonkers.
I cleared my throat. “I said I’d like some damn creamed corn, please.”
Without taking his eyes off me, the giant dipped his ladle into the pot and scooped up a wad of yellow mush. He plopped it down so hard my paper plate fell out of my hands and onto my tray.
“Thanks,” I said, picking up my tray. “I heard it’s good.”
I picked an empty table in the corner farthest from the serving area. Nate sat across from me. “Well, that was a lot of things,” he said. “But I think it was mostly awesome. What’s gotten into you?”
“I dunno exactly,” I said. “I guess the unfairness of it all.”
“Jeez, so specific.”
“I think I’m just starting to realize the difference between deserving and undeserving people. Myself included. Take a look around. Almost all of these people are hungry because of serious issues. Mental health problems and addiction and stuff. Single moms with three kids.”
“I’m not following.”
“They all have real life problems that actually deserve sympathy. But I’m just here because my selfish dad spends our grocery money on liquor.”