by Ann Herrick
I sat there like a stump. Glynnie had it kind of rough with her father, but at least he was still around so they could try to work things out.
"Well …," Glynnie said, "I've yakked long enough. I'm supposed to be interviewing you. Your size is supposed to be a problem, so how did you end up being a linebacker?"
"Interesting first question," I said, a little surprised.
"I may not play football," Glynnie said, "but I do know enough about football to enjoy it. I went to all the Crystal Lake home games last fall. As for me, well, I'm reasonably coordinated. I play tennis."
That surprised me, too. I'd never noticed her at the games, but when I was playing I was always focused on the field. "Okay. Well, my size. I do get kinda tired of talking about it, but I know it's a concern … especially for college coaches. I always wanted to play football, ever since Dad…" I had to stop and clear my throat. "…since Dad took me to my first game when I was real little. I can't throw well enough to be a quarterback and I'm not big enough to be a lineman. Dad …." I swallowed hard. "Dad said I should be a linebacker anyway."
"Can you hold on a sec?" Glynnie asked. "I can't believe I forgot my pad and pen. I'll run in the house and get them."
Before I could answer, she took off. I drank some lemonade and thought that it wasn't so bad talking to her.
Glynnie came back and sat down. "I know a recorder would be more efficient, but I like to write things down. Okay, so why a linebacker?"
"A linebacker has to be smart, about football anyway. He has to figure out what the other team's offense is going to do, then react to it."
"The brains of the outfit?" Glynnie grinned.
"Well … yeah. Dad …." I took a gulp of lemonade. "Dad said I was smart, and that with him helping me study other teams—he played college football—I could be good at the position. He arranged for me to go to a summer football camp. There were a lot of big guys there that I had to play against. It was nothing but football, football, football for an entire week. By the end I discovered I could block some of the monsters who'd laughed when they first saw how small I was. It gave me confidence. I've grown some since then, taller, if not a lot heavier."
"Your father was a big influence, then?"
I was caught off guard by her voice. It was as if I'd forgotten she was there. "I …. Look, my Dad … it's still pretty private for me." The words would not come out easily. "I'll get it straightened out … someday. But I don't want to talk about him too much."
"Okay. Not everything you say is for the record."
There was kind of an awkward silence. Glynnie put down her pad. "Let's take a break, go for a walk or something."
I didn't want to go home, not with Lindquist sitting at the table with Mom. "Okay."
We took off with no destination in mind. A warm breeze brushed our faces with the heavy perfume of summer.
"Mmm." Glynnie took a deep breath of the fragrant air. "What smells so nice?"
"It's the Damask roses." I pointed to the small pink flowers growing through the picket fence just ahead.
Glynnie ran up and buried her nose in a loose cluster of the roses. "Ahhhhh …."
"Here." I picked one and handed it to Glynnie. "Mrs. Tollef won't mind. She's always giving away flowers."
Glynnie tucked the rose behind her ear and pirouetted with the grace of a ballerina. The rose clashed with her blunt haircut and no-nonsense horn-rimmed glasses. I tried to picture her with long flowing hair, but that didn't seem right either.
"You know," Glynnie said, "when we left Boston I wasn't sure how I'd feel about living here. But there are some advantages to a small town."
"It's been a nice place to grow up," I said. "Everyone knows everyone."
"That's funny." Glynnie cocked her head as she looked at me.
"Funny?"
"People our age are supposed to hate their home towns."
"It's the kids who think they're 'stuck' here forever who hate it. I figure I have a choice."
"Oh? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do?"
"I want to go to college, play football."
"What about after that?"
"After that?" Once I would've thought four years was forever. Now I knew it would disappear as fast as the rose in Glynnie's hair would wilt. "A shot at pro football. Otherwise, no clue."
"What about drawing?"
"Drawing?"
"Like that cartoon you did for the school paper."
"I was just messin' around."
"Really? I think you should take it more seriously."
I shrugged.
"Follow your dreams." Glynnie shook her finger at me.
"Yeah, sure …." What dreams? Besides going to college and playing four more years of football, and maybe, if I was completely lucky, some pro ball, I didn't know what I wanted.
We came to an intersection. I couldn't believe we'd walked as far as Montana Street. I saw a chance to change the subject. "Let's go see how much they've set up for the Scandinavian Fair."
"Okay," Glynnie said as we crossed the street. "What's this fair like, anyway?"
"Everyone runs around in Scandinavian costumes, selling Scandinavian food and crafts, and providing Scandinavian music, storytelling and folk dancing in a Scandinavian setting."
"Thus, the name Scandinavian Fair," Glynnie said with a straight face.
"Your powers of deductive reasoning are amazing." I tried to match her serious expression.
Glynnie's lips almost curved into a smile. "I didn't make High Honor Roll for nothing."
"'Touché,' said the humble student who's lucky when he makes the plain old everyday Honor Roll."
This time Glynnie's mouth eased into a full smile.
We checked out the tent set up for the art show, the platforms for dancing and the barrels of flowers and mini-windmills standing everywhere.
"It looks like a postcard of a Scandinavian village," Glynnie said.
"You should see it with everyone in costume and all the booths set up."
"I'll do it," Glynnie said, "no matter how out-of-place I'll look surrounded by the grade-school set."
"You'll see everyone, not just grade-school kids," I said. "A lot of the guys pretend it's a bore, but they show up. They'll claim it's better than doing nothing, but it's fun. It's something we've all grown up with. Missing out on the fair would be like missing out on your own birthday."
Suddenly I realized the aches and pains of practice were catching up with me. "Okay if we sit down?"
"Sure," Glynnie said.
We found a bench and sat there. We didn't say anything, but it was a comfortable silence. The flowers in the park bent gently in a light breeze. The blades on the mini-windmills turned ever so slowly.
I saw myself at the age of seven, staring longingly at the Swedish Dala Horse. I remembered wishing I was only five, so I could climb up onto its painted back without feeling embarrassed. I thought that at the ripe old age of seven I was too grown up for that.
Then Dad picked me up and swung me onto the back of the Dala Horse. "Let me take your picture up there," he said. Thrilled to have an excuse to sit on that horse, I happily posed for Dad.
Suddenly, the pain of Dad's death hit me with so much force it felt as if it happened yesterday. I bit my lip. It had been four months. I shouldn't let it get to me.
I almost jumped when Glynnie reached over and laced her fingers through mine. I'd forgotten she was even there. Her long slender fingers were warm and surprisingly strong as they gripped mine. It was as if she'd thrown me a rope. For a moment, I held on tight.
Then I started feeling the fresh bumps and bruises from practice. "I'm really wiped out," I said, withdrawing my hand from Glynnie's. "I'd better go home and hit the sack."
Glynnie nodded.
We stood, and she said, "I didn't realize it was so dark already."
I looked around, surprised to see the long shadows, and the deep pinks and purples closing down on the western sky. As we walked back
to Glynnie's house, dusk filled the distant Coast Range with a rosy mist. When we got to Glynnie's, I walked her to the front door.
"See you tomorrow, Eric? To finish the interview."
"Yeah … sure," I said. It'd been okay, spending the evening with her. She seemed to know when to back off from getting too personal. I felt kind of … I don't know, safe with her. Kind of comfortable, like being with Rolf. "See ya tomorrow."
As the last lights of dusk disappeared and the dark of night began, I thought about last year's games and wondered if I should review them. But when I got home, Mom was alone in the living room watching TV. She clicked it off when I came in, and patted the sofa cushion next to her. Her brow had that familiar wrinkle of worry. "Hi, Eric. Sit down and tell me about prac—"
I waved her off. "Sorry, Mom. I'm beat. I'm going to bed."
A look of forced cheeriness spread across her face. "How about some cake first? There's still plenty—"
"I'm wiped out. Really. Goodnight." I hurried upstairs.
Up in my room, I peeled off my clothes and collapsed into bed. A disgruntled meow indicated I'd bumped into Starburst somewhere in the tangle of bedcovers. "Sorry," I said when her head popped up from behind a fold in the quilt. I heard Kirstin in her room, giggling on the phone. Then it was quiet.
I reached over to turn out the light, when I noticed my sketch pad poking out from a pile of junk on the bottom shelf of the nightstand. It'd been months since I'd thought about drawing. But, tired as I was, I found myself picking up the pad and a pencil. I sat up and started to doodle. Even though I wasn't drawing anything particular, the sound of the pencil lead across the paper was soothing.
After a couple of minutes I was actually drawing something, a cartoon of Coach Horton. I didn't know where I was going with it, because I didn't really know what to think about him. I had to smile when I saw that I'd captured that Neanderthal look of his. That was one thing about my cartoons. No one had any trouble recognizing the characters.
Next thing I knew, I was sketching Glynnie. With her chopped-off haircut and horn-rimmed glasses, it was easy at first. But what was beneath the hair and glasses? I tried to think.
For one thing, I decided, she made eye contact. She wasn't one of those people who was only half there, partly lost in space.
I guess that was too much thinking for one night. The next thing I knew, I had drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Eight
For the first time in months, I needed the alarm clock to wake me up. I swatted half the stuff off my nightstand trying to grab it. Starburst marched up my body and stared to show her annoyance at the buzzing. Finally, my hand landed on the clock and slapped it into silence.
It was great to have slept through the night. Nothing like football practice to realign the old sleep pattern.
Starburst meowed to go out. As I sat up to open the window, my right elbow stuck to the sheet. Without thinking, I pulled my arm, ripped a scab and watched blood drip all over my elbow.
"Shit!" I grabbed a dirty sock off the headboard to stop the bleeding.
Starburst meowed to remind me that I hadn't opened the window.
"Okay, okay." I tried to open the window without dropping the sock and getting blood all over everything.
Once Starburst was on her way, I flopped back in bed. All my cuts stung, all my blisters smarted and all my bruises ached. My body felt like one humongous distress zone. I lay there and moaned.
There was a knock at my door. Much too cheerfully Kirstin called, "Eric, are you up yet?"
"I'm awake. Get lost!"
Kirstin laughed, and scuffed back down the hall.
I was sore all over. How was I supposed to get up and face another day of practice? Usually by now Dad was up and talking so excitedly about the new season that I would forget how much I hurt.
Just get up, I told myself. Think about something positive. Yeah. Think about going to the playoffs. Think about setting a record for interceptions.
As I forced myself out of bed, I knocked my sketch pad on the floor. I picked it up and looked at my drawings. There, that was something good, the pictures of Glynnie and Coach Horton. Maybe I should start drawing again, when I had more time.
My aching body reminded me that I needed to stand in the shower and let hot water pour over my sore muscles. I dragged myself to the bathroom. At first the water stung, as it hit my cuts and scrapes. Then I started to feel better, enough that I almost didn't want to stop showering.
My stomach insisted on its share of the action, so I toweled off, quickly dressed and went down for breakfast. When Rolf showed up early, Kirstin insisted he sit down and "have at least a taste of the date-nut bread." Of course, he couldn't resist.
"So," Rolf said after he washed down his third piece with a glass of milk, "how'd it go with Glynnie last night?"
"It was okay."
"Yeah, I heard him come home," Kirstin said. "It was pretty late."
I snorted. "You call nine o'clock late?"
"It's later than you stayed out all summer," Kirstin pointed out.
"You try mowing lawns all day and see how late you stay out."
Kirstin just raised an eyebrow.
When Rolf finished polishing off the last few drops of milk, he and Kirstin got up, cleared away their dishes and got into a discussion of plants next to the dishwasher.
"I don't know Glynnie," Mom said, "though I've met her mother at the grocery store. What's she like?"
I shrugged. "Just a girl from my class."
Mom pressed on. "Did you two have a nice time last night?"
"Don't get excited." I gave Mom a narrow glance. "Glynnie's just interviewing me for that column she's been doing for the Crystal Lake Recorder."
"Interviewing you?" Mom's voice was full of curiosity. "Tell me about it."
"No big deal. Just football stuff."
"Really? She's a sportswriter?"
"She writes about all kinds of stuff." I was kind of surprised Mom had never read Glynnie's column.
"Hmmm." Mom got a far-off look on her face. "She writes for the Crystal Lake Recorder. Your cartoons have been in the school paper. You two have a lot in com—"
"Gotta go," I said, making a point of checking the time. "Hey, Rolf." I stood up before Mom's imagination went completely out of control.
"Yeah, just a minute," Rolf said. "Kirstin's packing up a snack for us."
"Uh, about that," I said. "I don't think Horton will want anyone chowing down at practice."
"I'll probably eat before we even get there." Rolf laughed.
"As I was saying," Mom said. "You and this Glynnie girl—"
"Oh, hey! I forgot to tell you. I had sales of almost three hundred dollars yesterday." I jumped up and pulled the money and receipts out of the lockbox and I handed it to Mom. "Check this out."
"Look at all the red-dot kitchenware sales!" Mom smiled. "And a ruler from that box of those tools I picked up at that auction last month. Seventy-five dollars, very—" The smile dropped off Mom's face.
"What? Didn't I fill out the credit card slip right?" Crap. "I checked it twice."
"No …," Mom shook her head. "No, it … it's fine. I, um, just got a sudden headache." Mom forced a small laugh. "Maybe I need glasses or something …"
"Okay, I'm ready to go," Rolf said.
"Huh? Oh, yeah." I grabbed my gym bag.
As Rolf and I were leaving, Kirstin announced her menu for lunch. As soon as I heard the words "Swedish meatballs," I knew Rolf couldn't resist.
"You should just plan on Rolf being here every day," I joked. "That way you can do your food shopping way ahead."
"Well … since you brought it up, Eric … how 'bout it, Rolf?"
"Okay. Freeloading is my specialty, anyway." Rolf gave Kirstin's braid a tug and she gave him a punch on the arm.
Once we got in the truck, Rolf said, "So how did it go with Glynnie?"
"Give me a break." I didn't know what to say. Rolf had been my best friend ever since
we smeared each other with finger-paints in kindergarten. His humor gave me a lift when I needed it, and I knew he was always there for me. But when it came to losing Dad, I'd talked to Glynnie more in one evening than I had to Rolf in four months.
With Rolf it'd been a hand on the shoulder, a sympathetic look, tossing a football to distract me. Not that Rolf wouldn't have listened if I'd wanted to talk, but he would never press me to talk either.
"It was just an interview about football. That's all there was to it."
"Too bad," Rolf said, offering a rare, if abbreviated, unsolicited opinion.
True to his word, Rolf polished off the date-nut bread Kirstin had packed for him as soon as he pulled into a parking spot at school. Morning practice turned out to be a real drag. For some reason Coach Horton decided to half kill us. "You guys have to concentrate more on your conditioning. Most games are won or lost in the second half. You gotta have stamina in order to peak in the final minutes of the game. A step or two can make all the difference between success and failure."
'Course, that was true, but it was hard to keep in mind through what seemed like endless toe touches, running in place, windmills, pushups, sit-ups and leg raises, not to mention running and skipping rope. For good measure, using our legs as the driving force, we had to try pushing back the wall of the school.
"Pretend the wall is the opponent." Coach Horton pushed some imaginary bricks. "That'll give you strength to push away blockers!"
I silently cursed him. Why did he have to be so hard on us? I pretended the wall was Coach Horton, and for a second it almost felt as if the bricks yielded to my pushing.
After the brick-wall session, it was more running; backward, sideways, quick starts and stops, fast turns, sprints. The entire defensive squad went through the whole routine, regardless of positions.