And I can’t tell you what we watch, only that we sit there for hours, and that at one point I increase the volume because there’s something inside of me, the part that loves these two people, that knows Franny doesn’t want me to hear his sobs.
Mighty Magical
Mighty Moat is even better the second time.
And it’s no secret why. Kate. Even Jillian and Franny seem to have a better time.
“Is it just me, or do you feel like the band is playing just to us right now?” Franny shouts at one point.
“It’s not just you,” I shout back.
After the show, Kate takes me by the hand, leads our foursome backstage, and it’s like she knows everybody, everyone stops doing whatever to wave or say what’s up, but honestly, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know any of these people; that’s just her, she has that take notice thing going on and you can’t help but to, well, take notice.
We stop at a red door covered in black Magic Marker stick-figure people. Kate knocks and someone yells come on in, and we go right in. And it’s freaking Mighty Moat! In their freaking grungy-T-shirt-wearing flesh!
“Katieeeeee,” sings the guitarist. “Get your ass in here.”
Franny and Jillian look at me in equal disbelief. “This is real, right?” Franny asks. “This is happening?”
“Hey, you guys want champagne?” the lead singer yells, as a cork pops and sails across the room. And then another cork fires. And another. And soon the band’s spraying everyone in a champagne shower. And then Franny shouts a war cry, covers his eyes, and dives into the fray.
“What are we waiting for?” I say to Jillian.
But she’s already leaping in, her hair damp with celebration.
I take Kate’s hands and we dive into the middle, laughing.
“This is what it’s all about, this is what it’s all about,” Franny says, dancing in a circle around us.
“We gotta get a pic before we go,” Kate tells the guitarist.
“Say ‘live foreverrrrrrrr,’” the lead singer croons, as we all crowd into the selfie.
Back at the car, we huddle around a bottle of sparkling cider. It’s not cool to drink and drive. Plus Kira would kill me if I let her baby sis get wasted, the guitarist had chided us. Take this, he said, handing us the faux champagne.
“To Kate,” Franny says, holding up a cup of the cider. “Easily the best night of our young, young lives.”
“To many, many more,” Jillian adds.
“Hear, hear,” I chime, cup raised.
Kate shakes her head, like she’s embarrassed by the attention, and when she looks up at us she’s covering her face with her fingers, but they’re parted just enough that I can tell she’s beaming.
“Is it possible that you guys rock harder than Mighty Moat?” she asks, dropping her hands to her sides. Jillian smiles. In that moment, it’s like the next three decades of our lives together are revealed—that if there was ever any doubt that we’d always be friends, even after we went on to become busy lawyers and never-a-free-moment doctors and volunteers at our kids’ schools—all doubt is erased right then, expelled forever in that moment.
Franny covers the top of his cup with his hand and gives it a generous shake, which prompts me to deliver the stern but polite warning, “Uh, don’t even think about it, man.”
But Franny ignores me, shaking even more vigorously, before releasing his hand and letting it go in a surprisingly generous spray. And it’s nice to see Franny happy, even for just a night.
“No one rocks harder,” he yells, chasing after us. “No one rocks harder,” we all yell, running for our lives.
We wave goodbye to Jillian and Franny as they back out of my driveway. Kate and I tiptoe through the kitchen and down into the basement.
I turn on the TV, and we lie side by side on the couch, which is trickier than it sounds, because there’s really only room for one person, but where there’s a will . . .
“Jack,” Kate says. “I need to tell you something.”
And this is it, I think. This is where she tells me.
“Sometimes . . . I,” she starts and stops.
“It’s okay, Kate.”
“Sometimes . . . I get really sick. Like really sick.”
I turn my face so that she has my undivided attention. I turn off the TV. “How so? What do you mean?”
“I was born with the sickle cell gene. Both of my parents have the trait. Have you ever heard of it?”
“I have. I’ve read some things, but I’m not sure I entirely understand.”
“Essentially, my red blood cells stiffen, which means they struggle to deliver oxygen to other parts of my body. And most people’s red blood cells last a few months, but in people with sickle cell, maybe they last a couple of weeks, so our oxygen supply can’t keep up with the demand. So, there are days, weeks, a few times even a couple of months, where I’m pretty weak.”
“And does it hurt?”
“I like to think I have a high threshold for pain, but, uh, yeah, it hurts pretty bad.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Kate puts her fingers against my lips. “Shhh,” she says. “I wasn’t telling you because I want you to feel sorry. I don’t want pity, not from you, not from anyone. I just . . . I want you to know because . . . for some reason I feel like telling you everything. Like, there’s nothing about me that I don’t want you to know. Does that sound weird?” She pulls back so she can see more of my face. “That’s creepy, right? I didn’t mean it like . . .”
Now it’s my turn to press my fingers to her lips. And this feels like our new thing, fingers to each other’s lips, letting each other know it’s okay, that you’re safe here.
“It’s not creepy at all, Kate. It’s beautiful,” I say. “The most beautiful thing ever. And I feel the same way. I want you to know everything. Like everything, everything.” I fix my eyes on hers and hold them there, because I want her to know that it’s true, that we’re true, and then I exchange my fingers for my lips, our lips coming together, opening and closing in sync, and I hear her gasp, feel her shudder.
Or maybe it’s my gasp, my shudder.
Not that it matters.
Nothing matters.
How could anything?
“I really like you, Kate,” I say because I’m afraid to say the other thing. The stronger thing.
“I don’t want you to just like me. Save your likes for Twitter. I want you, Jack,” she whispers into my ear, her voice traveling into my brain, down through my chest. I feel her words in my toes.
And maybe it’s that my blood flow is currently being rerouted from my brain. Or the way her face is gorgeously cast in fluorescent basement light. Maybe it’s because I was given another chance for this reason. But the fact is this: there’s nothing I want more than Kate Edwards.
Nothing.
So the earth rotates around the sun, right? And it would be super weird for it to start happening the other way around, right? Like, suddenly the sun starts revolving around the earth—
Except that’s sorta like what loving someone is all about—
You’re moving along life, doing your thing, managing your priorities and commitments—
And then suddenly you meet THE ONE.
And you fall completely out of the orbit you’ve been spinning in.
And now you’re doing laps around this new world.
And you’re hoping gravity can sustain you.
But there’s no way of knowing if it can until you realize it can’t.
Guess it’s all an orbit of faith.
Mandrake Moolah
I’m nearly too nervous to watch.
I’m confident that Mandrake is going to win. I mean, I’ve lived the goddamned future. But still. There’s a beaver-colony-level gnawing happening in my stomach that I can’t shake. It’s as though my stomach is made of the most tender whatever wood that beavers love most. The choicest wood that male beavers send to the female beavers of their affection. A
nd these beavers are going to town in my stomach, because they haven’t seen this amount of sweet-ass lumber in a long time and they are taking full advantage of this new haul before it disappears.
At halftime Mandrake is down by double digits and the commentators are saying Mandrake should be happy to have made it so far, that no matter what happens they should be proud, and, hey, even Cinderella had to face midnight, there’s no shame in losing this game.
The second half is harder to watch. The first four minutes Mandrake looks like an elementary school team playing an NBA team; it’s ugly, but an ugly you want to keep watching. And I do, with my hands over my face.
But then the incredible happens. Mandrake gets hot. They can’t miss. They drill shots from all over the court. Mandrake’s defense is smothering, the other team struggles to even get the ball across half-court, and that insurmountable lead shrinks. You can see their opponents fading, their poise dissolving. They finger-point. They argue with the refs, with each other. They wave off their coaches. They can’t buy a basket.
The Mandrake point guard shimmies past his defender, dances into the paint, and launches a midrange floater that kisses off the top of the backboard square before falling cleanly into the nylon. The announcers flip out.
. . . And Mandrake takes their first lead of the game with twenty seconds left! This is the greatest comeback in the history of sports, people! You are witnessing history . . . the fifteenth-seeded Mandrake Pigs have battled all the way back and are now poised to secure their first ever national championship . . . this is beyond words . . . this is what sports is all about!
Me? I can’t say what sports is about. Or what this means to the Mandrake players. But I know what it means to me, what I hope it’ll mean for Kate.
I jump to my feet and I’m ugly-dancing-screaming around the basement, and Mom is thoroughly confused because a) she didn’t realize I was this into basketball and b) we have absolutely zero connection to the Pigs.
“It’s the classic underdog story, Mom,” I assure her, pumping my fists with an intensity that nearly dislocates my shoulders.
She high-fives me. “It is pretty amazing.”
My phone buzzes.
FRANNY’S DAD: How did you know?!
ME: What?
FD: You knew they would win.
ME: It was the longest shot ever. I just figured what the heck, why not them?
FD: I’m not buying it, but it doesn’t matter. Congratulations! You’re now a rich kid—let’s just hope you’re not a dead one after we try to collect your winnings.
ME (for five minutes, not knowing how to respond): . . .
ME (five minutes later): Is death seriously something we should be concerned about here?
FD: Not WE. I’ll text you a time and place to meet tomorrow.
ME: You’re joking, right? About the death thing . . . I mean, I KNOW you’re joking, but I’d just like some confirmation I guess, because honestly I’m new to all of this gambling stuff and . . .
But I don’t hit Send on this last text because I don’t want to be an idiot even though I’m having idiotic thoughts. Of course he’s joking.
Right?
I don’t sleep, just in case.
The place: Elytown Public Library. The time: four p.m. I park Mom’s car and head inside.
Franny’s dad slides in ten minutes late and he looks freaking happy. Or maybe he’s pretending because the people who are going to kill me for winning so much money have told him not to tip me off to the danger that I’m in—stall him, Franny’s dad, they said, while the assassin sets up his sniper rifle between the bookshelves.
“Hey,” I say, standing up when he gets to the table.
“Hey, killer,” he says. He tosses me a duffel bag. “I’d find someplace to hide that were I you.”
“Right,” I say, surprised by how light $200K feels.
“Count it in the bathroom if you want. I’ll wait.”
“I trust you. Did you take out your cut yet?”
He smiles in a way that reminds me of Franny. “Told you, it’s your money.”
“Well, thanks,” I say. “A whole lot. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”
“Collecting two hundred Gs? Trouble? Naw,” he says, with a dismissive wave, and I’m at a loss if he’s being serious or sarcastic. I settle on serious, because there’s something about Franny’s dad that makes me think he’s walked around with a lot more money than $200K before. “So, listen, where to now?”
“What do you mean?”
“To celebrate, man. Drinks on you.”
“Uh, okay.”
He clasps his hands together, like he’s finalizing some mega deal. “But listen, first we drop off that money. Walk around with that kind of cash, get your ass killed for real.”
Franny’s dad heads to the bar while I detour to my house. I’m more nervous than I expected, driving around with a bundle of money. What if I get pulled over? What if they search the car? What if—
I obey all the posted signs: speed limit, stop signs, yield signs. I signal my turns extra early. I make it home without incident.
After a quick sweep of my bedroom, I realize I have no clue where to keep a duffel of cash. This is my first duffel-full-of-money experience.
My desk and dresser seem too obvious.
Under my pillow is too obvious.
So I stash it under my bed.
Flipping original, I know. No one would ever look there.
“You wouldn’t understand, man,” Franny’s dad says, as the surly-looking bartender sets down another set of shots in front of us.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“When you look at your pops, what do you see? A strong man, right? Someone to look up to. Someone you respect. Even when he’s done something to piss you off, you still love him. That’s never a question, right?”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to answer. But he tilts his head to the side as if to say, Well?
“Me and my dad are close, yeah.”
“Francisco looks at me and he sees none of that. Hell, most days, he barely looks at me. And why should he? What can I give him? What do I have that he needs?”
“He never wanted money, sir. He—”
Franny’s dad waves his hand, his drink sloshing but not spilling. “Cut that sir shit.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“S’okay. Go on.”
“I’m just saying, Franny never wanted things. He only wanted you. That’s what you have to give. That’s the only thing he ever wanted. You.”
Franny’s dad lifts his glass, waits for me to lift mine, and we clink and toss back the shots, or to be clear, he tosses back his shot while I sorta hard-gulp mine down in three or four semipainful baby swallows.
“I’m not the fearful type, you know,” he continues, signaling the bartender for another round. I try to make eye contact with the bartender to signal that he should not bring us another round but he’s already pouring. “Where I grew up, if you were afraid of anything, you got fucked with a quickness. But you know something? The truth, Jack? I’m afraid, man. I’m afraid it’s too late. It’s no secret I’ve screwed up. And not just my own life. His, too. I know that. Shit, I know that. But that’s not how I want to leave things. I can’t fix everything that’s happened, but I can make sure it doesn’t go that way again. I’m here now. I can make sure I stay here.”
“He needs to believe that you’ll keep showing up.”
Franny’s dad nods. “I’m going to be there. You watch.”
I slip into my bedroom undetected, which given my slightly inebriated state feels like a win. Plus, a quick under-the-bed check confirms that I haven’t been robbed. And all is well with the world (with my stomach and my head not so much) because Franny’s dad is going to show up at the game this time. No, all the times he wasn’t there won’t be magically forgotten, but it’s a start. Everything, good or bad, starts somewhere.
Meanwhile, my brain decides to torture me with questions about
Franny and the money that I’m literally sleeping on, as in, Just how pissed would Franny be if he knew I worked with his father behind his back?
Would he understand that I have good intentions?
That I’m trying to save Kate?
Would it matter to Franny that I’d tried to use the time I’d spent with his father to improve their relationship?
I drift to sleep largely answerless, but with one happy thought running Olympic-speed laps in my brain—
Franny’s dad is finally going to be there.
Pants on Fire
Except he’s not here.
Not when Franny’s big game begins.
Not at halftime.
Not when it’s over.
When the final buzzer sounds and our school has been defeated, Jillian, Kate, and I race onto the court to wrap Franny into a Friendship Circle of Unconditional Love and Support, and even though he grits his teeth into a smile, it’s clear he’s not into it. Franny, who’s the most competitive person I know, doesn’t even seem to be taking our team’s butt-kicking that hard.
It’s the other thing.
That the person he wanted there isn’t.
Abuela tries to cover for him. “Franny, your dad, he wanted . . .”
“My father, not my dad,” Franny corrects her.
Abuela takes his hand. “Listen to me, mijo, it’s better to forgive. You can’t hate him forever, Francisco. I understand . . .”
But Franny cuts her off. “You have to forgive him, Abuela, because he’s your son. You’re supposed to be there for him. I understand why you can’t turn your back on him. But I’m his son. He’s supposed to be here for me. He’s supposed to show up for me. He doesn’t want my forgiveness. He has to be sorry first.”
“Mijo, listen . . .”
“I’m sorry. I love you. More than anything. The only good thing that man ever gave me was you, but right now, I can’t stay here any longer. I gotta get outta here, okay? I’m sorry. I’ll call you.”
Abuela nods, her eyes glassy. “The best thing he gave me was you.”
Franny walks into Abuela, his body twice her size, and she disappears in his embrace. He kisses her gray curls, squeezes her tighter, before letting go.
Opposite of Always Page 20