“Thanks, Matt.”
His skin is warm, and his eyes meet my eyes in the bright light outside the church. I feel tears coming on.
“You’re welcome.” It’s a stupid thing to say but I’m out of actual sentences and he’s in so much pain I wish we never kissed.
“I better go,” I say when he lets go.
“Yeah. I think we have to—” He glances over to the hearse parked along the driveway. Looming.
“Yeah.” I nod and he nods and Stick’s brothers laugh, loud and unnecessary. I step back.
“Oh, did you hear?” Stick says, reaching out to brush my hand again. “A new World Is song got leaked.”
“Wait, really?”
He pulls his hand back but he’s looking at me. Finally. I don’t even squint at the sun above his head.
“Yeah, someone Tweeted it this morning. Actually, the band did.”
“Oh my god, did you listen?”
“Yeah, it’s amazing.” He pauses and almost smiles and it’s nice, to see him smile. “I can send you the link.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
“No problem.”
“Maybe we can listen to it this weekend?” I try. I needed to try.
“I’d like that,” he says but Janice is pushing on Michaela, who’s pushing on Stick, the rest of the siblings climbing into cars lined up behind the hearse out into the street. Stick opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, something profound, but he doesn’t speak. His family takes him away.
FIVE
DAD DRIVES ME TO LINDEN for baseball camp every morning, dropping me off on his way to work an hour before practice, and I used to sit in the stands by myself on my phone, scrolling through pictures of boys on Twitter, but lately I’ve been walking over to Quick Chek to load up on Beef Jerky and Red Bull and Haribo Gummi Bears, the breakfast of champions. We do hitting and fielding drills from eight AM to one, with a lunch that follows then a scrimmage until our parents pick us up—in my case my mom, always the last to arrive, once she gets out of school and through the traffic on Route 1, and we never make it home until late. Stick’s been working nights ever since the funeral and when I do get to see him, either Sammy’s been with us or Trevor and Gavin are with us, like last Saturday at the Quick Chek by the train station, Trevor and Gavin getting high on bad weed, and Staci showed up for some reason. Stick hasn’t been calling as much and I don’t know why he’s not calling as much but we haven’t talked. About anything.
I changed the password on my phone so my parents can’t get in, not that I’m looking at boys on Twitter all the time but if Dad found out who I was looking at, even the super skinny dude I watch on YouTube lisping through the different ways to come out and go out (with a guy) and how to decide whether you’re a bottom or top (he’s such a bottom) and I don’t think I can be like that, I don’t know how to speak like that and I don’t want to dye my hair and get six studs in my nose just to get one stud in my ass, so I’m not sure where I fit in the gay world. And I don’t want to come out in my high school—I’m not even sure anyone’s out actually, I mean there’s some kids where it’s obvious but it’s mostly girls and I’m mostly assuming because it’s not like Sammy or Trevor or Gavin walked me around the halls one day and said “oh yeah, that dude you think is cute—totally gay.” Stick’s not like that anyway so I guess he isn’t gay and maybe that’s okay, I don’t need us to be gay together, I just need us to be friends again. More than anything.
“Time!”
The umpire sweeps the dirt from the plate and my teammate steps out of the box. We’re in the last game of a three-game set against the Dominican kids from Harrison and they’ve been killing us so far but it’s the last day of camp and we’re in the last inning of the game and if someone doesn’t knock in the runner from first it’s over. Finally.
I brought Kakashi’s Story to read in the stands before practice this week, I was in the middle of a scene late the night before and I wanted to keep reading but my teammates interrupted with their aggressive existence, ripping the book out of my hand and reading out loud the part where Kakashi drifts into a dream about one of his favorite novels, Icha Icha—the in-universe series of erotic stories written by Jiraiya. They started calling me “Icha Icha” and the nickname stuck, pretty much all week. I haven’t made many new friends at camp.
“Strike three!”
My teammate heads back to the dugout and I slap his sticky hand on my way to the plate. The pitcher is new this inning but I think he pitched earlier, the way his delivery is strange and his big lanky frame and I should have been paying attention in the on-deck circle because the first pitch comes out at such a weird angle I don’t even think to swing before it’s on the plate.
“Strike!”
I can hear my dad screaming, his booming voice ringing out over the cheers from the other team’s stands. He’s shouting about keeping my eye on the ball and I step out of the box to call for time, sweeping the dirt from the spot underneath me. Dad and I used to watch the Mets and Yankees at our old house, flipping back and forth between innings—he hated the Mets and I hated the Yankees but we used to watch together every summer in the rec room with the air conditioning blasting. It might have been the ankle injury or maybe it happened before, the way I dreaded practice at Woodbridge High, dragging my aching body down to the locker room after a difficult day of classes and more difficult homework and the changing on the benches next to all the bigger boys with their better bodies and their raging … confidence. I was always afraid to look because I didn’t want to look and I didn’t want anyone to think I was looking so I’d keep my head low and change as quick as I could and I hated going to practice every day.
“Ball one.”
The pitcher attempts a pick-off but it’s more like a courtesy than anything and my teammate on first gets back without effort. His name is Matt too and he plays for Linden High so he knew most of the guys at camp before this summer. They call me “Matty 2,” which sounds a lot like Mateo but is definitely better than “Icha Icha.” They haven’t let that die all week.
“Foul!” the umpire barks as I take a hard swing and manage to get a piece, but the ball slides harmlessly from the catcher’s glove into the dirt behind the plate. Matt steps back to first, head low. I’m the last out of the game.
“Come on Matt, eye on the ball!” my father screams, even louder now, and I dig into the box again, forgetting to check the third base coach for signs. If this were the high school team I’d have to run laps at the next practice but the camp is over today, I don’t have to think about baseball or my teammates or my father’s constant screaming—like what does that even mean, where the hell else would my eyes be—I just want this camp to be over and summer to be over, so I can get back to school and get back to Stick. Like we used to be.
The pitcher sets up in the stretch and takes a long time to wind up, but I have his delivery figured out, or timed right, I was pretty close on the last one. It’s another fastball, I can tell from the spin on the seams, and I stride forward with my left leg, planting hard on my right, the slight uppercut I’ve perfected at camp driving the ball into play.
I take off for first as the ball clears the second baseman, skidding along the grass into the gap between right and center and picking up speed. I round the base and glance across the diamond at the other Matt, sprinting for third, but my cleats start to slip on the cracked infield dirt and I ease up at once, afraid that my ankle might give, it’s just I’m already committed to second, too far to turn back, and I see the right fielder pick up the ball and release.
I try to speed up again—the cleats sliding left then right but hovering enough just to push off the surface and I’m pretty fast, I’ve always been fast—but there’s only so fast that a runner can go before a throw from the outfield will cut him down at second base. The other Matt is rounding third, heading for home, and if I make it in safe, we’ll tie the game. I’m not going to make it.
The ball arrives be
fore I can slide but it’s not a great throw—it’s too low—and if I slide just right I can avoid the tag and actually survive this. I’ve been afraid to slide all camp, like really slide when it matters on my bad ankle, so I’ve tried leading with my knee and my hip to keep my ankle from getting hit but lately, more often, I’ve gone head first—even though the coaches at camp tell me not to, that I’ll get hurt much worse, break a finger or jam a wrist and then it’s over, beyond any ankle injury. But this is the moment—no coach would blame me—I need to make this base to tie the game and I can’t be cautious and I can’t be nervous I just waited too long to decide so I slide too late and I stumble, shoulder first into the shortstop with an unplanned barrel roll that knocks him back off his feet and knocks me clear off the base, flat on my face on the hard cracked infield.
The shortstop finds the ball and tags me on the shoulder and the umpire calls me out. Either from the tag or the illegal slide or for making a massive ass of myself in front of everyone in the stands. I lie on the ground for as long as I can with a sharp pain shooting up from my wrist. There’s dirt in my eyes and I can’t feel my fingers. I just lost us the game.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
We’re in the car in the parking lot and Dad isn’t facing me, he’s got that vein bulging at the corner of his head, by the ear below the temple. I’ve seen it forever and I’m afraid it’s going to pop, in one angry burst of frustration. Sometimes I dream.
“Didn’t you know there were two outs? What were you doing on the on-deck circle?” He looks at me through the rearview mirror. “You need to know the goddamn game situation before you step up to the plate.”
I’ve got ice on my wrist from the first aid kit, the blue packs you need to crack when you embarrass yourself with a slide so bad you might have broken your wrist but you don’t want to admit it.
“You have to get your goddamn head in the game. You’re off in your la-la land dream world all the time, I can see it, I can see it in your eyes. Playing with those stupid cartoons all night.”
I’ve been watching Naruto every night after practice, not the baseball games like we used to, like Nico does now with Dad, but I stopped watching before this summer—why is he just noticing now—and if Stick and me were still hanging out, I’d be spending every night with him, not stuck in my basement watching Japanese anime.
“You ruined your whole day with that stupid play,” Dad says, finally looking at the road instead of the rear-view mirror. “Just when I thought you were actually making progress.”
My teammates weren’t that mad, I mean to them it’s only a game and camp is over and they probably won’t ever see me again anyway. Someone shouted “typical Icha” and got a rise from the others but I wasn’t paying attention, I stuck close to the dugout, receiving treatment on my wrist from one of the assistants. He told me to keep icing it until the swelling went down, to put a wrap on it overnight and keep from moving it too much. He said I should probably see a doctor to make sure it’s not broken.
“In what world does it make sense to try to take second there? The play is right in front of you!” Dad speeds through the parking lot to the exit. “It’s like you’re in another fucking world.”
“Jay, stop,” Mom says, more than a little late.
“What? He needs to hear this. He needs to learn.”
The wrist is swollen and discolored, turning thirty-eight shades of black then blue, from the ice or the instant bruising but it doesn’t hurt as much as when I hurt my ankle. I don’t think.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid. What did I tell you about game situations, Nico?”
“I think the first base coach was waving him on,” he says.
“First of all that wasn’t a fucking coach, just a kid on his team.”
“Jay!” Mom says. “Language.”
Jay don’t give a fuck. He’s not even looking at her, still focused through the mirror on the backseat.
“You don’t even look at the first base coach when the play is to right field. The goddamn ball is right in front of you!”
Nico shrinks into the seat and smacks his ball into his glove, and I give him a glance in appreciation even if his attempt didn’t work but he scowls at me because why wouldn’t he. Dad’s pissed enough to spread his anger around and no one can save me. I hate him.
“I can’t believe we sat in those stands for three hours to watch you blow the game for the whole team.”
I stare out the window, at the other cars in traffic, trying to concentrate on brake lights and store lights and the wailing sound of an ambulance in the distance but he’s already getting to me. I hate that he’s getting to me. I cried after a game last year, when I struck out with the bases loaded on a pitch above my head. Dad called me a sissy and said I should keep my head in the game.
“Can’t you give him credit for the hit?”
Dad shoots Mom a look like infinite snake blades just escaped from her face, part of the evil ninjutsu of Orochimaru. I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.
“You know how much I paid for this camp?”
Our car pulls into traffic, slow going as usual. We moved to a part of the state with so many malls and restaurants there’s a light every few hundred feet so it takes forever to get anywhere. Especially with your parents.
“I told you I didn’t want to play,” I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Well you know what, you were right. That bullshit right there showed me I wasted my money.”
“That’s nice,” Mom says. “Real nice.”
“I’m not trying to be nice. I should make him get a job and pay me back for this camp.”
He slams on the brakes halfway through the next intersection.
“Okay, relax, Jay. That’s enough.”
“No. They need to learn.” The vein is threatening to burst again and I feel excited for a second, like maybe he’ll lose control of the car and kill us all in a fiery crash. “Why are you always defending them?”
“Someone has to, you ass,” Mom says and I can tell by her tone that she’s had enough of his shit today. My phone buzzes again.
“Oh, now whose language are you fucking concerned about?”
“Go to hell.”
“Oh I am. I’m going home with you.”
They talk like that a lot, maybe more than a lot, ever since I was little or since Nico was little. I think it’s been worse since we moved to Woodbridge but it’s tough to be sure. I fish out the phone from my pocket, balancing the ice pack on my wrist.
Hey. It’s Stick. It’s really Stick!
My brothers have people over and I don’t want to be here alone. You free?
He sounds desperate. Nico is watching me type so I have to shield the conversation and it’s tough to type back with one hand but Mom and Dad are now embroiled in the opening stages of Hate Fight #179 of 2015, if I’m counting right. And I lost count in May.
Yes. I should be home soon.
Dad presses hard on the gas and weaves through traffic without braking.
“Slow down, Jay!”
He slams his foot against the brakes, slamming us all against our seatbelts.
“You’re such an ass,” Mom says.
Awesome. I would leave but they’ll burn down the house without me.
Haha, I say.
Also I stole some of their beer and I may be a little drunk.
Lolol awesome, I say because it’s tough to type with one hand and I’m too excited to form actual sentences. The pain in my wrist presses up through my arm.
“Mom, Matty’s texting about beer.”
“Shut up, loser,” I say and reach out to slap him but the spasm from my wrist is so staggering it stops me mid-motion. The ice pack flies across the seat to the floor.
“Mateo Luis, don’t speak to your brother like that.” Mom turns around to face me. “Jayson, do you see how swollen that is?”
“It’s fine,” I lie and snatch the pack from beneath Nico’s feet, elbowing him h
ard in the gut. We have a weird age difference—we’re not close enough to be into the same stuff, it’s like a different generation of shows and video games but we’re not far enough apart that I feel some familial instinct to take care of him, I mean I would defend him to the death if he ever got into trouble, real trouble, but he mostly just annoys me.
“Jay, look at his wrist,” Mom insists.
“I’m driving,” Dad says, veering in between lanes and picking up speed again. Nico tries to slap me back and then Mom climbs fully into the backseat, arms stretched out to separate us.
“I think we should take him to a doctor.”
I look up from the phone, trying to assess how far we need to go but it all looks the same, there’s too many cars and too much wrist pain, intense enough that I would normally be crying, but I’m too pissed to give Dad the satisfaction.
“What doctor? He’s fine.”
What time can you get here? Stick texts.
“Like one of those urgent care places, there’s one by my school.”
“I am not driving down to East Brunswick in this traffic.”
I text back with one hand but spell-correct never corrects in the way that you want it to, when you really need it to.
“There’s closer ones, you know. What if it’s broken?”
“Can you move it?” Dad says, glancing in the rearview as we pass through the intersection. I don’t care about the pain and I don’t want to see a doctor and I don’t want to sit here and stare at my father’s fat face. I’m going to go see Stick. Finally.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“See,” my dad says, swerving to avoid a slowing car in our lane. “But there’s no way he’s going out drinking tonight. He’ll be too busy watching baseball. He needs to learn about playing the game instead of watching those stupid cartoons.”
“He’s not going out to drink either way. He’s fifteen.”
“Right,” Dad says.
I haven’t been to Stick’s house since his father died and he hasn’t come over to mine. There’s too much going on even when he’s home and he needs to watch out for Michaela. That’s what he told me.
I Will Be Okay Page 4