Cracking the Bell

by Geoff Herbach

  Dad looked confused. “Why would I worry?”

  “Because you’re Jewish.”

  “I’m as Jewish as your mother is Christian. I don’t give a shit what you do if it gives you some joy or sustenance. Don’t you know that?”

  “I know,” I said, although this was news to me.

  “Isaiah, Grace earned her GED last spring. Your grandmother asked me to step in and help get her ready for college. I got Grace into an ACT prep course over the summer.” Dad began to tear up. He had a hard time speaking. “She got her scores on Monday. She did well.”

  “On the ACT?”

  “Twenty-five,” Dad said. “A twenty-five from nothing.”

  “That’s because . . . you and Grandma have been helping Grace. You didn’t tell me anything about it.”

  “Why would I? You don’t think about Grace,” Dad said.

  “But I care about her. Probably more than you do.”

  “Not more than Gin. Did you know your grandmother provides health insurance to her full-time employees? And that she only has one full-time employee? She pays for Grace’s health insurance. That insurance has allowed Grace to go into therapy.”

  “Grandma says therapy is bullshit,” I said. “She told Mom it’s bullshit.”

  “Apparently Gin has different rules for different people. She’s encouraged Grace to go to therapy. Grace has been working hard on it. And . . . and I shouldn’t tell you this—Grace took me into her confidence—but I want to protect her . . . and you, so I’m going to say this. You don’t think about Grace, but she thinks about you. You’re in her thoughts constantly. Some tripped-up part of her believes you’re her destiny. That you make everything better. She thinks you saved her from suicide back when she was . . .”

  I stood up. “I need to see her right now,” I said.

  Dad stood up. “What?”

  “I want to see her.”

  “No. Are you listening, Isaiah?”

  “She needs me,” I said.

  “Exactly wrong. She needs to leave you behind like you left her behind. I’m telling you to stay away from her, on the off chance that you weren’t, in fact, helping your coach yesterday, but were, in fact, hiding behind Dairy Queen so you could force an encounter with Grace.”

  “I wasn’t trying to force anything.”

  “Good, because Grace doesn’t need . . . She cannot have you barreling in there and messing her up, Isaiah. She’s close to pulling herself out. There’s no future between the two of you.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “You said you don’t think about her.”

  “Why shouldn’t we have a future?”

  Dad shook his head, like he was trying to shake out cobwebs. “Because you’re you. You’re not going to be here after this year, Isaiah. You’ll go to college and then start your adult life someplace else. It won’t be here. What’s here for you? But for Grace? What else does she have? She may well end up owning the Dairy Queen.”

  “Wait. Our Dairy Queen?”

  “Your grandmother’s Dairy Queen.”

  “Our family’s Dairy Queen.”

  “You haven’t set foot in Dairy Queen for years.”

  “It’s more my Dairy Queen than Grace’s,” I spat.

  Dad sort of laughed. It was an odd reaction. “Isaiah? What is wrong with you?” he asked.

  “Mom wants me to stay here for college.”

  “So? Your mother doesn’t choose your college.”

  “I’m staying here. I won’t leave here. I deserve some happiness.”

  “Bullshit,” Dad said. “Why would you stay here? You could go to Madison to study or play football at a great Division III school somewhere. You can’t stay here. That’s ridiculous.”

  “I committed to Bluffton.”

  “Not true. I’ve told Coach Reed a thousand times not to count on you staying in town.”

  “Have you talked to Mom ever?” I said.

  “She’s saying you have to stay here?” Dad asked. “What in the hell is going on in that house of yours? Why aren’t we talking about this? Have you looked at other colleges, Isaiah? Haven’t you been recruited?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?” Dad asked.

  “I told them I’m staying here.”

  “Why? What’s your ACT? You haven’t even told me your ACT. Is it okay? You could go to New York City or Houston or Boston, Isaiah. Seattle! Portland! I know you get good grades.”

  “Do you?” I said.

  “Of course I do. So?”

  “So what?” I said.

  “Isaiah, come on,” Dad said. “You own your future. No one else does.”

  I took in a deep breath. This is the thought that bloomed in my cracked bell: Grace and I could own Dairy Queen together. Good life. Perfect. Meaningful. My next life. “I have to go,” I said.

  “No,” Dad said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do not go and see Grace. Please,” Dad said.

  “I just want to go think.” I felt dizzy. I don’t think it had to do with the concussion. But I am injured. My bell began cracking a long time ago. Before the hit in the Lancaster game. The dizziness didn’t have to come from an injury on the field to be a symptom of a grave injury. My bell is broken.

  I scrambled to the door. Dad followed behind me, talking the whole way.

  “You won’t go see Grace? We can talk more about this. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’ve been helping her. I’ve always felt for the girl. I’ve always thought she was more positive than negative in your life. Just let her . . . let her breathe, okay?”

  “I just want to think,” I repeated.

  I opened the door.

  Dad called out behind me, “Will you please tell me your goddamn ACT score?”

  And, for some reason, I didn’t lie. “Thirty-two,” I shouted over my shoulder.

  “Oh Jesus Christ, Isaiah!” he yelled.

  ACT? Who cares?

  No more football?

  Then Grace. Because why not? Everything is stupid. The world is stupid. There is no point to this endless suffering and bullshit.

  I biked around town for two hours without doing it, without going to see Grace, but the voice in my head said, do it. I tried to think about other things, get my mind to relax, but there was no good place for my mind to go.

  When I got home, instead of going inside, I sat down on the cold back stoop and googled how many kids die in car accidents each year. Answer? A lot. So damn many. Thousands.

  CHAPTER 20

  OCTOBER 4: THURSDAY NIGHT

  I couldn’t sleep. I opened my green notebook and read what I wrote for Joey Derossi the morning after the Glendale game.

  This Is Why

  The moon is a great, bright eyeball staring down from blackest space. Below, stadium lights make the colors vibrate. Yellow uprights. Green field. White away jerseys. Cardinal-and-gray home. The marching band warms up, one minute to halftime. The guys on the tenor drum sets pound a rhythm that bursts inside Isaiah’s chest. Boom. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Bada boom boom. Tick, tick, tick, tick . . .

  This is it. Where he has belonged. Out on that green field with the eyeball looming, with the percussion exploding his chest.

  He can’t help it. He looks up. He says, “Thank you.”

  And then Isaiah locks in.

  The quarterback shouts numbers. Isaiah checks out the action in the backfield. His opponent is faking a run play. Seriously. Pretending. “Be ready for pass. Be ready!” Isaiah cries.

  Simultaneously, the opponent quarterback yells, “Hut!”

  No run. Isaiah nailed his call. The quarterback drops.

  “Pass! Pass!” Isaiah shouts.

  The slot receiver goes off the line slow, like he’s not even in the play. But suddenly, like the kid is hit with a bolt of electricity, he explodes forward. Tries to break out of the jail Isaiah built for him. And the kid does get behind Isaiah.

  So Isaiah swivels, sprints after.
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br />   The quarterback jacks the ball high into the air. Isaiah sprints. The ball must be reaching apex. Isaiah sprints. Must be falling, spiraling, nose down toward the slot receiver’s outstretched hands. Isaiah sprints.

  Then he digs in deep.

  Leaps.

  And he grabs that damn ball a millisecond before the slot receiver can.

  Gathers, tucks, rolls on the turf.

  Comes to a stop. Breathes. There is silence. His sinuses drain.

  The sound of the ocean comes. The sound of the wind ripping through ditches on the razor-backed ridges.

  He leaps up, ball over his head.

  “Bluffton interception,” the away-game announcer says.

  “Thanks for running that route,” Isaiah says to the slot in all seriousness. “That was a close call. Nice try.”

  “Shut up, dude,” the slot says, walking away.

  The drums reverberate in Isaiah’s chest. He runs to his screaming team on the sidelines and leaps into their arms.

  CHAPTER 21

  OCTOBER 5: FRIDAY MORNING DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENT

  The appointment was at 11 a.m. Mom gave me the choice, and I chose not to go to school before. I stayed in bed for as long as I could.

  In bed, I made a plan. I’d tell the doctor I hadn’t had a symptom since Monday. I’d tell him I sprinted (by accident) and rode my bike for ten miles the night before. I’d tell him I felt great, good to go, ready to get back to playing my game. I repeated this over and over in my head. I wouldn’t just sit there and let Mom do the talking about the decision we’d made. I’d made no decision at all.

  Dad was already in the parking lot when we arrived at the doctor. He diverted all attention.

  “Did you make Isaiah commit to Bluffton for college?” he barked the moment Mom shut the car door behind her.

  “I didn’t make him do anything. We had a conversation. We came to the same conclusion. He won’t have to pay tuition because you’re a professor here. He won’t run up loans. He’ll get a wonderful education. He’ll put himself ahead of the game.”

  “Thirty-two on his ACT,” Dad said. “Nobody told me thirty-two! Do you even register the opportunities you’re taking away from him?”

  Mom glared. Mom inhaled. “We have a doctor’s appointment. Now is not the time.”

  “If I hadn’t asked Isaiah over last night I might never have known about his ACT. Clearly you weren’t going to tell me!” Dad shouted.

  Mom swung her intense gaze to me. “You went to your dad’s last night? Why is that? Didn’t you go out for pizza with your friends?”

  “I’m going inside.” I turned and walked in. My parents didn’t immediately follow. Both were red-faced when they finally got to the waiting room. They sparred. I pulled out earbuds and listened to nothing. I just wanted them to know I didn’t care about their conversation.

  The trouble continued after we got in front of the doctor.

  He looked into my eyes. Had me do a balance test. Asked me a bunch of questions about my memory, my sensitivity to light and sound, and my dizziness. I told him I felt normal, which was true, physically speaking.

  “I rode my bike last night. A couple of days ago, I took off running before I remembered I was supposed to avoid doing that kind of thing. I feel totally fine,” I said.

  He took a couple of notes on his clipboard. “You look good, Isaiah. If you’re feeling normal and have already engaged in exercise, there’s no reason not to return to your normal activities.”

  “What?” Mom asked. “Return? Do you mean return to football?”

  “He’s not suffering from symptoms. There’s no reason for him to hold back, unless symptoms crop up again,” the doctor said. “If you have any dizziness or sudden loss of energy, you need to pull yourself out, do you understand?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Good. Good to hear,” Dad said.

  Mom pointed her pen at the doctor. “You told us last week that Isaiah shouldn’t play football anymore.”

  “I said no such thing,” the doctor said.

  Mom turned the page back in her notebook, which she’d taken out to take notes. “Six days ago you warned us about second impact syndrome. You said he shouldn’t play.”

  “No, I said if Isaiah were my child I’d pull him. I’m not his parent. I’m treating him. Isaiah has cleared protocol. As his doctor, I’m telling you he’s clear to go back to his regular activities.”

  “I’m ready,” I said.

  Mom stood up from her chair. “Oh, no you don’t. I’m your parent. There will be no second impact syndrome. You’ve already notified the team.”

  “Have I?” I said.

  “You better have,” Mom said.

  “I’m his parent, too,” Dad said. He stayed seated in his chair. “You seem to have forgotten this inconvenient truth, Tammy.”

  Mom swiveled on him. “Oh, you’re interested now?” she said. “Now that you have an opportunity to put Isaiah in harm’s way, you’re ready to jump in, give him permission?”

  “Isaiah does not belong to you,” Dad said. “It’s time for you to step back and let him make choices about his future. He got a thirty-two on his ACT, for God’s sake!” Dad shouted.

  For a moment there was silence.

  “Wow. That’s a good score,” the doctor said. “Are you looking at any tier-one schools?”

  “Tier one?” I asked.

  “Ivies,” Dad said. “Or heavy-hitting liberal arts colleges.”

  Mom slowly sank back into her chair.

  There was another moment of silence.

  Then I said, “I’ve been talking to a coach at Cornell University.”

  “You have?” Dad asked, surprised.

  “Yes. I have,” I said.

  Mom sat forward. “What are you talking about, Isaiah? When?”

  I pulled out my phone and showed them the last text from Coach Conti.

  How about tonight? Are your parents home? Let’s get you set up for your visit!

  “That’s really from Cornell?” Mom asked.

  I nodded.

  “Great school!” the doctor said.

  “Stay out of this,” Dad said to him.

  CHAPTER 22

  OCTOBER 5: PIECE OF SHIT

  One of the reasons Joey Derossi suggested I write my life in third person was so I could be objective, right? So I could treat myself as a character, to separate from the emotion.

  Green notebook time.

  PIECE OF SHIT

  They went to Steve’s Pizza after the doctor’s office because they didn’t know what else to do.

  Cornell.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Isaiah said. “They didn’t offer me a scholarship. There’s not a letter of intent ready for me. I don’t even know how that would work, since they don’t give actual athletic scholarships.”

  “I can’t afford to send you to Cornell,” Mom said.

  “If they want Isaiah to play, you won’t pay a cent for that education, Tammy,” Dad said. “You think Cornell University doesn’t have money to bring in the athletes they want? They may not give traditional athletic scholarships in the Ivies, but they sure as hell pay athletes to show up.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Coach Conti said they make offers. Full offers. It’s need-based, most of the time. He said they’d put together a package because they know I’m not rich.”

  Mom and Dad both stared at me for a moment. I’d betrayed more information than I wanted to.

  “How do they know you’re not rich?” Dad asked. “Did you send them a piece of torn notebook paper written on with a crayon from the hippie who pays you cash for painting houses?” Dad choked on his soda, laughing.

  No one else laughed.

  “Isaiah? How does Cornell know anything about you?” Mom asked.

  “Conti is their defensive backs coach. He saw me play at Glendale in August and it’s not like my life is a secret. There’s video of me playing online . . . and I sent him some, too.”


  “Glendale? You’ve been talking to Cornell since August and you haven’t told us?” Dad asked. He turned to Mom. “Why the hell do you think that is, Tammy? Why would he hide wonderful news?”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. How do they know you aren’t rich?” Mom whispered.

  Isaiah took stock of her face. “Maybe you already know?” he said.

  Mom nodded slowly, the truth dawning. “I thought my files looked strange a few weeks ago. My financial folder wasn’t flush with the others.”

  “Oh my God. Really?” Dad said. “You think Isaiah stole your tax information?”

  “I did,” Isaiah said. “I scanned your taxes for the last three years. That’s what Cornell asked for, so that’s what I gave them.”

  “Wow,” Dad said. “Resourceful.”

  Mom shook her head minutely, her eyes watering. He hadn’t seen her look this way in a few years. Fury was building.

  “So? What?” Isaiah asked.

  “You tricked me again, didn’t you?”

  “Again?” Isaiah said.

  “You’ve just gotten so good at this thing you do, I stopped seeing what you are.”

  He could’ve apologized at that moment. He could’ve stopped the train from derailing, but he didn’t. “What am I?” Isaiah asked quietly.

  “What is he?” Dad asked. “What are you saying?”

  “He’s a liar,” Mom said. “A cheat. It comes so naturally to him.”

  “That’s not fair,” Dad said. “He’s looking after his own future. And for God’s sake, that’s exactly what he should be doing.”

  “By stealing my personal information,” Mom said. “Cornell University has my social security number? They know how much I make? What else, Isaiah?”

  “Nothing,” Isaiah said. “Bank statements. 401(k). Et cetera.”

  Mom was trembling. Tears were getting thick in her eyes. “Oh, brilliant. Makes no difference to you, though, does it? Go ahead and lie, pretend you’re a good kid, make me believe in you.”

  “Tammy. Come on, calm down,” Dad said.

  “But you’re not a good kid, are you? You’re the same lying piece of shit you always were,” she said to Isaiah. “You learned to play me, but you’re just the same.”

  Since sophomore year, when Dad unceremoniously left the house, Isaiah and his mom had become a unit. Yes, Isaiah told her what she wanted to hear. No, he didn’t express his darker thoughts to her. But still, they grew close. Legitimately close. They had a movie night every week. They went to England together for ten days a summer ago. They spent a week one Christmas at a golf resort in Scottsdale, Arizona (strange, as neither played golf). The rift from before healed. Isaiah knew his mother manipulated him. And he wasn’t honest with her all the time. But he forgave her for losing her mind when Hannah died. He forgave her for treating him badly when he was a messed-up fourteen-year-old who needed love more than anything. He knew she was hurt like he was hurt. She had caused him pain, but he loved her, and he felt empathy for her. He forgave her.