by Bryan Bliss
But here I am in the middle of a crowded Applebee’s, giving Ben dagger eyes and not thinking twice about it.
“Guys, c’mon—it was pretty sad to see all those names. And then Coach O? Jesus.” Tyler tries to get me to relax, but the blood is moving and I’m not sure I can control it.
“I’m just saying, Eleanor is usually so . . .” Ben swiped his hand down in front of his face, wiping all emotion. “Like, you’re stone-cold on the court. Shit, I was just messing around. Sorry.”
I know he’s backing down, but it doesn’t matter.
“Do you know what it’s like tiptoeing around all the time? Do you know what it’s like making sure that you never show any kind of emotion because people think you’re about to . . . I don’t know . . . start a fucking revolution when you just have your damn period?”
“Gross,” Ben said.
“Dude,” Tyler said. “C’mon.”
I stand up and for a moment, both Ben’s and Tyler’s faces go white. Maybe they think I’m actually going to raise my voice, my fist in the air—I don’t even know. Instead, I walk out of the restaurant and keep moving until I get to Tyler’s car, so hot it doesn’t matter that all I’m wearing is a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of track pants. I pull myself up onto the trunk and sit there watching the traffic come and go from the stoplight, trying to cool off.
Tyler comes out and leans against his car, watching the traffic, too. A few seconds later, he takes his coat off and puts it around my shoulders.
“I didn’t know you felt that way,” he says. “That you can’t, you know, feel anything.”
“I feel things,” I say. “I feel things all the time.”
“Don’t I know it,” Tyler says, smiling.
“Shut up,” I say. “It’s just, damn. I think I’m allowed to cry. To be angry.”
“Of course you are. And I’m sorry if, you know, I kind of make you feel that way.” He isn’t looking at me when he adds, “Do I do that?”
Most of the time, Tyler is pretty good about tending my feelings. Or at least, making the effort to figure out what is wrong—even when I don’t know, or can’t explain. But at the same time, over the last year, an unspoken threat has clouded every interaction between us. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stick around if I kept choosing to go on television. To become a Twitter presence. To become the Face of a Generation.
And while I can’t blame him—who wants to be second fiddle to all that?—can you really say you care about somebody’s feelings when you essentially won’t engage with the most prominent thing in their life?
“Sometimes,” I say, turning to face him. “And hey, listen. I get it. Everything that happened? Sometimes I feel like . . .”
I don’t want to say the next part—that sometimes I feel cheated. Not that I want fame. What I want is a chance to scream and keep screaming until there’s nothing left. Until I am completely empty. And then—then—go back to being Eleanor the basketball star. The good girl. Tyler’s girlfriend.
Tyler already knows all of this, though. And he takes it on the chin, with a smile.
“You want me to take you home?”
I say yes.
The next morning I know something is wrong as soon as I walk into the living room and find Mom and Dad staring at the laptop. They snap it shut and ask me to come and sit next to them on the couch, which means it’s something really bad.
“You guys aren’t getting divorced, are you?”
I laugh; they don’t.
“There was another post,” Mom says.
I take the laptop from Dad, who hesitates a second before letting me have it. And when I open it, the familiar archaic site design of Right-Wing Report is on the screen in all its trolling red, white, and blue glory.
There’s a picture of me, blown up so that it nearly fills the entire screen. I’m crying. Above it, the headline reads, “Eleanor Boone Can’t Stay Away from the Spotlight.” The article, which is really only a few sentences, claims the tears are manufactured—another calculated decision in my attempt to steal guns, the Constitution, and maybe even God from all the good people of this country.
I close the laptop and look at Dad.
“You can stay home from school if you want.”
“It might be for the best,” Mom says.
I shake my head.
I want to add, fuck those guys but that would change the tenor of the conversation completely and put the spotlight on me in a different and decidedly more parental way. But that’s how I feel right now, nothing short of fuck those guys.
“The only people who read Right-Wing Report at school are the Future Farmers of America dudes and that one gym teacher,” I say, trying to blow it off. But when their concern doesn’t disappear, I try a different tact.
“I don’t want anybody to think that this bullshit even registers with me,” I say. “Not even a blip.”
Mom clucks a bit at bullshit, but I can tell Dad is proud of what I just said. And it’s true. While staying home does sound nice—streaming nineties sitcoms and maybe convincing Mom to take me to Carol’s for breakfast—people would immediately think it was the article that kept me here.
And right or wrong, I’m not going down like that.
“I’m going to go shower and get ready,” I say.
By the time I’m inside school, I’m pretty sure nobody has seen the picture except Tyler, who comes storming up to me red-faced and ready to fight the first person who mentions it.
“You’re not a fighter, babe,” I tell him. “And surprisingly, not a lover, either.”
When it doesn’t puncture his anger and frustration, I reach over and pull him toward me, the way he always does for me.
“Seriously. It reminds me of my favorite Bible verse—And the Lord smiteth all those bitches.”
Still nothing.
“That’s from the little-known Boone translation,” I say. “Hugely popular in the square states.”
Finally, he smiles.
“You were crying about Coach O! It’s so ridiculous.”
In some ways, his outrage is cute. But it’s also frustrating. This is what I live with every day. Every single time I walk into a grocery store or restaurant, some gun-toting Real American is giving me the eyes. Sure, the clickbait article and picture are bad, but a day later they’re usually gone. The looks and the whispers never stop. And if he hasn’t noticed, what does that say about him?
The bell rings and Tyler glares up at the speaker like he’s never heard the sound before.
“Hey, forget it. Just try to make it through the day without starting a fight, okay?”
By the time lunch comes and I see Tyler walking into the cafeteria with Ben, I’m certain nobody has actually seen the article and, as a result, Tyler won’t end up being suspended or arrested. When they sit down, though, he’s still angry—and surprisingly, so is Ben.
“Listen, I’m no Democrat,” Ben says. “But that’s just bullshit, okay? It makes me wish I was a hacker so I could redirect the site to, like, a picture of a person taking a giant shit. Because that’s all that site is. A huge piece of shit.”
“I appreciate that passionate and perhaps unnecessarily explicit defense,” I say. “But honestly, it’s just the same thing on a different day. If you really want to get upset, just Google my name. On second thought, don’t do that. You two might combust.”
“What should we do?” Tyler asks.
“Eat lunch. Never mention the site to me again,” I tell them.
But it’s obvious they want to keep talking about it, to work themselves up even more and, honestly, I’m too tired to care about anything the mouth-breathers from Right-Wing Report might have to say about me or, you know, pretty much anything.
“I’m going to shoot some baskets,” I announce, not giving them a chance to respond or, hopefully, follow. Once I’m in the gym, empty and quiet, I grab a ball, strip off my hoodie, and put up maybe the prettiest jump shot that’s ever been taken in the history of bas
ketball.
From that moment on, it’s just my hand on the leather, the release, and the snap of the net. Losing myself until the bell rings and, sweating and likely smelling pretty bad, I pull on my hoodie and run to my next class, not giving a damn about whether I’m late, any of it.
After practice I walk into the house and find Mom and Dad smiling like they’ve won the lottery, which honestly would solve a lot of problems, the more I think about it. Instead, Dad holds his hands out wide and says, “How about we go out to dinner tonight? Anywhere you like.”
“Wait. Did you win the lottery?”
They both stare at me for a second.
“Your dad won a bid,” Mom says, and this, honestly, is better than winning the lottery. I drop my bag onto the ground and run over to give Dad a hug.
“What? Oh my God! For who? Where?”
“Nothing huge,” he says, downplaying his obvious excitement. “But it’s solid work for the next two months and that’s a start.”
He looks at Mom and they both smile and, damn, it’s maybe the best thing I’ve seen in my entire life.
“I won’t mess this up,” I say.
Dad’s smile drops from his face and he holds me at arm’s length. “What did you say?”
“I won’t mess this up,” I say again. “I know all of this is my fault and I won’t mess it up, I promise.”
“Eleanor, it’s not your fault,” he says, pulling me back toward him for a hug. “It’s their fault. This entire damn town’s fault. You’re a kid. A kid who went through something terrible. And instead of trying to understand it, they . . . well, they did what they did.”
He squeezes me once and announces that we’re going to Red Lobster, which is the height of fine dining according to my parents. Whenever it comes up, Dad always says, “They’ve got actual live lobsters swimming around—right there in the waiting area!” All impressed. And honestly, I still don’t know if he’s kidding or not, because every time I think about those poor lobsters, it all feels kind of twisted.
But once we’re in the car, I’m not thinking about those lobsters one bit. I’m listening to the radio play, my parents talk, as the lights from the interstate pass above me, pulling me down, down, down until I’m asleep, just like when I was a kid on those long road trips up the coast and to the beach. I never remembered falling asleep then, only waking up—the ocean appearing outside our car like a miracle straight from God himself.
Except this time, it’s the red neon lobster on the sign.
And it’s just as good.
Chapter Four
AT BASKETBALL PRACTICE THE NEXT DAY, COACH HARRIS keeps barking at me like I kicked dirt on her dog. I try to ignore her because, like my dad said, she can be a grade-A psychopath most of the time, and you can’t spend too much time trying to figure out what people like that are carrying on about.
And so, I’m not surprised when practice ends and she yells for me to follow her to her office, which must’ve been a closet at some point, because there are no windows and no money for something better, unless you’re the football team, which hasn’t won a game in about two decades.
But hope springs eternal, they say.
Anyway, she’s already behind her desk by the time I get in there, un-showered and still sweating. She motions to the seat in front of her desk as she crumples a piece of paper and sends it toward the garbage can, a perfect shot.
“All right, here we are.” She gives me a quick smile and I already know what this is about.
“I didn’t know they were going to write that article,” I say. “I was crying because it was actually sad to see all those pictures.”
She should know that I’m not the type of person to manufacture emotions of any kind. If I feel it, you know. My freshman year, when I challenged the lackluster leadership of a senior whose play was also lacking, I sat in this same seat and told her that I wasn’t trying to make problems for the team—I was trying to make us better.
And even though our relationship from that point on seemed as hard as granite, somehow, she’s forgotten. Somehow, she now thinks I’m made of less solid stuff—that I’m making myself cry to get the attention of Right-Wing Report.
“I was really crying,” I say again, forcing myself to remain calm.
Coach Harris looks utterly confused. “I’m not sure we’re talking about the same thing, Boone.”
She smiles again, but this time it’s different. Harris pulls out an e-mail she’s printed out and hands it to me.
I see the wolf. The bright-red logo.
“Holy shit,” I say. “NC State?”
“Yep. I spoke with the coach this afternoon. They’re offering you.”
“That’s the ACC,” I say, still unable to process what I’m reading—things like “special player” and “scholarship opportunity.” Before this, I’d had a few Division I schools interested, but mostly in places like Illinois or West Virginia. Not only was this closer to home, NC State regularly played on television. In the tournament.
“You’ve earned this,” Coach Harris says, tapping her desk with a pen. “Now all you have to do is go out there, keep playing hard, and everything’s going to work out.”
“Can I take this?” I ask, showing her the e-mail. It’s the sort of thing that will make Dad cry and Mom want to put it on the refrigerator, even though I’m how-many-years-past great job! stickers.
“Yes, of course. Tell your dad I said hello.” She smirks and then waves me out the door. “Go shower. And hey, Eleanor . . . congratulations. You deserve this.”
I don’t shower—barely remember driving home—so when I burst through the front door like a maniac, Mom shrieks and Dad grabs the side of the table, which might’ve been due to Mom’s reaction, honestly, but they’re both looking nice and panicked. Both saying the same thing.
“What’s wrong?”
But I can’t speak. So before they get Dr. Holston, my therapist, on the phone for an emergency session, I hand Dad the paper and watch as he reads it, finally glancing up at me with a look I’ve been wanting to see my entire life.
You did it.
“What is it, Ronnie?”
But now Dad can’t talk, either, so he hands the paper to Mom, his smile matching mine. It takes Mom exactly three seconds to start screaming and run around the table to suffocate me with a bear hug.
“Oh my God, Eleanor! Congratulations, honey! Can you believe it, Ronnie?”
“The only thing that would’ve been better is if it had been Carolina,” he says.
“Wow, thanks, Dad.”
“I can’t help it if my blood runs Carolina blue, but . . .” He reaches up to wipe away the wetness from his eyes. “I guess I could root for the Wolfpack—just don’t tell my dear old and departed father.”
And he comes over to hug me, too.
“Have you told Tyler yet?”
“No. I wanted you two to know first.”
“That boy’s about to turn in a quick application to State, I can tell you that much.”
I hadn’t considered this. The idea had always been for me to go to the best college I could—and that almost certainly meant leaving the state. At least, that’s what I’d always told Tyler. And so he was planning on going to Appalachian State University, up in the mountains of North Carolina, because I might end up in Southern California and, well, I wouldn’t let him follow me to some no-name college in the name of high school love.
“I should probably go call him,” I say.
“I’m going to call your aunt Penny,” Mom says, pulling her cell phone out and walking into the living room as she waits for Penny to pick up. Before I can leave the room, Dad stops me.
“Hey—congrats, kid.”
When I call Tyler, he picks up on the first ring like he was sitting there waiting for me to call—an image that amuses me. But I don’t get a chance to give him shit for it, because he nearly explodes into the conversation.
“Hey, so, I’m glad you called. Have you been onl
ine?”
“What? No. But wait, I have something big to tell you.”
He pauses. “Okay, well, you should know that, um, something’s going around.”
There have been so many things.
Memes and GIFs and long-winded screeds on social media when somebody either sees the FUCK GUNS picture again or happens upon one of the other commentary pieces months later and decides to make a stink about it somewhere—only made better by the inevitability of Dad seeing it and getting in the comments, which always, always, always makes it worse.
So, I guess I’m saying I’m bombproof now.
“Just tell me,” I say.
Tyler’s voice breaks when he starts to answer, forcing him to stop and clear his throat a couple of times before he tries again.
“It’s those fuckers at Right-Wing Report. They made . . . T-shirts.”
I put Tyler on speaker and drop the phone on my bed as I open my laptop. I don’t have Right-Wing Report bookmarked on principle, but I might as well at this point. While I never comment—again, Dad has given us more than enough reason to avoid that shit show—I also don’t live in fear of what those basement dwellers say. Or more correctly, type. Because none of them would say a damn word to me face-to-face, that much is certain. Nothing but keyboard heroes from front to back.
When the site loads, I’m greeted by my crying face—larger than life and dancing back and forth in an animated GIF. Every couple of seconds, a red crosshair pops up on my face, freezing the image with the sound of a gunshot. Below it a large text balloon pops up that says, “Gotcha!” followed by an offer to buy T-shirts with the image for $19.99, same-day shipping included to any “God-fearing, Republican-voting” state.
I sit there, silent as the GIF plays again and again, until Tyler says, “Eleanor, are you okay?”
I want to slam my laptop against the wall so hard that it wipes the image from their server—from the mind of every person who has seen it, liked it, anything.
“No,” I say, trying not to lose it on Tyler because he’s the closest living, breathing thing I can attack.
I try to breathe.
“You should tell your dad,” he says. But what is that going to do except start World War III?