Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have (17 page)

“Do you want me to go in with you?” she says.

“No way,” I say. I feel guilty enough as it is. Poor Jessica isn’t even in high school, and she’s already in the principal’s office.

“Sit and relax,” I say. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

The second I walk into the office, I know it’s not going to be quick. More like slow and painful. Our principal, Caroline
Whitney-Smith, is sitting with a single white piece of paper in front of her on the desk. Mom and Coach are talking in angry voices. They stop when they see me.

“Are you feeling better?” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.

“Much better,” I say.

She won’t let students call her Mrs. Smith, or even Mrs. Whitney-Smith, because she says it makes her feel like a stranger. We have to say her whole name every time. She calls it a bonding exercise. I call it neurotic.

“Caroline Whitney-Smith and I have been talking,” Mom says.

I stare at the paper on the desk. The consent form.

Caroline Whitney-Smith holds it up. “Why don’t you start by explaining this paper?”

“That’s not my signature,” Mom says.

“How did your mother’s signature get here?” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.

“I put it there,” I say.

Coach looks at me like I just pissed in his whistle. “You forged it,” he says.

“I copied it,” I say.

“Semantics,” Caroline Whitney-Smith says.

She’s right. It’s a stupid thing to say. But you say stupid things in that situation. You think you’re going to be really cool, but you’re not.

For a second I consider bringing O. into it. If I wanted to take him down, this would be a perfect opportunity. But then
I think of him leaning over me pressing the inhaler to my lips, and I can’t do it.

“You’re right. I forged it,” I say.

“I risked everything to give you an opportunity—” Coach says. He suddenly moans, sits back, and rubs his belly. “I’m dying for a Tums,” he says. He looks at Caroline Whitney-Smith. “Do you have a Tums?”

“I do not have a Tums,” she says.

“I have a Tums,” Mom says. She digs in her purse. Mom doesn’t go anywhere without the contents of a medicine cabinet in her purse.

Coach says, “I had no idea, Mrs. Zansky. Otherwise I would not have allowed this to happen.” PYA mode. Smart.

Mom turns bright red. “What if he died out there?”

I put my face in my hands.

“My husband is an attorney,” Mom says. “This will not end here, rest assured.”

Caroline Whitney-Smith picks up the consent form.

“Pardon me, Mrs. Zansky, but is this your husband’s signature?”

Mom stares at the form, then at me, then back at the form.

“That son of a bitch,” she says, and a pack of Tums falls out of her hand and spills onto the floor.

things change.

“How could you not know?” Mom says.

“What do you want from me?” Dad says. “It looks like your signature.”

I’m sitting on the couch in the living room watching Mom and Dad fight. Just like the old days.

“You don’t know my handwriting after all these years?” Mom says.

“I’m sorry I didn’t send it out for expert analysis,” Dad says.

“It doesn’t require an expert,” Mom says, “just a father who pays attention.”

“If we’re going to play the blame game,” Dad says, “I have to point out that I’m the one who knew he was playing football. He felt safe enough to come to me.”

“Exactly,” Mom says. “You’re the irresponsible parent who let your asthmatic son play football.”

“I don’t see why it’s irresponsible to let a boy grow up a little. You can’t coddle him forever.”

“Look at him,” Mom says.

Dad looks at me. They both do.

“Look at his weight,” Mom says.

They both look down at my stomach.

“I hate you,” I say to Mom.

“Hate me all you want,” Mom says. “It’s my job to take care of you. That’s what a parent does.”

“Is this really necessary?” Dad says.

“He needs to hear this.”

“He needs to hear that he’s fat?” Dad says. “He knows he’s fat.”

“I’m going to my room,” I say.

“That’s a good idea,” Dad says. “I’m sorry you have to be a part of this, Andy. Your mom and I obviously have a few things to work out.”

“Stay there,” Mom says to me. She turns to Dad. “This is not your house anymore. You don’t call the shots. As difficult as that may be for you to comprehend.”

Dad takes a deep breath. I can see him trying not to lose his temper, say something he’ll regret later during a settlement negotiation.

“Guys, can I say something, please?” I say.

“No,” Mom and Dad say at the same time.

“He shouldn’t be playing sports in his condition,” Mom says.

“That’s not what the doctor said.”

“How do you know what the doctor said? In fifteen years you’ve never gone to an appointment.”

I say, “Remember how the allergist said it would be good for me to play sports? He said it would expand my breathing capacity.”

He also said we should move to Arizona and I should play a wind instrument, but I don’t mention those things. I spent two miserable years taking clarinet lessons, and I’ve never gotten over it. Fat people should not be forced to play thin instruments. It’s a cruel visual joke.

“That allergist was a long time ago,” Mom says. “Things change.”

“Clearly,” Dad says.

“This is not a conversation about asthma,” Mom says.

“Exactly,” Dad says. “It’s about your misplaced anger.”

“Since when am I angry?” Mom says.

She says it so angrily, it almost makes me laugh.

Dad doesn’t say anything. He goes to the window and looks out through the curtains. The streetlight is on in front of the house, a single pool of light in a black frame.

Dad takes a breath.

“I’m going to New York sooner than planned. Did Andy tell you?”

I hear a gasp from the top of the stairs. Jessica is up there eavesdropping.

“He didn’t mention it,” Mom says.

Mom looks at me. I can see that I’m going to be spending a lot of time in my room in the weeks to come.

“When?” Mom says. Her voice is soft now.

“November first.”

Mom takes a breath. “That’s it, then.”

“Not entirely. I’ll be commuting for a while.”

“Still,” Mom says. “You’re going away.”

“Yes.”

“I wish you well, Edward.”

It gets quiet in the living room. Dad walks slowly to the liquor cabinet where he keeps his scotch. When he opens the door, it’s empty inside.

“Where’s my Glenlivet?” He says.

“Nobody drinks here,” Mom says. “Not anymore.”

Dad runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. He looks at me on the sofa.

“What about his form, Elizabeth?”

“Absolutely not. He almost died out there. I will not sign that form under any circumstances.”

Dad holds his hands out to me. “I tried,” he says.

I look at Mom and Dad standing at opposite ends of the room, their arms crossed.

I tried, too.

Nobody told me you could try your best and still end up failing. They don’t write about that kind of stuff in kids’ books. If they told you that when you were a kid, maybe you wouldn’t grow up.

twisted.

Ugo is roughing up Warner. It’s easy to miss at first because they’re standing really close to each other at the end of the hall. If you didn’t know they were enemies, you might think they were friends sharing a secret together. Except for the fact that Warner’s crying, and Ugo has two fingers clamped on his nipple.

Titty Twister.

I know what that’s like. It hurts like hell, but the worst part is not the pain. It’s the fact that you can’t twist what’s not there. Titty Twisters remind you that you have titties, that you’re a fat kid who maybe deserves to get twisted.

First Eytan, now Warner.

I can’t be sure what this is, but I know what it feels like: Ugo can’t get to me, so he’s targeting my friends. Or my ex-friends. Whatever. I’m sure there’s no difference to him.

The question is, what am I going to do about it? I can keep walking away and spend the semester watching Ugo slaughter the rest of the geeks. Or I can stand up. What would O. do?

“Stop it,” I say to Ugo.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he says.

Warner is crying behind him. Ugo lets go of his nipple and pushes his chest, pinning him against a locker.

“The rest of your team,” Ugo says. “I don’t see them around, either.”

I don’t say anything.

“Which means you have no protection,” he says.

“I don’t need protection. Remember?”

“Is that what you think?” Ugo says. He yawns, entirely unconcerned. Not at all like someone who got his ass kicked last week.

That gets my mind going. I beat Ugo once. It’s true. But I had the element of surprise on my side. What if I can’t do it again? What if I get into real trouble?

Maybe the team comes to back me up. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re pissed at being lied to, and they leave me out here alone. I can’t be sure.

Ugo takes a fast step towards me, and I flinch.

A dark grin spreads across his face. Guys like Ugo, they may not be smart with the books, but they’re smart in other ways. They’re smart with reading people.

And I just gave myself away.

“See you around,” Ugo says, and throws me a little salute.

He gives Warner one more nasty tweak on his nipple, then he slogs down the hall, walking slowly and dragging his feet, making sure his work boots squeak against the linoleum so I can hear every step.

just plain Zansky.

I go in the other direction towards AP History class. I walk down the same hall I’ve been walking down for the last six weeks, but everything feels different.

I try to walk like the old me from freshman year.

Who was I back then?

Smart Andrew. Geek Andrew. Fat Andrew.

I thought I was doing okay in those days. I knew I wasn’t cool, but I didn’t think I was a loser. At least I never felt like a loser when I was hanging out with Eytan.

Of course back then I didn’t know what being a winner felt like.

As I walk, I try to wipe out the memory of everything I’ve learned and seen in the last month.
Eternal Sunshine
my brain. Go back to the beginning when I was just plain Andrew. No love at second sight. No football parties. No hanging out in O.’s backyard.

I take ten steps, walking just like the old me. I’m hoping it will feel familiar and comfortable, but it doesn’t.

It feels like I don’t know who I am anymore.

a feeble attempt to recapture the dream.

I jog onto the field in my football uniform, picking up pace as I pass the cheerleaders. April looks up, surprised.

I glance at my watch. It’s 3:45 and I’m fifteen minutes late for practice, so I’m really going to have to apologize to Coach.

Coach sees me coming. “Zansky!” he calls. He whistles me over.

The Neck watches silently.

“Did your mother change her mind?” Coach says.

“Not exactly.”

“So you don’t have the form?”

“Not yet,” I say.

Coach grits his teeth. “I can’t let you play,” he says.

“It’s in process, Coach.”

“Sorry. They’ll put my ass in a wood chipper.”

“I’ll have it tomorrow.”

Coach puts his arm around me. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, son.”

“Can’t I just practice for one day?” I say.

He takes a step back and twirls his moustache. His voice gets loud. Coach-mode.

“I want you off this field immediately,” he says. “Take some downtime. Hit the books.”

The guys are staring. The cheerleaders are staring. I think about the game on Friday, sitting on the field with oxygen strapped on my face, my mom sitting on the field ten feet away with her own oxygen.

“Please, Coach.” It comes out like a whimper. Desperate. Pitiful.

O. lowers his head.

“It’s out of my hands,” Coach says.

He reaches across and grasps my shoulder for a second. Then he turns his back on me.

private practice.

I walk home from school alone. Even though I’m depressed as hell, I jog a little. I figure just because I can’t practice with the team doesn’t mean I can’t practice on my own.

I imagine I’m on the field and I hear the whistle blow. Coach is watching me. April is cheering. O. is depending on me.

I sprint to the corner. Then I walk a tight circle with my hands on my hips—the guys call it sucking wind—then I sprint again. It feels dumb doing it in my street clothes with a backpack on, but that just makes me push harder.

The longer I do it, the more it seems like a great plan. I’ll have my own private practice every day. I’ll stay in shape until I find a way back onto the field.

I pick a point all the way down the street, and I run there as fast as I can. I’m three quarters of the way when I get a terrible cramp in my ribs, and I have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and grasp my side in pain.

A BMW slows down by the side of the road. The window goes down, and a lady looks at me.

“Excuse me,” she says.

I ignore her, rub my chest.

“Young man?”

“What!” I say, breathless.

“Are you having a heart attack?”

Jesus Christ. A fat kid can’t even stop and breathe in the street without someone calling 911.

“Do you need help?” the lady says.

“Leave me alone.”

I keep walking, trying to rub the pain out of my side. She drives slowly alongside me, watching me carefully.

“I could drive you to the emergency room,” she says.

“Screw you,” I say.

That does it. She rolls up the window and pulls away.

the sound of salad.

My head is filled with the sound of Caesar salad. The crunch of croutons between my teeth. Crisp lettuce being destroyed in my mouth. When I start to think about football, I chew louder. I reach for more croutons to drown out the thoughts.

I’ve had to chew a lot lately to keep up. I’ve spent a week burying April in pizza toppings and crushing O. with pretzels. When I remember the game, I eat chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream by the tablespoonful. I drown the memories in an avalanche of icy cold cream.