Food, Girls, and Other Things I Can't Have (9 page)

There are two bulletin boards on the wall, each with a clump of students around them, jocks on one side and cheerleaders
on the other. If I saw a group like this last year, I’d run in the other direction. Now I’m right in the middle of them. Welcome to the new world order.

I stand behind the jocks, afraid to get too close to the piece of paper. What if my name is on it? What if it’s not? And why do jocks do this whole thing in public? Couldn’t they send the results to your house like the SAT? At least then you could fail in the privacy and comfort of your own bedroom.

O. Douglas comes down the hall and casually walks to the front of the crowd. He glances at the paper, grins, then steps back.

“How’d you do?” Cheesy says.

“Made it,” O. says, and brushes his forehead like he’s wiping away sweat. Everyone laughs. The funny thing is that he actually sounds relieved, like it’s possible he might have been cut.

“Get up there,” Rodriguez says to me. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Not really,” I say.

He pushes me towards the front of the crowd, and the guys split down the middle to let me through.

I break into a sweat. An old prayer from Hebrew school pops into my head. I say it silently, and then I remember it’s the prayer for bread. Fabulous. I know one prayer, and it’s for
challah
.

The list is in alphabetical order. I brace myself. Thirty
seconds of public shame, and then I can slink back into the obscurity of Estonian ephemera. I follow the names with my finger, all the way to the bottom where I see:

ZANSKY, ANDREW—CENTER

Holy sweet mother. The bread prayer worked.

“Center what?” I say.

“Center position,” Rodriguez says.

“What’s that mean?”

“That means it’s you and me,” O. says. He mimes like I’m hiking the ball, and he’s grabbing and throwing.

“No friggin’ way,” I say.

The guys laugh. A bunch of them slap me on the back.

“Welcome to the Offense, baby,” Bison says.

“Now you’re part of the O-Line,” Rodriguez says, and the guys grunt and bump chests.

I stand there wide-eyed, taking it all in.

“It’s a rush, isn’t it?” O. says.

I move to the back of the hall, standing with the guys who made it. I notice a few guys who check the list, then walk away really upset. It’s like Dad says—there are winners and losers in the world, it just depends which side fate decides to put you on. Maybe that’s why I feel strange right now. I’ve always been on the other side. I mean I’m a winner in Model UN and on English tests, but that’s not
really winning. That’s like the consolation prize they give a loser on a game show so he doesn’t drive his car into a telephone pole on his way home.

A group of girls scream, and April pops out of the circle of cheerleaders with a big smile on her face. Lisa Jacobs gives her a huge hug. April laughs and snaps her fingers as she dances a kooky dance. Korean girl gone wild. I wave to her across the hall, and she comes over to me.

“Hey,” she says. “Did you make the team?”

“You’re talking to the new center,” I say.

“What’s the center do?”

“I’ll let you know in about a week.”

April laughs. “Well, I guess we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other,” she says.

Lisa Jacobs rushes past and jumps into O.’s arms. They start making out like crazy two feet away from April and me, sucking face so loud it sounds like a kid drinking from the bottom of a juice container.

“Celebratory tongue,” April says.

“Delicious,” I say.

“And low in calories.”

I’m hoping April will be overcome with emotion and give me some celebratory tongue. Instead she rolls her eyes.

Suddenly a girl screams and bursts into tears over by the list.

“That’s so sad,” April says.

“Not everyone has what it takes.”

“That’s kind of a jerky thing to say.”

She’s right. I do sound like a jerk. It’s just that when you’re laughing and joking with the winners, it’s hard to care too much about the losers. They kind of fade into the background.

“Sorry about that,” I say. “I meant that you deserve it. You worked really hard. And you’re great.”

“That’s sweet,” she says. “Thanks, Andrew.”

She smiles at me, but no tongue.

“Get it while it’s hot,” the Necks says. He walks through the crowd handing out papers. He gives me one, but he looks in the other direction like I’m not there.

The top of the paper says:
Consent to Participate in Intramural Athletics
.

“What’s this?” I ask Cheesy.

“No big deal,” he says. “You have to have your folks sign it.”

“Why?”

“In case you die. They can’t sue the school.” He laughs.

“Shut up, fool,” Rodriguez tells him.

Cheesy says to me, “I was just kidding, dude. Don’t get your sack in a knot.”

I read quickly through the consent form. I’m not thinking about dying. I’m thinking about something much worse.

Living.

There’s no way Mom is going to sign the form. Which means I’m going to be the first guy in history who makes the football team and can’t play because his Mommy won’t let him. When that gets around, I’m going to be what Eytan calls an NSG.

No Sex Guaranteed.

hurry plus.

I’m sitting in Finagle Bagels with the iPhone to my ear, waiting for Dad to come on the line. I take a deep breath. Is there anything that smells better than baking bread? It’s as close to heaven as you can get in this world. It’s like the air loves you.

“Everything okay?” Dad says after his secretary puts me through.

Dad’s got that “hurry” tone in his voice. He almost always has that hurry tone, but when he’s in the office, it’s like hurry plus, as if he expects you to kick it into high gear.

“I need to talk to you about school,” I say.

“How’s that going?”

“The year is off to a great start.”

“Great start, huh?” Dad’s voice perks up. “You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”

“Not exactly.”

“You sly dog. You have two. You’re playing the end against the middle.”

I want to hang up. I want to tell Dad I can’t talk to him anymore, that I’m out of minutes for the month.

“Like father like son,” I hear Dad saying, but I missed what he said before that.

“I have some good news, Dad. I’m playing football this year.”

“You in a weekend league or something?”

“Varsity football.”

There’s silence on the line.

“I don’t know what to say, Andrew. This is … stupendous news.”

“You have to come to games.”

“Absolutely.” Dad pauses. “Did I hear you correctly? You said ‘varsity’?”

“Varsity. That’s right.”

“Son of a gun. I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years.” Dad calls out to the office: “My son made varsity!”

I hear people congratulating him in the background. Great news. You’ve got a jock now.

“I need a favor, Dad.”

“You want some equipment money?”

That reminds me of what Mom said about the check. But now is not the time.

“I need you to sign a form,” I say.

Dad’s voice instantly changes. “What kind of form?”

He sounds suspicious. Dad’s an attorney. He doesn’t sign forms without a million questions.

“It’s a consent form,” I say. “Giving me permission to play.”

“What did your mother say about this?”

“She doesn’t know yet. I wanted to tell you first.”

I smile, even though Dad can’t see me. I read a
Psychology Today
article that said your voice changes when you smile, and people are more inclined to believe you.

“What about your asthma?” Dad says.

“Not an issue.”

“You’re sure.”

“More than sure,” I say.

I take another deep breath so Dad can hear how clear my lungs are. I catch a whiff of bagels fresh from the oven. Ten seconds later a tray of hot sesame bagels comes out of the back. My nose is a genius. No doubt about it.

The girl holds the bagels over the wire rack and shakes, and they drop into the bin. I reach for my wallet.

“I’ll be happy to sign the form,” Dad says. “As long as your mother agrees.”

“She agrees.”

“You just said you haven’t told her.”

“I meant she will agree.”

I walk up to the counter. I point at the hot bagels and make a “two” sign with my fingers. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself.

Dad says, “I don’t need any problems, Andrew. There’s already enough tension in this family.”

“There won’t be any problems.”

“Cream cheese?” the girl says.

“No,” I say silently. I love cream cheese, but with a hot bagel, it’s just distracting.

Dad says, “All right then. Have your mom sign it, then I’ll sign it.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Dad doesn’t say good-bye. That’s a waste of money. His picture simply goes from big to tiny on my iPhone. Call over.

I bite into the first bagel, feel the crunch as my teeth pass through the crust into the soft, hot dough beneath. I know I’ve got problems, but I can’t worry about them now. Right now my mouth is busy, and that makes life seem good.

mini miracle required.

It’s six o’clock, and Mom’s cooking mini sausages for a party tomorrow. Sometimes she cooks right through dinner, turning down the heat briefly, running over to the table to take a few bites, then running back to the kitchen to stir. She says it relaxes her. It makes the rest of us tense.

“How was UN?” Mom asks.

“Incredible,” I say. “I’m heading up the Defense Committee.”

I feel my stomach turn over. I haven’t figured out how I’m going to handle that little issue yet. My bowels might get me out of one or two UN sessions, but an entire semester? I’d have to take a dump the size of Faneuil Hall and make a video to prove it to Eytan.

Mom lifts a sausage to her mouth, blows on it twice, then thinks better of it. She holds it out to me on the end of a fork.

“Are these too spicy?” she says.

I pop the sausage in my mouth and feel the burst of hot grease. It’s sweet with an overlay of spicy. Mom at her very best.

“It’s perfect,” I say. “You’re perfect.”

“Thank you, sweetie.” Mom giggles like a little girl. She loves a compliment almost as much as Jessica.

“What do you think about sports, Mom?”

“Your grandmother had a cancerous mole removed. You can’t be too careful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Spots. You have to be vigilant. Cancer runs in our family,” Mom says.

“I said
sports
, Mom. You know, like tennis?”

“Please, Andrew. I know what tennis is.”

“What do you think about me playing sports?”

The pan sizzles. Mom shakes it hard.

“What sport do you want to play?” Mom says.

“Something that would help me get some exercise.”

“You mean like bowling?”

“Bowling, baseball, whatever.”

“What about your asthma?”

The asthma again. My whole family is waiting for me to die. Unbelievable.

“I haven’t had an asthma attack in years,” I say.

Not a full-scale one, at least. Mini ones. Two puffs on the
inhaler and I’m fine. But I don’t want Mom to remember any of that.

“I don’t know,” Mom says. “It worries me.”

Mom removes the sausages, placing them on paper towels to drain the fat. I wish I could drain my fat. I’d lay on a giant, triple-absorbent towel at 306.4 lbs., then stand up at 180.

“I want to play so I can lose some weight,” I say. “That’s all it is.”

It’s hard for Mom to argue with reasoning like that.

“Why don’t you try walking to school in the mornings?” Mom says.

“I hate walking to school.”

“My point is, you don’t have to play sports in order to lose weight. You could do something less dangerous. Maybe you could work out with your sister.”

Jessica speed walks around the neighborhood. Mom doesn’t know it, but she puts weights on her ankles under her pants so she’ll burn extra calories. Sometimes she wears them in the house, too, but she puts her socks over them so we won’t notice.

“Forget it,” I say. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“Don’t yell at me,” Mom says. “I’m worried about you. Remember, I’m the one who rushed you to the hospital when you had an attack.”

“That was when I was eight!”

“You had to get an emergency shot of adrenaline. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Your father wasn’t around. He was working. No surprise. But I was there, Andy. I saw what can happen.”

Mom drops raw, pink pork into the pan and it sizzles in protest.

I have the consent form in my back pocket, but I don’t even bother to take it out.

wide awake and dreaming.

“Slow your roll,” Coach says as I jog onto the field. He holds out his hands like he wants something.

“What?” I say.

“I didn’t get your form. In my mailbox by ten a.m., latest. That’s what I told you.”

“I forgot it at home.”

“You forgot it, huh?” Coach scratches his chin. “What else are you going to forget?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you going to forget to show up for games?”

“No.”

“Will you forget the plays?”

I don’t know what the plays are, but I say, “No, Coach.”

“Maybe you’ll forget to protect your quarterback? The bad men will come running at you, and you’ll start to breathe fast and your little heart will go pitter-patter in your chest, and
you’ll forget that you’re a football player. Is that what I can expect from you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“The form is signed, right?”

“Of course.”

“Bring it tomorrow,” Coach says.

“Will do,” I say.

But there’s no way I can bring it tomorrow. Mom won’t sign, and Dad won’t sign without Mom. Maybe Coach will get busy with other things and he’ll forget. Maybe I can stage a
Mission Impossible–
style break-in, steal the file cabinet, and drop it in the Charles. Maybe we’ll have a late season nor’easter and the school will be destroyed—

“Zansky!”