Red Dirt Rocker (4 page)

"You just sat down, dude!" I laugh. “It’s only eight thirty in the morning.”

"I know man, but all I had for breakfast was an Egg
McMuffin
and sausage biscuit from Mickey D’s—I'm ready for dessert," Randy reasons with a straight-as-an-arrow face. I swear
,
I can almost see two Snickers bars shining in Randy’s eyes like cherries in a slot machine.

I slap Randy on the shoulder, slide down in my seat and begin to work on my history worksheet. I’ll more than likely have to share my answers with my
bandmates
, mostly because I have a solid “A” in the subject. Jake, Randy and Cody are currently pulling C-minuses, thanks to my generous homework sharing. They’re on their own for the history tests, although most of the time they just write the answers on their hands or Scotch tape them to the bottom of their high-tops and Van’s.

The tardy bell rings and the classroom
gets
quiet. I look one row over at my good friend Zane who looks especially zoned out this morning. I notice the dark, haunting circles under his eyes and I send him a text message on the down low.

We got the gig in Tulsa!!!
you
can ride with me if you want to go-is everything ok at home?

Zane sneaks his cell phone out of his jeans pocket and scans the text. He nods to me with his chin, declaring that this is a good thing as I survey his eyes as best I can behind the veil of long, fine black hair that usually hides his expressions.

The bell rings for second hour. As the classroom begins to empty, I lean into Zane. "See
ya
at lunch man.” I can sense Zane’s melancholy mood as he gives me a thumbs up and tries to muster a semi-smile.
His step-dad must have started in on him already this morning
, I think to myself.

I exit the classroom, and shake my head as I hear Randy’s voice in the distance asking what’s on the lunch menu today.

The last hour of my dragging school day finally arrives. Heather and I walk arm-in-arm to the gymnasium for the pep assembly. PDA is discouraged at school, so I give her a quick hug as the Tiger marching band begins to file by in Noah’s Ark fashion, two by two. Heather stands in front of the trophy case, admiring herself and adjusting her skirt in the reflective glass. Her gaze is interrupted when a clumsy trumpet player, deep in conversation about the movie
Tron
, accidentally bumps into her.

"Hey…watch where you're going,
nerd
!” she yelps loudly.

"Wow, Heather—a bit harsh," I scold under my breath.

"Forrest, he could’ve snagged my cheerleading uniform. He needs to get his glasses checked," she replies while brushing imaginary cooties off her polyester cheer top.

"Well, first off, he wasn’t wearing glasses,” I point out. I have no other words. I just turn and walk away, feeling a sense of discomfort and guilt by association.

If she weren’t so gorgeous…surely she’s just having a bad day
, my thoughts excuse her behavior for now.

As I trot across the gym to take my place with my buddies on the football team, I look down at the free-shot line to see two drum sticks rolling toward my worn, black Converse tennis shoes.

"I'm sorry!" a petite and very cute drummer girl squeaks. She tries in vain to retrieve the sticks in the crowd, but her bulky, oversized, fuzzy band
hat
keeps getting in the way.

"Here
ya
go," I say proudly, as I pick up the sticks and spin one in my left hand. The drummer girl thanks me, giving me one of the sweetest smiles I swear I’ve ever seen.

"You'd better hurry. I really need to get my spirit up for the big game tonight," I tease, pointing to her fellow
bandmates
who have already assembled and are warming up with random squeaks and squawks on their instruments.

We both hesitate for a
second,
staring into each other’s almost matching blue eyes.

What a dad gum cutie!

"Thanks again," she says nervously, wringing her fingers together. She grabs the sticks and disappears quickly into the stands.

“Wow…she’s adorable,” I state out loud to myself, the airy words from my mouth getting lost in the noise of the packed gym.

The pep assembly is rowdy and fun. Heather is the prettiest girl on the cheerleading squad, and is
droppin
’ it like it’s hot to a censored Snoop Dog jam. She’s definitely the center of attention as she swings her shiny pony tail, cascading from an oversized orange
bow
, back and forth like a well- kept show horse at the Muskogee County Fair. She and
D.J
., the football team's quarterback, lead the assembly. As the students, jammed against each other in the bleachers, cheer with them, it’s obvious that Heather and
D.J
. both relish the spotlight.

I
t’s perfect fall weather. Not too hot and not too cold. The air feels crisp and cool. Dad would say it’s the kind of day where you could just smell football in the air. My dad can always smell football in the air. He even has a leather-scented air freshener in his truck, which I’m sure is to make it smell like a brand new football—not a new car.

Dad was a jock back in his day, too. He’s very proud of my athletic ability, and never hesitates to encourage me in anything sports-related. He coached my peewee baseball and football teams and literally never missed a game. I remember the first time Dad helped me put all my equipment on when I was six years old. It was like trying to go out to play in the snow after your mom bundles you up excessively. I was so excited, but could barely move my arms and legs, and looked like a bug with my huge helmet on my little noggin. It’s something you get used to eventually, once you realize your pads and helmet are your lifesavers.

Like Dad, my favorite sport was football. By middle school, I quit baseball, as I’d discovered that the two extracurricular activities that made me happiest were football and music. Now I’m a starting linebacker for my high school team and, on occasion, get to step in for
D.J
. as quarterback. I love leading the team as quarterback, but I know for a fact that
D.J
. becomes resentful when I take over his position.

D.J
. and I used to be good friends when we were in grade school, but he later considered all of life to be a competition. If you were beating him in any part of the game, he was more than likely not going to be your friend.

My buddies tell me that
D.J
. is also jealous of the fact that I’m going out with the most popular girl on the cheer squad. He has his eye on Heather, which creates the perfect recipe for tension soup.

It’s a game day, so football practice is light. Kyle and I make our way out onto the field in shorts and practice jerseys—no pads needed—there will be no full contact during practice today.

As I walk by
D.J
., he just can’t resist the chance to rib me like he usually does.

“Kyle, are you and your
Iady
friend ready for the game tonight?”
D.J
. snickers.

I turn to face him and
D.J
. retracts. "Oh, I'm sorry Forrest. Your hair is
gettin
' so
long,
I thought you were one of the water girls…
niiiiiice
!”

"That's really original,
D.J
.," I respond in a monotone. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a rise, but I’m getting tired of his cheap shots.

"Oh, come on, rock star…I'm just
teasin
'
ya
… where's your sense of humor?"

D.J
. laughs as he jogs by. I’m not amused in the least, and I can tell by Kyle’s face, neither is he.

"Don't worry about him, Forrest.
D.J.’s
got issues. Probably wasn’t cuddled enough by his mommy when he was a baby," Kyle remarks dryly.

"Ah, good one!"
I grin as we slap a high five in front of
D.J
. Now I can tell
it’s
D.J
. who’s not amused.

The team is on the fifty-yard line, walking through some special team plays, when I toss Kyle the football. It’s a perfect rotating spiral. I can’t help but admire the launched football as it torpedoes its way sixty yards through the clear blue sky. Kyle jumps vertically two feet. His sure hands catch the pigskin and firmly cradle it into his chest. He holds the ball over his head and hoops it up. “Yeah baby!” he declares proudly. It was a good throw, but an even better catch.

Kyle is a wide receiver on the Tiger team and an excellent athlete. The coaches think he has a good chance of being recruited to play at one of Oklahoma's universities. He’s a dedicated player with good hands and lightning speed. I’m proud to call Kyle my teammate, and my best bud.

We’ve been friends since we were toddlers. Our parents met when we were still in Pull-ups. We even got to share a birthday party in pre-school. Believe it or not, it was a John Deere tractor party. John Deere is the equivalent of Mercedes Benz in our small town, so it made Kyle and me feel like big-time farmers. We got to go to my Aunt Carmen's farm and ride on the green and yellow combine tractor that had an air conditioner and cassette player. A Kenny Rogers tape played “You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille” as Kyle and I made a couple of rounds in the soybean field. Mama still displays the framed picture of Kyle and me decked out in our overalls, holding our little toy tractors. We’ve shared a lot of fun memories. I’m sure we’ll be friends for life.

Kyle and I continue to play catch and talk about our upcoming game. I can see
D.J
., and the team's center, Sam, whispering and elbowing each other. They look like they are up to no good, and are mysteriously pointing in our direction.

Sam is
D.J’s
"yes" man. He’ll do almost anything that
D.J
. dares him to do. His nickname is "Box," because he’s built like a sturdy square—just as wide as he is tall. He weighs around 275, and is only five and a half feet tall. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he can sure hold the line. Box is a massive, dull-witted beast!

Kyle throws me back a bomb and I stretch for the pass that’s just a bit too far over my head. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Box barreling towards me like a charging bull. His fat arms wrap around my waist and both my feet lift off the ground. I feel like a helpless rag doll as he makes his blindside tackle.

Everything seems to be moving in slow motion. I hold my left hand out to catch myself and wrench my wrist into the dry turf. It takes me a few seconds to realize what has just happened. Knots build up quickly in my gut.

Box stands up and brushes himself off. His fat rolls ooze out of the bottom of his jersey, like flesh-colored Jell-O.
D.J
. stands off to the side, with his head cocked back, laughing hysterically.