The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records (9 page)

“You look different today,” said Agnes. It was the second time in one day someone had told him that.

“You're very pale. Come here and let me see your tongue.”

“No, I'm fine, yeah, really, no, never been better,” mumbled Lee all the way to his bedroom. Agnes and Rhonda looked at one another.

Rhonda shrugged. “He's been acting
weird
all day.” She wiped her perspiring forehead. “Can I get out of this ugly thing now?”

Lee was relieved to find that Rhonda wasn't joining them for dinner that night. During the meal, Agnes kept a suspicious eye on Lee. He knew she was dying to ask him what was up— he was way too quiet for her liking—but he just didn't have the energy to talk about it. Instead, he said: “Bass the putter, please.” That usually got a smile out of her. Today she just raised an eyebrow and passed the butter with one of her “you're not fooling me” looks.

“Your mother tells me you're going to a football game tonight, Sonny.”

“Soccer,” said Lee.

Agnes waved an impatient hand—soccer, football, he knew it was all the same to her.

“Matter of fact,” said Lee looking at his watch, and pushing his chair away from the table, “I'd better get going if I want to be on time. Thanks for supper. See ya later.” The game wasn't for another hour, but Agnes didn't need to know that. Besides, he'd caught a whiff of Agnes's banana brick baking in the oven and his day had been heavy enough without adding a ten-pound slice of that stuff on top.

He went outside and waved the leash at Santiago. “Come on, girl.” She came bounding toward Lee and he snapped the chain onto her collar, slipped the leash over the handlebar of his bike, and jumped on. Santiago gave one of her “
Yes
!” yips and ran alongside the bike. The soccer complex wasn't more than a twenty-minute ride from his house, so he pedaled slowly and tried to let the breeze blow the film of this crappy day from his skin. When he got there, he locked his bike to the chain-link fence and ambled over to the empty stands. He sat at the far end of the lowest bleacher so he could keep Santiago in the grass beside him. There was still loads of time, so, what the heck, he unclipped the leash and let Santiago run free for a while.

It felt kind of good sitting there in the sun, watching his dog chase butterflies and dandelion fluff. Lee made a frame with his thumbs and index fingers, looked through the imaginary movie lens, and panned the length of the field, ending with a close up of Santi—who by now was licking her butt, of all things. Typical.

Lee let his shoulders relax. The sun felt like a soothing hand against his back. “Buck up, kid,” he could almost hear it saying. “Things could always be worse.” Lee sighed when he noticed the fresh deposit Santiago had thoughtfully left in the middle of the soccer field. Great. Not a pooper-scooper or a plastic bag in sight. Lee fished a potato-chip bag from a nearby trashcan and started toward the healthy-sized heap.

He was just about to bend down and take care of the problem when he heard a voice from behind. “Hey,
Ein
stein!”

Double great. Lee closed his eyes. He recognized the voice: Martin Bassinger—Martin Pain-In-The-Neck Bassinger from his math class.

“What're you doing in my neck of the woods?” asked Martin, tossing a baseball and catching it neatly in his glove.

“You live around here?” said Lee.

“'Cross the street,” said Martin. “Just killing time till Charlotte shows up.” He gave a sly smile. “Homework, know what I mean?”

Triple great, thought Lee. Charlotte was all he needed now. Was there a full moon, or what?

“I'm just giving my dog a run,” said Lee. He had no intention of saying anything about the soccer game. With any luck, Martin would wander back home to wait for Charlotte and he'd be left to watch the game in peace.

Martin stood there, tossing the ball for a second, as if making up his mind whether or not to say something. Lee was relieved when he saw him start a slow saunter away. He waited for it, though—yep, here it comes, thought Lee, as he watched Martin slow down and turn to say something.“Nice performance this afternoon, Einstein. It was worth the look on old Wood-tic's nerdy-turdy face.”

Lee had no idea if that was meant as a compliment or a jab, and really, he could have cared less. It took him a while to maneuver the dog poo into the potato-chip bag. There was no way he could turn the greasy little thing inside out, so he had to use a stick to coax the poop into the bag. Argh. He was nearly at the garbage can at the other end of the field when he heard the last voice on earth he wanted to hear.

“Do you share?”

“Huh?” He looked at gorgeous Charlotte Bailey, eyeing his potato-chip bag.

“Come on, just one,” she said. “Salt 'n' vinegar's my favorite.”

The way she said it almost gave Lee the dizzying feeling that gorgeous Charlotte Bailey was
flirting
with him, but of course, that was about as likely as
Iron Man
magazine phoning him up for a photo shoot.
Yeah, Lee, we'll pay you a thousand bucks for just one picture of you and those amazing pecs …

Lee suddenly gave his head a shake and realized what Charlotte was asking for. Oh, no. He quickly hid the poo-filled salt 'n' vinegar bag behind his back, all too aware of what he looked like: a two-year-old, too spoiled to share his potato chips. But what was he supposed to do? He stared at her and swallowed hard. No words came. Big surprise.

Gorgeous Charlotte Bailey looked at Lee as if there was something seriously wrong with him and walked away, shaking her head. Lee's shoulders drooped nearly to his knees. He watched for a while as Charlotte left the park and headed for Martin's house. “Santi?” he said, still looking at Charlotte's beautiful backside. “You wanna know what Charlie Chaplin once said?” He glanced at Santiago's uncomprehending eyes. “Give me a break,” he said. “You know … Chaplin? The little dude with the mustache and bowler hat? Used to twirl a stick? Whatever. The guy said, ‘Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.'” Lee squatted, held Santiago's sloppy jowls in his hands, and looked into her eyes. “You think I'll ever look back on this and laugh?”

Santiago gave a woof.

“Nope,” said Lee, “neither do I.”

Lee thought about the beginning of this day that seemed so full of possibility. “I'm fine,” he said to himself, wishing he could believe it. “I'm totally freakin' fine.”

It was then he saw the ribbon that had fallen from Charlotte's ponytail and slipped to the grass like a silky secret. He raced over, picked it up, raised his hand in the air. He opened his mouth, but her name got caught in his throat. Lee looked at the purple ribbon in his hand, lifted it to his nose (oh gosh, no, the smell of wildflower shampoo), and stuffed the ribbon in his pocket without saying a word.

Gravitation can not be held responsible for people falling in love.

– Albert Einstein

You don't get to choose, you just fall.

– Unknown

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

If winning isn't everything, why do they keep score?

Vincent Lombardi

Soon, members from both teams started arriving in twos and threes. When Slang showed up on the other side of the field, Lee saw him shade his eyes and search the stands. When he spotted Lee, he whistled with his fingers and waved. That cheered Lee a little. He watched the team go through their drills. It was a thing of beauty, really. Slang controlled that ball as if he were the master and it the loyal servant, ready to do anything he wished. His moves seemed so effortless, but of course they weren't. Lee wasn't stupid enough to believe that skill like that came without years of hard practice. Still, Slang seemed
born
to connect with that ball.

Santiago just about went bonkers when the game finally began. Lee had to hold tight to the leash or she would have been on that field racing after the ball with the best of them. And she wasn't the only one who was swept away. When Slang got a breakaway in the first ten minutes of the game and scored a wicked-beautiful goal, Lee leapt to his feet with the rest of the crowd, and the contagious rush of excitement was enough to make him forget all about Charlotte Bailey and the salt 'n' vinegar poop incident. It even made him dare to think that maybe this day didn't have to be a write-off after all. That, maybe, just maybe, it could end as spectacularly as it had begun.

Lee watched as Slang's teammates mobbed him after the goal and bombarded him with a storm of back-whacks and high-fives. Those who were too far away raised fists of victory in his direction—“Way t'be, Kischuck!” The ball was brought back to the center line and the ref started the new play with his whistle. Bing-bang, back and forth, a tackle here, a tricky deke there,
oooof
!—a body-check, a whistle for rough play. The speed! Lee found his jaw hanging open half the time.

It took the other team twelve minutes and a few dirty plays to finally break through the Eagles defense and score a goal of their own. At the time, Slang was taking his turn on the bench, but Lee could see that he was just about busting out of his skin to get back out onto the field. When he finally did, he was like a dynamo possessed. He quickly got possession of the ball, faked out his opponent with some fancy footwork, and passed to a forward who took a shot on goal. The goalie dove toward the ball, deflecting it with the tips of his fingers. Slang took the rebound on his forehead and sent the ball sailing smoothly over the downed goalie.

Man, oh man! When that happened, the old guy beside Lee jumped up so fast his popcorn went flying through the air like confetti. Then he turned and hugged Lee, just about lifting his feet from the ground. “Oh Lord, look at me,” he apologized when he realized he'd just hugged a complete stranger. “Sorry, kid,”—he straightened the cap on Lee's head—“it's just, well, that's my son out there. He's something, isn't he?” The man didn't wait for a reply. His attention was back on the field and his son, and for a while, Lee watched his beaming profile instead of the action.

Slang's dad, eh? Hmm, pretty nice that some people get to grow up with one of those. He noticed another player's father filming the game with a video camera—not an i
mag
inary one, either. Thank goodness we're not
all
nutballs, thought Lee. Maybe it was the sight of those proud fathers, or maybe just the crappy day catching up with him, but it was about then that Lee began to notice something wrong with his mouth. Not his mouth, exactly, but his
smile
. It felt like it was pasted on his face, like he had to concentrate on keeping it there, or it would just slide right off.

Lee squatted down and pressed his forehead to Santiago's. “What's up with me?” he whispered. Then he spoke to her telepathically, like he often did.
We're here at a soccer game, Santi, and we're winning, and Slang is flying, and I'm thinking about my mouth?
Santiago barked and broke away to sniff at another chained dog, who was far more interesting than Lee at that moment. Lee sighed, straightened up, and tried to concentrate on the play.

As the game continued, the Eagles held onto their win, the fans roared, Mr. Kischuck spilled more popcorn, and Lee should have been flying higher than a kite in a windstorm. He tried telling himself he was: I am. I'm fine. I'm higher 'n a kite. To prove it, he attacked Santiago the way he always did when he was in an extra good mood. He scruffed her behind the ears, let her lick his face, and talked to her out loud this time. “This is the
best
, eh, Santi?! Are those guys un
believable
, or what?” But as the words slipped from Lee's mouth, they made him feel like a big fat phony. Not that he didn't mean what he said; he did. He just didn't have the fire inside to back it up. He got the feeling that if someone had opened his mouth wide enough just then and yelled inside: “Hey, anybody home?” the resounding echoes would have gone on forever …
Anybody home … body home … body home … body home?
Hollow as a dead fly on a December windowsill, that's how he felt. That's what this day had reduced him to. For the rest of the game, Lee went through the motions—clapping, smiling, enduring Mr. Kischuk's big bear hugs. But he couldn't fool Santi. She pushed her snout under Lee's hand and nudged his butt and gave the kind of half-yip, half-whine that usually got her some attention and a few reassuring pats on the belly. But Lee hardly noticed her. The more he watched the unbelievable talent of the players on the field, the more his own little “Technicolor marathon high” of this morning seemed like some kind of idiotic joke.

After the game, Lee summoned every last bit of energy he had to look happy when Slang came striding toward him.

“Hey, that was amazing, Slang! You're the best!”

“Yeah? You think so?” said Slang faking a punch to Lee's shoulder. “Well, let me tell you something, little bro: I think you must be my good luck charm. You'd better be here for the next game, you hear?”

Lee just smiled.

“You okay?” said Slang. “You look kind of …”

“I'm f …” Lee stopped. He couldn't say the word “fine” one more time today. “I'm f … eeling kind of tired,” said Lee. “You know, the marathon and everything.”

“Know what you mean, man. Do you need a ride?”

“No, thanks, I've got my bike. See ya, Slang.”

“Hey,” called Slang, “you've got my phone number, right? Next game's a week today!”

Lee just gave a backward wave and headed for his bike.

I'm not always depressed: only when I think and feel.

– Ashleigh Brilliant

When the morning's freshness has been replaced by the weariness of midday, when the leg muscles give under the strain, the climb seems endless, and suddenly nothing will go quite as you wish—it is then you must not hesitate.