Dairy Queen

  And let me say this: of everything that's happened to me this crazy, stupid summer, in that one second that we looked at each other, that's when I felt I grew up the most. And I'll just tell you now, it's not ... it's not a particularly pleasant sensation.

  Brian turned and walked away with his team back to their bus, and Red Bend headed off too, the guys in groups of twos and threes, stopping to cheer with people who'd come onto the field. Beaner had his arm around my shoulders, which was nice except that he kept howling, which made it a little hard to maintain a conversation.

  And then in the distance I saw someone and did a double take because she looked so different with her hair brown, and then I took a deep breath and told myself that if I could play a football game I could handle this, and I made my way through the crowd to Amber.

  "Hey," I said, coming up beside her, all out of breath.

  "Hey. Good game."

  "Thanks," I said, so glad she was talking to me. "I didn't think you'd be here."

  She shrugged.

  The woman next to her, or the girl—sort of between the two, if you know what I mean—shook my hand. "Hey. Amber's told me a lot about you." She had this really cool voice, kind of crackly.

  "D.J., this is Dale," Amber explained. "She works in the meat department at the Super Saver."

  "Awesome game. You totally rocked out there!"

  I shrugged, trying not to make too big a deal out of it and also because I didn't know what to say.

  "You know," Dale continued, "we should go partying sometime, the three of us."

  "Sure," I said, wondering if the partying would involve Advil. "That'd be fun."

  "So ... we'll see you around?" Amber asked, and I nodded and they ambled away.

  I tried with my little beat-up brain to figure out what was different about Amber. Besides the fact that her hair wasn't orange anymore and all. I finally figured it out: she looked happy. I guess I hadn't seen her like that. Ever, really.

  And I was happy for her. I really was. But for one thing, I hurt all over. I had a bruise on my thigh that killed me whenever I moved, and my back ached, and I'd done something to my right shoulder during a tackle that made me not want to move my arm too much. But more than that, well, you have to admit it's kind of ironic. I mean, here we are in Nowhere, Wisconsin, and Amber Schneider manages to hook up with someone, someone who actually seems pretty cool and okay. And, well, I don't.

  Just then Mom found me to say that there was a reporter looking for me, and even though that would make almost anyone in the world really happy, I knew that if I had to talk to that person the only thing I would do was burst into tears.

  "Mommy," I said with all the energy I had, "I just want to go home."

  And Mom, God bless her, she understood. She got me over to the Caravan and I stood there stripping off all that goddam gear while Bill and Dad and Aaron shot the breeze like there hadn't even been a seven-month silence between them. Well, not with Aaron, but you get my point. Bill and Aaron had to get back to school right away—Bill had snuck away to see me, which was really great of him, and Aaron had come along because it was his car.

  Bill looked over at me at one point. "Jesus, girl, what were you doing all summer?" I guess he was referring to, you know, my muscles and stuff, from all that haying and painting and training and work. Or maybe just to my tan.

  Aaron put his arm around my waist. "Damn, Bill. You sure have a good-looking sister."

  That part felt nice, if you want to know, his arm around me. I'm big, which I guess you've figured out by now, and my whole family is big. Bill is probably 250 now, and Win's around 215. But Aaron is big. It kind of struck me how great it would be to go out with a guy that size. And if you, you know, got tired of dating him, you could always use him as a house or something. So I was happy for a moment, until that little bit of happiness drained away and left me just plain old miserable.

  So we all said our goodbyes and Bill and Aaron promised to come to my next game if they possibly could, and Aaron gave me an extra-big squeeze that made me really hope he would, and they left. Curtis had wandered off with a girl somewhere, which normally would be the most amazing thing in the world except I was too bummed out to even care, and Dad took the pickup, so it was just me and Mom.

  I stared out the window as Mom worked her way through the parking lot, people waving to us and cheering, and then out on the street. I felt like I'd been playing football for weeks.

  "You know what I was thinking about?" Mom asked.

  "Mmm," I said, watching the fireflies blink across the fields.

  "I was thinking about how hard it must be to play pro ball."

  "They earn like two million dollars a year," I couldn't help pointing out.

  "I know. But it must be hard being on a team, making all those friends. And then when you're traded, those friends become enemies. You've spent all that time playing with them, learning all their tricks, and then you're expected to go out there and fight them. I think that would be really hard."

  I studied her as she drove along, trying to figure out if she was making the point I thought she was making. But she never batted an eye.

  "Yeah," I said. "It would be hard." Yeah, I thought to myself. It would almost break your heart.

  30. Brian Nelson

  When I woke up the sun was streaming through the curtains. I panicked for a second about milking and then it all came back to me: the scrimmage, Dad's milking this morning, the touchdown, Bill showing up, Curtis's girlfriend, and then Brian's face when we touched hands after the game. I lay there for a bit just trying to process all this, uneasy because something had woken me up but I couldn't remember what. Then a car door shut—that was it! A car had driven in. That's what woke me. And then I heard, "Hey there, Smut."

  Brian.

  I leapt out of bed and gave such a scream, because oh my God I hurt all over. If you'd taken me out back and driven the tractor over me you couldn't have done more damage. I sort of staggered and fell on the bed but my butt was sore too, I can't even remember why, and I just had to hold real still and catch my breath for a moment, trying to figure out how to even start moving.

  I sat there wriggling my fingers, thinking I'd start slowly, and then the front doorbell rang and it had to be Brian and I—I'd like to say that it's because I'm a terribly strong and courageous person, but actually I was just too dumb to know better—I grabbed a pair of jeans and headed down the stairs, trying to pull them on as I went down. But I hurt so much I lost my balance halfway down and sort of fell and had to grab the railing for support because my legs didn't work too well and even if they did they were halfway inside the jeans already so I couldn't move them or anything. So instead of walking to the front door I ended up sort of falling against it with a big crash, and I got my jeans zipped up as best I could and took a deep breath and opened the door.

  "Hey," I said.

  "Hey," said Brian, not looking at me.

  The silence lasted about a million years as I tried to pretend I wasn't panting and we both ignored that huge elephant-crashing sound I'd just made, and we both—or I did, anyway, I can't speak for Brian—tried to think of something, anything, anything in the whole wide world, to say.

  Plus it didn't help that Smut was exploding with joy to be with both of us.

  Brian kicked at the doormat. "I have to talk to you."

  "Oh," I said.

  Brian looked like he'd rather be anywhere than on our front porch.

  Finally I said, because he deserved it, "I'm real sorry."

  "About what?" he asked, still not looking at me.

  And I realized there were a number of things I could say. Like about the game—which I wasn't sorry we won, actually—or about what I'd said about his dad, which was just too much to even go into. "I didn't start out wanting to play football. It just sort of happened. And then I didn't tell you..." I thought about this for a while, trying to figure out how to explain it, to myself if nothing else. I'd thought about it a lot t
hese past few weeks, trying to figure out what my crazy brain was really up to. "I didn't tell you because I really liked what we had, and I didn't want to screw it up."

  Well, that hung there on the front porch for about ten years.

  "Jimmy Ott said I had to come here," he said finally, like he hadn't even heard me. "He said I had to thank you."

  "Oh," I said. "Don't worry about it. I really liked the training. It was fun."

  Brian waved me silent. "Not for that. For the game last night."

  "Oh. I didn't mean to, you know, upset you so much."

  "Duh. I know that at least." And he couldn't help cracking the tiniest of smiles. But even that smile, microscopic as it was, changed the mood a bit.

  So we stood there experiencing that little change of mood. Smut wandered off to find love somewhere else.

  "You know what Jimmy said?" Brian said to his shoes. "He said that if I walked off that field, I'd quit like a boy. But if I stayed I'd be playing like a man."

  "Wow. That's pretty intense."

  "Yeah. I think he practiced it beforehand."

  We grinned at that just a bit.

  "You were, though," I offered. "At the end, you were someone else."

  Brian frowned. "That stuff the Red Bend guys were saying to me—"

  "I didn't put them up to that!"

  "I know you didn't." He studied his shoes some more. "But it's good you didn't run into me last night."

  Just then I heard Dad whistling in the distance. Oh, God, the last person in the world I wanted to see was Dad. Without even thinking I asked, "You want to walk up this way?"

  Brian shrugged. But he walked next to me in double time as we circled the house and headed up the hill. We didn't say much for a while, just walked. Smut even caught up to us, carrying her football, hopeful I guess that we'd had brain transplants or something by this point and were all ready to play with her.

  It occurred to me that I should say something. I'd spent a lot of time this summer learning how to talk, for the first time really, and now was the time for me to put it to good use. "You know," I said, my voice cracking with fear, "you know, I really missed you these last two weeks."

  Brian looked at me. Not studying me or anything like that, but for the first time really looking at me. "I missed you too."

  We didn't say anything more. It was pretty weird, walking the path we'd taken a hundred times up to the heifer field, Smut trotting between us hauling her football, watching us like eventually we'd break down and throw it for her.

  "There's this girl," Brian said finally. "Kris. We started going out last summer. She wasn't too happy about me working here, getting all stinked up and everything. She sure doesn't like you."

  I listened to this, no idea where it was going, but it just about killed me to hear it.

  "I guess she got tired of it, me being so crazy. Like, I kept ragging on you but whenever she said anything about you I'd jump down her throat. Anyway, that's why we broke up." And then to break the tension or something he tossed Smut's football, so I guess she was right in the end, the way she always is.

  "How's your arm?" I asked, I guess because that's what you do.

  "It hurts. How about you?"

  "Oh, I feel great. Just great." We both grinned.

  "They really worked you over, didn't they?"

  I shrugged.

  By this point we were at the heifer field. There were the flags flapping away, and the football field needed a mowing, the lime lines barely visible.

  "Dad saw it," I said. I wasn't up for addressing the whole Kris breakup thing.

  Brian whistled. "What happened?"

  I traced the top of the gate with my finger. "Nothing, I guess." I thought about it some more, how Dad showed up at practice on Thursday, our conversation. I thought about his brownies, and those enormous sandwiches he made for lunch. The way he put cinnamon in French toast. That chicken and prune dish I'd gobbled down that one night that I wouldn't admit was totally delicious. I'd just been too pigheaded to see it before, to notice that my old man was turning into a really good cook. "It was okay, actually. My dad's okay."

  Brian looked over the field. "You know what I miss the most? Waiting for you to say something."

  "Oh, great."

  "Really. When you finally got it out, you always had something to say." All of a sudden he blurted out, "You ever date a football player?"

  I thought about going to the movies with Troy Lundstrom. "Not really."

  "Me neither," he said, looking off over the trees.

  I laughed because it was so funny, but he didn't, and it took me a minute to figure it out. "What? You mean like us?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. It'd be hard, the whole Red Bend–Hawley thing."

  "Yeah. Like what do you call it? Romeo and Juliet."

  He grinned at me. "I thought you flunked English."

  I blushed and then threw the football for Smut just to collect my thoughts. It wasn't that bad a pass either, for me, anyway. "I don't know," I said. "I'd probably end up breaking your arm or something."

  Brian laughed. There was this really nice bit of quiet between us.

  And right at that moment Mom came puffing up the hill in sweatpants and headphones, looking like she was about to take on Mount Everest. She nodded as she passed like it was the most natural thing in the world for us to run into each other right there in the middle of nowhere. She didn't even slow down.

  "What are you doing?" I called out, loudly so she'd hear over her headphones.

  "Getting in shape ... like everyone else ... in this family," she shouted, heading off over the horizon toward the hay meadow.

  We watched her pass.

  "Jeez," I said. It was all I could come up with. It was pretty cool, actually, the thought of Mom losing some weight. Maybe now with only one job she really could.

  "I should take off," Brian said. But he didn't say it in an I'm Disgusted way. More like an I'll See You Later kind of way.

  "Sure," I said. We headed down the hill.

  "I told Dad to bag the law suit." He sighed. "We'll probably have to talk about that a bunch more."

  I considered what he'd just said. "Was this before Jimmy told you to come here, or after?"

  "Oh, Jimmy told me that last night. Said I couldn't come back to practice until I'd seen you." Brian grinned at me.

  "Wow." I thought about it. "You know, when we were kids Jimmy used to tell us he was our fairy god-uncle. I guess ... I guess he was right."

  Brian smiled to himself. "I guess he was."

  We walked all the way back to the Cherokee without saying another word, and then when we got there Brian said, "So, I'll see you around?"

  "Yeah. I hope so," I said.

  And then because I couldn't figure out anything better I messed up his hair, and then without us even thinking about it he pulled me over and kissed my forehead. And you know what the best part of it was? Neither one of us made a crack about bloody noses. I really appreciated that. I appreciated that a lot.

  And he drove away. I stood there and watched him go, Smut sitting next to me, looking back and forth between us like she was waiting for something more to happen. And then after he was gone I scooped up her football and tossed it across the driveway, another pretty good pass for me, and she brought it back, looking all proud the way she always does, and we went inside to see what Dad had made us for lunch.

  31. The End

  So now I bet you're wondering what happens, and all I can say is get in line because I'm wondering too. I can't tell you if Red Bend beats Hawley in the big game, and I can't tell you if I end up going out with Brian or even end up friends with him. I can't even tell you if I'm going to be playing football this season, because today is only Labor Day and school starts tomorrow and then they'll make the decision about me playing and all. We're heading out for the Labor Day picnic in a couple minutes, and Dad is downstairs now making a huge racket because he can't find the shredded coconut.

  But
you know, I think Brian and I will be friends, if we can keep talking. It's pretty weird, us being on different teams and all, but I just have this feeling it'll work out. That was the most amazing part of this summer. Well, meeting Brian and getting to know him was pretty huge. But even more than that, when I really think about it, in terms of life lessons and all, is learning how important it is to keep talking. If you'd asked me back in June what Big Thing I was going to deal with this summer, I sure wouldn't have put that at the top of the list. But when I think about Curtis on that ride back from Madison, or Mom sitting on my bed discussing our family, or that phone call I made to Bill that got him to come see me, or my conversation on the field with Amber and how we're talking again now, or even my complimenting Dad about his cooking ... all that stuff is important. It really is. It really, really is.

  You know, I started writing this thing thinking that it was going to be about football. And describing the scrimmage, and Bill's game two years ago, and all that training I did with Brian, well, that sure covered football enough. But what really surprises me is how much I wrote about other stuff. Because as it turns out—and I'm sure this won't be a revelation to anyone out there with half a brain, even though it was to me—that life isn't all about football.

  So anyway, Mrs. Stolze, I hope you like this. It's been pretty amazing, actually, this assignment. When I started two weeks ago I thought I wouldn't have that much to write and that I'd be done in just a couple paragraphs. But it turns out that even if I don't talk a lot, when it's something that matters I still have a lot to say.