“I’m sorry, Clay.”
He put his arm around my shoulder and left it there. I knew he still loved me, but I couldn’t help wondering what we were gonna talk about for the rest of our lives.
When Megan finally breaks up with me, she does it by text, on a Sunday afternoon in early October: i tried really hard but im tired of being the only one in this relationship xxoo m. She’s mad because I skipped last night’s victory celebration at Amanda Gill’s, which turned out to be the best party of the season so far. Something must’ve been in the punch: there were stupid fights and scandalous hookups; on the dance floor, girls were flashing their boobs like it was spring break. This morning, a bunch of bras were hanging from the apple tree in Amanda’s front yard. I saw a picture of it on Facebook.
Megan’s not the only one who missed me. My football buddies—Rick, Keyshawn, and Larry—kept calling my cell, telling me to get my ass over there. Dude it’s unbelievable! It’s gonna turn into an orgy any minute! They actually came to my house around midnight, waking my mom with the doorbell. She wasn’t as mad about it as I thought she’d be. She just came down to the bottom of the stairs, squinted at the guys for a few seconds, and then went back up to bed.
“Come on, bro” Larry told me. He’s the left inside linebacker, my former partner in crime. “You gotta come to this party.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“We miss you,” Keyshawn told me. He’s a wide receiver, one of our captains. “It’s not as much fun without you.”
I didn’t know what to say. These guys have been my posse since we started playing Pop Warner in middle school. We still hang together when we can, but it’s not like it used to be. They’re always busy, always on the way to some team dinner or movie night, or else they have a pre-game curfew. And even when they do find some time for me, it’s different than it used to be: I’m not part of the action anymore, don’t know the secret code. I just laugh when they do, pretending like I still get the joke.
“What’s the matter with you?” Rick asked. He was smiling, but in a mean drunk kind of way. He used to be starting nose tackle, but a sophomore took his job a couple weeks ago, and it’s killing him. “You’re not the only guy who ever got hurt, you know.”
“I guess I’m just a douchebag,” I told him, smiling right back.
For a while after she dumps me, Megan stays in pretty close touch. She texts me on a regular basis and stops by my locker at least once a day to see how I’m doing.
“I’m worried about you,” she tells me, but she sounds more annoyed than concerned, like she doesn’t really have time for this, but is going to do it anyway, because she’s a really nice person. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“We should talk, Clay.”
“We’re talking now.”
“No, I mean really talk. You want to get coffee or something?”
But I don’t feel like talking. Not to Megan, not to my mother, not even to my buddies. All I want to do is hunker down and get through the rest of the fall. I’m pretty sure I’ll feel a lot better when December comes and I don’t have to think about football anymore.
It’ll be over soon. That’s what I remind myself when I can’t sleep, when I’m just lying there in the dark, feeling cheated. Just a few more games and it’ll be over for everyone.
Halloween catches me by surprise. Not because I don’t see it coming—there are pumpkins and skeletons and fake headstones all over the place—but because it doesn’t seem like anything I need to worry about.
It’s just not that big a deal in our school. People are allowed to wear costumes, but hardly anyone does except Mr. Zorn, a chem teacher who puts on a Superman suit and gives a supposedly hilarious lecture about Kryptonite, and a handful of freshman and sophomore girls who can’t resist the chance to dress up as sexy kittens and French maids. Also, the girl cheerleaders come to school in football uniforms.
That’s the thing I forgot about.
It’s pretty funny, actually. They don’t just get jerseys from the varsity guys, they borrow shoulder pads and helmets, too. Everything’s way too big—the shirts hanging past their knees, the pads askew, the helmets loose, with lots of pretty hair spilling out. Most of the girls are grinning behind their facemasks, like they know exactly how cute they are, but a few try to scowl and swagger like tough guys, holding their arms out like they’re carrying buckets of sand, and grunting at everyone they pass.
Somehow I manage not to see Megan until fifth period lunch. She’s standing on line in the cafeteria with her best friend, Brianna, both of them nodding frantically, like they’re having a contest to see which of them can agree the hardest. Brianna’s not a cheerleader, so she’s just wearing regular clothes. Megan’s wearing shoulder pads and a Cougars’ jersey, number 55, which belongs to Bobby Makowski. She must’ve gotten tired of the helmet, because she’s taken it off and placed it on top of the tray she’s pushing down the line toward the steam table.
“Clay,” she says, when she sees me standing there. She’s got black war paint under her eyes and it gives her a fierce look, but I can see how nervous she is. “How are you?”
I can’t take my eyes off her chest, those two big fives, bright white against the blue mesh fabric. Last year she wore my jersey, number 51.
“Wow,” I say. “So you’re with Bobby now?”
I guess I’m hoping she’ll deny it, assure me that it’s just a coincidence, that she just grabbed the shirt out of a random pile. But we both know it doesn’t work that way.
“I’m sorry,” she says, after exchanging an oh shit look with Brianna. “I wanted to tell you.”
“There’s a lotta guys on the team. It didn’t have to be Bobby.”
“It just happened,” she explains. “I didn’t do it to hurt you.”
“Are you gonna fuck him?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, but I can’t help myself.
She squints at me in disbelief.
“Don’t be an asshole, Clay. It’s not like you.”
By now, the whole line’s stopped and everybody’s watching us like we’re a TV show. There’s space in front of Megan, but she doesn’t move, not even when Brianna touches her on the shoulder, trying to nudge her forward.
I don’t know what else to do so I grab Bobby’s helmet off the tray. There are paint smears all over the surface, little smudges of green and red and black, the residue of a season’s worth of combat. My old helmet looked a lot like this at the end of last year.
I spread the earholes and tug it over my head. It’s a little tight around my temples, but otherwise a decent fit. I buckle the chinstrap, staring at her through the familiar grid of Bobby’s facemask. It feels good to wear a helmet after all this time, like I’m suddenly myself again. Megan’s shaking her head, very slowly, and I can see that she’s close to tears.
“Please don’t do this,” she whispers.
The clocks change in November, and the cold gets under your clothes. Dead leaves are everywhere, like scraps torn from a huge pile of brown paper bags.
I go to school in the dark and come right home in the afternoon. Sometimes it seems like Mrs. Scotto and I are the only two people living on Grapevine Road.
The team’s playing well, leading the division, on the way to their first playoff berth in years. People talk about it all the time in school.
That’s great, I say. Good for them.
Megan and Bobby are out in the open now, walking hand in hand down the hall, looking smug and cheerful, so proud of each other. He must’ve pumped a ton of iron over the summer, because he’s huge across the chest and shoulders, way bigger than he used to be. I’m not working out and my own muscles are shrinking. It’s like I have a slow leak in the top of my head, like all the air’s going out of me.
I see them kissing in the parking lot one morning. She’s up on her tiptoes, her hand jammed into the back pocket of his jeans.
I’m having trouble in math class again, but I really don?
??t think it’s because something’s wrong with my brain.
I’m pretty sure I just suck at math.
I play Xbox until my eyes feel like marbles.
I surf a lot of porn too, find my way to stuff I don’t really want to see, but can’t take my eyes off. Some of the girls look so lost, like they don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. It’s like watching zombies.
Never again, I tell myself.
Then I wash my hands and start cooking dinner. My mother’s always so pleased when she comes home from work and there’s water boiling on the stove.
Thank you, Clay. You’re a really big help.
You’re welcome, Mom.
It’s a really long month.
They hold the bonfire pep rally the night before Thanksgiving. It’s a famous local tradition, one of the biggest social events of the year. Hundreds of people show up, including lots of college kids home for the holiday.
I leave my house around seven thirty, walking because it’s impossible to park anywhere near the blaze. It’s a damp raw night, and I’m surprised to see Mrs. Scotto still on the job, dragging one of her YARD WASTE bags from the garage to the curb. It must be pretty heavy because she has to stop every few steps to catch her breath and adjust her grip. I keep my head down, pretending not to notice when she waves.
I don’t really want to go to the rally, but I promised my buddies I’d make an appearance. They’re already pissed at me for blowing off the last two games, tired of hearing me blame it on Megan, even though it’s true: I can’t bear to see her shaking her pompoms, looking so pretty, so totally focused, like she’s doing the one thing she was put on earth to do, biting her knuckles when the team’s down, jumping for joy when they score a touchdown. The guys don’t say so, but they think I’m being a pussy, wasting my senior year.
Fuck her, they told me at lunch. You’re better off without her.
Just forget about Megan. There’s tons of cute sophomores.
It’s the bonfire, dude. Whaddaya gonna do? Sit home and whack off all night?
I take the long way around to avoid the crowd, entering the park at East Street, cutting through the woods and across the soccer fields towards the smoke and the noise. I stop at the top of the sledding hill, looking down on the fire, which they build on the infield of the softball diamond below.
It’s pretty impressive, a ten-foot tower of lumber with a festive mob gathered around, watching the flames lick their way up from the bottom of the structure, a modest blaze building slowly into an inferno. There’s an ambulance and a fire truck parked on the outfield grass, not far from the marching band. They’re not marching, though—too dark, I guess—just standing in place as they play the Gary Glitter song, the whole crowd shouting, “Hey!” in unison and punching at the air, just like at a game. I remember what it feels like to be down there by the flames, the heat and the music and the flushed faces, people you don’t even know slapping you on the back, telling you to go get ‘em, get out there tomorrow and kick some ass.
I can see the team from here. They’re gathered in a clump near third base, a lot of big guys in dark jerseys, their numbers clearly visible in the fireglow. There’s Rick and Keyshawn and Larry and the rest of them, mingling with cheerleaders and parents and random kids from school. It looks like a good time.
All I have to do is walk down the hill and join the party. I know I’m welcome: the guys have told me so a hundred times. But I can also see Bobby down there—the numbers on his jersey seem a little too bright, almost radioactive—and a dim shape beside him that must be Megan, so I just stay where I am, watching sparks fountain into the sky every time a piece of wood shifts position.
Around nine, Coach Z. picks up a bullhorn and tells the world how proud he is of all his guys, the amazing courage and heart they’ve shown, turning the season around after a rocky start, winning seven of their last eight games, earning a well-deserved spot in the playoffs. He says he has nothing but respect for every one of these individuals, nothing but love and admiration. And then he names the whole varsity squad, starting with the sophomores and moving all the way up through the seniors. He speaks solemnly, pausing between each name, giving the crowd a chance to roar its approval. It’s a long, excruciating process. And that whole time I just stand there, waiting to hear my own name rising up through the darkness, as if the real me were still down there by the fire, surrounded by teammates and friends and admirers, instead of up here, alone in the chilly drizzle.
There’s a ten o’clock curfew on game nights, so the players make their exit around nine thirty, when the blaze is at its peak. It hurts to watch them file out, everyone applauding as they make their way across the outfield to the parking lot and board a waiting school bus. They’ll be really quiet on the way back to the high school, everybody serious and focused, thinking about the job they need to do tomorrow against Woodbury. It’s a good feeling, riding in the dark with your teammates, knowing the whole town’s behind you.
The crowd thins out after that, but the band keeps playing and a fair number of people stick around. The bonfire usually lasts until midnight, when the Fire Department hoses down the embers. There’s nothing stopping me from joining the stragglers—it’s just a party now, nothing to be embarrassed about—but instead I turn around and leave the way I came.
I don’t feel like going home, so I just walk for a long time, trying to clear my head, zigzagging through the residential streets on the south side of town, turning this way and that, going nowhere in particular. At least it feels that way, right up to the moment when I find myself standing on the corner of Franklin Place, the little dead end street where the Makowskis live, and it suddenly occurs to me that I’ve been heading here the whole time.
I’m really not surprised to see Megan’s mother’s Camry in Bobby’s driveway, right next to Mr. Makowski’s pickup. Megan used to come to my house on game nights, to keep me company after curfew. Mostly we just watched TV with my mom, but for some reason I felt especially close to her then, sitting on the couch with our fingers intertwined. It makes sense that she’d do the same thing for Bobby, but it pisses me off, too.
I stand across the street, leaning against a tree trunk, looking at the front of Bobby’s house. At least the cheerleaders haven’t decorated it yet. That’ll happen later, after he’s asleep. In the morning, he’ll wake up to toilet paper streamers on the branches and inspirational messages taped to the door, soaped on the windows of his family’s cars: We luv u Bobby Mak!!! Beat Woodbury!!! Go #55!!! I used to get so stoked, stepping outside on Saturday morning, knowing what I’d find, but always pleasantly surprised anyway.
It’s ten thirty, and I’m hoping Megan won’t stick around much longer. The players are supposed to be in bed by eleven, and with me she always made it a point to leave before then, even when I begged her to stay a little longer, hoping for a little alone time after my mom went up to bed.
You need your rest, she’d tell me. We can stay up late tomorrow.
I’m relieved when the front door opens at ten forty five, but it’s not Megan who steps out. It’s Mr. Makowski, wearing a Carhartt jacket over his pajama bottoms. He walks across the street with his hands jammed into his pockets. He looks tired and annoyed.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks me.
“Nothing,” I tell him.
“Well, you better go home. Don’t make me call the police.”
“I’m not hurting anyone.”
“You’re scaring people,” he says. “Standing out here like a stalker.”
That’s not fair. I’m not stalking Megan. I don’t want to talk to her, don’t even want her to know I’m here. I just want to see her leave, to know she’s not giving Bobby those few extra minutes she denied me. I’m not sure why it matters, but it does.
He waits, but I don’t move. Mr. Makowski steps closer, and slaps me lightly on both cheeks, the way you do when you’re putting on after-shave.
“Son,” he says. “You better pull y
ourself together.”
One of the things I learned last year is that it helps sometimes to project yourself into the future, to allow your mind to turn the present into the past. That’s what I try to do on the way home from Bobby’s.
A year from now, I tell myself, none of what I’m feeling right now will even matter. I’ll be in college, living in a dorm, surrounded by people from other towns and other states, kids who don’t know Megan and Bobby and don’t give a crap about the Cougars or the playoffs or our big Thanksgiving rivalry with Woodbury. I’ll lose some more bulk and grow my hair long; none of my new friends will even know that I used to be a football player, or that I got hurt, or that they’re supposed to feel sorry for me. I’ll just be the laid-back dude from down the hall, the guy everybody likes. Maybe I’ll join the Ultimate Frisbee team, just for fun, get myself in shape. I see myself jumping like a hurdler, snatching the disc out of the air, flicking it way downfield before my feet even touch the ground.
Damn, they’ll say. Where’d he come from?
This fantasy keeps me occupied all the way to Grapevine Road, right up to the moment when I turn the corner and see the wall of brown bags arranged in front of Mrs. Scotto’s house. It’s such a strange and upsetting sight, I can’t help crossing the street for a closer look.
There are twenty-eight bags in all, lined up along the curb like headless, limbless soldiers, stretching the entire length of her property. It must’ve taken her all night to drag them out here. They’re not light, either. I give one of them an experimental kick, and my foot barely makes a dent, as if the bag is packed with sand instead of YARD WASTE. I kick it harder the second time, and that does the trick: the toe of my sneaker breaks the skin, leaving a neat little puncture wound that gets bigger with each successive blow until the whole thing just splits open, and all the guts come spilling out, way more leaves than you can imagine from looking at it.