It Looks Like This (6 page)

So I plant my feet and hold the ball in front of my face and think about how Sean looked when he threw the ball.

I will myself to put as much into it as I can, and then I aim and take my shot.

The ball hits the side edge of the backboard and ricochets off at an angle.

I hear a yell:

At least you hit something this time, faggot!

My ears get hot right away. I know whose voice it is before I turn around.

Victor is across the street, behind me, smoking a cigarette.

He’s watching us with a big grin on his face, a grin that looks nothing like Sean’s.

Then he notices Sean, and that smile falters. Just a bit, but I can see it from where I am.

He says, Hey, Sean!

I turn back. Sean is staring across the street at Victor. He doesn’t respond, just looks at Victor in this strange way.

I watch Sean and Sean watches Victor.

Then I say, I gotta go home.

And I walk past Sean on the court and untie Charlie and walk away.

When I get home, Dad and Mom and Toby are watching a movie. I recognize it right away:
Marley and Me.
It just started, I can tell. I’ve seen this movie a thousand times.

Dad looks over as I walk in.

He says, Just in time, buddy. Pull up a couch.

He pats the space next to him.

I let Charlie off the leash, and he bounds over to the living room and jumps up right where Dad patted. Dad tells him to get down and Charlie jumps off without stopping, his tail still going crazy.

I go over and sit down next to Dad.

We all really like this movie even though it’s kind of stupid. But part of why is because we make fun of it as it goes on.

It’s not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

The next Monday Sean isn’t sitting with Victor.

I leave the lunch line with my tray and make my way to Ronald and Jared at our table, and glance over and see Sean sitting with the other basketball kids on the other side of the cafeteria.

I look at Victor’s table. He and Tristan and Fuller aren’t really talking. Victor’s eyes keep darting over in Sean’s direction. He’s scowling.

I sit down with Ronald and Jared, smiling just a little.

This is my dad:

Stern, sensible, serious.

He has rough hands that look especially big and wrinkled next to Mom’s tiny smooth soft hands. He has hair growing out of his knuckles, and his nails are irregular from sloppy clippings and calcium deposits. They are a man’s hands.

They are attached to a man’s arms, to a man’s shoulders, to a man’s body.

His dark brown hair thins out on top. He combs it down neatly, but sometimes it sticks up when there’s wind.

He doesn’t smile or laugh much, and his dark eyes usually make him look businesslike.

He shaves every day, even weekends, but there’s always a bit of stubble by afternoon.

He wears a tie on a button-down every day, even weekends, but loosens it at home.

Toby asked him once why he wears good clothes all the time.

This was back in Wisconsin. We were all sitting at the dinner table.

She said, Dad, why do you keep your tie on when you get home? And why do you always wear it on the weekends?

I think she was asking because she’d been hanging out with Marla a lot and noticed how different her family was from ours. How they just wore casual clothes and how Marla and her younger brothers didn’t have to call them ma’am and sir and how they even let Marla have her own iPhone.

Dad stopped with his fork and a piece of chicken an inch from his open mouth. He put the fork down and looked at Toby like he was about to say something serious, which is how he always looks.

Then he said, It’s important always to look your best, every chance you get, Toby.

Like that.

Toby just shrugged. Everyone kept eating.

Mom seems to agree.

She wears khakis and cardigans all the time. Like Martha Stewart, sort of. Not anything fancy, but still.

I don’t think that kind of stuff is as popular as it used to be, since a lot of other kids’ moms wear regular pants or shorts or whatever they want around the house.

Jared’s mom always has sweatpants on when I go over, but that’s because she likes to jog and work out a lot.

Ronald’s mom wears jeans and a sweatshirt with a hood, like she did the other day when we were playing Halo. She looks pretty good for a mom.

But my mom wears khakis and cardigans.

Once I saw old pictures of her from college, before she met Dad. She wasn’t wearing khakis in them, but this weird outfit with denim and neon all over it.

I asked her why she was wearing that, and she said back then she didn’t dress as nice. Plus neon was really in fashion at the time for some reason.

Mom goes to a nail place every Saturday to keep her hands looking soft and smooth and nice. Her fingernails are always polished. She wears light makeup, even on weekends, and wears her hair down every day.

When she walks around the house, she does it without making a sound, with a grace that makes it look like she’s floating more than walking.

Sometimes it seems like she could float away with the wind if she wanted to.

I know we’re kind of an old-fashioned family. I think I realized it for the first time in fifth grade, when I met my friend Kris. His family is a lot more like Ronald’s than like mine.

Sometimes though I see other people that are like my parents. Well-dressed, conservative, kind of formal. Kids who also aren’t allowed to have their own cell phones.

Usually I know them from church.

Sunday we go to Grace Fellowship.

Mom and Dad go every Sunday. They used to make Toby and me go to church every week too when we were younger, but they gave up a couple years ago when Toby started complaining about it a lot.

But they still make us every now and then. Usually it’s Dad’s idea. Mom doesn’t care so much, but Dad is always pushing to get us to go.

So Sunday we go.

The parking lot is already full, because we left later than normal. Toby dragged her feet getting ready until Dad shouted at her to put on a dress or he’d leave her behind. That was kind of stupid because Toby wanted to be left behind. Dad realized his mistake right afterward and told her to hurry up or she’d have to go to church every week for two months.

Toby was especially slow getting ready today because the church choir wasn’t going to sing this week. I heard her mumbling under her breath after one of the times Dad yelled at her.

She said, What’s the point of going if I’m not going to sing anyway?

I asked her once why she joined the choir, since she hates church.

She said, Yeah, but I like choir.

She was lacing up her church shoes when we talked about it. It was a few weeks before, but I remember that because she seemed really aggressive when she pulled at the laces.

She said, Plus it makes the service go by faster.

She tied another knot, even harder than before.

She said, Plus it keeps Dad happy.

We’re still five minutes before the service starts, but Dad likes to get there really early. Extra time for self-reflection, he says.

We circle the lot, looking for a space. Dad is annoyed. I can tell because he’s tapping both thumbs on the steering wheel and muttering under his breath.

He finally finds a spot and parks, and we hurry inside.

It’s a big church, like the one in Sheboygan Falls. Dad likes big churches.

We walk down the center aisle, passing hundreds of people, looking for the closest possible seat in just the right pew. People are talking and laughing, greeting each other before the service starts.

I’m looking up as I walk, staring at the high, painted ceiling. I pull at my collar, stiff and tight from lack of use, bright white from the bleached wash Mom gives it regularly. Dark red tie hanging down, anchored by a navy sweater vest. This over creased black slacks and shiny black shoes.

I don’t like this look but Mom does, has always loved it, so I pretend to as well.

I love the ceiling. It bows out from me in a wide dome, every inch of it covered in images of people from the Bible frozen in place, acting out pieces of famous Scripture.

I don’t think Dad likes it. He said once it’s the sort of thing that belongs in a Catholic church, not an Evangelical church.

The paintings are the only thing I like about the church.

I’m sitting next to my friend Terry. I don’t like going to church, but I do like getting to see Terry. It’s like a trade-off.

Terry is absorbed with the sermon. He goes to church every week because his dad is an elder, but I think he’d go anyway. He’s never seemed super-religious, but he’s definitely more religious than me.

Toby’s on my other side. She looks bored and is obviously not paying attention. She slouches against the pew and her dress bunches up. She hates this dress.

Mom sits next to Toby, listening to the sermon with her hands clasped in her lap. Every now and then her lips move with the pastor’s as he quotes a passage from the Bible.

Dad sits at the end of the row, eyes closed, but I know he’s not sleeping. He sits straight up, back not touching the pew, chin up, small smile. I know he’s listening to every word. He likes to keep his eyes closed during the sermon, to only hear it and concentrate on the words.

I stare past the preacher, watching the light shine through the stained-glass window behind him, making it glow. Pastor Clark is a young man in his late twenties or early thirties. He always smiles in person but looks kind of strained on the pulpit. His voice comes in waves, loud and then soft, a shout and then a whisper. He moves his arms as he talks, and I watch them weave through the air.

Pastor Clark talks about a story in Matthew, about a Roman centurion who comes to Jesus to have his son healed. He talks about Jesus curing the boy, about the centurion’s faith, how Jesus praised the man afterward.

Pastor Clark talks about John next, about the centurion’s faith being the key to salvation and how to stop sin.

He talks about Massachusetts, and his voice picks up. He talks about a wave of other states after and it picks up more.

I can’t look away.

Then he talks about the Supreme Court, and now he’s shouting, and I can almost hear the congregation hold its breath when he slams the pulpit with a white-knuckled fist, and now, finally, I look down.

My head feels heavy. I’m staring at the back of the pew in front of me, at the frayed corner of the New Testament sitting in the slot at my knees, burgundy cloth cover, gold text.

I listen to the congregation. Everyone holds their breath, everyone lets out their breath at the same time. I listen for that sigh.

I look over at Terry and he’s as engrossed as everyone around him.

Dad and I are in the backyard. Terry’s here too. He came over after the service, like he does sometimes.

Dad’s still wearing his church clothes, a nicer version of what he wears every day. I’m wearing mine, too, but now my starched shirt is untucked and my tie hangs loose outside the vest.

He has the Green Bay football in his hands and wants me to back up a bit more. To go long.

It’s not a huge backyard but I step out a bit farther. He throws, a sidearm toss aimed high, and I squint as it travels up toward the sun. Terry watches with me, from his spot in the triangle we’ve made.

I catch it, barely. It hits the crook of my elbow and almost bounces out of my arms but I catch it.

From across the yard Dad yells, Use your chest!

He clamps his arms to himself in a bear hug, demonstrating.

He says, Let it hit your chest and wrap your arms around where it lands.

The ball smells new. The Green Bay decal is bright in the daylight.

I hold it in my right hand, putting my fingers over the laces like Dad’s told me a thousand times before.

He nods at me, and I throw.

It wobbles, like it’s caught in crosswinds. Terry watches it go back the way it came, with this look on his face like nothing could bother him, mouth set. He watches it go end over end, somehow staying in the air.

But it makes it to Dad, at least. He catches it in one hand, easily, and looks upward for a moment as if taking in the sky.

It’s blue. Flawless.

After a while he says, Needs more follow-through.

Almost to himself.

He says, Keep your arms moving after the throw.

I nod, and suddenly he smiles. A real smile.

He says, Don’t worry, kiddo. Takes practice, like anything.

I blink, and then nod again, but slowly. Then Mom comes out.

She says, Mike! Get out of those clothes if you’re going to throw the ball around.

She sounds exasperated but looks at Dad when she speaks.

She says, I didn’t get him those shoes so he can scuff them up.

Dad chuckles.

He says, That’s enough for now, anyway. Let’s get washed up for dinner.

I nod, trying not to let the relief show on my face. But I know he sees it anyway.

Terry is on my left on one of the long sides of the table. Toby is across from us.

Mom and Dad are at either end.

It’s a bit cramped on my side because we’re forcing an odd number onto our rectangular dinner table. But it’s good to have Terry here.