Left Out (4 page)

Landon peered over his father's shoulder. They were back at his desk, with the spoons rinsed and tucked away in the dishwasher. His father typed and then clicked, bringing up the website for Xenith Helmets, a company that made specialty sports helmets of every kind. They got to the football section and his father scanned the material quickly, his lips moving fast and silently, before he tapped the screen and leaned back.

“It's ingenious, really,” he said. “There's a diaphragm in the lining, like a couple of mini beach rafts you can inflate. It says you can play football with the processors right behind your ears. I thought you'd have to take them out for sure, like you do for swimming.”

Landon nodded because he already knew all this, but he didn't want to dampen his father's excitement. “That's awesome.”

“Let's see . . .” His father tilted his head back for a better look. “We measure your head . . .”

“I can get the tape measure from the garage.” Landon was already up and going. When he returned he was thrilled to see that his father had most of the order form already filled out. They wrapped the tape around Landon's head.

“Twenty-four,” his father said. “I'm a twenty-
nine.
You believe that? Here, let me show you.”

Landon's father wrapped the metal tape around his own head as proof, chuckling before he turned his attention back to the screen. “You know, I believe in this whole team thing. I mean, a marching band is like a team. An orchestra? How about that for working together, right? And those things . . .” Landon's father sat back in his chair and got a faraway look. “Those things are what I remember most. You're part of something.”

Landon's dad looked at him and Landon let their eyes stay connected over the empty space. It wasn't something he and his father did very much, just look at each other, but it was as if this moment was one they'd both remember, and for some reason it didn't feel weird. His dad had dark brown eyes and a big forehead. His nose was slightly flattened and his mouth a bit too small for everything else. Looking at him, Landon felt like he was looking into a mirror, seeing himself in the future.

“There's real team spirit,” his father said. “I want you to have that.” Landon's dad turned back to the iMac and moved through to the purchase screen. He clicked the rush delivery icon, but the earliest delivery for the helmet and skullcap was
Saturday, a few days after the start of Landon's football career.

“Monday we'll get you football shoes—cleats,” his dad said. They slapped a high five.

Neither of them had seen his mother creep up on them, so it startled them both when she barked, “What's going on here?”

Landon's father jumped out of his seat, and the contrast between Landon's parents was staggering. His father towered, a giant of a man, but his body was soft and slouching like he was made of pillows. He blocked Landon's mom from the iMac. She glared up at him. Standing straight, her chin barely cleared his father's belt line, but her eyes fixed on his like a bird of prey.

“I was uh . . . helping.” His father's fingers fluttered in front of him.

Landon sat and watched her peer around him and examine the iMac with growling hostility. Her lips curled away from her teeth. “I see.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, I see.”

She turned and marched away. Landon looked at his dad, who smiled, saying, “She'll come around. She's just worried about you.”

By Tuesday night she had come around. Landon knew when his mom called his dad from the kitchen. “Forrest? I could use some help here. It turns out this football business is a family affair in Bronxville. I ran into Landon's coach's wife, Claire Furster, on the train into work this morning and found out that the mothers are expected to supply something for some sort of bake sale, so I was thinking oatmeal cookies with honey instead of white sugar—something partially healthy at least.”

Landon looked at his dad.

“Of course.” Landon's dad hurried off toward the kitchen.

“And Landon?” His mother pointed at him. “You better get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day.”

On Wednesday morning Landon's mother left for work on an early train. Her cookies rested in a Tupperware container with the doctor's clearance and a note taped to the cover for Landon's father in case she had to work late and couldn't talk to the football people herself. Genevieve was holed up in her room working at her online French class. She told Landon she wanted him to walk into town with her for lunch at the diner with two of her new friends. Later, she said, they'd all swim at the house.

Even though school was still over a week away from starting, football practice wasn't until the evening because the coaches had real jobs, and Landon was up for any distraction that would keep the voices of doubt at bay.

After Genevieve got acquainted with Megan Nickell, she had used Instagram and Snapchat to make friends with the
other seventh-grade Bronxville girls as well. But Landon still wondered how she really did it, how she just barged into people's lives like a long-lost relative and found them happy to see her.

Landon tried to read a book, but he kept thinking about football. He put on his new cleats and took them off several times, worrying that they might give him blisters if they weren't broken in.

The morning was dragging on. He knew he shouldn't—because he could see his dad working feverishly—but he couldn't help it. He grabbed the football off his shelf, wandered into his father's space, and tapped his shoulder.

His father jumped. “Whaaa?”

Landon stepped back. He was used to startling people; it was just part of who he was. He needed to
see
them to know what they were saying. “Dad?”

“Landon. Son. I was far away.”

“Sorry, Dad. Would you throw the football with me?” Landon turned the ball in his hands. “I feel like I need some practice. Even though I'm a lineman, I mean, everybody throws the ball around.”

“Me? Throw? Uh . . .” His father gave the computer a sad look like it was a friend he'd hate to leave, but then he brightened. “Sure!” Standing and stretching he said, “I can throw you the football and you can help me with a problem.”

“Okay.” Landon followed his father through the kitchen and out the French doors to the pool area. They went through the gate and stood facing each other on the lawn. Overhead the sun shone brightly between fat white clouds and the tall trees
that seemed to whisper. Landon tilted his head up at them and wondered how what he heard sounded different than what his father heard. He fluttered his fingers and pointed up at them.

His father smiled and fluttered his own fingers. “Yes, that's right. They're swishing.” Seeing Landon's puzzlement, he added, “They sound like waves hitting the shore, but softer swishing.”

Landon echoed, “Swishing,” trying to fix the sound he heard and the word in his mind. Then he signaled his father to stay put. “You stand here.”

Landon backed up, cocked his arm, and fired a wobbling pass. As the ball approached, his father brought his two hands together in a clapping motion, winced, and turned his head. The ball punched him in the gut and dropped to the grass. His father stared at it as if it were a bomb that might go off.

Then his father nodded and scooped it up. “Okay. I can get this,” he shouted.

Landon thought about the band and the big tuba his father played. That must have taken some skill. Just a different kind of skill.

Landon jiggled his hands to create a target, and his father reared back with the ball. It flew sideways like a dizzy spaceship. Landon snatched at it, nearly catching hold before it plopped down in front of him.

His father shrugged. “We'll get it,” he yelled. “This is why you practice, right? We're doing good.”

They heaved the ball back and forth, sometimes getting hold of it, most times not.

“So,” his father said after a halfway decent pass, “here's my big problem. Ready?”

Landon caught the ball, smiled, and nodded that he was ready.

His father's large face was flushed and he nodded merrily at Landon. “Okay, so—and this is really exciting, Landon—I was doing some research on names because my main character has an uncle on the planet Zovan and I wanted a name that also meant ‘powerful,' and I dig and I dig and I find ‘Bretwalda,' which is what they called the most powerful Saxon kings.”

His father gave him a questioning look to see if he was following.

“Uh, okay, I get that.” Landon heaved the ball, happy that his throw wasn't quite so wobbly. He wasn't sure where his dad was going with all this, but he was glad they were throwing around the football.

His father kind of swatted at the ball and ducked at the same time, and then he bent down to retrieve it from the grass. “So, I'm a writer—my mind wanders.” His father waved his
hands like magic wands, the football almost small in his huge grip. “And my creative curiosity asks a question: ‘Forrest, what about Dorch? Where did
that
name come from?'”

Landon's dad paused with the ball cocked back. Landon could feel his father's excitement, and he had to admit that it made him curious too, a name like Dorch. He assumed it wasn't just a variation on “dork,” which is what several kids in his Ohio school had called him.

His father threw the ball, a wayward lob, but Landon was able to get his hands on it and pull it proudly to his chest.

“Dorchester.” His father stood up straight and saluted. “Yes, Dorchester.
And
, not just Dorchester, but the
guards
of Dorchester castle, the sons of the sons of the sons and so on . . . bred for what?”

Landon held the ball and waited.

His father flung his hands high in the air. “Stature.”

Landon wrinkled his brow. “Stature? You mean a statue?”

“No: stature, size. Height.” His father held a hand level with the top of his head. “Girth too.” He patted the beach-ball bulge of his stomach and its impressive girth with both hands.

Landon looked down at his own hefty gut. In football his weight would be an advantage.

His father waved a hand to get his attention. His face grew serious and he said, “Enter the problem which I'd like you to help me solve.”

“What's the problem?”

“
Return to Zovan
is nearly seven hundred pages long, probably halfway finished.”

“Halfway?” Landon couldn't imagine anyone reading a
fourteen-hundred-page book. That would be like the Bible, or the dictionary, or . . . something.

“Yes,” his father said. “A very good start with
tremendous
momentum. As I said, my main character is about to reach Zovan and meet his uncle, who we shall now name Bretwalda.
But
, a writer has to be
inspired
, and a writer has to be honest about whether he is truly inspired and . . . well, Dorch inspires me. Don't you get it?”

Landon didn't know what to say. He bought some time by turning the ball over in his hands, searching for just the right grip on the laces, like he'd seen Peyton Manning do on YouTube videos.

“I want to write a historical novel about Dorchester Castle. I can
see
it. I can
taste
it.” His father paced the grass before he turned his attention back to Landon. “I am inspired, Landon, but will it sell? You read as much as anyone . . .”

“I read kids' stuff, Dad,” Landon said, begging off and throwing the ball.

His father nodded excitedly as he muffed the catch, but he didn't bend down for the ball. “And that's what this would
be
—it's middle grade historical fiction based on our forefathers. Can you imagine the excitement of the librarians? You see, people love the past, but they love it when you can bring it into the future. It's like Percy Jackson. It's mythology, only
today
. Brilliant.” His father paused and then asked, “So, yes or no?”

Landon looked pointedly at the ball. “Well, how would you bring the story about Dorchester into today?”

“Time travel, of course. You remember the Magic Tree House
books, right?” His father picked up the ball and cocked his arm.

“Sure,” Landon said.

“More brilliance.” His father didn't throw the ball but instead looked up at the clouds, contemplating the genius of a tree house for time travel.

When his father's eyes remained cast toward the sky, Landon looked up too, expecting to see a cloud in the shape of a dragon or a magic tree house or a castle.

Then he thought he heard something. A word?

Was it “catch”?

Landon looked toward his father the instant before the football hit him in the head and he collapsed on the grass.

Landon's father was a ghost above him, a blurry and sobbing figure coming into focus. Landon read his lips. “Landon? Landon? Oh, God . . .”

His father's fingers scampered over his face and the right earpiece and the magnetic disc that had been knocked loose. “Landon? I'm sorry. I'm so sorry . . .”

Landon opened his mouth to say he was just fine. Nothing came out, or maybe it did. His father's panic and the bad sound and being on the grass disoriented him. One ear wasn't working, but otherwise, he was more embarrassed than hurt. He tried to get up.

His father's hands now pressed him down. “Are you okay? I don't know if you should move.”

Landon shook his head and kept trying to sit up. “Dad, let me up. I'm
fine
.”

“Okay. Okay.” His father nodded, and with his knees buried in the grass, he gently helped Landon into a sitting position.

Landon felt for the apparatus on the right side of his head. The cochlear was crooked behind his ear. His father gently removed everything, checked it over with a frown, and then dangled the equipment in front of him. “It looks okay. Just unseated it.”

Landon took it and put it back on.

“Is it okay?” His father's eyes were wet, his lips pulled into the frown of a sad clown.

Landon got everything reconnected and listened. “Say something.”

His father looked confused. “Uh . . . one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—”

Landon cut off his counting with a nod and a smile. “Got it. All good, Dad.”

His father scooped him up like a hundred-and-seventy-pound doll. He hugged him and spun him around before placing him down. “Oh, thank God. I thought I'd hurt you.”

Landon laughed. “I'm okay. You threw it and I wasn't looking.”

“I know. I know. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” His father shook his head. “I wasn't thinking. I mean, I was thinking—about the book—I mean, I can't use time travel, right? And then I remembered I was supposed to be throwing to you and my arm just launched it and . . .”

“I'm okay. I'm okay.” Landon couldn't stand when his parents fussed over him.

“Really okay?” his father asked.

“Good thing you don't have a very good throwing arm.” Landon smiled and his father mussed his hair.

“And . . .” His father looked around. “. . . I don't see any reason why we need to say anything to . . . Well, this is one of those little things you just forget about because they're so unimportant.”

“Absolutely.” Landon didn't want to give his mother another reason to freak out about football. He hadn't even gotten the pads on yet. When his father's eyes widened, he turned to see Genevieve staring at them with her hands on her hips. Her frizzy red hair was gathered in a kind of crazed ponytail.

“What happened?”

“Playing football,” Landon said.

“Are you okay?” Genevieve eyed them suspiciously.

“Great,” his father said. Then his eyes narrowed and he pointed at Genevieve's hand. “And what is that, young lady?”

Genevieve didn't try to hide her nails; instead she splayed the fingers on her free hand to show off the purple paint. “Polish.”

“I don't think so.” Their father shook his head. “You do something like that and
I'll
catch the blame.”

Genevieve pointed to her face. “No lipstick. No eyeliner. That's what you can tell Mom. I will too.”

Genevieve had the strong-minded look of their mother, and she jutted out her chin. “I can get by without makeup, but you don't show up at the deli or the park without nail polish. Not in this town anyway.”

“What do you mean, ‘this town'?” their father asked.

“Bronxville.” Genevieve tightened her jaw. “This isn't like Cleveland.”

Landon looked back and forth between them like it was a Ping-Pong match.

“Meaning?”

“Certain things are expected here, Dad.”

“Like what?”

“Like nail polish. Tevas instead of Crocs.” Genevieve wiggled her toes at them. “Nothing too crazy, but it's different. Oh, and Tuckahoe are our mortal enemies.”

“Tuckahoe?” Their father wrinkled his brow.

“Arch rivals in all sports, especially football.” Genevieve handed Landon the shirt she'd been holding. “Here, put this on.”

“I have a shirt on.” Landon pointed to his dark gray
Minecraft Eye of Ender
T-shirt.

“Izod. Put it on,” Genevieve said. It was an order.

Landon looked at his father and shrugged. “She's good at this stuff.”

Genevieve looked away as he tugged the blue collared shirt with its little alligator patch down over his jiggling belly.

“Good.” Genevieve turned from Landon to their father. “Now we're off to lunch.”

“What do you mean, ‘off to lunch'?” he asked.

Genevieve sighed. “It's what kids do here, Dad. They meet at the diner or the club or the pizza place.”

“And how do kids
pay
for that lunch?” He scratched his jaw.

“Mom gave me a credit card,” Genevieve said. “She said if you had a problem to say it's this or join the country club. Lots of kids eat there.”

“I don't golf.” Their father blinked.

“I know,” Genevieve said.

“Guess I'll make a sandwich and get back to work.” He gave Landon a knowing look. “I think I had a breakthrough.”

Landon retrieved his Cleveland Browns cap and followed his sister.

“Don't walk behind me, Landon.” She waved her hand. “Walk beside me.”

Landon hustled up. “Well, you walk so fast. It's always like a death march or something with you. You and Mom.”

“We have places to go,” she said.

They were passing the library when she tapped him and asked, “What's Dad's breakthrough?”

Landon explained as best he could. Genevieve shook her head. “He's something.”

“
I
like it.” Landon didn't want to trample his father. In fact, he wanted to look up to him, but sometimes it was hard. Whenever anyone asked what his father did and Landon told them he was a writer, the next question always hurt. He tapped Genevieve's shoulder. “Do you have to have a book
published
to be a writer? Technically, I mean?”

Genevieve frowned. “Of course not. Did you ever hear of
A Confederacy of Dunces?
”

“You saying Dad's stupid?”

“No.” Genevieve swatted him. “It was a book no one wanted. Dad told me about it. The author was John Kennedy Toole, and he never published anything. He died . . . actually, he killed himself.”

Landon's stomach clenched. “Geez, Genevieve.”

“Yeah, but then his mom
forces
some writing professor
to read her son's manuscript and
bam
, it not only gets published, it wins the Pulitzer Prize.”

“Gosh.” Landon thought about that all the way to the diner.

When they arrived, there were no bikes outside, and that relaxed Landon a bit. They went inside, and Genevieve waved to a table where two girls sat holding two empty places.

“Guys, this is my brother, Landon.” Genevieve presented him with a flourish. “Landon, this is Katy Buford and this is Megan Nickell. We'll all be in seventh grade together.”

Katy's short hair was straight with bangs and so blond it was nearly white. Megan had dark, wavy hair pulled back by a band across the top of her head. They both wore shorts and colorful Polo shirts with Tevas on their feet. Landon blushed and said hello. As he shook hands he noticed that they not only had painted nails, but also a touch of lipstick and maybe something on their eyelashes.

They all sat down. Katy launched into an excited discussion with Genevieve and Megan about the new middle school girls' soccer coach.

Katy rolled her eyes. “Wait till you see how cute he is! But my mother said he grew up in New Haven, so he's probably poor as a church mouse. Can you believe people
live
in places like New Haven? I bet there are some pretty bad places in Cleveland, huh?”

When Landon looked over, Megan was staring at him with large, pale blue eyes. He was afraid she'd ask about his ears, but she smiled. There was a gap between her front teeth, and they were all strapped together with bright orange braces.
He looked back at her eyes. She was beautiful.

They ordered Cokes and iced tea. While the girls looked at the menu and Katy babbled on about boys and clothes and makeup and money, Landon stole glimpses of Megan. He couldn't take his eyes off her. When the waitress returned with their drinks, Landon reached for his soda too fast and knocked it over, and some spilled on Megan's white shorts. She gave a little shriek and jumped up, her face reddening at the attention from everyone around them. Landon struggled up out of his seat and dabbed at her shorts with his napkin.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said.

Megan laughed nervously and gently pushed him away. “No, I'm okay. Please, Landon. Stop.”

Landon stood, his shoulders slouched, a tower of shame. “I . . . I am just so sorry.”

“It's okay. It's no big deal.” Genevieve patted his shoulder and they all sat down.

Landon could see Megan was still embarrassed by the incident and blotting her shorts with water under the table. He suspected Katy's now-deadpan face was her way of showing contempt. Landon felt his own face burning. To rebuild their image of him, he forced a chuckle and blurted out, “I'm good at knocking things over. That's why I'm going to play football.”

“What?” Katy's face morphed into disbelief. “How?”

“Well, he's getting—” Genevieve started to explain.

Megan's face brightened, though. “That's
great,
Landon.”

“Is it?” Landon thought so, but her enthusiasm puzzled him.

“Yes.” She nodded, smiling.

He had to ask. “Why?”