Weird Girl and What's His Name (6 page)

six

T
HIS WAS PROBABLY A MISTAKE.
F
OOTBALL
tryouts. I mean, yeah, I was one of the biggest guys on the field. And I could run okay for a fat dude. I guess all that cardio at the gym paid off. But I didn't know any of the terminology the coaches kept barking out. I kept getting in the wrong group of people, going to the wrong side of the field, getting yelled at by the revered Coach Willard, whose legend loomed large in town but who turned out to be a rather peevish little man with a whistle and a fat gut that strained above his belted khaki Dockers. After a while, it became funny, and I wished I'd told Lula I was doing it, so she'd be there to watch. She'd be laughing her head off. The whole thing was so stupid macho, and probably the gayest thing I'd ever done in public. All the grunting, everybody's butt in the air. And all the drills had these super gay names like “The Man-Maker,” “The Machine Gun,” and “The Rodeo.” But when it came time for the sled, where they had all us big guys put on pads and helmets and run like hell at this sort of foam dummy on wheels and slam into it as hard as we could, I actually did all right.

“Hey, you're getting the hang of it out there, man.” Sexy Seth slapped me on the back as I attempted to simultaneously catch my breath and chug Gatorade.

“Thanks,” I wheezed unsexily. “You work fast.”

“Huh?”

“Telling Morris about me. He came up to me at the gym, like, right after I saw you.”

“I didn't say anything to Coach Morris,” Seth said, confused.

“Oh. I guess I thought . . .”
Hey, wanna see my new football move called The Backpedal?
Seth probably had no recollection of running into me at Walmart. And why would he? I felt myself blushing a million shades of red, and I hoped that if Seth noticed, he would just think I was dying of heatstroke.

“Oh yeah, 'cause of my mom.” Seth smiled, or maybe he was just squinting in the sun. “I know, she kept bugging me to talk to you about trying out, after we saw you at the store. But I never did go to Morris, 'cause . . . I mean, it's not like I didn't think you could play. I didn't think you wanted to. I figured, you know. You're one of those . . . bookish guys.”

“Bookish?”
Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

“I just meant, like, you're Mr. Straight As. I always see you guys reading in the quad—you and your girlfriend . . . uh. Lois?”

“Lula.” I didn't bother to correct him on the girlfriend part.

“Right. Lula. Sorry, man—I'm shit with names.”

“Come on, ladies!” Coach Willard barked at us. “You gonna stand around and gossip like a buncha hens, or you gonna play some
got damn football
?!”

“I'm just saying,” Seth shook his surfer hair out of his eyes and put his helmet on. “I know you take all those College Prep classes and stuff. And being on the team kinda takes over your life. You gotta wake up early as hell, work out all the time, rain or shine. Practice before school and after. You think you got time for it?”

“Do you think I'm gonna make the cut?” We jogged out onto the field, side by side.

“Ain't up to me,” Seth smiled. “But if it was, I'd say we could use a big guy like you if we're gonna make it to State next year.”

Coach Morris blew his whistle and called me over for something called pass-blocking drills. The other guys groaned, but I had no idea what that meant, so I just put my sweaty helmet back on and got in the back of the line.

“Callahan, get over here,” Morris commanded. “Briggs, you too. Ty, put that dummy up right on the line.” A few yards behind us, another one of the assistant coaches, Tyver, set up this thing that looked like a stand-alone punching bag, or an inverted exclamation point. “Callahan, that dummy over there is Seth Brock, okay?”

“I can definitely see the resemblance.”

Morris squinted up at me. “Now, remember that two-point stance I showed you earlier?” I nodded, dropping into a sort of lunge. “That's it. Just keep those shoulders back, elbows in. Yep, you got it. All right, now, Briggs here is gonna try to get at Brock, right there behind you. And you're not gonna let him. That's all you have to do. Briggs gets by you, hits that dummy, you lose.”

I nodded. Speed Briggs—a large, gregarious black kid—was pretty much the only guy at Hawthorne who was bigger than me. He shook his head as he dropped into a crouch in front of me.

“Set!” Morris yelled.

“Nice knowin' ya, rookie,” Briggs chuckled.

“Hut!”

Speed came at me. I stepped back, my heel sliding in the muddy turf. Speed bore down; I felt wet clay oozing into my left sneaker. I pictured the dummy behind me, pictured Seth shaking his hair out of his eyes.
Bookish.
Suddenly it was like some spring uncoiled in my legs. This weird roar came out of my throat and I lunged, shoving Briggs off me like he was an overeager puppy. It was like I couldn't see for a minute, and then I could, and Briggs was face down on the ground. Nobody said a word.

“Oh, shit, man,” I knelt down. “Are you okay?”

Speed was laughing. He rolled over and held up his hand. I pulled him to his feet. He was still giggling, picking a clod of grassy mud out of his facemask.

“Hot
damn
!” Speed hollered, spitting dirt. “That boy's a
monster!”

“Attaboy, Callahan!” Morris slapped me on the butt. “Back in line. Lytle, Torres, you're up next.”

Lula would be having a total fit right now.

“Y
OU DID
WHAT
?” L
ULA WAS INCREDULOUS.
We were out in the courtyard, eating lunch.

“I just tried out. It's no big deal.”

“It's
Hawthorne Football,
Rory. It's the biggest deal in town.”

“It's not that big a deal to me. One of the coaches goes to my gym. He asked me to come to the tryouts, so I did. I probably won't even make the team. I just did it as a joke.”

“Then why didn't you tell me about it?”

“I'm telling you now.” I couldn't believe she was so upset. “I thought you'd think it was funny.”

“I think it goes against everything you stand for.” Her mouth was turned down, and with the red hair, she did kind of look like Scully for a minute. “I don't see how you could participate, even as a joke, with those jock assholes.”

“Lula, come on. I told you, it's no big deal.”

“Those are the kind of guys who take guys like you out into the middle of nowhere and leave them tied to fence posts—”

“Nobody's tying me to anything, Lula, geez. I'm almost three hundred pounds.”

“Whatever, Rory.”

Now I knew she was upset. Lula hates it when people just say “whatever” and leave the rest of the conversation hanging.

“None of those guys has ever done anything to me. They don't even know I exist,” I tried to assure her. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. A couple of those guys had told me to “Move it, lardass,” in the hallway from time to time. And one guy last semester, a linebacker who was graduating, asked me to help him write history papers for Mr. Kinney's class, but that was because Mr. Kinney asked him to ask me.

We spent the rest of the lunch in relative silence. Except that I couldn't really eat, not when Lula was upset with me. So I tried to make amends. I told her that her hair looked really Scully-esque today. I told her that we should watch the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy again, since we hadn't done that in a while. I told her she could even fast-forward to all the Aragorn parts. That got a little smile out of her. The bell rang, and we got up, collecting our trash. She still didn't say a word. Later, in Chemistry, she passed me a note.

I passed her one back:

From the other end of the lab table, she unfolded the note and laughed. It got Mr. Miller's attention, so she turned the laugh into a cough and hooked her arm around the note, hiding it and making it look like she was studiously pondering the periodic table of elements, as if it was crucial information we were indeed going to use later, rather than just memorize for the test and promptly forget.

seven

“I
WISH YOU WOULDN
'
T START AN
argument with me right now.” Andy was practically in tears. I didn't know how the whole thing got so out of hand so quickly. I'd come over for our usual afterwork movie. And he wanted to watch
Brokeback Mountain
again. He had this total obsession about it, especially since Heath Ledger, one of the actors in it, just died. But I didn't feel like watching it, because I thought it was sad and kind of boring and I didn't like westerns, anyway. So I said so. And now he was upset.

“I didn't mean to start an argument. I just feel like watching something else, that's all.”

“It's the way you said it.”

“How did I say it?”

“You know how you said it.”

“Andy.” I sank down onto the sofa. “I said it like I always say it. You're being way too sensitive.”

“I'm being too sensitive? You know how I feel about this movie. It's beautiful, and Heath's beautiful in it, and you stand there and talk about it like I'm forcing you to watch a marathon of
Judge Judy
.”

“Good grief, Andy, put the movie in, let it roll. Forget I said anything!”

“No, not if you're going to be that way.” He flipped the DVD down on the coffee table.

“I think you're the one who's trying to start an argument,” I muttered.

“As many times as I've sat up watching those bodice-rippers you like—”

“Bodice-rippers
?”

“And you have to act like a spoiled child. But then, why should that surprise me?” he sighed loudly. “Serves me right for dating an overgrown adolescent.”

That was enough. I stood up.

“Andy, I don't sneak through the goddamn woods in the middle of the night to get the third degree over whether or not I'm in the mood to watch some fag cowboy movie.”

I meant to just walk out and keep walking, but this strange thing happened. Andy was between me and the door, so I had to get around him to get out. As I came toward him, he flinched and took a step back.

“So, what, you're going to knock me around like they taught you at football tryouts?” Andy asked, sounding defiant and nervous all at once.

“Why would I—” I stopped, shaking my head. Andy honestly thought I was going to hit him or something? “Don't be ridiculous,” I said, but it came out sounding meaner than I meant it. I wasn't that much taller than he was, but I was a lot heavier. A lot stronger, probably, since I'd been working out.

“So then why are you still here?” Andy asked, his voice a hard edge. “Why don't you run home to Mommy because you didn't get your way?”

I exhaled hard. My hands were trembling, sweating. Andy waited. I stared hard at him. I could see his muscles tense, the caution in his eyes.

“This is bullshit,” I muttered finally. I walked past him, out the sliding glass door, back into the woods. I took a long time walking home. Thinking about what Speed had said.
That boy's a monster!
Sure, there were certain things that could get me really angry if I thought about them too long—my mom getting drunk all the time, the guys she brought home, my dad being totally AWOL, Aunt Judith always leaving on her trips, people being mean to Lula—but nothing Andy said or did ever made the list.

But there was all the insecure stuff that crept into my mind on all those nights just like this one, where I was sneaking back into my house after being with him, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.
An overgrown adolescent? Is that all he thinks I am? Is that why he won't commit to me?? He's always pushing me away, pushing me to go to college, to meet other guys. Talking about how handsome other young guys are, trying to get me to agree. Would he rather have some other handsome young guy? Because I don't care about those guys. I don't want some young Heath Ledger-type. I want Andy. And he doesn't want me.

When I got home, my heart was pounding. My hands were still shaking. I wanted to run or scream or something. I paced in the clearing, behind a stand of skinny pines. I drove my fist into one of them, landing the punch with a grunt. It didn't make anything better. I stood at the edge of the woods for a long time, flexing my bruised knuckles, looking across the backyard at the soft yellow light coming through the kitchen window.
I should stay out here,
I thought to myself.
In the woods. In the shadows. This is where monsters live.

J
ANET AND
L
EO WERE STILL UP,
sitting in their matching recliners in front of the flat-screen.
Guys and Dolls
on Turner Classic Movies. I managed to get past them without having to say much, and I made it up to Lula's room. The lights were off. She was tucked in beneath her puffy white down comforter, watching a DVD of
X-Files
outtakes she'd downloaded from the Internet.

“What's the matter with you?” she said before she even saw that I'd been crying.

“I . . . had a fight. With my mom,” I lied. I felt like my chest was going to explode, I wanted to tell her so much. I wanted to tell her what happened, I wanted her to help me figure it out. How I let myself behave like a brute to the man I loved.

“Shit, kiddo. You're a mess. You wanna talk about it?”

“Yeah. But I can't.” At least that much was true. I sniffled, and she handed me a Kleenex from the box on her desk. I sat down on the floor, honking my nose.

“Lula, do you think I'm a . . . like a bad guy, or something?”

“What'd you do, rob a bank?” She tsked at me. “Rory. Don't be silly. You're the best guy,” she said softly. “C'mon. Wanna watch
X-Files
blooper reels?” I nodded. Lula cued up the DVD. I looked up at her, her face illuminated by the TV.

“Can I get into bed with you?” I asked suddenly. I don't know why I said it. I expected her to laugh at me, to brush me off with one of her usual jokes. I was already backtracking in my mind.
I didn't mean it that way.
What way did I mean it, then? I just wanted to be close to somebody right then. Somebody who wasn't going to ask me not to feel how I felt. Sometimes I wished it could be as easy with Andy as it was with Lula. On the other hand, now Lula was looking at me with this look of . . . what, exactly? Was she totally weirded out that I asked to climb into bed with her? I couldn't exactly blame her. The list of people who wanted to get into bed with me, for sleeping purposes or otherwise, was pretty damn short, even when I wasn't crying like a big baby.

“Rory, I—” It was like she was about to say no, but then she stopped. “Yeah. Of course. Come here.”

Lula pulled back the comforter, and I climbed into bed with her. She curled up in my arms, and I cried quietly into her hair. She brushed my cheeks dry with the backs of her hands. And the TV flickered blue as Gillian Anderson flubbed her lines, David Duchovny dropped his gun, and the slate clapped and clapped and clapped again against the laughter while somebody's wary voice off-screen ordered:
Everybody, back to one.

I
WAS LATE TO WORK THE
next day, not because I dreaded seeing Andy, but because Coach Morris called me into in his office. They thought that, with my size and my speed, I was a natural-born football machine, and they wanted to train me to be an offensive lineman. They wanted to entrust me with the extremely important job of keeping Sexy Seth from being sacked, whatever that meant. Coach Morris said I'd need to really buckle down and make a commitment, but that if I did, I might get some actual time on the playing field, because most of the current offensive linemen were graduating this year. I could maybe even get a college scholarship for this. But I would really have to dig in and learn the game. Devote my life to two-a-days. Play catch-up to guys who'd been playing this game since they could walk. This whole discussion was so ridiculously super-serious, you'd think he was telling me that I was Kal-El, last surviving member of the planet Krypton, and now I had to use my superpowers to save Planet Earth. I told him I had a lot going on and I would have to think about it.

“Well, it's certainly something to think about,” Coach Morris said, leveling his gaze at me. “For your future.”
Sorry, I'm Morris,
I thought, trying not to laugh. As if this guy knew anything about my future.

“I was afraid you wouldn't come in today,” Andy said when we were finally alone in the shop. There had actually been some business that afternoon, so we spent the first hour avoiding each other, him at the register and the coffee bar, me busying myself in the back, unpacking boxes.

“I had to stay after at school. I should've called,” I said, popping open a fresh box of paperback
Harry Potters.
It was hard to make eye contact with him. I still felt a dull ache in my chest, still angry at myself and at him, and not sure if I wanted to let him back in yet or not.

“No, it's fine.” Andy took off his glasses and rubbed the little divots that they left in his nose. “Look, I really need to apologize about last night. You were right, I was being too sensitive. I was upset, and I should've talked to you instead of taking it out on you. My wife just told me yesterday that she's marrying some ski instructor from Utah, of all places, and she's taking the girls out there with her. I should have been more forthcoming with you, and I'm sorry.”

“That's okay,” I said softly. “I was a jerk, too. I'm sorry I lost my temper. And I'm sorry about your kids.”

“Yeah, it's—” But he didn't finish. He was getting choked up. I pulled him into an embrace. Felt him exhale against my chest.

“I just didn't realize how much I love them,” he said, his voice muffled.

“They're your kids,” I said. “Of course you love them. You're a good dad. Now you just have to fly to Utah a lot, I guess.”

“I know. You're right. I guess I'm going to start racking up the frequent flyer miles, huh?”

I tried to laugh, but, honestly, it was kind of a bummer to think about. How often were we talking here? Monthly? Every two weeks? How long would he stay out there?

Andy took a deep breath. Separated himself from me and wiped his face on his shirttail.

“All right, enough. We can make this Utah thing work. Cindy and me. What's done is done.” He waved it off and looked up at me with a coy smile. “In the meantime, why don't you come over tonight and let me make it up to you?”

“Um. Okay.”

The cowbell on the front door clanked.

“That's a customer,” Andy said, skittish as usual. He pushed the stockroom door open and was gone back out into the store before I could say anything else. I set the
Harry Potters
on the restock cart and just stood there, listening to Andy and the customer, the customer ordering an Americano, Andy ringing him up, the bell clanking again. I ambled out, pushing the cart in front of me.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” Andy said. He was counting bills in the register.

“What made you marry her in the first place?”

“Cindy?” He didn't look up from his counting.

“Yeah. I mean, did you do it just to cover up that you were gay? Or did you really have feelings for her?”

“I loved her. I thought I did, anyway.”

“But it just . . . went away?”

“Not all of a sudden.” Andy stopped counting. “It wasn't like I woke up one day and had this revelation. It was more like . . . all these little attractions I had to other men . . . finally I realized that I couldn't ignore it anymore, and if I really loved Cindy, and myself, for both our sakes, I'd leave her so that we could both . . . so we could both be more complete. So I could figure out who I was and let her be free to marry someone else.” His face turned pained again. “I guess I didn't think she'd actually go and do it.”

“What do we have in common?” I asked him.

“What?” Andy closed the register. “You and me?”

“No. Me and Cindy. I mean, how did you fall in love with both of us?”

He didn't answer. He smiled and touched my arm, the slightest touch as he walked past me, back to the stockroom to get more small bills, and I felt my heart warm toward him again.

“I
CAN
'
T BELIEVE IT.
R
ORY.
I cannot believe you're actually
fucking
your
boss.”

“Shh, Lula, damn!” She was waiting on my porch, in the dark, when I got back from Andy's. Between us fighting last night and the Coach Morris thing this afternoon and Andy wanting to make it up to me, I'd completely forgotten that Lula and I were supposed to meet up at my house to study for Mrs. Lidell's midterm. I retraced my steps in my head. I'd come home after work to drop off my stuff and shower, and I went over to Andy's instead. Lula must have just gotten here, she must have seen me cutting through the woods and followed me. And now she was back here, waiting. I fumbled with my house keys, dropping them somewhere in the dark near my shoe.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” I insisted. Hoping my mother was passed out in her room upstairs, or else still out with the guys from work, somewhere out of earshot of Lula, who was shouting loud enough to wake up the whole street.

“I'll tell you what I'm talking about! I'm talking about you and that creep Andy Barnett—”

“First of all, could you please lower your voice?” I was on my hands and knees now, feeling around for my keys.
Why didn't I leave the damn porch light on?
“Whatever you saw, it's not what you think—”

“Okay, then, if I didn't see what I'm pretty sure I saw, then what the hell
did
I see? Because it looked a lot like you and Andy taking each other's clothes off and—”

“Dammit, Lula, shut up! Just shut the hell up!” I stood up, keys in hand. “It's none of your business!” My heart was going about five thousand beats a second. I kind of thought that maybe I could still convince her that she hadn't seen what she probably saw. But part of me was so tired of lying, all I wanted was to stop. I looked down at her. Lula's eyes were dark and swollen. Like she'd been crying for hours. I'd never seen Lula cry before. Not once.