Catching Jordan

I run for five minutes, then take a seat on a fal en log. I look down into the shal ow water at the tiny fish and tadpoles swimming around. When we were little, Henry and I used to go out to the creeks near Lake Jordan. There, we’d spend al day trying to find crayfish, or as we cal ed them, crawdaddies. The trick to catching a crawdad is to grab him right behind the neck like you’d catch a snake. If you don’t, the crawdaddy wil nick you with his pinchers. We got pinched al the time, but it was always worth it when we final y caught a giant fourinch-long crawdad. Now I’m wishing we had never grown up, because I don’t know what’s going to happen today, but it can’t be good. My tears fal into the shal ow water, hitting the rocks and fish.

Henry final y sits down next to me on the log, but we don’t touch.

“Jordan?” he says.

“Yeah?”

He picks up a smal , flat rock, then stands and skips it twice across the surface of the water. What a poor showing—I can skip a rock more than two times. I dig around next to the log and find a heavy, flat stone, dimpled with grooves and peppered with black specks. I stand and skip it three times. I rule.

“How are you?” he mutters.

“Remember when Nomar Garciaparra got traded from the Red Sox to the Cubs?” I start.

“Yeah,” Henry says, picking up another flat stone. He skips it across the water three times.

I scowl. Oh, it’s on. Bending down, I scrounge beneath the log for another flat stone. “So later, when Nomar started playing for the Oakland As, he came back to Boston for a game, and it was like he was stil a player for the Red Sox. Everyone at Fenway gave him this mad standing ovation that lasted, like, a whole minute.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it was like nothing had changed. The Red Sox fans stil loved him, and he got al teary-eyed and shit.”

“Yeah.”

I take my newfound stone and skip it three times. Crap. There must be a stone here that’s capable of doing four skips. “But you know, things had changed. He wasn’t real y a Red Sox player anymore. He was an Athletic.”

Henry sighs. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m trying to say that, even if we aren’t both Red Sox players anymore, we can, uh, stil give each other players anymore, we can, uh, stil give each other standing ovations when we visit each other.”

Henry flicks another stone, but it only does two skips. Then he laughs, wiping curls off his forehead. “Woods, I don’t speak Shitty Sports Metaphor Language. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I go over to him and touch his arm. “If you had told me you liked me as more than a friend, I total y would’ve agreed that the feeling is mutual.”

Henry nods. “But you didn’t know that before,” he whispers. “Until you heard how I felt.”

“Yeah, I’d just never considered it. You’re like my brother…wel , you were like my brother.”

“And now?”

“And now…” I pick up a big rock and throw it into the water, causing a huge splash. That felt great. “You’re a lot more than a brother.” I turn to stare at him again. Henry picks up an even bigger rock and throws it into the river. It makes a much larger splash than mine. Damn it.

I search for a bigger rock, find one and pick it up, launching it into the river. My splash total y kicks Henry’s splash’s ass.

“Woods, I just want to stay Red Sox.”

“What?”

He laughs. Turning to face me, he puts a hand on my hip, rubbing it softly with a thumb. “I love you…”

“I love you too,” I blurt.

He smiles, but it’s not a happy smile—it’s like a resigned smile. “I real y do love you, Woods, but I like what we have now. And if we go off to different col eges, it’l be horrible. We’d be apart al the time. I couldn’t handle that. I’m already dreading it.”

“Me too…”

“And if I’m already dreading it, and we’re just best friends, imagine how bad it would be if we were more…what if we broke up? We’d never get over it. Wel , I never would.” He picks up another rock and feeds it to the Cumberland.

“I get it. But Kristen Markum?”

His face goes al red, and he kicks some rocks into the river. “Won’t happen again.”

“You mean, you’re not going to screw around with girl after girl anymore?”

“I dunno. I gotta cope somehow.”

“Your coping,” I say, making finger quotes, “is fucking with my heart. You were breaking it long before I even knew how you felt. I’ve been worried about you.”

“You don’t think your being with Ty has just about kil ed me?”

“Dude!” I laugh. “It’s been three days or something.”

Henry grins, stretching out his hand toward mine.

“Friends?”

I take his hand. “Red Sox forever.” And then, thinking of Kristen Markum, I shove Henry into the river, creating a much bigger splash than any of my rocks.

That evening, as I’m writing, Ty comes into my room without knocking. I barely have time to hide my journal.

“Why haven’t you been answering my cal s?” he asks in an agitated tone.

“I’m sorry—I’ve had a rough day.”

“I don’t care, Jordan,” he shouts. “When I cal , you need to answer the phone.”

This is al too much. I close my eyes. Through clenched teeth, I say, “Excuse me? Don’t talk to me like that. Ever. Understand?”

When I open my eyes, I find Ty curled up at the end of my bed, tears rol ing down his face. “I thought something had happened to you,” he whispers. “I thought—”

“You thought what?”

“You might be hurt. Or dead. I didn’t know about my parents for hours…I couldn’t reach them on their cel s.”

I crawl down and pul Ty’s head into my lap, stroking his hair. “It’s okay. I’m okay,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Ty stays in my arms for the next hour. What causes the worst pain I’ve ever felt? Watching a quarterback, who prides himself on maintaining control, fal apart. stupid fish plaque

the count? 5 days until alabama

After our weekly gorging at Joe’s, JJ and I are hanging back at my place, playing some Nintendo Wii. JJ’s kicking my ass at the game where, riding a cow, you race around a dirt track and knock down scarecrows for points.

“Woods,” JJ says, as he pummels a few scarecrows with his cow, “you’d better not miss any more practices. I hate snapping to your pretty-boy boyfriend.”

“Shut up, man,” I say as I total y miss a line of five scarecrows. Why do I suck so bad at video games?

“Ty’s so picky,” JJ continues. “Like, if I don’t hike the bal at just the right speed and angle, he gets ticked off.”

“I’l talk to him.”

“You’d better. Or Carter and I are going to kick his ass.”

“Please don’t kick my boyfriend’s ass,” I say, exasperated. Why are al the men in my life acting like total boneheads?

The door to the basement squeaks open, and I hold my breath, waiting to hear who opened the door. Is it Henry? Please God, let it be Henry. At school today, we didn’t speak at al , which is strange considering we have four classes and the same lunch period together. How are we supposed to be Red Sox forever if, after one day, he’s already acting weird again? I wish Carrie had never told me why they broke up.

“Jordan?” Dad cal s out from upstairs. “May I see you in my study please?”

I drop the Wii control er on the floor and trot up the stairs to the study, where I stand in the doorway.

“Come on in.”

Dad’s sitting at his desk, shuffling through paperwork. He never invites me in his study—it’s like his inner sanctum of footbal . He might as wel have a

“No Women Al owed” sign on the door because Mom hasn’t been in here in ages. I don’t even think it gets cleaned—it’s ful of empty pizza boxes and Gatorade bottles, coated in layers of dust.

“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the leather sofa where he and Mike watch film of past games. My head says there’s no way he’d ever watch film with me, but my heart is hoping that’s why I’ve been invited here. Doubtful. When I sit down, I hear a crunch, so I stand up and find that I’ve just sat on a Cheeto. Gross.

“Jordan,” Dad says as I wipe orange dust off my butt,

“I was wondering if you’d like to go to the go-kart track and out for milkshakes tonight. You know, like we used to?”

“Like when I was ten?”

Dad nods.

I lift a shoulder. “Not real y.”

“Okay,” he mutters while staring at his paperwork.

“Listen, I’m so sorry about what I said at dinner the other night. You’re right—I didn’t know anything about Ty or his family.”

I shrug.

“Can you forgive me?”

This is about Ty? I’m so mad at Dad right now, I could easily smash his flat-screen TV. I want to grab his stupid footbal -shaped lamp and hurl it out the window. And though it’s sacrilege, I’m considering smashing his Joe Montana autographed picture.

“I can forgive you about Ty, but how could you say I’m selfish? I’m just trying my hardest to do what I love. You compliment Henry and Ty, but you never ever mention me! You’d support every other footbal player on the freaking planet before me!”

I can’t believe I said that out loud. I throw my head back and peer at a trophy case, realizing he has one of back and peer at a trophy case, realizing he has one of those plastic singing fish plaques on his shelf. I thought Mom threw that out years ago! He’s gonna be in huge trouble with Mom for keeping that dumbass fish. Dad turns to see what I’m looking at. “Oh hel ,” he says, rubbing his head as he looks at his fish. “You’re not gonna tel Mom, right?”

“Depends,” I say.

“On?”

I pul a deep breath. “I want your support. I want you to come to my games.”

“Jordan—I love you, but I’ve seen what this game can do to people…” Dad stands up and stares out the window at Lake Jordan. “I don’t want that for you.”

“Why’s it okay for Mike, but not for me?”

“I’ve seen the concussions, I’ve seen knees wrecked, I’ve seen legs broken in four places.” Dad exhales deeply. “Mike can handle al that.”

“So can I! You’ve always gone to his games. You never come to mine. And I’ve worked so hard.” I’m tempted to stand up and smash that stupid fish plaque over his head.

Dad’s eyes meet mine. “I know you work hard and I know you’re a great player…but I get scared. I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you…I couldn’t handle it.” His voice trails off.

“But I love footbal and have a chance at playing for Alabama!”