The truth was, I really was afraid. I’d been friends with Nell Hawthorne since third grade, and I’d had a crush on her nearly that long. Frankie had been dead right when he’d said everyone knew except Nell herself and Kyle. And Kyle might have known, but chose to ignore it; I wasn’t honestly sure.
When you’ve spent nearly ten years crushing on someone you don’t dare ask out, the idea of asking her out on a date is terrifying. I also knew if I didn’t take the bet, I’d be the laughingstock of the entire football team.
“Fuck. Fine. I’ll ask her out tomorrow.” I hated being pressured into it, but I also knew I’d probably never do it otherwise. “You’ll all owe me a bill by practice tomorrow.”
Frankie and Malcolm both shook my hand, since they were the only ones actually participating in the bet.
I went through practice on autopilot, running the plays and catching the ball without really thinking about it. My brain was running a million miles a minute, by turns planning out what I’d say and freaking about getting it wrong.
* * *
By the time I got to school the next day, I was a nervous wreck. It didn’t help that Dad had gotten home from work early and worked me over pretty hard. Practice would be rough today with the bruises clouding my ribs and back, but I was used to it by now. It made me tough, he said. It was for my own good, he said. He was right, in a way, though; it did make me tough.
No tackle would ever hurt as much as his fists.
I had fourth-period western civ and fifth-period U.S. government with Nell, and I was planning on making my move between classes. I’d walk her to her locker and ask her as we exchanged books. I stood outside Mrs. Hasting’s first-floor classroom, waiting for Nell to show up for fifth period. I had to bite on my cheek to hide the wince when Malcolm playfully half-tackled me from the side, driving his brawny shoulder straight into a bruise. I shrugged him off, forcing out a laugh as we wrestled until Happy Harry the Hippy Hall Monitor strolled past, calling out a cheerful “Knock it off, you crazy ruffians.”
Happy Harry was everybody’s friend. He looked like John Lennon, with long shaggy brown hair, a scruffy beard, and round glasses. He’d smoked way too much pot in the sixties and hadn’t ever really left that decade, mentally. He was Principal Bowman’s brother, and was perpetually placid, nice to everyone almost to a fault, and always smiling. He never had to ask anyone anything twice, since even the most hard-ass goth liked Harry.
“So, you’re gonna do it after class, right?” Malcolm asked me in a confidential mutter, flashing a triple-folded hundred-dollar bill between his index and middle fingers.
I reached for the bill, but he danced out of the way. “Yeah, I am,” I said. “Hang out by the our lockers between fourth and fifth period.”
I rubbed my side where a purple-yellow bruise the size of a grapefruit shadowed my ribs and around to my back, the same spot where Malcolm had hit me with his tackle.
Kyle’s voice came from behind me. “Your dad go after you again?”
Kyle was the only person other than my mom who knew Dad beat me. I’d made Kyle promise to never tell anyone, though. Telling wouldn’t do any good, since Dad was the captain of our town’s police force. He’d bury any reports, intimidate any social workers who tried to get in his way. It had happened before. I’d made the mistake of telling a gym teacher in eighth grade that the bruise on my stomach was from my dad hitting me, and the teacher had gone to a social worker. The gym teacher had been transferred to a different district within a week, and the social worker had been fired.
I’d missed a week of school, out “sick.” In reality, I’d been in too much pain to get out of bed. The bruises on my body had taken over a month to disappear. I’d never tried to tell anyone after that. I spent as much time at school, at football practice, or at Kyle’s house as I could. Anything to stay out of Dad’s way. It suited him, since he’d never wanted kids in the first place. I was a disappointment to him, he claimed. Even when I made varsity my freshman year, I was a disappointment. Even when I broke the district record for most receptions in a single season that same freshman year, I was a useless piece of shit. I hadn’t beaten Dad’s record, and that was all that mattered.
See, Dad had been All-State three years in a row during high school and then had gone on to play as a starting WR for Michigan State, and was widely praised as one of the best players in college football. He’d then been scouted by the Kansas City Chiefs, the Minnesota Vikings, and the New York Giants. He’d torn his ACL his first game with the Giants, though, and it had been a career-ending injury. He’d returned to his hometown here in Michigan and joined the police force as a bitter, angry man. When the first Gulf War happened, he’d joined the Army and done two tours with the infantry, and had come back even more f**ked up from the things he’d seen and done.
He liked to get drunk after work, and he’d tell me horror stories. Unlike most combat vets I’d heard of, Dad liked to talk about his experiences. Only with me, though, and only when he was at the bottom of a fifth. He’d tell me about the buddies he’d seen shot, blown up by IEDs, hit by snipers and RPGs. If I tried to leave, he’d lay into me. Even drunk, Dad was formidable. The ACL injury had ended his career as a professional wide receiver, but it hadn’t made him any less physically intimidating. He stood several inches taller than me, wide through the shoulders with thick biceps and corded forearms, his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair beaded with sweat as he swayed in front of me. He had quick, hard fists, and even drunk he was accurate. He knew where to hit to cause the most pain. I’d gotten better at blocking and dodging, which Dad encouraged. He wanted me to be a man, a warrior. Men don’t feel pain. Men can run plays with bruised ribs and battered kidneys. Men don’t cry. Men don’t tell. Men break records.
Kyle knew all this—he understood it as much as anyone who didn’t live it could, and he never told.
“Yeah, but I’m fine.” I hated sympathy.
Kyle just met my eyes, staring me down, assessing. He knew I’d never admit to being in pain, so he’d gotten better at gauging how bad off I was. “You sure? Coach wants to run tap-dance drills today.”
“Shit,” I muttered.
Tap-dance drills were usually run with the coach or the QB throwing a ball and the receiver practicing catching it near the sidelines, tap dancing to stay in bounds with one or both feet. Coach liked to run these drills with full interference, so I’d learn to make the catch while a defender tried to stop me. What this meant was I’d spend most of the practice getting tackled over and over again. With already-bruised ribs, I’d be lucky if could walk off the field under my own power.