Birthday(14)
Eric catches it. Pretty as you please.
He runs. Another touchdown.
The crowd goes insane. I scream myself hoarse.
The clock runs out. Game over.
We won.
Eric won the game.
It was a stupid plan, so stupid, but we haven’t beaten the Pioneers in fifteen years and folks will probably be talking about this play long after we’ve graduated.
I watch with a bonfire glow of pride as the older varsity boys pick Eric up and carry him, laughing, off the field. The cheerleaders dance, keeping the magic of the crowd going strong.
“Parking lot’s gonna be a crush,” Jasmine shouts over the noise. “I’ll find us a ride. Meet in front of the cafeteria in fifteen, okay?”
I nod and she wanders off, flitting through the press of students as easily as Eric juked through the Pioneer defense. Eric runs back onto the field, clearly looking for someone—me? There’s a rush in my stomach as I realize the star of the football game is coming to find me.
I wave him over and he tracks me down before I can get off the bleachers, and I push through the crowd to get down to the railing. Eric smiles and bounces in place, his eyes glittering with the rush of an insane gamble that worked out.
“You were so good!” I say.
He laughs sheepishly and runs his hand over his sweaty hair and I realize, not for the first time, how much he’s grown in the last year. I’ve been taller for as long as I’ve known him, but now he’s three inches above me at five-nine and a solid hundred and fifty pounds of lean muscle. I’m glad he’s kept his long hair, though. It makes us look almost like brothers … or no, wait, that feels gross, but it feels like his shoulder-length curls are his little signal that no matter how much he stays on the jock side of things, he still stands with us weirdos.
“You don’t have to pretend you like football,” Eric says. “I’m just glad you came.”
“No, really!” I say. I wave my arms for emphasis and almost roll myself over the railing. “When you caught that pass? And did the thing? Like phfwah? The spin move? So fresh.”
“That so, Morgan?” I hear my dad say. I look down to see that he’s a few feet away, with a satchel of sports equipment over his shoulder. He adjusts his sunglasses and waves. “Offer’s still open if you ever change your mind. I could use a level head to help rein in these hotshots.”
I almost laugh, but an insane part of me wants to say yes—if only so I could spend more time with my best friend, or just, like, fill my time with something. Junior varsity keeps Eric way busier than youth league did, and Jasmine spends every other weekend with her dad, leaving me with not a lot on my plate …
You can only film so many atmospheric shots and mini-documentaries in a town like Thebes, and my DV Handycam tape budget isn’t exactly infinite. It’s not like I can endlessly watch movies like I want to either. We still have dial-up at the trailer, and the only video rental store within an easy bike ride shut down last February, driven out of business by some internet company that sends DVDs in the mail, which is no use to me since Dad won’t use his credit card online. There’s still the Blockbuster, but that’s four hours, round trip. I’ve read every book on film history and editing they have at the local library (which wasn’t many), along with Stephen King’s entire oeuvre, and eventually had to beg the librarian for recommendations. Now I’ve got a new favorite book in The Left Hand of Darkness, but obsessing over a book and spending time with my best friend aren’t exactly equivalent.
So, yeah, I think about saying yes, because I’m bored and because I’m lonely.
But also, I would never in a gajillion years actually say yes to playing football again.
“Dad…” I sigh, not able to fully say no to him out loud. I hang my head and let my long hair block out the world, hoping he understands.
“What? You know you were great. Can’t blame me for trying…” Dad says. He’s in coach-mode now, his tone light and teasing. “Consider it a birthday present to me.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, Dad.” I try to laugh it off.
He shrugs and then comes over to shake Eric’s hand. “Good job out there, Eric.”
“Thanks, Coach Tyler,” Eric says.
My dad looks up at me and I watch as he fidgets in place for a moment, clearly trying to think of something to say now that football talk is over. Eventually he just smiles and nods and I return the gesture. I know he cares about me in his own way. It’s okay that he has trouble showing it. “All right. Well. See you later, Morgan.”
He doesn’t say “son,” which is something. Maybe he subconsciously picked up on how miserable the word makes me.
“Bye,” I say and flip my hair out of my eyes. Dad gives me a half smile and walks off toward the gym.
“Anyway,” I say, turning back to Eric, “Jasmine’s dragging me to a party tonight.”
“Elena’s, right?” Eric says, his eyes suddenly darting to the end of the field and the lone figure of my dad under the floodlights. “Heard it was supposed to be a consolation prize, but I guess now it’s a celebration. I think Nate and some other guys are going.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You should come. This win was mostly yours, dude. Make it a birthday thing.”