Birthday(15)

“I…” Eric starts. His shoulders sag and he turns back to me. “I don’t know. There’s an early practice tomorrow, and Coach—Tyler … your dad—wants me to work on some things. I should probably sleep.”

“C’mon,” I say. “It’s our birthday.” Eric’s eyes focus on the pattern on his helmet and I hear the girlish hitch in my voice, which immediately makes me feel ashamed. “We haven’t skipped a birthday since you got chicken pox in third grade…”

He doesn’t look up at me, and I can’t tell what’s suddenly off with him.

“I wish, but I can’t,” Eric says. He tucks his helmet under one arm and forces a smile as he finally looks up at me on the bleachers above him. “We’ll do something this weekend, though. I promise.”

“Sure,” I say. “I get it.” I slide down until my arms are hooked over the railing.

The rest of the team finally realizes that Eric has drifted away from them.

“Eric! MVP!” one of the guys shouts.

“Eric! Yo, Eric!”

“Wi-ld-cats. Wi-ld-cats,” another cheers.

They rush around him, shielding him behind a wall of muscular bodies. Eric smiles sheepishly and lets himself drift away from me and back onto the field, our conversation clearly over. I let him go without trying to say good-bye.

As they pull him away from me, Nate and Chud, a grade above us and way ahead in growth spurts, catch my eye and sneer. Nate blows me a kiss and Chud makes a jerking-off motion. I toss up a double bird and there’s a moment where none of us move. They check to see if Eric’s looking and I check to see if Dad’s looking, and sadly for me, it’s a no on both counts. Oh, fuck.

The coast clear, Nate and Chud charge for the stairs, pushing past people filing out for the parking lot. I run. My daily marathons pay off. Racing in the opposite direction, I jump from the fifth bleacher, land with a roll in the grass, and disappear behind the bathrooms, praying I’ve lost them.

“Keep running, faggot!” I hear Chud yell.

“Fuck you, meathead,” I swear under my breath.

I sigh heavily and feel my heart rate slow. The cold cinder block walls of the bathroom chill the back of my neck as I let my head roll. After a few minutes, I peek around the corner and watch as Eric is guided away to chants and slaps on his shoulders. He never turns around, never looks back.





ERIC



“Waffle House?” Mom asks as we pull up to the restaurant. She gives Dad a tired look. “Really?”

“It’s a Wildcats tradition!” Dad says. “Whenever you beat the Pioneers, you get Waffle House. Right, Eric?”

I shrug. The rest of the team’s getting pizza right now, but what can I do? It was embarrassing enough having Dad drag me away—no reason to also get yelled at. “Last time we beat them was a year before I was born. I wouldn’t know.”

“But this Waffle House, Carson?” It’s not good news when Mom uses Dad’s name instead of “honey” or “shug.”

I crane my neck to look through the windshield and my good mood, already strained from the car ride, evaporates at the sight of Peyton looking tired and sweaty behind the counter, shuffling back and forth between a grill and a waffle iron.

I still remember when he got this job a week after he turned sixteen, the screaming match he had with Dad over not taking a part-time job at the dealership, how Peyton yelled that he shouldn’t need a job at all with how well-off we are, but if he had to have one, he’d rather slam his dick in a car door than work for Dad at the dealership. I can still hear the sound of thick footsteps, followed by a hard thud, the sound of a body hitting the floor, Peyton’s heavy breathing.

“Nobody gave me anything,” Dad had said. “Nobody made you blow your knee out. Now, son, the job offer at the dealership was a favor to your dumb ass, and you just threw it in my face like an ingrate. This is what happens when you’re ungrateful. Don’t ever ask me for anything again.”

“I won’t,” I heard Peyton yell back.

Peyton’s been working at Waffle House ever since. This Waffle House, to be specific.

“They’re brothers,” Dad says as he turns off the car—this year’s newest model. He waves Mom’s concerns away like a cloud of mites as he steps out of the car, and we, his dutiful servants, shuffle behind. Mom gives me a look that could be pity or an apology. I shrug.

“I’m sure Peyton wants to congratulate him and wish him a happy birthday,” Dad says as he opens the restaurant door. He doesn’t hold it open for Mom and it closes in her face. I hold back a growl and open the door for Mom. She smiles weakly as she walks through.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mom says, but her voice is flat and Dad isn’t even listening.

Peyton notices us as soon as we enter. He turns to say something to the old woman running the register, his eyes twitch for a moment, and he scowls, but otherwise he doesn’t acknowledge us.

Dad sidles into a booth against the divider near the grill and we follow him, me and Mom on one side while Dad takes up the entire seat on the other. Nobody says anything for a while. Mom checks her lipstick in the faint reflection of the laminated menu. I roll my neck, trying to work out a sore spot. Dad drums his fingers on the table. Eventually the old woman approaches us with a smile and a voice like a million packs of cigarettes.