Birthday(16)

“Evenin’, folks! Know what you want yet, or should we start with dr—”

“Him,” Dad says. Me and Mom look up to find him smiling pleasantly, his thick finger pointed at Peyton. My brother doesn’t turn but I see his shoulders stiffen as he stops what he’s doing at the grill. Meat sizzles. Dolly Parton warbles from the jukebox. “We want him as our server.”

“Little Peyton?” Her smile widens, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m real sorry but he’s on grill tonight. I’ll be happy to—”

“I will tip you twenty-five dollars,” Dad says, slowly and evenly, “if you ignore our table and watch the grill for a minute so that boy can serve us.”

“I…” She closes one eye and chews her pen. Dad sniffs loudly. Before the woman can make a decision, though, Peyton’s hand appears on her shoulder.

“It’s one table, Dee,” he says. “Slow night. I can handle both. You go take a smoke break.”

“You sure?”

He nods. She smiles and backs toward the door, pointedly not looking at Dad. “Okay, well, just holler if you need anything! Such a nice young man we have here.”

I’ve heard Peyton called a lot of things, but never a “nice young man.” Then again, looking up at him now, with the sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck, and the aura of fatigue around his eyes, he looks more like a tired, disciplined adult than the borderline bully I’ve grown up with.

“Dad,” Peyton says. “Mom. Eric. What’s up?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Dad says.

“I’ve been here all night,” Peyton says.

“We beat the Pioneers!”

“Oh,” Peyton says. He yawns into his elbow and pulls a notepad from his belt, blinking slowly. “Hell yeah.”

“Shouldn’t you congratulate your brother?” Dad says.

“Carson…” Mom says, but Dad snaps a stony glare at her.

“Congrats, I guess,” Peyton says.

“Th-thanks,” I say, hating feeling like we’re all pawns in one of Dad’s games.

“Plus it’s your birthday. Damn.”

I nod.

“Well then. Think of something weird to put in a waffle and I’ll make it for you.”

I’ve never known him to be this thoughtful, and I’m not sure what to say, so I just smile and nod.

“Know what y’all want to drink?”

“Water,” I say.

“Decaf,” Dad says.

“Orange juice,” Mom says. Her eyes dart to Dad’s. “Only fill the glass about two-thirds of the way full, please.” She fiddles in her purse and I catch a glimpse of a small bottle of vodka rattling between her wallet and house keys.

“Jenny…” Dad says.

“Carson,” she says. She lifts her chin as if daring him to say something else. A moment of electric potential passes between them, but Dad seems to blink.

“Coming right up.” Peyton excuses himself to check the grill and fill our drinks.

“So, Eric,” Dad says. He leans forward and laces his fingers together, his near-fight with Mom already forgotten. “You did good tonight. Real good. But here’s where I think you could stand to improve…”

He keeps talking. He’s always talking, and we’re always listening. I stare over his shoulder and let my eyes unfocus, nodding and saying, “uh-huh” just enough that he’ll believe I’m still conscious.

Peyton brings our food, and we dig in, just barely pretending that we’re a family.



* * *



My bedsheets tangle under me. Sleep won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I remember Morgan’s face as he looked down on me from the bleachers after the game, his long brown hair blowing in the breeze, his eyes bright with expectation, then suddenly dimming when I told him I couldn’t go to Elena’s party. He was right, of course: we’ve only spent one birthday apart since we were born, and then only because of chicken pox. We were so mad that our parents had kept us separate that we took a weeklong vow of silence.

No one really knows this, but I only tried out for junior varsity, really, because I wanted to spend more time on the bench. In youth league I was good enough—even without Morgan to make me look better—that I got put into every single game and I was sick of that. But as a junior varsity player, I hoped that all I’d be doing is working out with friends a few times a week, doing homework by a football field every Friday night, and secretly practicing guitar chords against my helmet.

I imagined it would be way less stressful, but then Terry Mack got injured and ruined my carefully laid plans, like an asshole, and I’m stuck playing wide receiver every week instead of daydreaming on the bench. On top of that, I have to practice extra to catch up to the rest of the guys. I wasn’t lying to Morgan when I said that Coach Tyler had me doing stuff tomorrow. Coach would be so pissed at me if I showed up tired and worn out.

From my bed, I reach out in the dark, hook my finger around the second-smallest string on my guitar, and pluck a series of B notes.

Football gets Dad and Isaac off my back, and I can tell it makes Morgan’s dad happy too. After Morgan stopped playing, everyone just waited for him to come back; sometimes I feel like I’m doing this for both of us.