Birthday(18)

I cringe inwardly but try not to show it. “Yup, definitely the plan.”

After a little tactical espionage action (mostly me almost breaking my neck trying to climb off the roof while Peyton stares at his phone—the speed with which he managed the shimmy down with a never-fully-recovered ACL is a testament to how often he must still sneak out), we’re on the road, headed for the other side of town, deep-night blue and flickering-streetlight orange bathing the community theater that marks the center of downtown while Young Jeezy’s “Soul Survivor” blasts through our open windows, shattering the otherwise perfect small-town silence.

I bob my head to the beat and drum on his car door, trying to make Peyton think I’m cool enough to be worth all this effort.

“I’m sorry, by the way,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the wind and the radio.

“Eh?” he says. He turns down the volume and glances at me.

“For tonight,” I say. “At your work. It wasn’t my idea to come. I’m sorry Dad—”

“Don’t apologize for the shit he does,” Peyton says. His hands squeeze the steering wheel, the fake leather creaking.

“I know, but—”

“Some advice?” he says. “Brother to brother? Stop trying to impress him. Stop trying to please him. Unless you’re a golden boy like Isaac, you won’t like what it costs you. Everybody can’t be team captain. Everybody can’t be recruited for a full ride at UT. There aren’t enough captain positions and scholarships in the world, and you’re just fucking yourself if you try to compete in a world with guys like Isaac in it. Dad’s an asshole for making us do that. Among other things.”

“I … I know he can be a jerk, but he didn’t mess up your knee.” I want to add, You stopped trying to impress him and look what it’s got you, but I don’t.

“No?” Peyton says. “I guess all he did was scream at me every night for not making first string and push me to lift weights I couldn’t handle. Fuck me for being a fourteen-year-old who listened when Dad told me I had to choose between more squats and getting to eat that weekend, right? Fuck me for not pushing things when my knee blew out and he told me to walk it off.”

I always wondered why his injury was as bad as it was, why it never seemed to heal completely. He probably should have had surgery.

“I didn’t know,” I say. My eyes fall on the dashboard and it takes all my effort not to look at his leg and the brace he still wears over his pants sometimes.

“Better for him if I just looked stupid.” Peyton runs his hand through his hair and twists his mouth. “I know we don’t get along. I know I’m an asshole. Just … listen to me on this one thing, okay? Don’t let him eat you alive.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

“Damn right,” he says. “And tell the homo I said congratulations for getting out while the getting was good.”

I’m not sure what to say after that, so I don’t say anything, just sit with my hands in my lap, wondering what else I don’t know about my family and hating what I do know.

Neat sidewalks and wooden fences give way to rusted, warped chain link and concrete riddled with grass-choked cracks. Pristine storefronts give way to strip malls and fluorescent buzzing convenience stores. Mateo’s Tiendita is dark and empty, has been since he fell on his hip and moved in with his oldest son last spring. They say they have plans to reopen it once he gets better, but I haven’t seen him in months. Hungry-looking dogs of no discernible breed sit, eyes distant, in yards with almost no greenery. More and more trailer parks replace foreclosed houses every day, sprouting up like kudzu. When did it get so hard to find this place beautiful?

Eventually we pull onto a street I don’t recognize and roll up to a ranch-style house crammed with cars, and I realize I never gave Peyton directions, just told him it was at Elena’s house.

“How’d you know—”

“I used to get invited to parties,” he says. I don’t have to ask why the football team wouldn’t want him around now. Tonight’s favor and weird brotherly talk aside, he’s been a sour, confrontational asshole since the injury. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I can see how no young athlete with the world in front of them wants a limping, scowling reminder of what they could lose hanging around.

Elena’s sprawling yard is surrounded by a dogwood forest on three sides. Rihanna blasts from the house, drowning out even Peyton’s stereo. Kids are sprawled all over the yard and filter in and out the front door, disappearing with empty hands and reappearing with Solo cups.

Peyton gives me a wolfish grin. “Enjoy it while you can, bud.”

I swallow a lump in my throat and adjust my hair—this is way more of a real party than I expected and part of me feels slightly nervous about what I’ve just gotten myself into.

“Thanks, man,” I say, hiding any fears I might have. “Really.” I hold out my fist. He bumps it, we do the explosion, and with that I’m free. I jump out of the car and Peyton tears away, back down the gravel road.

I decide to search for Morgan inside first, and when I open the front door about fifteen kids turn and stare at me. I start to back away, but then they smile and cheer when they recognize me. This party is for me, sort of, and I know I should feel like royalty here instead of a little kid who snuck out past their bedtime.