Beast(73)

I pick up the pretzel and it’s stone cold. Maybe Jamie waited until she was long gone before texting me.

Dad. Now. Give me a sign now.



I rub my arms and look around. I wait for a leaf to smack me in the head or a sudden storm to slam a tree into a telephone pole. Nothing. It’s quiet. Maybe there’s a delay between here and the afterlife. I decide to make it very formal.

Okay. Here goes.

Hey, Dad, it’s me.

I need to know a relationship with this girl is okay because I feel like I’ve already screwed up by not talking to her and waiting for you and all the rest of it. But you’re my dad and you’re very important to me, no matter your current somatic state, so if you could please send me a sign in the next ten seconds. Preferably something I can’t miss, like a ray of sunshine at my feet or a transformer exploding. Your choice. I’ll be right here on the front step you carried Mom over when you first bought the house. I really like Jamie.

There. I said it. I am officially coming out to you; now you know I like her. Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m okay. Tell me we’re okay. Give me your blessing.



I count to ten and nothing happens.

No sunshine. No overloaded electrical wires. No sirens, no fires, no fluttering leaves.

I peel off a piece of the pretzel, almost exactly half. One half I put back into the napkin and the other half I bring inside the house. The front door is once again shut and locked behind me and I climb the stairs to my room, where I put the pretzel on my desk.

When I get my sign, I’ll eat it. Even if I have to wait forever. Except I didn’t hear from my dad, so the pretzel sits.

Maybe he’s busy.





THIRTY-TWO


I’m back in the old weight room. Go figure. But as far as stuff to do after school is concerned, it’s nice to be a part of something. The guys on the team that I’ve met so far seem real happy about next season, and now I have a whole new thing to worry about: sucking at football and letting everyone down. No pressure.

My stomach freezes up when I think about it, but I’m trying to look at it like anything else school related. Go to class, do the work, study. So I’m sitting on a rank fold-out plastic mat and trying to touch my toes in the name of flexibility. This is seriously the worst thing ever. Well, almost. Debilitating confusion trumps all. And my dad still won’t give me a sign.

I stretch forward as far as I can and graze my shin. If the dead harbor emotions, do they do it daily? Like, is my dad watching and going, Way to go, kiddo—those hamstrings are almost as loose as cinderblocks! or is he like radar, so he can only respond with direct contact from approved earthly residents? I’ve been beating myself up about this forever now, but I still can’t get over why Mom and not me? The train set is perfection, my grades are impeccable, I know the difference between an off-tackle and a slant. I should be every father’s dream son. Other than the obvious (he’s extra super dead), I don’t know why I can’t get one single frigging clear sign from above.

People come in and out of the weight room all the time, so I don’t notice when the door swings wide, or even when someone sits on the same row of mats to stretch. “Want a towel?” JP asks.

My head jerks toward him. “No.”

“Look, I’ll show you a trick we learned at baseball camp.” He takes a towel, lassoes the balls of his feet, and holds on with two hands. “This works real good.” A few minutes pass, him bent in half and holding on to the towel, before he grunts with a finish and sits upright. “Here.” He holds it out to me.

“Thanks.” I take it and put it down.

Everything about him is round as a pill bug. All tucked in and hunched. “New Year’s came.”

“Does that every year.”

“What’d you guys do?”

“Me and my nine thousand friends? Nothing.” Rub it in, *. You’re the guy everyone loves and you threw a huge party at your aunt’s house, and tons of people came and told you how awesome you are. Just like last year. I was there.

“I meant you and your mom,” he says.

“My mom? What do you want, JP?”

His perfect hair shimmies as he shakes his head. “Just saying hi. Trying to.” He cracks his legs wide forty-five degrees and leans forward. “I hate this—it f*cking burns.”

“It’s not supposed to burn.”

“Oh yeah?”

“If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Shit,” he says.

“Are you being serious, or are you messing with me?” I ask.

“See? You can’t even tell I’m for real, that’s how long it’s been. Come on, man, look, January came and went, and I made some resolutions. One of them is catching up with you.”

I stare at him. “Whatever.”

“I miss hanging out.”

“That’s…nice.” If it’s sincere. I sneak another look at him. Maybe he is? He’s all slumped over and hangdog forlorn. Could be an act but I can’t tell. I honestly have no idea who he is anymore.

JP gets to his feet, stretches his quads, one-two, and goes near the lat pull. “How does this one work?”

“You sit on it and pull the handlebar down.” Rocket science.