Before the Ever After(18)

and—

We didn’t invite the people who stopped inviting us over for dinner, for brunch, for their own parties.

We invited the people who keep coming around, the few friends who ask How are y’all doing and wait for our honest answers.





The Party


I sit on the cushions in the window seat watching people arrive, hoping

my boys show up. But each time a car pulls into the driveway

it isn’t them.

First a bunch of the guys Dad played football with, their thick necks and shoulders, their size fourteen shoes and too-tight dress shirts.

And their wives, who are all dressed up pretty, their long hair tossing over their shoulders, their high heels clicking across the floor.

All of them oohing and aahing

the decorations, the food, the lights, the bar.

All of them saying again

and again Everything looks so lovely and asking How are you all holding up and Zachariah 44—man! You looking good!

I keep watching the window, waiting for my boys to show up.

But no bikes roll up. No taxis with one of them inside.

No mom or dad dropping anybody off in front.

Not even Bernadette alone.

My mom hired people to take coats and serve glasses of champagne.

The server people wear all black and stand holding their trays of glasses with one hand, the other one behind their backs.

Football players, managers and some people who wrote nice things about my dad for newspapers and magazines.

Even his old tailor who one time made me and my dad matching suits that we wore to some awards dinner in New York City.

Feels like a long time ago,

when everybody we met wanted an autograph or to shake my daddy’s hand,

take a picture with him, ask again and again and again if I was a football player too.

It’s cold tonight. From here, I can see the moon.

Bright. Full. A thousand moons old.

Then just as I’m climbing down from the window seat, giving up on my boys coming, Ollie skids up on his bike.

Takes off his helmet, says

My mom’s too busy getting herself all cute to be on time.

I had to leave her.

And right behind him come Daniel and Darry, pulling up in Darry’s mom’s car, running toward the house, yelling Let’s get this party started, y’all.

My smile is the whole moon.

That bright.

That big.





After Midnight


After midnight, the music slows down and the grown-ups lean into each other to slow dance.

Me and Ollie are the last two of the Fantastic Four left at the party.

We sit on the couch, drinking soda and eating cake.

My dad’s had a good night. He’s hugging Mama from behind, his chin on her shoulder, his eyes closed.

They’re both smiling.

Even though she started the party off wearing high heels, she’s barefoot now.

So is Bernadette and some of the other ladies.

Then Ollie gets up and starts swaying to the music, his eyes closed, his arms out like

he’s hugging someone. Only thing is, the way he’s dancing, you can believe that he really is.

When he lifts his arm up and lets his invisible partner spin beneath it the way some of the grown-ups are doing, I laugh so hard, soda sprays out of my nose and burns.

Then Ollie is laughing too. But he keeps on dancing.

He just keeps on dancing.





Football


I got Ollie!

We’re on the field pulling sides for a pickup game.

It’s my daddy’s football, so I get first choosing.

There’s a dude named Everett who’s in eighth grade, way bigger than any of us, and I know it’s because he was in eighth grade last year too!

I got Randy, Everett says.

I got Daniel.

I got Sam.

I got Darry.

I got Jet. And it doesn’t matter who I got, Everett says.

We’re gonna crush y’all anyway.

Blah, blah, blah, Darry says. He’s standing next to me now.

Besides being fast,

Darry’s got a good throwing arm, and me, I can catch.

But I’m still too skinny to do much more than that.

Ollie’s good at all of it. And Daniel’s pretty good too.

Everett, he likes to tackle even though we’re supposed to be playing two-hand touch.

So my only real job

is staying out of his way.

But at the 20-yard line, I lift my arm to throw the ball the way I’ve seen my dad do a thousand times the way he’s always told me to do.

Get the wind under it, ZJ, my daddy said.

Use every single muscle you got to send it flying.

Love the game, my daddy used to say to me.

Love the game!

But I don’t love it.

And maybe that’s why

before the ball leaves my hand, Everett is on me and I’m going down, tasting snow and dirt and spit and something else too.

Blood.

Everett gets up off of me.

Sees me put my hand to my mouth sees my hand come away with blood on it.

Sorry, dude, he says, reaching to help me up.

It’s nothing, bruh, I say back. Just football.

I wipe the blood from my lips.

Check to make sure none of my teeth are loose.