On the Fence(2)

“Ew, Charlie, never date a guy who likes V8,” Gage said.

I rolled my eyes. Ever since I turned sixteen—the age my father’s dating ban officially lifted—my brothers constantly spouted off qualities they thought made a guy undateable. I was convinced that if I compiled all the things they had rattled off in the last six months, there would be no one in the world left for me to date. “Why not?” I asked.

“Because you can’t trust a guy who drinks his vegetables. Plus tomato-juice breath is raunchy.”

My entire mouth slowly heated up from the Tabasco sauce. Then I got a punch of pepper that made me gag. “Ugh. What did you guys put in that?” I turned around and gave my tongue a high-pressure wash under the kitchen tap. “There is no pouring going on,” I said, spitting water everywhere. I listened as they dumped the horrible concoction on their heads to groans and complaints. Not worth the taste in my mouth. I gurgled and spit out one more mouthful of water. “Okay, that was fun. Football tomorrow. You are all going down.” I shoved Braden on my way out of the kitchen and he laughed, obviously knowing he was the only reason I ended up downing the drink.

“Wait,” Jerom called. “I want to run with you.”

“I’m not waiting for you to shower.” I crouched down and tightened my laces.

He slicked his hair back, the Tabasco sauce tingeing his black hair red. “Who said anything about showering? Let me grab my shoes.”



The smell lingering around Jerom as we ran made me sick to my stomach. Probably because the smell reminded me of what sat in my stomach. It didn’t help that it was a muggy summer night. Heat combined with moisture was not my favorite running condition.

I distracted myself by trying to identify the trees in the park. I knew the big ones were eucalyptus. They grew all up and down the coast. They must’ve liked the salty air. Even where we lived, ten miles from the ocean, they thrived.

“Eight weeks of summer,” Jerom said, interrupting my failed attempt to name any more trees. “Then we’ll be shackled by the oppressive chains again.”

“Don’t remind me. At least you have some freedom.”

“You think college equals freedom?”

“Uh . . . yes!”

He laughed. “Okay, yeah, it kind of does. But I still have classes and soccer, so it’s not as free as it could be.”

“Have you warned Nathan? I think he’s been looking forward to some freedom.”

“Yeah, right. If there weren’t rules to stay within the strict confines of, Nathan wouldn’t know what to do with himself.”

“True.”

He glanced over at me, slightly out of breath. It was good to know I could still outrun my big brother. I wasn’t even winded. “What about you?” he asked. “Any preconceived notions about being an upperclassman I need to crush?”

“Oh, please, I’ve been an upperclassman for two years already, considering I’ve hung out with Nathan, Gage, and Braden my whole high school career.”

“True. Maybe they did you a disservice with that. Maybe they should’ve let you suffer in the trenches for a while before calling you up.”

“Maybe I should race you up the hill.” I pointed ahead of us. The hill marked the beginning of mile three. My stomach gurgled, not agreeing with my suggestion, but as soon as Jerom said “You’re on,” I couldn’t back down.

As we powered up the hill, I noticed for the first time that it wasn’t just muggy; dark clouds hung overhead. Rain clouds. He led for the first fifty yards or so, but it was a big hill. I saved my speed for when he lost his energy, and I raced past him. At the top, I bent over, now winded, and tried to catch my breath.

“Being a forward has spoiled you,” I said. “I hear midfielders all over the world collectively laughing at you.”

“Whatever.”

“It looks like it’s going to rain,” I said, glancing at the sky again. “We better still be able to play tomorrow.”

“Oh, we’ll play. It just might turn into mud football.” He looked at his sleeve and then flicked a chunk of red goo off it.

The visual made my stomach flip, and acid crept up the back of my throat. “Hold on a minute.” I walked to the side of the road and proceeded to puke in some bushes. The smell made me want to repeat the action, but I quickly walked away.

“Gross,” Jerom said.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah, those raw eggs mixed with Tabasco don’t sit very well. But I feel much better now.” And I did. “Let’s go.” I ran again, heading toward the path that led around the park and then back down into our neighborhood.

“Do you ever think you push yourself too hard?” Jerom asked, once he was beside me.

“This, coming from Mr. I Go to UNLV on a Soccer Scholarship?” I remembered when he was first awarded that scholarship. Even though Nevada was his dream school, I had secretly hoped for a closer college. It was hard to let go of any of my brothers. I wanted to keep them close. Safe. I was happy when he decided to come home during the summers. “No, I don’t think I push myself too hard. You gotta do your best to be the best, right?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? You’re the one who always says that. The quote was taped to your bedroom door for years. Don’t give me this ‘I guess.’ Besides”—I pointed back toward the bushes—“that had nothing to do with pushing myself, and you know it. I’m not even tired. That had to do with a drink I shouldn’t have partaken of, the remnants of which you still have all over your shirt.”