Tracy Flick Can't Win (Tracy Flick #2) (7)
Some of his proposals were a little over-the-top—the bronze plaques he wanted to affix to the lockers that had belonged to our famous alums, the brass stars he hoped to embed in the sidewalk leading up to the main entrance (the Green Meadow Walk of Fame), the glass display cases he planned to install throughout the school, containing artifacts belonging to our Honorees—clothing they’d worn, musical instruments they’d played, objects they’d invented, or whatever. Like if someone was an astronaut, he said, maybe we could exhibit their space suit and helmet, not that anyone from Green Meadow had ever gone into space. One of our graduates, Raymond Valdez, had made it into the training program, but he had some issues with claustrophobia that ultimately disqualified him. He still works for NASA, but in a more mundane capacity, probably not the kind of job that would get you inducted into a Hall of Fame.
The point is, I was hearing all this for the first time, and doing my best to keep an open mind. It felt like a brainstorming session, like he was throwing a bunch of crap at the wall to see what would stick. I figured we’d scale back to a reasonable level as we moved forward—if we moved forward—because that’s what usually happens. You ask for the world and settle for scraps.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Give me your honest opinion.”
That’s the thing about a can of worms. It doesn’t always come with a label on it.
“Kyle,” I said. “I think it’s a great idea.”
- 4 -
Esteban Garcia’s house was small and run-down, tucked away on a dead-end side street in a mostly commercial neighborhood. There was a dumpster in the driveway, overflowing with construction debris, and a tricycle lying on the patchy lawn. It was the kind of house people bought when they were young and struggling, trying to get a foothold. Vito had received a seven-figure bonus when he signed with the Dolphins, so he’d skipped this particular stage of life.
He rang the bell and waited, steeling his nerves for possible unpleasantness. He’d apologized to eight people so far, and most of them hadn’t been happy to see him, or hear his voice on the phone. Especially the women. It was like they’d been waiting for years for Vito to get back in touch, just so they could tell him what an asshole he’d been back in 1997 or 2008 or 2013, and by the way, thanks for the herpes.
He was just about to ring a second time when a chubby, unshaven guy appeared in the doorway. He had a baby in his arms, and a cloth diaper folded over his shoulder. It took Vito a second to recognize him, because in his mind, Esteban was still eighteen, a young warrior in peak physical condition. It happened a lot: guys went to seed in their late twenties, like there was no point staying in shape if they weren’t playing football anymore. Vito didn’t know how they could stand it, all that muscle turning to flab.
“Coach.” Esteban didn’t even try to hide his surprise. “Wow. It’s been a minute.”
Vito nodded at the baby. “Got a little one, huh?”
Esteban grinned, the proud papa. He was wearing a gray T-shirt and blue work pants spattered with white paint.
“This is Raúl. He’s the new guy. Marisol’s three.” Esteban patted the baby’s back with his big hand. “What about you? How’s the family?”
“Okay.” Vito nodded for a little too long. “Yeah, you know. Kids are fine. Summer vacation. All that fun stuff.”
The baby made a cooing noise. Esteban kissed him on the top of the head, and hoisted him a little higher on his chest.
“So what’s up?” he said. “What brings—”
A woman’s voice came from inside the house. “Everything okay out there?”
“All good,” Esteban replied. “It’s Coach Falcone.”
A plump, cheerful-looking woman appeared in the hallway, and Vito recognized her with some surprise as Esteban’s high school girlfriend, Nikki. She’d been a cheerleader back then, thinner and sexier, a little wild. Marriage and motherhood had softened her, filled her with milky contentment. That had never happened with Susie, or any of Vito’s ex-wives, for that matter.
“Hi, Coach. Nice to see you.”
“Hey, Nikki. Cute kid you got there.”
“Thank you.” She looked just as proud as her husband. “We think we’ll keep him.”
She held out her arms, and Esteban gave her the baby, who immediately launched himself at his mother’s breast, his little mouth wide open.
“Dinnertime,” she said, smiling sheepishly at Vito before heading back into the house.
“Sorry about that.” Esteban looked a little more like himself now that the baby was gone. “So what’s up?”
“Yeah… so.” Vito locked eyes with him, man-to-man. That was the least you could do. “You remember that game your sophomore year? Against St. John’s? When I wouldn’t let you ride home on the bus?”
“Oh, shit.” Esteban grinned, like they were sharing a good memory. “You were so pissed at me. You forgot to cover the tight end, so I’m gonna forget to take your lazy ass home! I thought you were kidding, you know? Just making an empty threat.”
Vito nodded. He could see it in his head, Esteban standing alone in the parking lot, helmet in hand, watching in disbelief as the bus drove off without him. He was fifteen years old. Big and strong for his age, but still—fifteen.