The Music of What Happens(5)

Dad, I think. This kid Max, who we used to call Guy Smiley in AP Comp because he is one of those dude bros who is always smiling because life is perfect? He’s gonna help, I guess. Because I know how much you loved that truck. And him helping is so random, and I don’t even know how to talk to boys like him, and are you ashamed of me for that? That I’m not even a real, true boy?

And Dad, I think. What if we wind up on the street? Are you disappointed in me for not taking care of Mom as well as you would have?

I know it’s just my imagination, but I swear I hear his voice respond. It floods through my veins, from inside of me right up to my inner ear.

No, Jordan. Of course absolutely not, never. His usually rough voice is soft, like marshmallow.

I sit this way for a long time, not moving. It’s almost like I can’t. Finally, I take a deep breath, kiss the leg of my dad’s right boot, stand up and turn off the light.

I open the closet door and my mom is on her bed, reading. She glances up at me, and she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to see me emerge.

Her eyes are glassy and pink-tinged like she’s been crying again. She smiles weakly. “I need some snuggle time. Mini-snuggle?” she asks.

I melt. I can’t help it. I always do. Because she’s so fragile, like a bird, inside, like her supple largeness is inadequate to protect her brittleness, and it’s my job to make sure she doesn’t break. Because she’s my mom, and she was married to Dad. Because I would still jump in front of a train for her, despite the fact that she sometimes makes me furious.

I sit down on the bed and she turns away and I settle into my outer spoon position.

I say, “Sure.”





“Do you know how I know you’re gay?” Betts asks as he jerks his controller to make Ezekiel Elliott juke past a defender on the big screen in front of us. “It’s because you had gay sex with a gay guy last night.”

I crack up and say, “Do you know how I know you’re straight? Your T-shirt.”

Zay-Rod, who is sitting on the other side of the couch from Betts with me in the middle, cracks up and says, “Aw, snap.” Betts is wearing some cheap-ass white shirt his mom bought him at Costco. It’s gone through the laundry so many times that now it’s more like gray white.

“What’s wrong with my T-shirt?” The Three Amigos are on hour four of our Madden Football Fest in Betts’s TV room. His Dallas Cowboys are huddling up. They’re trailing Zay-Rod’s and my Arizona Cardinals by three in the fourth quarter, but this drive could give Betts’s ’Boys the win. He breaks the snap and the Cowboys head to the line of scrimmage. Big third down.

I say, “Dude. That shirt is so straight it watches Tosh.0. That shirt isn’t even bi-curious. You need a shirt upgrade.”

“For real though,” Zay-Rod chimes in as Betts hikes the ball. “You go out in that and the ladies be like, yo. That shit needs some Downy.”

Zay-Rod’s Cardinals blitz, and Betts says, “Crap,” as he tries to help his quarterback evade the rush. Fail. Seven-yard loss.

“Clutch, dude,” I say as Zay-Rod slaps my raised hand. “Clutch.”

“Gang up on the white guy. Nice,” Betts says, and he crosses his right leg over my left one at the ankle. It’s an unspoken thing with the Three Amigos. We’re very physical with each other. Telling them I was gay didn’t change anything at all; it’s just what we do. His Cowboys get in punt formation and Zay-Rod hands the controller over to me. I’m playing the Cardinals’ offense.

“So, what actually happened when you disappeared last night, MAXIMO?” Betts asks as he punts. He says the last part real loud and slow.

I shoot him a quick-but-deadly look that he doesn’t see because his eyes are on the screen. I hate being called my birth name. Imagine naming a human baby Maximo Ashton Morrison. Hell to the no. “None of your damn business,” I say as my returner catches the punt and goes literally a yard before he’s swarmed by Cowboys. “Do I ask you what you do with the ladies? Not that you don’t tell us anyway.”

“You’re too secretive,” Betts says. “That’s not normal. I know something happened.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Seriously don’t sweat it. You’re way too up in my business. Makes me think you’re interested. And if you are, don’t even, because I’m out of your league, dude.”

Zay-Rod snorts. We call him Zay-Rod because his name is Xavier Rodriguez and, like Alex Rodriguez — A-Rod — was, Zay is a third baseman. The baseball team coined him X-Rod and we tried that for a while, but Zay is here to stay.

Truth is, yes, something went down last night. And maybe if it went better, I’d spill. I’m not shy. But this isn’t the motherfucking View. We don’t sit around and talk about our feelings. We play varsity baseball at Mesa-Guadalupe High School. We fiend on Madden. We eat Poore Brothers jalape?o potato chips by the bagful. We’re the Three Amigos, and I’m so lucky, because I have the most loyal buddies in the world. They’d do anything for me. I’d do anything for them. I don’t want to change that.

“Stop running out the clock. What kind of punk-ass shit is that?” Betts says.

I say, “Right. Wanting to win is punk-ass. Like you didn’t do the same thing with the Pats?”