Birthday(39)
I’d be lying if I said a small part of me doesn’t want to prove, to myself if nobody else, that I really am straight. The kiss doesn’t haunt me as much now that Morgan’s gone full diesel—not a glimmer of attraction since he shaved his head and started putting on muscle—so I figure it really was just how feminine he used to be, but it’s still hard not to shake sometimes that my first kiss was with a boy. I don’t know. It’s nice not dealing with the confusion as much, but sometimes I miss the way things were, confusion and all. But I tell myself that Morgan doesn’t seem to want to go back. He’s happy now, right? All I want is for Morgan to be happy.
That afternoon, I try to find Morgan to explain. His afternoon history class is in the room next to the chemistry lab. I wait by the door, but when the last student files out with no sign of him, I frown. Where the hell is he? I can’t text him in the halls without having my phone taken away, so I sigh and make my way to German II, my last class of the day, resigning myself to being late as the second bell rings. I’m practically running when I pass by the back loading bay, near the cafeteria, hear a door creak, and look up to find Morgan slipping in through the doors.
“There you are,” I say. “What were you doing?”
Morgan blinks slowly as if he just woke up from a nap. He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs.
“I was tired from the weight room,” he says. His voice is distant. “Needed some air.”
Something sharp hits my nose and I realize it’s the smell of vodka. Most of the guys on the team drink on weekends. It’s a lot of stress to have a whole town putting their hopes on you every week, especially in a town like this, where athletic scholarships are the only way out for a lot of us.
More and more, though, I’ve noticed Morgan doesn’t just drink on the weekends. At first he would show up to parties with a bottle of rum and mix it with soda, and that was all right. Then he started leaving the liquor at home and showing up to parties with his eyes already glassy and distant. Now, if I’m being honest, that’s how he looks a lot.
“Okay,” I say. “Anyway. I have to cancel our plans tonight.”
“That’s fine,” Morgan says, not even a lick of curiosity in his voice.
“You’re sure?” I’d rehearsed this in my head and it’s not going the way I expected. Like it’s our birthday and it stings that he truly doesn’t care, but I guess I’m the one canceling.
“It is?”
“Yeah, it’s cool.”
“’Cause Susan said she’s ready to—” I start to say, but he just sucks something out of his teeth.
“Yeah,” he says. We reach his destination and he turns for the door. “Do your thing.”
“We can reschedule.”
“If you want,” he says. “I’ll see you at the game.” He gives me a perfunctory wave and slips into his class.
I stand in the empty hallway, clenching and unclenching my fists, not completely sure what just happened.
MORGAN
My body isn’t just a machine.
It’s a well-oiled machine. A high-octane machine. A killing machine. The first half of the game, when I was on the bench because Dad didn’t want to seem like he was playing favorites, was bad. Shameful. The Pioneers rinsed us. We were down by three touchdowns, Nate and a freshman on the bench with a wrenched ankle and a possibly broken finger. Halftime came and went. Dad gave me the signal. I popped my knuckles.
I’m no good on defense, just not big enough yet, but that’s fine because you don’t come back from a showing like this with defense. I catch a punt and make it within spitting distance of the Pioneers’ end zone, gritting my teeth so hard they might break. I ram and twist through guys trying to grab me, to throw me down. I make myself a threat with each play, and when I slip through their line and barrel forward to the left, they’re so focused on me, on trying to pull me to the ground, they barely notice as the pass goes to Eric and we score.
The crowd screams, finally given hope for the first time in this embarrassment of a game, and it feels good—not as good, say, as the dreams where I’m a cheerleader, where I’m a girl in the bleachers watching her boyfriend, where I’m on the girls’ basketball or volleyball teams, where I’m a cool rebel like Jasmine smoking under the bleachers and rolling her eyes at all of this. No, this feels good like winning at a video game feels good. A number gets bigger, and I’ll be rewarded for it, and that’s that. No euphoric high means no crash when reality hits.
We plod on and start to turn the game around. It isn’t even hard. I yank helmets when refs aren’t looking. I kick shins and spit on jerseys. The thing is, it’s a head game. The more they hate me, the more they’ll run after me when a play starts, even if they know the ball’s going to Eric. And if I’m being honest, I already hate myself, so I’m basically an expert in how to hate me.
I eat dirt a few times, but it’s not like I haven’t gotten my ass kicked before, and at least now I’ve got a helmet, and the adults will step in if things get out of hand. Where were the adults before? How many of them stood up for me when people knocked things out of my hands, punched me in the stomach, spit on me, called me a faggot? And now they’re cheering? I don’t know who’s more of a hypocrite—me or them.