Birthday(40)

Long live football.

One of the Pioneers’ defensive line spears me on the next play, flinging me to the ground like a rag doll, and the rattling impact manages to knock an unwelcome memory out from behind the static.

It’s the first Christmas break after Mom died, and Eric’s visiting his grandma for two weeks, leaving me with nothing to do but stay at home with a grief-ridden Dad or wander Thebes on my bike. It’s late in the day, the sun beginning to set. I park my bike by the coffee shop, hoping to buy a hot chocolate with the crumpled bills in my pocket so I can sit outside and watch the blinking lights strung up and down Main Street. But when I get in line I hear snickering. I ignore it. Little pieces of paper and trash strike the back of my neck and my old, oversized coat swallowing up my tiny body. I ignore that too. Then voices shaking with laughter call my name and, even though I shouldn’t, I turn. Three boys I vaguely recognized from the junior varsity team, probably sophomores, huge compared to me, smirk at me from a corner table.

“What?” I say.

“Told you,” one of the boys, I think his name was Clark, says. He leans over and playfully punches another boy (Peter maybe?) in the arm. “Told you it was him.”

“What do you want?” I say.

“God,” Peter says, “what’s up your ass? Ever heard of Christmas spirit?”

“You threw trash at me,” I say.

“‘You thwew twash at me,’” says a third boy, the largest of them, named Zack. “Don’t be a baby.”

“What do you want?” I look around to see if any of the adults plan to step in. Either none of them have noticed, which isn’t likely considering how loud these three are, or they think the Wildcats are untouchable.

“We just had a question,” Clark says.

“Yeah,” Peter adds.

“What?” I say, hating how my voice shakes.

“Why’d you quit youth league?” Zack says. His face splits into a grin. Before I can answer he continues. “We heard you were real popular in the locker room and you got bored once you’d sucked everybody off.”

I don’t know what that means but I get the gist. I know what they’re calling me, and I let my shame and anger push me past thinking.

“My mom died,” I say, and god it hurt so much to say it, but I hope it’ll make them leave me alone.

“Bet she killed herself,” Peter says.

My feet carry me toward their table. I snatch one of their mugs. They’re too busy laughing and elbowing each other to notice.

“I’d off myself too if my son was a f—” Clark begins, but then I tip the mug and pour coffee all over their books and laps. “What the fuck? Little psycho!”

“Hey!” a booming, matronly voice calls. We all freeze and I turn to see the owner, a stocky white-haired woman in a stained apron, rounding the counter with her hands on her hips. I scan the coffee shop and realize I know almost everyone there—teachers, other students’ parents, older kids from high school. All of them watch us with wide eyes, whispering. I let out a sigh of relief through the rage and shame, because now at least adults are paying attention. They have to do something. The woman stops near me, looming over me, and scowls. “You have to leave.”

It doesn’t register for a moment. I turn to the boys, feeling so smug, because obviously she means them, but then my body goes numb as reality sets in.

“Me?” I say.

“Yeah, you,” she says. “You can’t pull that kind of thing in here.”

“But they—” I said.

“Don’t care,” she says, her hands up. “Doesn’t matter.”

This is when I start wearing hoodies all the time—at first just to hide the bruises they gave me later in the park and then, I guess, to hide from myself. Dad and Eric never find out.

The memory pulls at me like hands rising from a midnight grave in a bad horror movie. I kick it away and play through the pain. It’s better to use it than to let it use me, so I pretend every Pioneer across the line of scrimmage is one of those three older boys.

We crawl our way back, never letting them play offense for more than a couple yards. It’s a slaughter, a red tide flowing past our ankles. I look up and five seconds are left on the clock, with them only ahead by a desperate field goal, and us ten yards away. I see fear in their eyes and realize it’s all been worth it just to see an opponent go pale and back away from me when I twitch at them.

The quarterback calls hike. Eric runs downfield. I break to the side. More of the opposition follow me than him. Great. But then I look back and see two of them break our line and rush for the quarterback. Even if I can’t see his face I read panic in his movements.

Things go slow. I’m so close to him that we make eye contact, and I can tell he wants to toss the ball off and pivot this into a running play. I shake my head desperately. He’s got two wide receivers, if he’d just keep his head and throw the ball.

Please don’t toss it to me. Please stick to the play.

He lobs it, underhand, in my direction. Pioneers pile onto him like an avalanche, but all I can see is the ball. I grab it and turn, still holding onto a glimmer of hope, only to see four Pioneers hurtling toward me. For a minute I let myself believe there’s a gap my smaller body can shoot through, even take a couple strides toward it, but if it was ever there it snaps shut.