Birthday(43)

“Yeah,” I say. “Have at it.”

The team flows around me in the opposite direction, some of them still in their pads, some shirtless with their jerseys over their shoulders and their gear hanging loose in thick fingers. I notice William among them, looking at me with the same pathetic worry that makes me want to destroy him. I grab his elbow with my good hand.

“Hey!” he says. William jerks his arm, but I squeeze harder. “Can I help you?”

Some of the guys keep going. Some pause in this little island of light and watch, though even they keep their distance. I stare William down, watching as his face shifts from confusion to frustration to indignation. Then I take all the pain in my heart, all the screaming noise in my head, and squeeze it down into a white-hot point of light. With one step forward, almost chest to chest with this kid who never really did anything to wrong me, I lean my head back, and crash my forehead into his.





ERIC



Once Morgan’s around the bleachers and out of sight, I take a different route to the back lot behind the music building, feeling with every step like I’m floating one foot behind myself. Even without the threat, I’ve got no interest in watching him destroy himself.

Morgan wouldn’t actually tell Susan, would he? He wouldn’t tell everyone? These questions cycle out of control for most of the walk, but as I reach my car, formerly Peyton’s and Isaac’s before that, I realize the answers are yes and yes.

He’s sick. I don’t know how, I’m not a therapist, but something went wrong in his head years ago. He needs help. I try not to think about it, I want to say it’s not my problem. But … when you’ve known someone this long, they become your problem. What if I’d told him not to try out for the football team? What if I’d refused to shave his head? What if I hadn’t helped him get in shape so fast? What if, what if, what if…?

I want my friend back, is the thing. Under all the specifics is that single, simple, thought: My friend is gone and I want him back.

The idea that I’ve lost him forever slides through my brain like a cold knife. My eyes burn and my vision blurs. I pull over to the side of the road, wondering for a minute if I’m allergic to something or if I’m sick, only to touch my cheek and realize I’m crying. How long’s it been since I last cried? I don’t even remember. Knowing what all my friends would say if they saw me like this adds one more crack to the foundation.

Nothing to do but get it out of my system before Susan sees, so I put in a sad mix I burned to CD, rest my forehead on the steering wheel, and hope it passes. I’m out of practice with crying, and a little embarrassed, but in a way it feels nice letting it out. Or it’s bad and nice at the same time—like exercise.

A new track fades from the background, pushing its lyrics into my brain.

“Linger on your pale blue eyes.” The guitar bubbles like a stream on a fall day. The singer almost whispers.

I remember that afternoon when Morgan fell from the tree, when I first noticed that he was beautiful. It feels so sad to think that in the past tense. I remember crouching over him and his eyes opening wide and really seeing them for the first time, not pale blue but greenish blue, and he looked up at me with so much relief and affection as I pulled him to his feet that I froze.

Now his eyes are hard and dim.

But I can’t wallow like this forever. Maybe my memory’s faulty, but it occurs to me that anyone who saw the whole span of our lives could never accuse me of not doing my best. Maybe my best wasn’t good enough, but that’s not my fault. All I can do is keep going, right? Maybe you can’t fix other people. Maybe we never were going to be friends forever. After a few last long, shuddering breaths I’m back to normal, on the road, barreling toward some kind of manhood.





MORGAN



It occurs to me, as William grabs my busted wrist and wrenches it to the side, that of our two positions, quarterback is a lot less cardio-intensive, so he’s nowhere near as tired as me. He punches me with his free hand over and over, my vision flashing black and white. And, you know, he’s got the two good hands because he didn’t punch a locker.

I kick at his legs but he shoves me back and, vision swimming, I trip over my ankles and fall to the pavement. Really, if I’d wanted to win this would have been a stupid idea. He jumps on me, straddling my hips, and starts punching again, wildly, body blows and hits to the face alike. The pads absorb some, but they don’t protect my stomach. Eventually, after a sort of adrenaline eternity, the guys watching must decide I’ve had enough. They approach carefully and grab William under the arms. He fights them at first, desperate in his fury to keep laying hands on me, but finally relents. They bring him to his feet, and just when I think I can start breathing again, his face shifts into one last rictus and he kicks me three sharp times in my already aching leg.

“Fucker!” he says as they drag him away. He wipes blood from his nose and spits as close to me as he can get. “Fucking psycho! Maybe you woulda made the run if you weren’t always drunk.”

Yeah, I think. Maybe. Probably.

They fade away from the overhead lights, presumably returning to the locker room. Nobody stays behind to make sure I’m okay. Fair enough. I lay like that for a while, letting the lights spin above me.

After I lose count of the minutes I slowly sit up, shivering at the pain in my stomach and back, the world blurry through my quickly swelling right eye. Once that’s accomplished, I get my legs under me, wince when I put too much weight on my hurt ankle, shift a little, and stand on wobbling legs. Progress. My stomach starts to rebel, but I clamp down on it as I sling my backpack around, fish around in the disorganized mess of papers inside, and eventually find my cell phone. Why do I want my cell phone? I hold it out, reeling, and realize I was operating on autopilot for a minute there.