Opposite of Always(61)
The important thing is I have a real chance.
Now all I need is a bookie willing to accept a sizable bet from an eighteen-year-old high school senior. The bad news is I know exactly zero bookies.
The good news: I know a guy who may know a guy.
We Don’t Accept Coupons at This Establishment
I’m rambling while simultaneously uncasing my trumpet.
“. . . you think we should get stickers made? For JoyToy? I’m thinking maybe we should have some sorta merch, you know, just in case . . .”
We’d planned on putting in a lot of work today, but then a few minutes ago Jillian took a phone call, disappearing inside her house.
“. . . I mean, we probably won’t sell a . . .”
“So, The Coupon is going to crash elsewhere for a while,” Franny interjects.
I set down my horn. “Did you talk to Abuela?”
“I had decided not to. That if she wanted him around, it’s her house, you know. But now it’s a moot point because once again he’s choosing to be somewhere where I’m not.”
“Maybe he thinks he’s doing what you want.”
“When has The Coupon ever done anything for anyone other than himself?”
“Okay. Well, maybe he just wants to take things slow.”
“He’s a fucking glacier already. I don’t know why I’m surprised, right. I mean, this is his MO.” Franny shrugs. “At least the deadbeat’s consistent.”
“Maybe you should talk to him.”
“And say what?”
“I don’t know. How you feel.”
“I didn’t want to see him anyway. Who needs him? He needs me, if anything. I’ve been doing hella good without him, why would I want him in my life now?” Franny lowers his voice. “Jack, am I that bad?”
“What are you talking about?”
Franny bites his lip, like he wishes he hadn’t said anything, like he doesn’t want to say more, but then—“I know I’m not the smartest kid alive, or, I don’t know, the strongest, or whatever. But no one could deny I’m handsome, right?” Franny says, striking a pose like he’s taking a picture on some runway, then flashing me a patented Franny doesn’t give a damn smile. Only this smile is dead on arrival, because in this moment, not even happy-go-lucky Franny can disguise the pain on his face.
“Franny,” I say.
But Franny keeps going. “I just don’t get it. I mean, if you were my dad, how much of a disappointment would I be to you? Like, for real, man?”
“What the heck are you even talking about? You wouldn’t be. I’d be proud of you. I am proud of you.”
“No, there must be something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Franny.”
His voice jumps. “Don’t lie, man. You can tell me. You’d know. You’re supposed to be my boy, right?”
“I am your boy.”
“So, tell me the truth. What’s so wrong with me that my dad would go out of his way to not be around me? How come my dad doesn’t want me, man? Why aren’t I good enough? How come he doesn’t love me back?”
I’m answerless.
I put my arm around his neck. “If he doesn’t see how awesome you are, it’s his loss, Franny. Because it’s easy to see. It’s so freaking easy to anyone who bothers to look. Hell, you don’t even have to look long. You can just glance at you and tell.”
“Whoa, whoa, what are you guys doing out here,” Jillian says, teasing-voice, as she steps through the sliding door onto the back patio. “Am I interrupting some man-love or . . .” She stops when she sees our faces, our teary-eyed expressions.
“Oh, damn,” she says. “What’s wrong?”
Not waiting for an answer, she wraps her arms around both of us. We lock arms, faces touching, not saying anything more. Not having to.
Later that night at my house, while Franny’s upstairs taking a shower, I fill in my parents on the latest episode of Franny’s Dad Sucks. Dad swears under his breath, and Mom has tears in her eyes; they’ve seen this show before. Franny’s Dad Sucks only has one episode and it runs on loop.
When we sit down to eat, I can tell my parents want to slide their chairs away from the table and throw their arms around Franny, but they manage to hold off until after our salads. Then Mom is reaching across the table, squeezing Franny’s hand, and Franny looks at me and he knows I spilled the beans. But he doesn’t look angry. He flashes a fake grin.
“No pity parties, guys,” he says, his voice cracking.
Dad stands and walks around the table, pats Franny on his shoulders, and says, “You are an incredible young man. No one gets to decide your worth except you. And you are worth anything and everything, Francisco.”
I’m wondering if I did the right thing here, if Franny is hating this, the attention, the mush factor, but then he swivels around in his chair and lunges his head into my dad’s stomach and he’s sobbing.
“It’s okay,” my dad says, squeezing Franny’s shoulder. “You’re a great kid.”
“You are,” Mom says, walking over, her hand gripping Franny’s other shoulder. “We love you. We’ll never not love you. Right, Jack?”