“We’ll pick that up later,” I say, and he nods. “I don’t want you to die.”
“Kindest thing you’ve said to me today,” he says, and I kiss him on the lips.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“Hey. I’m as shocked as you are,” he says, shaking out his hand.
We drive, and I’m thinking about users and abusers, like my mom says. The time my dad swung me around by my feet and I got hurt, and how he told me to man up. Who came up with that?
Who came up with all those rules and ideas about how a guy’s gotta be?
Kevin said he expected a chili pepper. Why say that? Why is it okay to say shit like that to other people? I would never say something like that. That’s some fucked-up, racist shit.
And with white folks, why is racism my issue and Zay-Rod’s issue, but not Betts’s?
With my white friends, I’m always half-Mexican. They never say I’m half-Irish. Never say I’m half white. Like I’m tainted halfway away from standard. It’s like when I was a kid and I thought vanilla ice cream meant no flavor, like it was the base of all the flavors. But vanilla is a bean. Like chocolate is a bean. Like cinnamon is a root. All roots and beans. All flavors. There is no base. No ice cream without a flavor.
I glance over at Jordan in the passenger seat. His profile. His slight nose. It’s the nose of a guy who would never use or abuse me. And I wouldn’t use or abuse him, either. I grab for his hand.
“Ouch,” he says, and he shakes his hand out again.
I crack up. “Sorry.”
“God. You’re always apologizing,” Jordan says in this funny voice, and I realize he’s imitating me. It’s a fucking terrible imitation, and I smile, and I almost throw it back at him by emulating him saying “Sorry” again. But then I don’t because I realize: He isn’t sorry. Nope. Not anymore.
“What is that thing?” I ask, pointing a crooked finger at the ball in my lap as Max drives us to Carriage Lane Park. It’s two days after the punch, and we’re hanging out midday because we are still a few days away from getting the truck back.
“That thing is a football. You did know that, right? We don’t need to drive you to a hospital because you have managed to go through seventeen years of life without knowing what a football is, do we?”
“Aren’t we in some sort of health-care crisis where they don’t have enough beds or something? Do you really think a hospital would take me in because of that?”
He shrugs. “They should. That’s just un-American, dude.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh my God. That’s not a thing, Max. You don’t need to know what a football is or, like, where to stick it to be American.”
He grins, parks the truck, and jumps out onto the broiling asphalt of the parking lot. As I slowly get out, he twirls the football high in the air and catches it just above his head. I glance out at the greenbelt between the parking lot and the canal pathway, where I usually take Dorcas in the mornings when it isn’t insanely hot out. It’s empty, not surprisingly. We are the only freaks out in the middle of a June day.
“Look alive!” Max says, and a heavy ball smacks me in the chin.
I open my mouth and narrow my eyes at him. “I know you did not just do that to me.”
“Sorry,” he says, smirking. “I’m used to friends who, you know, look alive.”
I kneel down and pick up the still-spinning ball. I stand and whip it at Max. I throw it sideways because that’s how it’s in my hands. He catches it easily.
“I hate you,” I say, smiling.
“God I love late June in Arizona,” he says as we walk toward the large, empty green field next to the basketball courts. One woman is walking a dog toward us from the pathway, and when she sees it’s me, she waves and unleashes her dog.
“Because you’re crazy,” I say as the pit bull runs up to me, white tail wagging like crazy. It jumps up to greet me. I scruff the dog on the top of the head. “Hey, Rufus! Sorry, boy. No Dorcas.”
“Did you ever tell me why she’s named Dorcas?” Max asks as the dog runs back to its owner and we walk on toward the center of the huge greenbelt area.
I roll my eyes. “My mom. Went through a religious phase right after Dad died. Right when we got our goldendoodle. So a biblical name for our dog. As God would have wanted.”
He flashes a smile. “Amen.”
“So how does this work?” I ask, hoping the answer is, We throw the ball once and then go home.
He spins the football up in the air and catches it. “It’s very complicated. We draw up plays. Ten of them. Then we memorize them. And we run them in order until they all are perfect.”
“It’s sooo hot,” I whine.
“Kidding,” he says. “It’s a ball. We throw it to each other.” He tosses the ball at me, and this time I violently thrust my hands up and catch it.
“Woo!” I say. “I got it!”
“Later we’ll buy you a medal.”
I narrow my eyes at him and take a deep breath. I decide to just tell him. “For you this is normal, I guess. I have never, ever caught a ball before. Of any kind. Ever.”
“How is that possible?” He puts his hands up and I throw it sideways again. It wobbles and falls well short of him even though I am just ten feet away.
“I grew up petrified of this kind of thing. Or maybe just the people who did this kind of thing. They all wanted to punch me in the chest and call me a sissy.”
“Wow,” he says. “Can I show you something?”
“Anything, cowboy.”
“Gross,” he says, and I mock pout.
He shows me how to hold the football, putting pressure on the lacing mostly with his middle and index fingers. I take it from him and copy him. He nods, takes it back, and waves me away. I wave back.
“No. That means run. I’ll throw you the ball.”
“It’s sooo hot,” I whine again.
“Just five minutes and I promise we can spend the rest of the day inside. Doing anything you want.”
“Anything?” I ask, and I give him a tentative look. I honestly don’t want to push him given what he’s been through, but I have to admit: I’m curious.
He tips his head as if to say, Oh good. Sexual innuendo. My favorite.
“Yes,” he says, and he waves his hand toward me again. “That means ‘Go out for a pass.’ ”
“Oh, um,” I say, momentarily confused. Then I turn and run a bit. About five seconds later, I turn around. Max tosses me the ball. I flail my arms up and my hands grab at the ball. It hits off my palm.
“So close!” I say, a little excited, actually. “Throw it again!”
I pick the ball up and throw it to him the way he showed me, with pressure on the laces, the small end facing him. It spins out of my fingers and goes right to him.
“What the?”
I have no idea how I did that, and a tingle climbs my spine. “A boy likes to be mysterious,” I say.
“I guess.” He throws another, and this time I really concentrate and zap my hands up like a Venus flytrap or something. The ball nestles between my hands and stays.
“Yes!” he says, and he runs over to me. I’m just standing there, looking at the ball in my hands, amazed. He puts his arms around me and hugs. I tingle some more; also the sun begins to feel like it’s going to make me faint.
I say, “You know? I don’t hate this. I mean, in the heat I do a little, and I don’t love it like the working out thing. But I could totally do this sometime. Play football catch.”
“I’ll take you up on that. And by the way? Not everyone who grew up doing this wanted to punch you.” He kisses me on the lips. I kiss him back, and we walk, hand in hand, back to his truck.
I ask him to take me back to my house, and when we arrive, I lead him to my room, and on the way I realize he has no idea about my ’80s bordello. Shit.
Then I decide, fuck it. He knows me. This may be the weirdest thing about me. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. We’re solid. He’ll be okay.
He exhales wildly when he sees it for the first time.
“Dude,” he says.