“Because the Eagles lost?”
“No, actually. He did it when the Giants tied the game at the end of the fourth quarter. Your father had to watch the Eagles blow the game on the bedroom television,” Mom says. “How’s your brother?”
“Fine,” I say. “Where’s Dad?”
“In his office.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry your team lost,” Mom says, just to be nice, I know.
“It’s okay,” I answer, and then go down into the basement, where I lift weights for hours and try to forget about that little Giants fan crying, but I still can’t get the kid out of my mind.
For whatever reason I fall asleep on the rug that covers part of the basement floor. In my dreams the fight happens again and again, only instead of the Giants fan bringing a kid to the game, the Giants fan brings Nikki, and she too is wearing a Giants jersey. Every time I knock the big guy out, Nikki pushes through the crowd, cradles Steve’s head in her hands, kisses his forehead, and then looks up at me.
Just before I run away, she says, “You’re an animal, Pat. And I will never love you again.”
I cry through my dreams and try not to hit the Giants fan every time the memory flashes through my mind, but I can’t control my dream self any more than I could control my awake self after seeing the blood on Jake’s hands.
I wake up to the sound of the basement door being closed, and I see the light streaming in through the small windows over the washer and dryer. I walk up the steps, and I cannot believe the sports pages are there.
I am very upset about the dream I had, but I realize it was only a dream, and despite everything that has happened, my father is still leaving me the sports pages after one of the worst Eagles losses in history.
So I take a deep breath. I allow myself to feel hopeful again and start my exercise routine.
Sister Sailor-Mouth
I’m at the Crystal Lake Diner with Tiffany; we’re in the same booth as last time, eating our single-serving box of raisin bran, drinking hot tea. We did not say anything on the walk here; we did not say anything when we were waiting for our server to bring the milk, bowl, and box. I’m starting to understand that we have the type of friendship that does not require many words.
As I watch her spoon the brown flakes and sugared raisins into her pink lips, I try to decide whether I want to tell her about what happened at the Eagles game.
For two days now I have been thinking about that little kid crying, hiding behind his father’s leg, and I feel so guilty about hitting the big Giants fan. I did not tell my mom, because the news would have upset her. My father has not talked to me since the Eagles lost to the Giants, and I don’t see Dr. Cliff until Friday. Plus, I’m starting to think Tiffany is the only one who might understand, since she seems to have a similar problem and is always exploding, like on the beach when Veronica slipped and mentioned Tiffany’s therapist in front of me.
I look at Tiffany, who is sitting slouched, both elbows on the table. She’s wearing a black shirt that makes her hair look even blacker. She has on too much makeup, as usual. She looks sad. She looks angry. She looks different from everyone else I know—she cannot put on that happy face others wear when they know they are being watched. She doesn’t put on a face for me, which makes me trust her somehow.
Suddenly Tiffany looks up, stares into my eyes. “You’re not eating.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and look down at the gold sparkles in the table’s plastic coating.
“People will think I’m a hog if they see me eating while you watch.”
So I dip my spoon into the bowl, drip milk onto the sparkly table, and shovel a small mound of milk-soaked raisin bran into my mouth.
I chew.
I swallow.
Tiffany nods and then looks out the window again.
“Something bad happened at the Eagles game,” I say, and then wish I hadn’t.
“I don’t want to hear about football.” Tiffany sighs. “I hate football.”
“This really isn’t about football.”
She continues to stare out the window.
I look and confirm that there are only parked cars outside, nothing of interest. And then I am talking: “I hit a man so hard—lifting him up off the ground even—I thought I maybe killed him.”
She looks at me. Tiffany squints and sort of smiles, like she might even laugh. “Well, did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Kill the man.”
“No. No, I didn’t. I knocked him out, but he eventually woke up.”
“Should you have killed him?” Tiffany asks.
“I don’t know.” I am amazed by her question. “I mean, no! Of course not.”
“Then why did you hit him so hard?”
“He threw my brother down to the concrete, and my mind just exploded. It was like I left my body and my body was doing something I did not want to do. And I haven’t really talked about this with anyone and I was hoping you might want to listen to me so that I could—”