My stomach freezes up when I think about it, but I’m trying to look at it like anything else school related. Go to class, do the work, study. So I’m sitting on a rank fold-out plastic mat and trying to touch my toes in the name of flexibility. This is seriously the worst thing ever. Well, almost. Debilitating confusion trumps all. And my dad still won’t give me a sign.
I stretch forward as far as I can and graze my shin. If the dead harbor emotions, do they do it daily? Like, is my dad watching and going, Way to go, kiddo—those hamstrings are almost as loose as cinderblocks! or is he like radar, so he can only respond with direct contact from approved earthly residents? I’ve been beating myself up about this forever now, but I still can’t get over why Mom and not me? The train set is perfection, my grades are impeccable, I know the difference between an off-tackle and a slant. I should be every father’s dream son. Other than the obvious (he’s extra super dead), I don’t know why I can’t get one single frigging clear sign from above.
People come in and out of the weight room all the time, so I don’t notice when the door swings wide, or even when someone sits on the same row of mats to stretch. “Want a towel?” JP asks.
My head jerks toward him. “No.”
“Look, I’ll show you a trick we learned at baseball camp.” He takes a towel, lassoes the balls of his feet, and holds on with two hands. “This works real good.” A few minutes pass, him bent in half and holding on to the towel, before he grunts with a finish and sits upright. “Here.” He holds it out to me.
“Thanks.” I take it and put it down.
Everything about him is round as a pill bug. All tucked in and hunched. “New Year’s came.”
“Does that every year.”
“What’d you guys do?”
“Me and my nine thousand friends? Nothing.” Rub it in, asshole. You’re the guy everyone loves and you threw a huge party at your aunt’s house, and tons of people came and told you how awesome you are. Just like last year. I was there.
“I meant you and your mom,” he says.
“My mom? What do you want, JP?”
His perfect hair shimmies as he shakes his head. “Just saying hi. Trying to.” He cracks his legs wide forty-five degrees and leans forward. “I hate this—it fucking burns.”
“It’s not supposed to burn.”
“Oh yeah?”
“If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”
“Shit,” he says.
“Are you being serious, or are you messing with me?” I ask.
“See? You can’t even tell I’m for real, that’s how long it’s been. Come on, man, look, January came and went, and I made some resolutions. One of them is catching up with you.”
I stare at him. “Whatever.”
“I miss hanging out.”
“That’s…nice.” If it’s sincere. I sneak another look at him. Maybe he is? He’s all slumped over and hangdog forlorn. Could be an act but I can’t tell. I honestly have no idea who he is anymore.
JP gets to his feet, stretches his quads, one-two, and goes near the lat pull. “How does this one work?”
“You sit on it and pull the handlebar down.” Rocket science.
“Let me see you do one.”
“Nah, I got to stretch.”
“Come on, help me out. Spot me. My coach says I need more power at the plate.”
I don’t move.
“My season starts in like two months. Help a fellow St. Lawrence Lion out.”
“Fine.” I get my crutch and hike up to my good foot. One more day and I get this cast off my leg. Just one more day and I can take a real shower and a real bath. JP waits on the machine and I amble over and put fifty pounds of plates on. I have no idea what he can pull, so let’s start small. “You sit, like what you’re doing, yeah. Grab on, and pull down,” I say. “Bring your chest to the bar, like that, and keep your elbows pointed down. Pull from your armpits.”
We go through the rest of the gym. I show him everything I’ve learned, all the form and stuff I’m working on. Lats, biceps, triceps, neck, stomach, and he does okay on all of them for his first pass. When he’s done, I actually freaking smile at him. Can’t help it. Old times sneaking in. Maybe the resolutions he made are working.
I sign off with Coach Fowler and hit the locker room. JP massages behind his neck. “I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.”
“You get used to it.” Popping my locker open, I stall at taking my clothes off the hooks. Years of him laughing at my back, my arms, my legs, you name it, ring in my ears. I seize the clothes and get dressed. Fuck it. Let him laugh. He’s right: things are going to change. When scouts come to St. Lawrence, they’ll be coming to see me. Not him, me. Starting left tackle, number sixty-five. The Beast.
I slam the locker shut.
When I get my crutches and stand, he’s there waiting for me. “What?” I grumble.
“Nothing. Wanna go?”
Maybe I am being a dick. JP and I leave the locker room and head toward the lobby. We tread silently through the dark mezzanine and down into the foyer by the double doors leading outside. It’s one of those days where the gray sky is blinding. No rain, no sun, but the threat of both. Light streams through the glass windows above the doors. JP punches the doors open. It’s like walking into a klieg light while my eyes adjust.
My eyes water as I blink, scrambled rods and cones struggling to adjust.
A voice I will know until my last living day gasps. “I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she says.