Physical education wasn’t a freshman requirement until my sophomore year, so after having put it off for so long, I was dutifully bound to two semesters as the only senior in a class of hormone-ridden freshmen. A class that happened to include my cousin Foster. I hated sports and I wasn’t too fond of freshmen, so gym class was a blight on my otherwise seamless senior schedule.
“We’ve only had one class,” I said.
“And?”
“And Mr. Sellers told us about dressing out and lectured about the sports schedule and that was it.” Mom opened her mouth to speak, but I went on. “As far as I know, nobody’s shoving him into lockers or calling him names or treating him any different than any other freshman.”
This seemed to satisfy her, but I knew it could only be temporary, so I threw some silverware on the table and hurried up to my room before she could ask any more.
I got Cas on the phone that night before bed. It was one of my favorite things—curling up under the covers with the phone pressed to my ear, knowing I could drift off to sleep as soon as I hit End.
“A number four,” I heard Cas’s muffled voice say on the other end of the line, “with a Pepsi and no—hey, Dev, remind me to tell you about practice—and no pickles on the burger and extra ketchup.”
Cas was nearly unable to devote his entire attention to a single conversation at any given time. But it was difficult to ever reproach him for it; he just thrived on constant engagement—interested in everything and everybody. When you really needed him as a friend, he’d rein it in.
“What happened at practice?”
“Coach reamed Marburry because—” to the drive-through window “—Thanks, man, could I get a couple napkins—” and back to me “—because he nearly killed himself trying to take Ezra down.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“Because he’s a fucking idiot,” Cas said thickly, because now he was eating and talking and driving all at one time. “No, but seriously, he’s pissed he got moved to safety and Ezra’s still starting running back.” There was just the slightest hint of darkness to his voice, something that I heard only because I had known him so long. “And, you know, because of the Bowl.”
Everyone knew. In addition to being named a Parade All-American, Ezra Lynley had been chosen for the army’s All-American Bowl East team. The entire town made such a big deal out of it that you couldn’t use a public restroom without a CELEBRATE TEMPLE STERLING’S OWN ALL-AMERICAN poster staring down at you from the back of the stall door.
“Yeah,” I said. “What an exciting and unexpected opportunity for him.”
Cas laughed. That was the tagline under CELEBRATE TEMPLE STERLING’S OWN ALL-AMERICAN: AN EXCITING AND UNEXPECTED OPPORTUNITY FOR TS HIGH’S OWN EZRA LYNLEY.
There was a pause during which I’m sure Cas shoved a few more french fries into his mouth, and then, “How’s your new brother?”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Well, that’s what he is.”
“Is it bad that I don’t want to be around him at school? I mean, I see him all the time at home, but does that, like, make me a bad person?”
“Why would that make you a bad person?”
“I don’t know.” Except I did know. “His mom just abandoned him like that.”
“So? Joe Perry’s mom abandoned him, and last time I checked, you said he was the most obnoxious person in the world ever ever.”
“I did not—”
“You did so, two evers. Twice the ever is, like, the obnoxiousness squared.”
“That’s probably the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said.”
“Don’t change the subject. You hate abandoned children.”
“I don’t hate anybody!” I knew he was goading me, but I always played along. “And Joe’s mom left in, like, the second grade. It’s different.”
“No matter how long it’s been, an abandoned child is still an abandoned child.”
“Stop saying abandoned child!”
“You said it, too.” I could hear the grin in Cas’s voice. “Hey, you know somewhere a kid is, like, being abandoned because of this conversation.”
“Don’t say stuff like that.”
“Don’t censor me! I’ve got freedom of expression that will never be broken!”
“Shut up,” I said, but I was laughing all the same. “You’re going to drive off the road.”