Status: work in progress
Small Miracles
two
On the first day of school, my house is a frenzy. I'm sitting at the table, slowly eating my breakfast, but Mom is chasing my five year old brother James around the house, trying to get him to put a shirt on without much success.
"Jules, will you please help me out?" she calls over the shrieking laughter of my brother.
I sigh just as James comes running in and, in one swift motion, lean over and catch him just as he tries to go past me. He squirms around, screeching, "No! No! No shirt!" but I hold him down until Mom comes in the room and wrestles him into a shirt.
"Now, you keep that shirt on, Mister," she warns, "or it's no dessert tonight." That shuts him up, thank God, and he reluctantly sits down and Mom serves him a pancake, which he immediately drowns in syrup. James is officially starting kindergarten today. I watch him as he eats, impatient to leave, and remember when I was excited to go to school, back when I thought kindergarten was the only grade I had to be in. Little did I know that it would go on for twelve more years.
I have to leave first, so I grab my back and slide on my shoes. I press a couple kisses to James' head. "Have a good day at school, buddy. Be good. I'll pick you up at 3 o'clock."
I try to sneak out after that, but Mom comes in the room just as I'm about to go. "You're leaving?" she says.
"Yeah," I nod. "I'm gonna try and get there early."
"Do you want a ride? If you wait a couple minutes I'll be ready and I can drop both you and James off." Mom owns the Blue Sky Diner a few blocks away. It's your classic southern diner, and it's pretty popular.
"No, that's fine," I say. "I'd rather walk."
She looks unconvinced, but lets it go. "Well, all right then. Have a good day, honey. I'll be back around dinner." I allow her to kiss my forehead before shouldering my backpack and leaving. It's not a far walk to school, only about ten minutes, but I don't want to run into anybody.
I successfully get to school without any incidents, and I go into my first period class, which is AP Biology. I recognize the teacher, Dr. Grant. He's a small guy in his 50's who often frequented the football games and was friendly with my dad. I feel his eyes land on me, but as soon as I glance at him, he looks away.
More and more kids file in the classroom. Some of them say hi to me, but most of them don't, preferring to act like I don't exist and then whisper about me to their friends. I don't care, I tell myself even though I know I do. I've been MIA all summer. I deserve this.
The bell rings, and Dr. Grant greets us, explaining a little bit about the work we'll be doing this year and talking a little bit about himself. I mostly just hunch down in my seat and try to take notes. I can tell who's a football player in this class, because every time I glance around there are boys glaring at me. I attempt to ignore them.
I manage to make it through my next few classes with only minimal stares. My English teacher, Mr. Covino, calls me up to his desk after class as the bell rings for lunch. He's a young guy, about thirty or so, and I can vaguely remember my dad talking about how he'd approached him after a game, saying how he'd already bought tickets for the semi-final for States. I swallow as I approach him.
"Hello, Julianna," Mr. Covino says. "How was your summer?"
"It was good, thanks," I say, and wait for him to continue. No point in indulging in small talk.
"I, ah, heard about your dad," he says finally, and whoomp, there it is. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
"He was a great coach," he goes on. "It's a shame."
"Yeah," I agree tonelessly. "It is." I'm determined to do this every time someone brings up the topic of my dad: answer in five words or less, give no details, be blunt.
"Well, ah, if you need anything at all, I'm here," he says, and he smiles a little.
"Thanks, Mr. C," I say. "I'm gonna go to lunch now." Without waiting for him to answer, I turn and leave, closing the classroom door behind me.
Lunch isn't too bad. I sit alone for the first ten minutes, listening to my iPod and pretending it doesn't bug me, but then Savannah Powell comes over and lets me have some of her chips, so I give her one of my earbuds and we listen to Neon Indian and it's okay.
So school plods on like that, and so far, I'm treading water instead of drowning in it, and I'm starting to feel like maybe I can make it through this year. But of course, it's football season.
▲ ▼ ▲
On the night of the first game, the air is cool and crisp for Texas, and I can hear the marching band playing and the crowd roaring and the announcer calling out plays and it's almost like a war flashback. I'm sitting in the stands, watching the players tackle each other and I can see my dad directing it all, beneath the lights.
Mom insists on taking James to the game, and if it bothers her at all she doesn't show it. She tries to get me to come, but I refuse. So I lay in the middle of the field and turn up my music as loud as it will go, and even though it hurts my ears after a while I don't adjust it. I'm trying to drown out the noise but it doesn't work, and I'm starting to doubt that it ever will.
I have no idea who wins or not, or how long I'm out there, and after a while I begin to forget who I am. I open my eyes when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It's Mom.
"Hi, honey," she says, and her voice is soft, so I know James must be asleep. "Where are you?"
"In the field," I answer. "How was the game?"
"It was fine. We won." She pauses. "You sure seem to be frequenting that field a lot, darlin'."
"It's nice out here. Helps me clear my head," I say, and it's true. There's a nice view of the starry sky and it makes me feel like all of my problems are leaking out of me like a balloon.
"What time do you think you'll be home?" Mom asks.
I shrug, and then realize she can't see me. "Uh, I don't know. What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock."
It's a lot later then I'd realized. "Okay, I'll be home in a few."
"Are you sure? No parties you wanna go to?" She sounds hopeful.
"No, Ma, not tonight."
Thankfully, Mom understands, and lets it drop. "All right. See you soon." We hang up and I slide my phone back into my pocket and rest my head back on the ground, gazing up at the sky, trying to see if I can recognize any of the constellations. My dad used take me out here and point them out to me. I'd follow his finger as he traced them, listening to him say, See, that right there is the Big Dipper, darlin', it looks like a big spoon.
Thinking about Dad makes my head and my heart begin to ache. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to flush him out, and pretend I'm looking at the stars and try to count them. I get up to six and a maybe-UFO, since in my head it goes by too fast to be an airplane, when I realize just what exactly I'm doing and how dumb it is.
I sigh and decide maybe it's time to go. I turn off my music and open my eyes, only to find someone standing over me, peering down curiously. I blink.
It's pretty dark out, but you don't live in Sterling, Texas for your whole life without learning to recognize the starting quarterback of the Sterling Falcons. It's Nick Kingston. My throat tightens.
Suddenly it's three years ago again, when my dad caused an absolute meltdown by starting a skinny freshman with too much hair. Everyone thought he was insane at first, but then they realized that this kid could make miracles happen for Sterling, and since then, Nick Kingston's name is all we ever hear on the local radio. Seeing Nick again brings back a wave of memories I'd like nothing more than to forget.
I hate him instantly. "What do you want?" I demand, sitting up.
He's changed out of his uniform, in a white t-shirt and jeans, his hair still damp from the showers. "I saw you lyin' here and just wanted to make sure you weren't dead," he says.
"Well, I'm not," I snap. "So run along now."
Instead of doing that, he just grins. I can tell he's drunk, and far off in the distance, I can hear the shouts of his teammates. There's probably a party at somebody's house where they can all go and get even more smashed.
"Haven't seen you in a while, Julianna," he notes. "In fact, I didn't see you once this summer."
"Yeah, well, I been busy," I answer coldly.
"Where'd ya go?"
"I didn't go anywhere."
"I can tell that ain't true, because you lost a little bit of your accent," he drawls, grinning again. "You been travelin'?"
He's obviously not going to leave, so I give in. "I went to California and stayed with my older brother. Are you happy now?"
Nick raises his eyebrows. "Jase? How's he doin'?"
"He's fine." My brother graduated two years ago, but he used to be the starting running back for the football team at school. He wasn't as good as Nick (apparently nobody could ever be as good as Nick), but he's still pretty well-known around this town. "He's studying film now."
"Really?" Nick says. "I woulda thought he'd play in college, too."
"Nope," I say. "He didn't." It did cause a bit of a meltdown when Jase announced that he wasn't going to play football at school. He was good enough to be on their team, too. He just didn't want to.
There's a pause. Then, I say, "I'm gonna go." I stand up and brush the dirt off of my pants.
"You don't gotta." Nick's blinking up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. When Nick first came to my house when we were freshman for a team-family barbecue, he was nice then, a nervous fourteen-year-old who brought my mom flowers and laughed at all my dad's bad jokes. But as we got older, he turned into an airhead, a jerk, one of those kids who knew life was gonna be laid out right at his feet. I didn't like it at all.
"Yeah, I do," I say, and I'm already backing up. "See you around. Try not to get too fucked up."
"Jules, will you please help me out?" she calls over the shrieking laughter of my brother.
I sigh just as James comes running in and, in one swift motion, lean over and catch him just as he tries to go past me. He squirms around, screeching, "No! No! No shirt!" but I hold him down until Mom comes in the room and wrestles him into a shirt.
"Now, you keep that shirt on, Mister," she warns, "or it's no dessert tonight." That shuts him up, thank God, and he reluctantly sits down and Mom serves him a pancake, which he immediately drowns in syrup. James is officially starting kindergarten today. I watch him as he eats, impatient to leave, and remember when I was excited to go to school, back when I thought kindergarten was the only grade I had to be in. Little did I know that it would go on for twelve more years.
I have to leave first, so I grab my back and slide on my shoes. I press a couple kisses to James' head. "Have a good day at school, buddy. Be good. I'll pick you up at 3 o'clock."
I try to sneak out after that, but Mom comes in the room just as I'm about to go. "You're leaving?" she says.
"Yeah," I nod. "I'm gonna try and get there early."
"Do you want a ride? If you wait a couple minutes I'll be ready and I can drop both you and James off." Mom owns the Blue Sky Diner a few blocks away. It's your classic southern diner, and it's pretty popular.
"No, that's fine," I say. "I'd rather walk."
She looks unconvinced, but lets it go. "Well, all right then. Have a good day, honey. I'll be back around dinner." I allow her to kiss my forehead before shouldering my backpack and leaving. It's not a far walk to school, only about ten minutes, but I don't want to run into anybody.
I successfully get to school without any incidents, and I go into my first period class, which is AP Biology. I recognize the teacher, Dr. Grant. He's a small guy in his 50's who often frequented the football games and was friendly with my dad. I feel his eyes land on me, but as soon as I glance at him, he looks away.
More and more kids file in the classroom. Some of them say hi to me, but most of them don't, preferring to act like I don't exist and then whisper about me to their friends. I don't care, I tell myself even though I know I do. I've been MIA all summer. I deserve this.
The bell rings, and Dr. Grant greets us, explaining a little bit about the work we'll be doing this year and talking a little bit about himself. I mostly just hunch down in my seat and try to take notes. I can tell who's a football player in this class, because every time I glance around there are boys glaring at me. I attempt to ignore them.
I manage to make it through my next few classes with only minimal stares. My English teacher, Mr. Covino, calls me up to his desk after class as the bell rings for lunch. He's a young guy, about thirty or so, and I can vaguely remember my dad talking about how he'd approached him after a game, saying how he'd already bought tickets for the semi-final for States. I swallow as I approach him.
"Hello, Julianna," Mr. Covino says. "How was your summer?"
"It was good, thanks," I say, and wait for him to continue. No point in indulging in small talk.
"I, ah, heard about your dad," he says finally, and whoomp, there it is. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks."
"He was a great coach," he goes on. "It's a shame."
"Yeah," I agree tonelessly. "It is." I'm determined to do this every time someone brings up the topic of my dad: answer in five words or less, give no details, be blunt.
"Well, ah, if you need anything at all, I'm here," he says, and he smiles a little.
"Thanks, Mr. C," I say. "I'm gonna go to lunch now." Without waiting for him to answer, I turn and leave, closing the classroom door behind me.
Lunch isn't too bad. I sit alone for the first ten minutes, listening to my iPod and pretending it doesn't bug me, but then Savannah Powell comes over and lets me have some of her chips, so I give her one of my earbuds and we listen to Neon Indian and it's okay.
So school plods on like that, and so far, I'm treading water instead of drowning in it, and I'm starting to feel like maybe I can make it through this year. But of course, it's football season.
▲ ▼ ▲
On the night of the first game, the air is cool and crisp for Texas, and I can hear the marching band playing and the crowd roaring and the announcer calling out plays and it's almost like a war flashback. I'm sitting in the stands, watching the players tackle each other and I can see my dad directing it all, beneath the lights.
Mom insists on taking James to the game, and if it bothers her at all she doesn't show it. She tries to get me to come, but I refuse. So I lay in the middle of the field and turn up my music as loud as it will go, and even though it hurts my ears after a while I don't adjust it. I'm trying to drown out the noise but it doesn't work, and I'm starting to doubt that it ever will.
I have no idea who wins or not, or how long I'm out there, and after a while I begin to forget who I am. I open my eyes when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket. It's Mom.
"Hi, honey," she says, and her voice is soft, so I know James must be asleep. "Where are you?"
"In the field," I answer. "How was the game?"
"It was fine. We won." She pauses. "You sure seem to be frequenting that field a lot, darlin'."
"It's nice out here. Helps me clear my head," I say, and it's true. There's a nice view of the starry sky and it makes me feel like all of my problems are leaking out of me like a balloon.
"What time do you think you'll be home?" Mom asks.
I shrug, and then realize she can't see me. "Uh, I don't know. What time is it?"
"Ten o'clock."
It's a lot later then I'd realized. "Okay, I'll be home in a few."
"Are you sure? No parties you wanna go to?" She sounds hopeful.
"No, Ma, not tonight."
Thankfully, Mom understands, and lets it drop. "All right. See you soon." We hang up and I slide my phone back into my pocket and rest my head back on the ground, gazing up at the sky, trying to see if I can recognize any of the constellations. My dad used take me out here and point them out to me. I'd follow his finger as he traced them, listening to him say, See, that right there is the Big Dipper, darlin', it looks like a big spoon.
Thinking about Dad makes my head and my heart begin to ache. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to flush him out, and pretend I'm looking at the stars and try to count them. I get up to six and a maybe-UFO, since in my head it goes by too fast to be an airplane, when I realize just what exactly I'm doing and how dumb it is.
I sigh and decide maybe it's time to go. I turn off my music and open my eyes, only to find someone standing over me, peering down curiously. I blink.
It's pretty dark out, but you don't live in Sterling, Texas for your whole life without learning to recognize the starting quarterback of the Sterling Falcons. It's Nick Kingston. My throat tightens.
Suddenly it's three years ago again, when my dad caused an absolute meltdown by starting a skinny freshman with too much hair. Everyone thought he was insane at first, but then they realized that this kid could make miracles happen for Sterling, and since then, Nick Kingston's name is all we ever hear on the local radio. Seeing Nick again brings back a wave of memories I'd like nothing more than to forget.
I hate him instantly. "What do you want?" I demand, sitting up.
He's changed out of his uniform, in a white t-shirt and jeans, his hair still damp from the showers. "I saw you lyin' here and just wanted to make sure you weren't dead," he says.
"Well, I'm not," I snap. "So run along now."
Instead of doing that, he just grins. I can tell he's drunk, and far off in the distance, I can hear the shouts of his teammates. There's probably a party at somebody's house where they can all go and get even more smashed.
"Haven't seen you in a while, Julianna," he notes. "In fact, I didn't see you once this summer."
"Yeah, well, I been busy," I answer coldly.
"Where'd ya go?"
"I didn't go anywhere."
"I can tell that ain't true, because you lost a little bit of your accent," he drawls, grinning again. "You been travelin'?"
He's obviously not going to leave, so I give in. "I went to California and stayed with my older brother. Are you happy now?"
Nick raises his eyebrows. "Jase? How's he doin'?"
"He's fine." My brother graduated two years ago, but he used to be the starting running back for the football team at school. He wasn't as good as Nick (apparently nobody could ever be as good as Nick), but he's still pretty well-known around this town. "He's studying film now."
"Really?" Nick says. "I woulda thought he'd play in college, too."
"Nope," I say. "He didn't." It did cause a bit of a meltdown when Jase announced that he wasn't going to play football at school. He was good enough to be on their team, too. He just didn't want to.
There's a pause. Then, I say, "I'm gonna go." I stand up and brush the dirt off of my pants.
"You don't gotta." Nick's blinking up at me, his eyes glassy and unfocused. When Nick first came to my house when we were freshman for a team-family barbecue, he was nice then, a nervous fourteen-year-old who brought my mom flowers and laughed at all my dad's bad jokes. But as we got older, he turned into an airhead, a jerk, one of those kids who knew life was gonna be laid out right at his feet. I didn't like it at all.
"Yeah, I do," I say, and I'm already backing up. "See you around. Try not to get too fucked up."
♠ ♠ ♠
hello.