Page 130 of Playworld
“You mean wrestling?”
“I meanTake Twocomes out.” She pointed the fry at me. “You’re gonna be a star.”
The idea of Dad talking with this woman about my future was appalling. “I haven’t thought about it much.”
“I’d have killed to have had an opportunity like that when I was your age.”
“You seem like you’re doing okay.”
She offered a half smile. “I don’t have to waitress anymore.”
“What about now that the show’s closed?”
“I sing jingles.” She took another fry and bit it in half. “These are dangerous,” she said.
I forked the entire lobster tail from its shell and considered it. When I looked up, Katie was considering me.
“You believe in gut feelings?” she asked.
I shrugged in half agreement, half indifference.
“I’m a big believer in the instinctual response,” she continued. “Also first impressions. They tend to be right. So let me ask you something. Be honest.”
Because I was going to oblige her.
“Do you like me?” she asked.
I tilted my head to the side. Was this an audition?
“Do you think you could like me?” she said.
I looked over my shoulder, toward the bathroom, then back at Katie. “I think,” I said, “I don’t know you.”
Katie shrugged. “Fair enough.”
“I know,” I said, and paused, but not for effect, “I don’t like what you’re doing to my family.”
Katie stuck out her lower lip, nodded.
“I also know,” I said, “that my father always ends up choosing my mom.”
Those Venus flytrap eyelashes of hers closed and opened.
“Does that answer your question?” I asked.
When she didn’t respond, I pushed my plate toward her.
“Eat,” I said, and stood to leave. “While you can.”
—
That beautiful, blessed, first short week of classes, we grieved summer’s loss and begged its forgiveness, having taken it for granted. That first Tuesday back at Boyd was a blur of new teachers and syllabi and early dismissal; of patrolling the halls during free periods, on the lookout for the freshman girls everyone was talking about. I was taking biology, modern European history, Spanish B, geometry, and English, and as my arts elective, which I picked out of inertia, I’d signed up for Theater II with Mr. Damiano. But the highlight of the week was meeting our new wrestling coach.
The team was told to gather in the locker room, where Assistant Coach Tyrell greeted us. “You’re going to weigh in first, my dudes, and then head to the gym.” We began to strip. “No, no,” Tyrell said, “lose the blazers and shoes but not the shirts or pants, please, and I’ll record your weight in those.”
Tanner, Cliffnotes, and I exchanged quizzical glances.
In the wrestling gym, we slid down the wall to take our seats, I between Cliffnotes and Tanner. On the latter’s still-tan wrist, I noticed the pale outline of where his sailor’s bracelet used to be. Then the double doors opened and our new coach walked to the mats’ edge, stepped out of his sneakers, took his place on the center mat’s bruin, and looked up and down the line. He was slab-headed, and there was something decidedly gladiatorial about his appearance, as big-browed and knob-chinned as he was—all he was missing was a centurion’s helmet. His neck started at his ears, but it was his torso that was far more intimidating—it was as broad as a shipping crate. He was wearing shorts, and his calves were nearly big around as his thighs, and it was this uniformity to his mass that projected a combination of irresistible force and steadfastness. To pick him up, to separate his feet from the earth, you’d need a forklift.