Page 43 of Playworld

The cop holding her license glanced at his partner and nodded.

After the officers left, we found another parking spot farther up the street. But the mood had altered. For a long time, Naomi sat with her hands on the steering wheel, her arms stuck straight out, as if she were bracing for a crash. “I should go,” she said, and started the car, but she instead resumed this pose and did not drive. Lips puckered, she slowly exhaled. “My heart’s still not beating normal,” she said. She had the heat going and she sunk into her seat. “Let me just calm down in a bit.” I picked up the newspaper and pressed it flat across my lap. It was that famous picture of Lennon, the one that would become iconic, of the rock star in profile, about to enter his limousine and stopping to sign his new album for Mark David Chapman, who stood, head down, staring through his tinted lenses, his eyes visible because of the angle. He looked vaguely familiar. He appeared as if he was about to say something to Lennon—words of appreciation? Admiration? What utterance, I wondered, could be more fraudulent than any of these, if later that night you were going to shoot that person in the back, playing at destiny when you were really nothing but a coward.

“Makes you think about the future,” Naomi said. “Makes you think about the signs you don’t see. Makes you think about love.”

The car was stuffy. I’d cracked my window, and from the river a great horn sounded, it must’ve been a mighty ship, like a tanker. Dad, who’d been in the navy, once told me that such a long blast alerted the crew that a journey was now under way, or it was what he called a “blind bend” signal—an alert to other vessels that might not see your approach.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I saw that man on the front page,” Naomi said, indicating Chapman, “and I thought about those times I watchedThe Nuclear Familywith Danny and Jackie. And all those billboards I saw forThe Talon Effect.And then seeing that movie with Sam and seeing you on screen. And how before I met you, there you were, you were right there. You know how Elliott says we have our backs to the future? I had no idea you were going to come into my life. And now,” she concluded, with something like resignation, “I don’t know what to do about it.”

The Twelve Days of Christmas

It was tradition, on the final day before winter break, to conclude the semester with the all-school Christmas assembly. The auditorium, in its dual function as our chapel, was festively decorated. Reverend Holstein wore his cassock, surplice, and purple stole. Fistly sat immaculately dressed, wearing a dark suit and bow tie polka-dotted in bright green. He was joined by the head of middle school, Dr. Grandoff, who wore a clerical collar and black shirt beneath his jacket that made him look more severe than usual. Every seat was filled, the central block of pews reserved for the kindergartners through fourth graders, while the fifth and sixth graders occupied the balcony. The service’s big finale was the singing of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” There was a mimeograph sheet containing the lyrics folded in between the exhaustive program, which included both the prayers and traditional hymns, the latter functioning, at least in my mind, as a toll ticket marking our progress through the service but also high school. Each grade, with kindergarten being the only exception, would stand to sing its verse and then sit, and so on. It being a cumulative song, there was a tidal effect to the performance, one that slowly gathered energy, building speed as it rose toward the seniors’ verse, which each year they were allowed to make up themselves. Oncetheysang, once this wave had reached its highestheight, it would break, we’d race through all the verses as they crashed to shore, and then vacation began! On the level of sheer volume there was a grade-to-grade effort at one-upmanship, though most beautiful, by far, and hitting the highest notes, for sure, was“Five golden rings!”its concord pealing, as it were, from the heavens, since the fifth graders were seated on the balcony, and followed by the shouts “Boom, boom, boom!” which, in tandem with the students’ stomping, sounded like thunder. And when the juniors sungtheirverse and then the first graders concluded this round, the applause was its loudest so far, we sustained our cheering just a bit longer, and then the entire audience wheeled to face the back of the auditorium. The seniors stood to sing their verse. They were excited, edgy, fidgety, and it was only now, when there was no turning back, that they realized their idea, like a rip current, had dragged them out to sea:

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Twelve Fistlies fisting!

“What’s fisting?” I shouted at Tanner before we sang our verse.

Tanner smiled, shaking his head at my ignorance, and did not explain.

Something monumentally inappropriate had been sung, and everyone, still singing, was by now focused on our principal. Fistly’s happy expression had transformed into a gorgon’s.Perhaps they might be on detention for the entire break,we wondered.Perhaps they might not even graduate.The song concluded, the applause was confused and muted, and Reverend Holstein stepped to the podium and embarrassedly dismissed us. We were, for more than two weeks, free.

Well, not all of us.

“The senior class,” Fistly said, having strode to the podium and taken the microphone, “shall remain behind.”

And Kepplemen had also called a team meeting. It was a chafe. It was unnecessary and we knew it. This was his last chance to see us off before the break, to have us line up before him, which we did, slumped on the wrestling mats, our shoes removed, some already in their winter coats and carrying their stuffed-to-the-gills, locker-emptied book bags. Kepplemen began to speak. He held a clipboard and consulted it as hewalked us through the entire dual meet schedule in the weeks following our return.

“Please note,” Kepplemen said, “that the Wednesday we start back, we have a match against Collegiate. So watch your weight over vacation.”

Kepplemen dismissed us, and it was possible that evenhewas relieved for the break, although I was not surprised that he held me back.

“A word,” he whispered, “please.”

Here it came, I thought. The fight we’d been meaning to have for over a week now. Kepplemen watched the last kids exit, the door banged shut behind them, and now we were alone.

“I had,” he said, “high hopes for you this season.” He began quietly and blinked a great deal. “But even you’ll admit it’s been a disappointment so far.”

“It has,” I conceded.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“I don’twantto lose,” I said.

“Thefuck,” he roared, “was that stunt against Saint Paul’s then?Thatwas a question.” Because I remained silent, he continued yelling. “I could’ve subbed a lightweight like Cliff in your place. And he’d have probably lost too, but he’d have at least put some effort into it. While you…you threw that match.”

Here was the thing: I knew Kepplemen wasn’t wrong. But his anger was disproportionate. It was closer to fear. Whether it was a Granby roll or whisking Pilchard from the showers, he was no longer sure what I might do.

“Act like a starter,” Kepplemen said, “from here on out. Are we clear?”

“It won’t happen again,” I said.

He pressed the clipboard’s edge to my chest. “If it does,” he said, “you’re off the team.”

I stood there after he left, pleased with myself. Because I did not cry. Which was something.