Saturday is one of the rare nights when the whole family eats together, so Mom makes a big deal of it. She and Dad have wine with dinner, and we eat in the dining room instead of the kitchen.
We sit down for roast beef, and Dad asks Tommy if he got any letters today.
“Two,” he answers. “Bucknell and some little school in Maine.” Tommy has only wrestled two years, but he gets like ten letters a week from colleges trying to recruit him. Part of that comes from the program he’s in—Sturbridge has been nationally ranked the past two seasons. Two guys won state titles in back-to-back weight classes a couple of years ago, and that put us on the map, big-time.
“We’ll need to make some visits soon, to help you get an idea of what these schools are like,” says Mom. “A big school like Penn State or Rutgers is like a city in itself. You might be more at home on a smaller campus.”
My parents went to Lycoming College, out by Williamsport, and they’d like nothing better than for Tommy and me to go there, too. But Lycoming doesn’t offer athletic scholarships, and Tommy’s drive is big enough that he’s wanting to join a major program. I’m guessing it’ll be Penn State, because that’s where the two guys who won the states two years ago went. Everybody’s counting on Tommy to win it this year and next.
“What about you, Barry?” my father asks, turning to me. “Do anything good in practice today?”
“Usual stuff,” I say. “Ran a lot.”
My mother puts her hand on my shoulder. “That Donna Luther was running the register when I checked out at the supermarket this afternoon,” she says. “She’s a real cutie.”
“Is she?” I say, meaning I don’t think so. She’s cute only by a mother’s criteria, meaning attractive in a way that ensures that nothing physical might happen. This is my mother’s way of figuring out if I’m normal, though. Drop names of girls she thinks are safe and gauge my reaction.
Mom’s a loan officer at the bank. Dad sells insurance. Pretty boring jobs, but we’re better off than most of my friends. This is Mom’s town: she grew up here and knows everybody and was Miss Popular all through school. Dad grew up here, too, but he seems a step or two out of touch. He’s two years older, and they hardly knew each other before college.
My parents get to some of my soccer games and track meets. They get to all of the wrestling matches, and most of Tommy’s cross-country races even though he’s only like sixth man on the JV. But I ain’t jealous. I couldn’t hate my brother if I tried.
When I get up to leave my mother asks, “Going to Joey’s?” She never used to even ask. For about eight years it was understood that if I left the house I was going to Joey’s, and if he left his house he was coming over here. Now she figures she has to ask, because she’s beginning to sense that there’s more to my world than Joey’s house. She’s just not sure what.
I shrug and say maybe. But I haven’t been to Joey’s in weeks. I like being on Main Street, but I do miss just hanging in my room or Joey’s once in a while and listening to music or playing chess. Talking about life. About girls. About sex—not how to do it, but whether we’d do it, or when. Now he’s moving in that direction and I’m right where I’ve always been.
I walk up to Main Street. Herbie’s eating a hot dog from Turkey Hill, and Rico’s there, too, chewing gum. Rico’s only been hanging with us a few weeks. He moved here from Jersey City in the middle of our freshman year and hardly said a word to anybody until this season started.
“You’re late,” Herbie says, thrusting a finger at me. “We missed three prime candidates because of your tardiness.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Had to meet my weekly boredom quotient at home.”
“Inexcusable,” he says.
“They’ll be back,” I say. The count is sixty-three, and the pace hasn’t slowed much.
“So how’d the big date go?” Herbie asks. He and Rico are smirking, like they already know all about it.
“Okay, I guess.”
“I heard she said hello to Ralph.” They both crack up. I hadn’t said a word to anybody about her puking. She must have told Shannon. Shannon must have told Joey. Joey must have told everybody that would listen.
“Yeah.” I admit it.
“I like that in a girl,” Herbie says. “It’s attractive.”
“Eat shit,” I say, but I’m starting to laugh, too. Mostly from embarrassment.
“It sets the mood,” Herbie says. “Lets you know she really likes you.”
Rico is just giggling his ass off, not able to say anything. Finally he sputters out, “Was there any ham in it?”
“Ham?”
“Little chunks of ham. Or string beans.”
“I didn’t examine it.” Actually I did run by that spot this morning when I was doing my roadwork, but I won’t tell them that. “I think it was mostly wine and soda,” I say. “It didn’t sound … solid.”
We stare at the cars going by for a few minutes. Herbie says “Sixty-four” when Mr. Torcelli, a whiny algebra teacher, drives by.
“Know where Joey is?” I ask.
“Him and Dusty went over to the Mental Court,” Rico says.
The Mental Court is at the end of Church Street, by the river. There’s a group home there, not for delinquents, but for odd people. They’re autistic or schizoid or something. Anyway, there’s a basketball court there, and it’s open all the time and has lights.
I don’t really want to see Joey, I just wanted to know where he was. Who he was with. He’s playing basketball with Dusty. I’m okay with that.
On Tuesday we get hammered by Scranton Prep. It’s not a league game, but it shows there’s still a gap between us and the really good teams in the area. It was 3–1, but they dominated.
After the game me and Joey head for work. We’re exhausted from the game and the bus ride and don’t feel like working tonight.
As we’re leaving the locker room Joey says, “You played really good, but they kicked our butts.”
“Yeah. They got a lot of experience.”
“They work at it,” he says. “Too many of our guys are only into it in the fall.”
It’s true. Me and Joey work on foot skills and passing all year, but most of our players forget soccer as soon as the season ends.
“You were the best player out there,” I say.
He considers this, then shakes his head. “They had two better guys. Number Eight and that little midfielder.”
“I guess, maybe.”
“They were,” he says. “Next year we’ll be at that level. In two years we’ll be a powerhouse. We’ve just got to get the rest of our guys to commit more. They’ve got to want it like we do.”
About nine we’re loading up the dishwasher, and Joey points out that Kenny’s asleep in the office. It’s a slow night, hardly any customers. “We could get some stuff,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Whatever. Steaks or something.”
“What would we do with them?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Take ’em home and eat ’em.”
“Are your parents home?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, we ain’t cooking them at my house,” I say.
“Yeah. Maybe we could stash them somewhere until the weekend.”
“Like under a rock somewhere?”
“I don’t know.”
“They have to be refrigerated,” I say.
“Oh, yeah.”
He starts going through the silverware, tossing some heavily crusted pieces into the trash can. “Maybe we can get a cooler with some ice and hide it in my garage,” he says. “Maybe next week.”
Maybe. “We’ll see,” I say.
“We could have a hell of a good party,” he says. “I bet we could get enough for ten people.”
“I suppose.”
“Find out if your parents are going away anytime soon,” he says. “This could turn out great.”