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Between the Hamilton High tech administrator tracking down and blocking posts, and social media companies generally being more careful about hate talk, the anti-me posts disappear by the end of the week. Like I said. No big deal.
Max and I spend Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle’s place up in Redville, like we always do. The whole family is there: Mario and his girlfriend, Francie, our cousin Vincent, Jordan, his wife, and their daughter Hannah, and, of course, Tia Josie and Tio Hector. We don’t do the turkey thing. It’s enchiladas for Thanksgiving and tamales for Christmas. William will be cooking a turkey back home, then taking it to his mom’s house where he and Imani, and two of his sisters, will be for Thanksgiving.
Wednesday evening, we all have take-out Thai at Vincent and Jordan’s. It’s the first time the whole family’s been together since before the election so there’s a lot of talk about what the new guy’s been saying about immigrants, and trade, and pulling out of the Paris climate agreement, and how every other country in the world takes advantage of us. And then there’s how he treats women, and how he makes stuff up, and on and on. Everyone agrees that talk of politics will be off limits on Thanksgiving Day, though. Not that they’d be arguing and getting mad, but that the subject is so depressing.
Thanksgiving Day, we do what we always do, watch a little football, play horseshoes, Mario and I arm wrestle, two out of three, to see who gets the comfortable bed and who has to sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag. I win! Last year I finally beat Mario one round, the first ever. But this year, two out of three!
“Okay,” Mario says. “It’s double workouts for me starting Monday.”
I flex my biceps.
After dinner and clean-up, we always watch a movie. It’s a Thanksgiving tradition.
As usual, it takes longer to decide on a movie than it does to actually watch it. Tia Josie doesn’t want violence. Jordan wants a classic. Tio Hector and Vincent want something funny. Mario and I waver between classic and funny. Hannah wants a musical. Max wants animation. You get the idea. After a lot of discussion and voting and drawing straws as a tie breaker, we end up with “Shaun the Sheep.” Funny, animated, strange. I can’t possibly describe it, but everybody ends up liking it. As great as it is to be with the Redville family, though, I can hardly wait to get back to Rosie.
As soon as we get home Friday afternoon, I drive to over to Rosie’s, pretty sure I’ll find her in Tilly, and I do. She’s just sealed the envelope that holds her early application to University of the Foothills.
“I’ve been working on this since September,” she says. “I’m worried it’s not good enough.”
“Here,” I say, taking the envelope from her. I put it on the table, on top of the pile of books, and wave my hands slowly back and forth over it, casting a spell.
Abra, cadabra, this takes top spot,
Acceptance is certain, because she’s so hot!
* * * * *
I TAP THE SEAL THREE times and hand the envelope back to Rosie. “There. You’re in!”
She laughs and pokes. I laugh and kiss her. “Missed you,” I say.
“Missed you, too,” she says.
We’re about to get seriously reacquainted when there’s a pounding on the door. Rosie pushes it open. It’s Zoe.
“Tell me a joke!” she says, looking at me.
“Zoe...” Rosie starts.
“Please!” she says, then turns to Rosie. “He promised me a Thanksgiving joke. Remember?”
“Ummm, yeah, I guess you did,” Rosie says. “Before you left on Wednesday.”
Oops. I did promise her a Thanksgiving joke if she’d leave us alone. Time to deliver if I want my joke promises to keep their power. “Okay, Zoe, but first I’ve got to go check my tires,” I tell her.
She looks at me like she doesn’t know whether to believe me or not.
“Really, I’ll be right back,” I say, and walk out to my car. I stand at the side of the car where she can’t see me and quick search for Thanksgiving jokes on my phone, then sprint back to Tilly. “Okay,” I say to her. “Did you have cranberries for Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t like cranberries.”
“But were they on the table for people who do like them?”
Zoe shakes her head, but Rosie says, “Yes they were. In that pretty glass dish. Remember?”
“Those were cranberries?”
“Anyways,” I say, “Why did the cranberries turn red?”
“Why?”
I wait.
“Because they didn’t want to be blue?” Zoe guesses. Sometimes her guesses are funnier than the punchlines.
I tell her, “No. The cranberries turned red because they were embarrassed that they saw the turkey dressing.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Zoe says, and goes back to the house.
“I hope your application spell is better than your Thanksgiving joke,” Rosie says, laughing.
We decide to hand deliver her application into the post office mail slot, so I take her to the big post office up on Main Street. I do the abra cadabra spell again. Rosie kisses the seal and drops the envelope into the slot.
Then she wants to pick up a sweater that Brianna borrowed weeks ago so we go to Brianna’s. Her mom says Brianna’s with Brent, playing some beanbag game or something. She doesn’t know where the sweater is.
We go to Brent’s and sure enough, he and Brianna are playing cornhole. “We’ll start over,” Brent says. “Let’s play partners. Brianna and I will beat the crap out of you and Rosie.”
They don’t exactly beat the crap out of us, but they win two out of three in close games. Brent for sure is getting better. I guess that old thing about practice makes perfect has some truth to it. He may still not be good enough to beat his dad, though.
The official cornhole tournament is set for December 10 so Brent’s still got a couple of weeks of practice to go. And he’s obsessed. Every day after school, all day on weekends, that’s all he wants to do. Cornhole.
* * * * *
WHEN WE GO BACK TO school on Monday, there’s more of those “14 Words” signs on the side of the gym, in black marker, about the size of a sheet of notebook paper. The same thing on the door to the boys’ restroom and on a table in the quad. And “14 Words” is scrawled across the bank of lockers in the C Building. And then, when I’m putting away the mats after Yoga, I see “14 Words” printed in black on the floor, under the mat that Jason was using.
I get ammonia and a scrubber sponge from the supply closet and start scrubbing away, but you know permanent marker. Joe comes back to see what I’m doing. I point to the spot I’m trying to clean and tell him about the “14 Words” on the lockers. “I don’t get it,” I say.
“Count ‘em,” Joe says. “‘We must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children.’ That doesn’t include you and me.” He gets a wad of steel wool from the cabinet and brings it back to me. Then he runs his hand across the markings. “I thought maybe that kid was coming around,” he says, turning back to his office.
I scour the marker off. I scour the floor’s finish off, too—can’t help it. A future for white children? Give me a break! How about a future for all children? Just shows Jason’s an even bigger butthole than I thought he was.
* * * * *
TOURNAMENT DAY ARRIVES. Brent’s dad got new beanbags for the game, weighed them to the exact ounce.
“I want to be sure you guys haven’t tampered with any of the equipment,” he says with a laugh. I think he’s only half kidding, though.
Mr. Bruno repeats the deal before they start the game. He says to Brent, “You lose, which you will, you lose and get a calculus tutor an hour a day, three days a week, for the rest of the school year. And, if you end up with less than a B in calculus, you go to math camp. Right?”
“Right,” Brent says. “And?”
“And, if I lose, which I won’t, no tutor, no math camp.”
They shake hands. Mr. Bruno double checks the measurements to be sure everything is set up according to regulation.
We do a practice game, me and Zitter on one team and Brent and his dad on the other. Then things get serious. It will be two out of three, deciding Brent’s fate.
Cameron and I stand on the sidelines. Brent and his dad are at opposite ends of the court. Two of his sisters, Brook and Bridget, bring out those grandma soccer game chairs.
“Hey, you guys want chairs?” Bridget says, looking at me.
“No thanks,” I tell her. Bridget’s the one who liked me better than she liked Brent, but that was a long time ago. I don’t know if that’s still true or not.
“I’d like a chair,” Cameron says.
Bridget goes back to the garage, brings out two more chairs and unfolds them next to us. “You might change your mind if the game gets boring,” she says to me.
Mr. Bruno calls me over and takes a quarter from his pocket. “You do the toss for us, Eddie.”
Brent wins the toss so he gets to choose who goes first. “You first, Pops,” he says. Mr. Bruno grabs a beanbag, stands beside the nearest board, places his feet just so, lobs the beanbag high in the air, and we all watch as it drops cleanly into the hole.
“Lucky throw,” Brent calls out, but I can see he’s worried.
“Not too shabby,” Mr. B. says, rolling his shoulders and stretching his calves and quads as if he’s about to get into some tough, super-competitive soccer tournament, not a beanbag game.
Mr. B. starts out strong, 15 points to Brent’s five on the first round. Besides practicing cornhole, Cameron and I have both been practicing calm, easy breathing with Brent, and positive imagery, something Cameron’s baseball coach pushes them to do. We’ve practiced everything we know to practice that might keep him from caving under pressure. Brent always caves under pressure. Like way back in the third grade, he’d get so worried about the Friday spelling test that even though he for sure knew every single word, he never got more than a C on the test.
Bridget and Brook jump up and down and cheer when their dad’s beanbag goes through the hole. They do the same thing for Brent. I don’t know who they want to win. Maybe they don’t care. Or maybe they’re not showing favorites for the sake of domestic tranquility.
Mr. B. wins the first game, but Brent got better after the first throws, so it was close. Just a two-point difference. I think Mr. B was surprised by that. It’s not exactly a secret that Brent’s been practicing, but most of the time he practiced when Mr. B. wasn’t around.
Second game. Brent wins. He comes running over, high fiving us—well, high-fiving Cameron. High-two-ing me.
“God, I’ve got to get this next one. A no-calculus-tutor year! A no-math zone summer! The rest of the year will be dope!” Brent grabs a water and sits in one of the soccer chairs, staring at the court like he’s willing it to be on his side.
Mr. B.’s standing at the back door trying to get Mrs. B. to come watch the game. She sounds mad. “This is the most stupid bet you two have ever made! You’re going to be so upset if you lose, Brad. It’s stupid to make a bet that will have you upset for months if you lose.”
“I’m not going to lose! Come cheer me on!” When Mrs. B. doesn’t come out, he saunters back to the court.
Bridget says to him, “I thought you weren’t even going to have to play the third game, right, Dad? Huh, Dad? What happened?”
So, I guess I know whose side Bridget is on.
“Thought I’d give the little guy a chance,” Mr. B. says, smiling. It’s one of those barely skin-deep smiles, though.
In this last game, they’re back and forth, within two points of each other all the way up to what’s bound to be the last round. Both of them three points from game. Who knew cornhole could be so exciting? I guess anything’s exciting if the stakes are high enough.
Cameron nudges me. “Does cornhole go into extra...you know...innings? Like in baseball?”
“I don’t know. Check the rulebook—it’s over there on the porch steps.”
“I’ll wait and see,” Cameron says.
It’s Brent’s turn to go first, which means Mr. B. will get the last throw. With his fourth turn, Mr. B. is over game point. Brent is two points behind. He stands for a long time, deep breaths, doing that positive imagery, I hope. It looks like he’s concentrating so hard his brain will break.
“You can do it!” Cameron yells.
I punch him. “Shut up! Don’t distract him!”
Mr. B. stands a few feet away, watching, smiling, knowing he’s going to get his way again with the tutor and math camp.
Brent pitches what looks to be a 3-pointer, which would put him ahead of Mr. B., but instead of being a 3-pointer, the beanbag clings to the edge of the hole.
“Already got a tutor lined up for ya,” Mr. B. tells Brent. It’s the last throw of the game. Mr. B. does that fancy lob thing again. A high clean throw. Almost clean. The red beanbag clips the side of Brent’s blue bag, tips it into the hole without following it. There’s a moment of silence, like no one can believe what happened, and then Brent jumps high in the air and yells, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” and then we’re all jumping around him, high-fiving, high-two-ing, laughing. Bridget runs over to Brent and throws her arms around him.
“I can’t believe you won!” she says.
Mr. B. comes over and shakes Brent’s hand.
“Good game, son,” he says. But he looks as puzzled as he did the day he walked into the classroom and saw Mrs. Calahan’s black hair.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
