There used to be plenty of fanfare when I was leaving for a big game, or even a small one, because in my town even the tiniest games are still pretty big. Mom would hug me and kiss me on the cheek, and maybe tousle my hair if there wasn’t a bunch of other dudes around. Brian would high-five me, or pat me on the back in a fatherly way. I haven’t seen that in a while. But this morning, as I’m lugging my gear to the foyer so I’m ready when Doris picks me up, my mom is positively beaming like in the old days, and Brian has given me a high five twice. Which is kind of funny, especially since I’m about to go camp out with two girls, but like I’ve said before, these girls are different.
Even better, ever since the playhouse confession, I’m starting to feel like I’m different, too. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol. I’m daring to hope I might be moving in the right direction. Maybe it shows.
“Doris is such a good influence!” I’ve heard my mom gushing into the phone when she talks to her friends. “She may not go to church, but she’s a real sweetie pie. And Nell is new in town—have you met her family yet? Her mother is an actual rocket scientist!”
I survey my stuff in the hallway: duffel bag (I wonder what Nell would name this one) packed with a clean T-shirt and shorts and boxers and a hoodie in case it gets cold at night. Mom’s stuffed a load of fresh-baked cookies in there, too, so my clothes are going to smell like chocolate. Could be worse. There’s my flashlight and spare batteries, a first aid kit, bug spray, water, and some ropes and other camping stuff that I’m sure I’m not going to use. I’ve got my new sleeping bag tightly rolled next to the duffel, and that’s when I realize I don’t have a tent. Whoops. Probably should have thought about that before now.
I hear Mom and Brian chatting in the kitchen, and go in to find them. “Hey, um,” I say, standing there and feeling kind of silly. “I’m a little late to this, but: Do we have a tent?”
Mom looks at Brian, and Brian looks at Mom. “That would be helpful, huh?” he says. I nod. “Yeah, follow me!” We head to the garage, and he starts digging through the boxes piled up high on shelves in front of the family cars. It’s almost like I’m back at Unclaimed. I’m never going to look at a container the same way again after this summer. “Hold this, will you?” he asks, handing me a cardboard box that says G, FOOTBALL.
It’s got no top, so right away I see the first football I ever owned and my tiny helmet from the peewee games I played in elementary school. It’s like a slap in the face to the former me.
“Oh, sorry, man,” Brian says, noticing my expression. He reaches for the box, but I hold on to it. That’s when he notices my fingernails. “Is that … nail polish?” he asks.
“Yeah, it’s for a joke,” I say, which is the first explanation I think of. I’m certainly not going to tell him that Fireworks now lives in my bathroom, and sometimes my pocket, or that Doris and Nell have taught me the phrase “touch-ups.” I’m also not going to reveal that so far the nail polish trick is working better than anything else I’ve tried to get me to stop drinking.
He doesn’t press, though the expression on his face makes it clear he thinks I might have gone off the deep end.
“Can you believe I ever fit into this stuff?” I say to change the subject, digging into the box. I pull out the miniature pants and shirt styled just like a professional uniform to reveal a bunch of gilded trophies. Even then, I won. I always won, until I lost.
“Maybe someday the twins will want to use that stuff,” he says, and looks at me carefully. “Maybe you’d want to teach them. I bet they’d like that.”
“Maybe,” I say. I think about how my dad taught me to play, back before any of the other stuff happened. I remember throwing footballs in the yard for hours. He’d never get bored, and neither would I.
“Here we go!” says Brian, pulling down a large backpack-tent contraption. “All the components are in here. You can carry it around on your back. Do you know how to put it together?”
“Um,” I say. He glances at his watch.
“I’d show you now, but I have an appointment about the Dorsets’ yard in ten minutes.”
“That’s OK,” I say. “The Dorsets need more help than I do. I’ve never seen their lawn any color but brown. Can anything actually grow there?”
“We’re going to try.” He pats me on the back. “Have fun camping, Grant. Drink plenty of water; it’s going to be a hot one. Call me if you need troubleshooting on the tent—or anything.”
“How hard can it be?” I ask.