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Everyone loves Michael...because, like, he’s good at sports, or something?
If pressed, Michael would probably have to admit that most of his friends don’t seem to like him very much. It’s an insecurity he only occasionally wrestles with; for being the most popular guy in school, he isn’t terribly well-liked. But he gets invited to parties and stuff. That’s cool, right? Sometimes people congratulate him after games. That’s nice.
Tonight was like that. Sort of.
It was hard to focus on football; there were fireflies on the field, beautiful blinking little bastards. (He doesn’t like to curse, but that’s what they were. They were distracting, and he had a hard enough time staying focused without little flying gnats flicking in and out of his vision.) The air stuck to his skin like glue, like plastic wrap, like a sweater from a relative who should have asked your size first. August games were like that. It was hard to see, his own sweat getting in his eyes and straining his vision.
They won the game. Not him--they. Team effort, right? He’s the fastest on the team (it’s not close) but fast isn’t everything in football. A linebacker can only do so much, and even then, it’s better if he doesn’t. As Coach is so fond of saying, you can’t just rush into the score zone. (Although nobody actually calls anything a “score zone”, this is still blatantly false advice. You can, in fact, rush into the score zone. Sometimes people cheer for you when you do it. Sometimes they scream your name so loud, it makes your heart pound in your ears.)
They won the game.
The feeling after games can best be described as euphoric fatigue; legs feel heavy, hands feel numb, head aches. It’s the good kind of ache. Anyone who can’t deal with a little pain has no business being in sports. It just so happens that Michael thrives on it, which is in an entirely different category of “weird”.
Anyway. Post-game. Almond smiled and hugged him. She always hugs him after games, unless they’re in the middle of some terrible kind of fight. Jay signed “good work,” in ASL, his standard fare, before wandering off to find his newest girlfriend. (Michael can’t keep track of their names. There’s too many of them. He doesn’t actually think Jay has a hundred girlfriends, and yet he wouldn’t be shocked if that turned out to be the case.) Then someone invited him to a party. He said, sure thing. What would a Friday night be without a very illegal kegger at someone’s house?
What happened after? His head was still aching, sliding from runners’ high into migraine territory. He wandered over to the concession stand to get one or two (or three or four) Gatorades to shove in his bag for tomorrow morning. Whether or not they actually helped with hangovers was suspect at best, but there was something about believing that made it better than plain old sugar water. And anyway, buying them at the concession stand meant throwing down about thirty bucks, which meant it would totally suck if they turned out to be useless.
The bottles of Gatorade are still in his gym bag; he hasn’t gone to the party. His head doesn’t hurt, but his chest feels funny. It isn’t difficult to imagine what would have happened if he’d gone home with Almond, an equally real possibility. Painting protest signs, making paper mache whatevers. At some point she would have said, quite calmly, that they weren’t dating anymore. It’s what they do. It’s all that they do.
Michael didn’t go to her house and he didn’t go to the party, although he could have gone to either. In fact, he would have gone to either, if it had been like every other football game in his high school history. He can picture himself walking carelessly past the concession stand, past the bleachers, to Jay’s orange Camaro or Almond’s purple Prius, or even hopping in with anyone from the team who would give him a ride to the coolest thing going on. He can picture it because he’s done it, or some variant, for many weekends, and had lots of great times.
He would have done something normal if it hadn’t been for Alex, standing behind him in line a bit too closely, so that when Michael turned around they collided foreheads like something out of the Three Stooges.
“Watch where the fuck you’re going,” Alex said. Michael got a good look at him, for the first time since middle school. He looked much the same; still sporting a somewhat greasy ponytail, dyed drugstore-box blue, and dressed like a minor criminal. But in other ways he was different; for instance, the swearing. Hearing Alex drop an f-bomb was like hearing SpongeBob say “tampon”; it was ridiculous to think of someone you’d known in diaper school using full-grown swears.
“Shit!” Michael said, breaking his own diaper school rule. “I mean, crap--I mean, sorry!” The tips of his ears felt warm, like they always did when he was embarrassed.
“Don’t be sorry, be ‘not a dipshit’,” Alex said. “You--” And just like that he stopped.
Michael didn’t know if he looked different. He probably does. When they’d been friends, he’d worn a propeller cap, for God’s sake. Alex had gone around shirtless when his parents let him. Now he was looking at a surly, sketchy looking guy who had, at one point, been his best friend in the whole world.
Looking back on it, Michael figures he could have said anything else besides what he did. Really. Anything.
“You remember when we said we were gonna get matching tattoos?” Michael asked.
Pathetic. Weird. Creepy.
“I try to block out the idiot pacts I make with random jocks,” Alex said. “Speaking of which: move, Random Jock.”
Michael’s hands felt sweaty. He wondered if it was possible Alex had forgotten him altogether--only, that wasn’t likely. After all, wasn’t it Alex who took the time to write a new insult every day on his gym locker? Wasn’t it Alex who left rude Post-It notes on his letterman jacket whenever he left it unattended? Wasn’t it Alex who had written his number in the boys’ bathroom with a message that made it sound like you were calling a hooker?
Alex had done all those things. And Michael had forgiven him, more or less--even if people still called him looking “for a good time”. But he couldn’t forgive being forgotten.
“Dude,” Michael said, “come on. It’s me, Michael. From school.” Maybe that was a stupid thing to say. People were starting to stare. One guy asked if they could take this out of line. A woman coughed. Someone dropped something. Why did Michael always have to notice the things that didn’t matter?
“No way,” Alex said. “‘Cause, like, I totally thought it was Michael the astronaut, or Michael the rodeo clown, or Michael the shady drifter.”
Michael wasn’t sure if he felt relieved or not. If he did, it was the kind of relief you feel after you’re not being tackled anymore. The pressure is gone, but everything still hurts something fierce.
“Cool,” he said. “I was just makin’ sure. See ya around.” It took effort to sound cheerful, but he had to. He smiled widely at Alex, waving slightly, before turning around to leave.
Even when his back was turned, he kept grinning, to practice the muscles.
(Muscles atrophy if you don’t use them.)
And anyway, this was his M.O., his personal game plan that he always operated on. People will put up with pretty much anything as long as you smile, so that’s what he did. It doesn’t matter if people think he’s stupid. It doesn’t matter if they insult him. One time, one of Jay’s girlfriends called him a homo right to his face and he pretended not to know what she meant. In fact, he thanked her. Thank you! As if she’d told him he was handsome or something.
Michael walked under the bleachers. Gotta take a breather. People were probably still talking. Hanging out in the parking lot, talking about school. Sometimes they would talk about upcoming tests, and he would zone out until it was time to leave. He didn’t like thinking about schoolwork. Grades, homework, tests...that was smart person stuff. Not really his bag.
The dirt under the bleachers was dry and cold under his shoes, and Michael felt the strange compulsion to reach down and grab a handful of it. He also felt like smoking a cigarette, even though he hated cigarettes and smoking passionately. It just felt like something to do; all the cool guys in movies loiter with a cigarette between their fingers.
From his vantage point under the bleachers, he saw Alex walking his way and wondered if he should leave. Was this going to be a fight? Despite being shorter, Alex grabbed the front of Michael’s jersey. The gesture was...maybe a little bit rude, but not very intimidating. Which pretty much described Alex’s personality, come to think of it.
“What gives? You think you can just walk away from me in the middle of a sentence? What, you think you’re better than me?” Alex shook the hand that was currently holding a fistful of jersey.
“No way,” Michael said. “I don’t think I’m better than anybody. Sorry.” Usually this was enough to get people off his back whenever he’d accidentally upset them. If they’d been at a party, he could have offered to get him a brewski, which almost always worked.
“You don’t fool me, Michael,” Alex said. “I know what you’re like. You think just because you can throw a football real far, that means you’re gonna amount to something and I’m not. I’ll show you.” He pushed Michael back, hard enough that he almost fell back onto the dirt. Instead, Michael only stumbled a little bit, though he was embarrassed to stumble at all. Usually his reflexes were better than that. He felt flustered.
“Let’s not do this here, man,” Michael said. “This is weird. I don’t wanna fight you. We’re cool! Don’t you think we’re cool?”
“We are not cool,” Alex said, spitting out the words like the conversation itself was three days past its expiration date. “Nothing about this is cool. This is what I don’t get--everyone likes you, but you’re just such a dork. At least if you acted like an asshole, that would be something--”
“Alex!” Michael said. “You shouldn’t swear. Someone’s mom could hear.”
“That is exactly what I’m talking about,” Alex said. “Like, you’re this popular jock, you should be slammin’ people up against lockers and takin’ their lunch money. But you’re just such a doofus. You act like everyone’s your best friend. It’s annoying.”
“I want everyone to be my friend,” Michael said. “I don’t understand. You mean you want me to be rude to people? ‘Cause I don’t think that’d be very nice.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Alex said. “Of course it’s not nice, that’s the entire point of being rude. You don’t get it, man. You have to stop being so friendly all the time, you walk around like everything’s daisies and grape juice--”
“I don’t get how--”
“Shut up. You act like everything’s fine, but it’s not. It’s like a war, stupid. Everyone’s out to get each other and you’re standing behind a lemonade stand trying to sell people car insurance.”
Alex’s face was violently red, although in the light of dusk it looked closer to orange. His teeth were clenched and his chin was jutting out like the bow of a ship out at sea. Michael felt the powerful urge to lick it, which he quickly dismissed.
“Why would I sell people car insurance behind a lemonade stand? ‘Cause, like, that seems like a really bad business venture, you know? People would probably get confused all the time and I’d lose a lot of potential customers.”
“You’re missing the point. It’s not about car insurance.”
“Then what is it about?”
“Almond is cheating on you.”
Maybe Alex was lying. He did that a lot. He was a liar. That’s what everyone said. He lied for fun. And Almond was a good person. She said so all the time. Michael heard buzzing in his ears. The fireflies must have been back.
“No, she’s not,” Michael said.
“She is,” Alex said. “She’s been going out with T.C. They went to a movie together. I wasn’t gonna tell you.”
Michael wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. Even now, he knows that was why Alex cornered him in the first place. To tell him about Almond.
“She wouldn’t.”
That’s what he said to Alex: “She wouldn’t.”
He wants to call her now and ask, even though he knows she’d talk him into believing whatever she wanted. She’d lightly chastise him for even thinking she could cheat. Or break up with him. Wait, wait--she already did that. The breaking up thing. At this point she may have even blocked his number. He thinks back to the bleachers. How did he manage to screw up so badly?
“You don’t have to believe me,” Alex said. “Forget it. This was stupid. You deserve to be cheated on by your shitty hippie girlfriend. Forget I said anything.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Michael said, before Alex could turn around. Under the bleachers it was cooler than it had been, or maybe the weather had changed. It almost felt windy, when before Michael’s hair had stuck to his forehead.
Alex didn’t leave the way Michael thought he would. It was strange seeing him at a football game, and Mihael wondered why he’d bothered showing up. He looked out of place: hair tied back in a ponytail that was only a little bit shorter than Almond’s, and bright blue at that; t-shirt advertising a hair metal band that hadn’t been popular for decades; steel toed combat boots. He looked like he belonged in a thrift store, maybe, or a mosh pit or something.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Alex said. “I didn’t mean what I said. Nobody deserves to be cheated on. Not even you. And that’s saying something since...you know, you deserve a whole lot of bad things.”
“But not that?” Michael asked. He didn’t bother getting offended at Alex being mean; that was classic Alex. As for Almond, he felt like he ought to be more surprised than he was. He felt heartbroken and sad, but not surprised.
“That’s what I just said, isn’t it, stupid?”
“Yeah, of course,” Michael said. “Sorry. I guess I forgot.”
Michael remembered all the times he’d tried befriending Alex throughout high school. They hadn’t worked very well. He didn’t know exactly when things had changed.
When they were younger--well, that was different. Back in the day, they’d gotten along pretty well. It was when they’d said the matching tattoo thing. Twelve years old, probably, or maybe thirteen. Even now, all things considered, he still wants to hang out with him; still privately thinks that Alex is cooler than anybody he knows. But Michael is too something for Alex and his crowd. Too rule-abiding; the only law he’s ever broken concerns the drinking age, and even that one makes him feel guilty if he thinks about it too hard.
“Well, if you need help getting her back, you let me know,” Alex said. “Can’t just put up with that kinda thing. If you need to drown her, I know a guy.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you know a guy who drowns people. That’s a good one. I’m not goin’ to jail over this, dude,” Michael said.
“It’s either that or TP her car. Or! No, wait. We could cover her bumper stickers with shit that like, has a bunch of awful stuff on it. Like, I saw this one that said somethin’ about clubbing baby seals. That’d be classic.”
“That would be classic! She’d be so annoyed taking off those bumper stickers.” Michael’s heart was racing. It wasn’t ideal--planning revenge on your ex-girlfriend with your ex-best friend. But he hadn’t seen Alex this eager to cooperate with him in so long.
“That’s why we glue them to her car with Krazy Glue,” Alex said. “Or staples. Can you staple stuff on a car?”
“I dunno,” Michael said. “Can’t hurt to try. You got a printer? We could use the one at the library except--”
Here in his bedroom, it’s nearly eleven o’clock--hours since any of this even happened. Maybe Michael should text Jay...or maybe not. Jay is probably partying it up with one of his girlfriends. Which means he wouldn’t answer. He tries anyway, fishing his cell phone out of his pants and typing out to Jay:
“hey dude!!! gr8 game! any hot gossip abt me? jk! or am i? ;) nah srsly, jk. but also tell me if ppl are talking abt me. thnx man!”
Nailed it.
Part of him resents Almond for her part in what happened. Like, what gives? What was the deal with her prowling around under the bleachers? She said she was looking for him, but she was probably just looking for a place to make out with that creepy T.C.
“Do you hear something?” Michael asked, the second he thought he heard her voice. Maybe he was mistaken.
“And that’s why I think we should go to class on Columbus Day,” Almond said. “It’s morally wrong to honor a holiday named after a bloodthirsty killer.”
He wasn’t mistaken. No one could preach like Almond.
“Shit! I mean, crap! That’s her right now,” Michael whispered. Alex looked around, possibly trying to confirm, before looking back at Michael.
“I’m bolting,” Alex said. “Talk at me later if you wanna ruin her car.”
“No, wait,” Michael said. “I got an idea. She’s comin’ this way, right?”
“I guess?” Alex said. “What do you mean, you have an idea. I’m not discussing vandalism plans in front of the person I’m planning to vandalize. I’ll look like an idiot. Bad enough I’m hanging around with you, that certainly can’t help things either.”
“We don’t gotta vandalize anything,” Michael said. “Seriously, it’s cool.” He could hear Almond coming closer. Her ranting floated in and out of his ears like white noise, but he could still pick up on her voice.
“Grab my shirt again,” Michael said. “Like before. It’s gonna be great.”
“Nah, dude, I was gonna fight you then. It’ll look weird if we aren’t fighting.” He grabbed it anyway, perhaps as evidence. “See? It’s weird, it looks like we’re gonna--”
“Michael?"
Maybe fighting would have been a better plan. She might have wanted to give him first aid or something--thought of him as some kind of tough guy who was cool and tough. She certainly doesn’t think that now. Why is he so bad at knowing what to do? Is it true, what people say? That he’s stupid?
Almond was standing right there; hair pulled back, expression slightly indignant. Alex was closer; he still had a fistful of football jersey and they were close enough that their noses almost touched. Michael panicked. What was it people usually said? Go with your gut. Trust your instincts.
And that was how Michael kissed his ex-best friend with his ex-girlfriend watching.
The most confusing thing of all is that Alex should have totally kicked his ass for that. Like, they hadn’t even talked about it. That’s what you do with a good plan. You talk about it before, and even though they hadn’t had time, so what? It was a total dumbbell move of him to just mack on another dude without asking beforehand, what kind of person does that? Even if he thought it would make Almond sore. (Which it did. It totally did. Like, rated-R sore. Pissed, even.)
Alex didn’t kick his ass--he slipped him tongue. Michael had to hand it to him: he sure was good at picking up on the subtleties of maybe-less-than-nice plans. That must have been why he kissed back--because he knew what Michael was angling for. He even grabbed a handful of his hair, something Michael was entirely unused to. What does it say about his life that he went farther on accident with a guy who couldn’t stand him than he ever had with his legitimate girlfriend? There’s no such thing as first-and-a-half base, but if there was, that’s what Michael would call those thirty-ish seconds under the bleachers. The whole thing was kind of dramatic, really, like they were putting on some kind of fakey fake makeout pageant. The hair pulling probably wasn’t necessary. The hand on his butt definitely wasn’t.
“Um,” Almond said. That was all she said for a good ten seconds. The sound was flat, like a can of soda that’s been left out for a few hours. Michael could have pulled away when she said that, but he didn’t. Why didn’t he? Ten seconds later and he finally did, getting an eyeful of a perturbed looking Almond.
“Yeah,” Almond said. She sounded anything but shocked; annoyed, maybe, but not all that surprised. “I was just coming to tell you that I’m giving TC a ride home, so you’ll have to ride with Jay or something.”
“I knew it!” Michael said. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his arm. “You’re totally cheating on me!” He looked at Alex, who looked embarrassed; he looked at Almond, who looked bored.
“Obviously he doesn’t care, Almond,” Alex said. “Your head is probably going to explode in, like, thirty seconds because of how shocked you are.”
“Oh, I’m really shocked,” Almond said. “Shocked this didn’t happen a year ago. Goodbye, Michael.” She left so easily, Michael wondered if she’d been looking for a reason to. A reason besides walking on him macking on his ex-best friend.
“So, Michael,” Alex said. “Maybe next time when you’re coming up with revenge plans, you could try to think of something a little less homo? Just a thought?”
“Dude, come on,” Michael said. “It’s literally not homo. I was doing it to make a girl mad, so it’s obviously not homo.” How was he going to get home now? Maybe someone was still around. He could always bribe somebody.
“If anyone finds out about this, I’m kicking your ass,” Alex said. “Like, everyone already knows you’re fruity as hell, but I’m not letting you tarnish my reputation. You're lucky I even played along.”
“It’ll be fine,” Michael said. “She’s not gonna tell nobody. She’s a good person.”
He’s in his bedroom, now, entirely alone. He takes a break from remembering and crumples a piece of paper up in his hands. Throws it in the trash can. Swish.
“And he sticks the landing!” Michael says. He doesn’t have to pretend to be excited. He crumples up another piece of paper (algebra homework) and tries to shape it this time to be more oblong than round. A football, not a basketball. When he throws it, he misses. He chews his lip. Though it’s been hours since the game, he can still taste diet Dr. Knockoff cola on the roof of his mouth.
It’s 11:30 now and he hasn’t heard anything from anyone. He thinks again about what Coach says--about rushing into the score zone. Sometimes people clap for you when you do it.
Sometimes they walk away without saying anything and you feel a strange combination between petty and confused.
All things considered, he definitely should have gone with the bumper stickers.