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Tom didn’t say anything to his son the whole ride over, hadn’t said anything since waking Jack up at 6:15, an hour earlier than most school days. Coach Coe put the list up at 7:00 and Jack wanted to be there right at 7:15; late enough so he’d miss the initial rush and early enough so he’d have time to deal with things before school started at 8:00. The low-flung outline of the junior high slouched in the gray domelit morning, scarlet streaks of light slinking up from the edge of the horizon like snake tracks. Only a handful of cars sat in the parking lot. Tom pulled the Camry around to the gym, where a trash can propped open a green door. He shifted into park and looked at Jack. “Will you come let me know? That okay?”
Three boys emerged from the gym, laughing and walking with the pliant one-two rhythm and exaggerated hitch of athletes. Jack slumped down in his seat and watched them walk past, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and opened the door. “Guess I should, yeah.” He kept his hands in his pockets as he shuffled inside, swallowed by the glare of the lights off the freshly-waxed court.
A man in a t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots leaned on the front hood of a large black truck across the lot, the cherry of his cigarette cutting through the morning haze as he wove it to his mouth and back. He looked from Tom to the door, his tired face hiding the anxiety his hands betrayed: shifting the cigarette, flicking invisible ashes, smoothing his goatee. Tom raised his hand off the wheel and waved. The man held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and jabbed it forward in response, like putting a period on the end of a sentence.
He’d decided he’d let Jack skip first period if he didn’t make the team. Give him some time to regroup as he took him to breakfast at Shari’s and tried to explain that what we withdraw doesn’t always equal what we deposit. He’d keep his voice steady, looking Jack in the eye as he lied and said that twenty years from now this morning would be just another smoothed-over bulge on the melted clump of his youth. He’d tell of his own failures, of losing the junior class presidential election or getting rejected from his first choice fraternity, not so much to ease the sting as to commiserate in it.
But maybe he couldn’t explain at all. Maybe silence was the best he could do, and he’d let the stale cherry pie rotating in the case and the smear of the waitress’ pink lipstick remind Jack that sometimes life sucks and all we have is the ragged knowledge that tomorrow might suck or it might not.
A tall, gangly kid came out of the gym and didn’t say anything as he walked past the smoking man and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck. The man remained motionless against the hood, gazing up toward the sky as he took a final puff on the cigarette and ground it against the truck’s front bumper. He flicked the butt towards a trash can as he got in; it arced out and hit the edge, bouncing up and scraping the side of the can as it plunked against the pavement. The truck’s engine coughed twice then caught, trembling scream settling into a slow chug as it accelerated past.
Then Jack came out, eyes downward, walking briskly, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. Something tight caught inside of Tom’s lungs and he wheezed for breath. Jack approached the driver’s side and Tom fumbled to roll the window down, Jack’s breath leaving foggy ghostprints on the glass as it disappeared into the door. Cold air rushed in and Tom killed the motor and looked at his son. Then Jack nodded and Tom nodded back.
“My name was on the bottom of the list. It was Trent Edwards, then K.J. Fletcher, and it was all in alphabetical order so I thought I was cut.” Jack shifted up and back on the balls of his feet, his eyes darting from the steering wheel to the stereo knobs to the mug of cold coffee in the holder. “It was written in different color ink than the others like he added me later or something.”
“But you’re on the team.”
“I’m on the team.” Tom smiled and so did Jack and then they both looked towards the gym door. “I’m going to hang here before school. Coach brought out some balls and a few of my teammates are shooting around.”
He said it easily, no hesitation or stutter. Teammates.
Tom imagined the scrawl of handwriting on the bottom of the list, Jack Faller, and wanted to get out to see it himself. But he didn’t want to embarrass Jack, and when his son broke into a run back towards the gym Tom wanted to get out and run with him, run past the parking lot and football fields and city and mountains beyond, run past his job and his split level home and his herniated disc and past the heaving mound of years that separated him from the burning blush of his own youth when his name scribbled on a page would have meant everything.
Instead, though, he started the car and headed to work.
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