Very Wicked Beginnings

Gah. I sounded completely stupid. Cuba Hudson had no idea who I was, nor did he give a shit about meeting my eyes. No one here did. Well, except for Spider.

I tore my eyes from his form—thank goodness he hadn’t noticed me staring.

I walked into lunch and when I didn’t see Spider, I figured he was out on the quad with Becca. I sat by myself to eat.

Being alone in a room full of people who never really looked at you didn’t bother me.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

“When you see the things I have, you grow up fast.”

–Cuba

OUR BIG GAME arrived in early November. I had the best night of my career, sacking the Copeland quarterback four times in the first quarter as scouts from ESPN watched in the stands. In the end, we stomped them, the final score 21 to 3. It looked like BA was headed to the regional championships.

I came off the field after the television interview was over, and Dad met me at the gate, a huge smile on his face. “Son, damn proud of you and that game. Congrats on the win.” He pulled me in for a hug. I sank into it, needing the contact.

“You deserve all the happiness in the world, you know that right?” he said.

I didn’t deserve shit.

I asked him the most important question. “Did Mom come?”

He twisted his lips, his eyes darting around everywhere but landing on nothing. “Nah, she was tired. She said to tell you good luck.” Yeah. I wondered if that was true or if he was just saying that to make me feel better.

I nodded, ignoring the lump in my throat.

Zero yelled at me as he ran over to us. “Dude, party in the field tonight. You in? The whole team’s coming.” The field was an area back behind Zero’s house where we went to hang out and drink after games. His parents didn’t care as long as we didn’t make a bonfire. But we could crank the music up as loud as we wanted.

“Go on and have fun with your team, Cuba,” Dad said, giving me a pat. “You should celebrate your win. I’m headed to a late dinner in Dallas anyway.”

“Who’s watching mom?” I snapped, angry with him for always having somewhere to go. His running around for work never ended with him. Yeah, he owned a sports team, but fuck it, he had a family too, and maybe he needed to wake up and see that Mother was—

“The sitting service. They came over before the game and should be there until around midnight. Don’t worry about her, okay? She’s getting help, seeing a new doctor. Maybe we’ll see some improvement. You gotta live your life.”

What? Live my life when my mother obviously wasn’t?

I said, “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He nodded and walked away, and don’t think that I didn’t miss that his shoulders were hunched over. My anger with him immediately faded because he was in pain too. Like me, he recognized our lives were slowly unraveling day by day. And we were helpless to do anything about it except watch.

And so the night went.

I drove to that party, got trashed on Jack and ended up banging some ditzy cheerleader in the front seat of my Porsche. It wasn’t even good sex, and I kept calling her by the wrong name. During most of it, I imagined myself outside my body, watching what occurred, assessing the level I’d sunk to. I didn’t like what I’d become, but here’s the thing, I didn’t want to stop either. Because I’d do anything to make the memories get the fuck out of my head.

I’m a no-good useless bastard.

“Could she cast away darkness?”

–Cuba

AT THE END of November we lost our play-off game to a school in Austin. I dealt with it like I did everything else. I worked out more, swam more, fucked more. And I studied. Because I had my goal of rectifying myself by helping others, and I wasn’t going to let go of that.

Christmas arrived on a cold morning. I came downstairs with dad, both of us shocked to find Mother in the kitchen, dressed in a classy outfit and wearing make-up.

I stood transfixed. It had been a nearly a year since I’d seen her looking like she used to when she’d be heading out for some charity or a school board meeting.

She waved a can of cinnamon rolls in front of me. “Good morning. You wanna eat before we open gifts?” She smiled, the effort seeming to come from deep within her.

I swallowed, finding my voice. “Mom?”

She fidgeted. Looking unsure and fragile.

I moved toward her like a man possessed and swept her up in my arms, swinging her around. She laughed, and I buried my face in her neck, inhaling her clean scent. My throat got clogged as she clutched me back, her small hands holding on to me like her life depended on it.

God, she was better.

After a quick breakfast together, we went into the den and opened gifts. I’d gotten them both books from their favorite authors, and they’d gotten me a new television for my room. Later that evening, we ate turkey and all the fixings along with some of my mom’s traditional Brazilian favorites. She put her apron on and got to work, banging and clanging around the kitchen. It sounded like heaven.

After dinner, we sat around the fire in Dad’s study, listening to Christmas music and talking, catching her up on all the latest gossip about the Mavericks and our Highland Park friends. All in all, it was one of the best days I’d ever had. Maybe because my hope came roaring back. And there’s nothing like being as low as you can get and then getting that spark that tells you it’s not over yet, that you still have fight left in you.