Catching Jordan

Hiding behind my glass of water, I smile. How does he keep his “love” life with Lacey separate from bal ?



Maybe it’s different for him since he’s a guy.



But I’m practical y a guy. I mean, except for these fucking hormones that make me want to jump Ty and Justin Timberlake. I don’t obsess over things that other girls care about, like clothes, movie stars, hair, painting nails, knitting, or whatever shit they’re into. I just want to eat a bunch of hot wings, sleep, play bal , and maybe, someday, make out with Ty.



“JJ? Um, how do you feel about Lacey? Like, do you love her…or anything like that?”



JJ drops the pen on the table and looks up at me. He narrows his eyes. “Why? Has she been asking about me or something?”



“Yeah, once…but I don’t real y care what she feels about you, I’m more wondering what you think of her?”



“She’s a good lay,” he says, picking his pen back up. He chews on the end of it and focuses on his book.



“What’s a four-letter word for a past Russian leader?”



“How the hel should I know, man? Anyhow…how do you manage to keep your, uh, thoughts of Lacey you manage to keep your, uh, thoughts of Lacey separate from footbal ?”



“Look, Woods, I hate talking about this shit, but if you must know, I don’t real y think about it. I enjoy sleeping with her and that’s al . It helps me relax, which helps me play footbal better.”



I chew on my lip. A “stress reliever” is the last thing I want to be. Is Ty the kind of guy who would only care if I’m a good lay?



Are these the kinds of things cheerleaders discuss at slumber parties?



JJ continues, “Now shut up about Lacey and feelings and shit and tel me the capital of Yemen. Five letters.”



Last year, in biology, we dissected frogs, and when I cut the frog’s stomach open, it was just ful of flies. The teacher said he’d never seen a frog with such a ful stomach. If some higher being were to dissect me right now, I can’t imagine how grossed out he’d be by the inside of my stomach. I’m stuffed with spaghetti. Now I’m super-glad I didn’t invite Ty to Joe’s Al -You-CanEat Pasta Shack, because he’d probably never want to look at me again. I’m a blimp.



Opening the back door, I walk into my kitchen and hear Mike and Dad yel ing. The noise is coming from the dining room so I jog in there to find Henry armwrestling with Jake Reynolds. Both of their faces are red and Jake is clenching his teeth.



“How long has this been going on?” I whisper to Mike.



“Forty seconds!”



I gasp. It’s not every day a high school senior holds his own against a sure-to-be-first-round draft pick. Henry glances up at me, so I yel , “Go, Henry! Kick this pretty boy’s ass!” Smiling, Henry bites into his bottom lip and starts to force Jake’s arm down. Jake seems to grip Henry’s hand harder. With one swift movement, Henry slams Jake’s hand down to the table.



“Good God!” Dad says.



“Holy shit!” Mike exclaims, whacking Henry on the back.



Jake’s face is al puffy. “Damn it,” he mutters. Dad squeezes Henry’s shoulder. “I can tel how hard you’ve been working out, Sam. Keep it up, and you’l get into a great col ege program. I’m real y proud of you.”



Henry’s eyes find mine, and he doesn’t look away. My dad is such an asshole. The great Donovan Woods would never stoop so low as to compliment his own daughter—a daughter who has just as much of a chance at getting into a great program as Henry.



A few minutes later, Dad takes Henry, Mike, and Jake out into the backyard to throw a bal around for awhile. When I start to head outside with them, Dad tel s me to help Mom with dinner. What a sexist pig. I carry the lasagna to the table, I carry the bread to the table, I carry the water pitcher to the table. I’m tempted to spit on my dad’s plate, but decide to act mature, unlike the great Donovan Woods. I’m slamming plates and glasses on the table when Henry comes up and shakes my shoulders.



“You’d suck as a waitress, Woods.”



“Maybe you should tel Dad that.” I drop a fork onto a plate, causing a clanking sound.



“Tel me what?” Dad says as he walks into the dining room. He sees Henry standing there with his hands on my shoulders, and instead of acting al pissy, Dad actual y smiles at us.



“Nothing,” I say quickly. I wiggle away from Henry, shrugging him off me. I finish setting the table, taking care to put al the forks and knives in the wrong places. And even though I just ate about a hundred pounds of spaghetti, I start shoveling lasagna onto my plate. Henry sits down next to me, and Jake takes a spot across the table. There’s a mad scramble for garlic bread, but I manage to come out victorious with five pieces. I’m not hungry; I just don’t want my family to think I’m getting soft.



Mike frowns at me because he’s only managed to wrangle three pieces. Since I’m stil stuffed from Joe’s Al -You-Can-Eat Pasta Shack, I donate two pieces of garlic bread to Mike’s stomach.



“So,” Dad says, looking from Henry to me as he pul s a piece of bread apart. “How’s school?”



“Good,” Henry replies. “Jordan and I are rebuilding a school bus engine in auto mechanics this semester.”



Dad smiles at me. “How’s that going?”



“Okay so far,” I say, sipping lemonade. “Once we’ve rebuilt it, our class is gonna put it in an old brokendown bus we’re refurbishing.”



“What are you gonna do with the bus?” Dad asks. Henry sets his fork down and wipes his mouth.



“Jordan suggested we donate it to the Haskel Youth Center. You know, the orphanage? The kids like coming to watch our games, but they don’t have an easy way to get to them.”



Dad says, “I think it’s a great idea. When do you think it’l be ready?”



“Definitely by the end of the semester, so we’l give it to them for next year,” Henry replies.



I add, “We’re missing a few parts, but we’l take a look through Murphy’s Junkyard next week.”



“Let me know if I can help,” Dad says before drinking more Gatorade. “Some guys on my team might want to donate money for parts. Hel , I bet they’d buy them a bus.”



“Thanks, Mr. Woods,” Henry says. “If we screw it up, we’l definitely take you up on the offer.”



“But we won’t screw up,” I say. Henry and I grin at one another.



For a few seconds, I only hear forks and knives clinking against plates, but then, as usual, Dad speaks up—silence makes him uncomfortable or something.



“You look nice today, Jordan.”



How lame. He wants to fil the lul by discussing my fashion choices? We’d have a lot more to talk about if he’d just discuss bal with me. Like that’ll ever happen. So I ignore Dad and crunch on my salad. Sipping my lemonade, I look up and see that Jake’s staring at my chest.



“Yeah—you look nice,” Jake says. Beneath the table,



“Yeah—you look nice,” Jake says. Beneath the table, I kick him in the knee. Hard. His eyes clench shut and he coughs. I grin.



“I think we al agree that you look nice,” Dad says, taking another bite of lasagna. “I’m glad you’re starting to act like a lady.”



I drop my fork onto my plate. “Just out of clean Tshirts, Dad,” I say. “Mom? May I be excused? I ate too much at Joe’s today.”



Mom nods and reaches out for me, so I walk over and bend down so she can kiss my cheek.



After taking my plate to the kitchen sink, I run up to my room. I’ve gotta get rid of this stress, or I’l be a wreck at tomorrow night’s game, so I pul on workout clothes and trainers.



Outside, I run up and down the little country roads near my house. The streets haven’t been paved in forever, so it takes a lot of concentration to make sure I don’t trip on bumps or fal in holes and hurt myself. As I run, I let daydreams of playing for Alabama total y absorb the part of my brain that isn’t focused on running.



I pretend I’m carrying the bal for a touchdown. I dart left, then right, dodging an imaginary cornerback, and run even faster.



Then I hear footsteps behind me, so I peek over my shoulder and see Henry trying to catch up to me. His curls are bouncing al over the place. “Woods,” he cal s out. “Your dad was al trying to talk about col ege with me, and I told him to shove it!”



Laughing, I speed up. Soon I’m sprinting as fast as I can go, but Henry catches up anyway. He’s so damned fast. He might as wel be Forrest Gump. Passing by me, Henry runs to the end of the block, where he turns around and does this stupid victory dance. It looks like he’s roping a bul at a rodeo.



I’m stil running at ful speed, so I crash into him, catapulting him into a ditch. “Show off!”



“Shit!” he shouts, laughing as he picks himself up. He wipes grass and dirt off his shirt and dusts his hands.



“How did Dad react when you told him to shove it?”



“He laughed in my face.”



“That sucks.”



“I don’t care,” he says, looking into my eyes.



“Why’d you say that anyway?”



“If he’s not going to support you, then there’s no way in hel I’d ever let him support me.”



I smile at Henry. My best friend believes in me. What else does a girl need?



Still , I should be happy for him, because Dad’s comments about footbal must mean a whole hel of a lot to Henry, whose own dad is never home and never talks to him about his future. Henry’s father probably expects him to become some kind of a bum, working in a factory, or hel , driving a truck too.



“I can’t believe you destroyed Jake at arm-wrestling,”



I say.



Henry grins. “Yeah, I’l never forget that.”



I take a deep breath. “I was thinking. Maybe you should talk to Dad about Michigan. Maybe you could ask him to come watch you at one of our games. He might be able to help.”



Henry’s eyes find mine, but he stays quiet.



“Want to race back?” he asks final y.



“Does the winner get the necklace?” I put my hand on the plastic footbal charm hanging from a cheap silver chain that Henry always wears.



“Hel , no,” he says, fingering the Cracker Jack prize we’ve been fighting over since we were nine. I’l never forget how we were sitting out in Henry’s front yard playing rock, paper, scissors while eating a big box of Cracker Jacks. I pul ed the prize out, and we both desperately wanted it. Since we were at Henry’s house and they were his Cracker Jacks, he thought he deserved the plastic footbal . But since I’m the one who deserved the plastic footbal . But since I’m the one who pul ed the footbal out of the box, I thought it should be mine.



So we rock, paper, scissors-ed for it. I made scissors with my hand. He made rock.



He’s worn the charm around his neck ever since.



“How about we race for an ice cream?” Henry says.



“First person back has to make the other a hot fudge sundae.”