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hadtohavehighhighhopesforaliving · 7 years ago

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All That is Gold Does Not Glitter, Chapter 1: Yoo-hoo

I've done a lot in my long life.

Most things I'm not proud of.

Several things I am.

I've taken many hits. I've faced many losses. I've paid my dues. Frank Sinatra's song "My Way" is my anthem.

I live alone in a little white farm house, in a town where no one knows my real name. I spend my days taking walks, feeding the horses, and reading. If I do leave my property, it's only for a Sunday church service. I talk to no one. I know no one. But I love everyone. That's the secret: to care for the welfare of others more than your very self. I did not know that as a child. I had to learn it the hard way.

I suppose it's expected for someone who's held the positions I've held to write a memoir. I never really thought about it, and at first I didn't want to, but an old friend made a house call one afternoon and put a pen in my hand.

"Write," he told me. "Please. If not for your sake, then for ours."

He knew that's all he had to say.

I've found healing in this process. I was scared for decades to re-remember these memories, to re-open those old wounds. I'm glad I did. Because on the opposite of fear lies freedom. And now, I am nothing if not free. I have nothing in this world except my home, my withered body, and the freedom I have fought my whole life for.

J. R.

Part I: 1998

I am seventeen. It's football tryouts. And I'm about to become the first female football player in Truman High history.

Or so I tell myself as I walk onto the field. Cold sweat from the Pepsi-filled Big Gulp leaks down my arm, chilling my throwing hand. Sun-dead grass crunches under my cleats. Though I am shaking, I keep up my power pace to the sidelines.

They never see me coming.

I set the to-go cup on the aluminum bench crowded with gear and sidle up to Calvin. He's got one leg up, foot resting on the bench, bent over, tying his cleat.

"Hey," I say quietly, glancing around.

He looks up.

"Hey!" he smiles. "You finally showed up!" He's been heckling me since freshman year to try out. We used to play together on the middle school team. That, and our assigned seats next to each other in sixth grade, cemented our friendship.

"Yeah, haha," I titter, eyes still roving the competition. "Better late than never." I force a wide, toothy smile that's so fake it's cartoonish. It makes him laugh, just like I'd hoped.

All the usual suspects are here. Some of them are play-wrestling. Some of them are stretching casually. One guy even takes his water bottle, aims it at some dude, and squeezes, firing a stream of water like a firehose. Almost all are laughing.

"Looks like some tough competition this year," I say, dropping my voice to sound masculine. I puff up my chest and broaden my shoulders, flex my arms and clench my hands into fists. "The team's shaping up to be a championship winner. We may even go to state." I'm mocking the coach. He says this every year at the first week of school pep rally. It's total bullshit.

"I'm shaking in my cleats," Calvin chuckles. "Who knows if I'll make the cut?"

Truman High sports teams - especially football - are all walk-ons. We're too damn small to reject any players. And we suck at everything. Everyone knows "tryouts" are a joke; it's really just a euphemistic label given to the first day of practice. No one gets cut. Ever.

"You know Beufort. Football capital of the world," I say. "Don't you realize how many NFL legends came from our town?"

The answer: none. Beufort is a farm-turned-industrial-turned-farm-again town in Northeastern Ohio. Nothing ever happens here. Most kids who are born here stay here until they die. No one ever leaves, and no one ever makes something of themselves. You just get stuck.

Thankfully, I wasn't born here, and stuck is not a place I want to be. I'll get out of here eventually. I just have to get through senior year. Somehow.

The coach blows his whistle.

"Line up at the end zone for relays!" he screams. Everyone lolligags over and forms five messy lines. I slink to the back of my line, hidden by tall, broad-shouldered blokes. They haven't noticed me yet.

My palms are drenched. The late August heat drapes itself across my back. My neck sizzles; I can feel it burning. The B.O. is noxious. My heart's racing. It's difficult to swallow; my throat is thick.

Each guy at the front of each line races down the field to the endzone, tags the ground, and runs back down to high-five the next fella in line. By run, of course, I mean jog, prance, and hustle - no one really books it. They don't put out full effort. They don't care.

I watch Calvin's back as he sprints to the opposite end zone, grass and dirt flying in his wake. The others cheer through cupped hands, unleashing guttural calls in languages only known to Neanderthals.

He sweeps the ground with his hand, pivots, and races back. My stomach clenches.

It's go time.

Everyone will know I'm here now. I don't want them to see me, but there's no time to change my mind and no other option. Dread drops like lead in my gut, weighing me down, slowing me down.

Calvin tags my hand, and I accelerate down the field like a lemon of a car. My lungs burn. Heat rushes to my face. Shouts box my ears.

"What the hell?"

"Who is that?"

"Who let the girl on the field?!"

The brown, dead crust of field runs under my fingers, and I skid into the turn. Completely exposed.

Ponytail swinging, breasts belted in a too-tight sports bra, I face the scowling team. I run at them - maximum effort - and boos are my reception. I knew it would be this way. But preknowledge doesn't stop the sting.

That's when I catch a glimpse of him. A familiar face in the phalanx. My nose scrunches, lips grimace. Clammy hands are on my breasts. I shove the memory away.

Arriving at my line, I push past sweaty, onion-smelling boys in dark-stained sleeveless shirts. I throw elbows and hip-check to make it through, but it's almost like they're pushing back. Jeering.

"Hey. Rogers." A familiar voice. But not Calvin's. A shiver slides down my back. My stomach squirms.

Justin pushes his way through the lines to get to me. He stops a foot and a half away, in the parallel line next to mine. He crosses his arms and pops a hip, looks me up and down. From his frosted tips and solo hoop earring to his man tank and Roos, the boy radiates InSync babe-magnet cockiness.

"Step off," I bristle, throwing him a dead-eyed, I-don't-give-a-shit look. Some of the boys laugh and go "ooooh".

"Salty," Justin grins. It makes my cheek twitch.His stupid Mediterranean blue eyes are hypnotic. "I just wanted to wish you best of luck. With tryouts."

"Mkay?" I narrow my eyes, but to no effect. I think they smell my fear.

He extends a hand to shake, smiling that greasy used-car-salesman smile. I stare at it, repulsed. There's no way I'm touching that thing.

After a beat, he pulls it back and shrugs.

"Okay. Suit yourself." Too casual.

He morphs back into line and attention turns away from me, at least until after push-ups.

Coach blows a whistle, and we all drop to give him twenty. I struggle but push through. Some of the guys can't even make it to ten.

"Tractor! Butt down!" Coach barks at some poor soul.

"I'm tryin', sir," he drawls.

"Yeah, well, try harder!"

When I finish, I collapse on the grass, arms and abs burning. I roll over, bumping into Calvin. He's laying on his stomach, propped up by elbows. I shield my eyes to block out the sun. His tan, freckled face is above mine. He's got hazel eyes and shaggy, sandy blond hair parted down the middle. I've always liked his face shape. It's diamond-shaped. He's got nice cheekbones and a dimple on either side.

"Hey," he murmurs.

"Hey," I reply.

"Don't let 'im get to you. He's just trynna psyche you out."

"I know."

"I'm glad you came." He smiles.

I grin in reply. At least one person is.

A shadow falls over us, a hulking darkness that blocks out the sun. I ab-crunch up, squinting.

"I don't have your papers," the silhouette of Coach Dodson growls. "No papers, no practice."

I sit up all the way.

"What?" I continue to shade my eyes with my hand. I can't see his face, I'm squinting so hard. I know I heard him right. I'm just not believing what I'm hearing.

"No papers. No. Practice." Spit flies on every "p". You can tell Coach used to be a drill sergeant. No joke. The guy was in the Gulf Wars.

He's built like the Hulk: short legs, bulked arms, broad shoulders. Square head, constantly red, with a graying buzz cut.

I can't take him seriously.

"I don't understand," I say. "To which papers are you referring?"

"Your sports physical. Your parental consent form. Your injury waiver. You're a walking liability on this field! You get injured, you could cost the school a lawsuit!"

Wow. For a jarhead, you really know how to keep your cool. I wonder how well you did under fire.

A laugh bursts from my gullet.

"You're kidding! Those freshmen are more of a liability than I am." I glance at a couple of toothpicks attempting to wrestle one another. They've got no body hair, no body fat, and probably come up to my shoulder. "I mean, have they even hit puberty?"

Coach snorts. I'm the matador staring down the bull. All he needs is a nose ring.

"They have their paperwork in. You don't. You can't just show up here and expect us to cater to you."

Cater to me?

I jump to my feet.

"Are you kidding me - ?"

"Coach, I don't have my paperwork in yet. You always give us 'til one week after practice starts to get 'em in. Remember?" Calvin prompts. "But if you want, I'll leave now, too. That way I'm not a liability either." He looks at Coach earnestly. The kid's blessed with an honest face. He could be bald-faced lying, and he'd look so damn truthful you'd believe him.

Coach's eyes shift from Calvin to me and back. Calvin, me, back.

"But you're not - that wouldn't - " he sputters. Calvin, me, back. "No," he finally sighs, relenting. "You can both stay." He turns to walk away, but then adds, as if on second thought. "But this year," he enunciates, as if listening carefully to his own words, studying them as if they hung in midair, "we're having cuts." He nods slowly and roams away.

I look at Calvin, wonderstruck.

"Woah," I breathe, a grin breaking across my face. "That was awesome. Thanks, man. I owe you one."

He waves me off, tries not to smile.

"It's nothing. Don't worry about it. What are friends for?"

I owe way too much to that kid. I don't know that I'll ever be able pay him back. How do you pay back a saint? I don't think you can. They'll always have one up on you.

We move on to throwing and catching with a partner, then run some basic plays to test who fits best in what position. A supermajority is lined up for quarterback tryouts.

I shake my head. Justin's already got that position locked down. No one else is gonna get it.

I stand off to the side, roasting in the sun. Which position should I claim? If I were naive, I'd be in the quarterback line with the dandruff-haired freshmen. But I'd never have a prayer, even if I was good.

Lineman? Out of the question. You have to be the size and weight of a brick wall. Guys like that big corn-fed fella, Gunner, get it. Farm boys have the advantage.

Then there's running back - Calvin's position. You gotta be fast to do that. But I won't take it away from him.

Wide receiver? I'm a pretty good catch. Let's see who's in line - Bingo. No one of any particular skill or importance. I got this one bagged.

It's a good thing Truman High football is a joke. You only have to be mildly decent to earn a starting position. Most of these guys never played before high school; the school's so small that it's desperate for players and will take literally anybody. Even Angus. Who also happens to be trying out for wide receiver.

I trod across the crunch-grass field to the receiver line, my T-shirt sticking to my back. My bra is drenched and chaffing. I'll have to grab a new one from the thrift store soon. This one's so old, it's trash.

As soon as I line up behind Angus, I've unwittingly started a conversation with him. That's the way he is.

"H-h-h-hey, Jackson," he stutters. He's a babyfaced, big brown doe-eyed boy with a mop of floppy brown hair, tan skin, and the trace of a pencil-thin mustache that he never shaves.

"Hey, Angus," I say, not really looking at him. He's a sweet kid, don't get me wrong; I just prefer to talk as little as possible.

"I-i-isn't it a g-g-great day for f-f-football? S-so nice out."

"Yeah," I say flatly. "Sure is."

"I think they're gonna-uh gonna-uh make me a s-s-starter this year."

I half-smile.

"That's great," I say. "I hope they do."

I mean it, too. Only, Angus doesn't have a prayer. He's the worst player on the team, hands down. That's just common knowledge - to everyone but him.

"C-c-can you believe it's alr-r-ready senior year?"

I smile bitterly, stare at the ground.

"Couldn't come soon enough," I mumble.

"S-s-some of the guys were s-s-sayin' it's a good thing we have a g-g-girl this year cuz you can bring us-s-s water." He doesn't know what he says. He just repeats what he hears. He doesn't know what it means.

I rake a hand through my ponytail. Let's ignore the fact that I grew up playing flag football on little kid teams, practicing with my dad. Never mind that some of these guys and I were on the same parks and rec teams in middle school, back when I was a foot taller than any of them. Who could remember that I used to be the best player on the team? Eighth grade was a lifetime ago, after all.

"You're up, Parrot!" the last receiver calls as he jogs off the field.

"M-m-my turn!" Angus smiles and says in a sing-song voice. He trots to the line of scrimmage.

They call him Parrot? Those assholes. They give nicknames to everybody. Disguise insults as terms of endearment.

They called me Kansas last year.

I wait on the sidelines for my turn, stuck in torrential thoughts.I think too much. That's my problem; if I didn't have all these racing thoughts, I wouldn't constantly feel like I'm on the razor-thin edge of sanity. And I wouldn't feel the need to go out and do stupid shit like try out for football, fully knowing I'm the most hated person in school. But when you're stuck, alone, late at night, with nagging, biting thoughts, you'll do just about anything to catch a break from them.

"Next!" Coach shouts at me, repeating himself. "Are you deaf? You're up!"

Loud thoughts - see what I mean? They block out even the screams of an irate ex-Marine.

I jog to the huddle of offenders, cheeks turning pink with embarrassment. Their eyes all glare at me. All except Calvin. When I squeeze in beside him, he places an encouraging hand on my shoulder blade.

"Here's the dealio," Justin says, addressing the group. "I'm gonna get the snap, fake a hand-off to Calvin, and then throw a long pass down the field to you, Jackson. Got it? Break." The huddle scatters.

That didn't make any sense. Justin's directions gave me no real information. Did nobody else notice?

"Hey, wait," I say, grabbing Justin's arm and yanking him back to look at me. "You never specified where you want me to go. Left, right, center? Down twenty yards, thirty?" I lock eyes with him so he knows I'm not a pushover. I'm not taking his shit this year.

He puckers, his forehead creased in a frown. Studying me.

"Center," he says finally. "Thirty-five yards down." Then he stalks to his place behind the line.

If that was meant to be a test, I do believe I just passed. But I can't get too excited. That was only a preliminary. The real test is whether or not I can catch.

Bring it on.

I take my place on the far right side and crouch in ready position, listening for Justin to yell "hike". When he does, I take off down the field, outmaneuvering some crappy defenders. I'm thirty yards away when I turn to look for the pass - and realize it's not headed towards me at all, but instead spiraling through the air towards the other wide receiver - who fails to catch it. It slips right through his extended hands.

I throw my hands up. Really? Um. Okay. So go ahead and lie to me.

We get called back into formation for the second down.

"Yo, Justin," I call, an edge to my voice, "What was that about?"

"I don't - " He shrugs and shakes his head, looking at me like I'm loco. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Do I really want to put up with this for a whole season? If I can prove I'm good enough, I won't have to.

"Just throw the ball to me next time," I command. I wear my "fight me" face. He rolls his eyes and we start up the next play.

This time when I run down the field to get open I almost don't expect the pass. Fool me twice, ya know?

But then it comes, and I'm all tensed up to spring and catch it. I leap, feel the rough pigskin slide easily into my hands. I did it.

Then, out of nowhere, BAM. I'm slammed to the ground, a heavy male body on top of me, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. It goes numb, and my arm slacks. The ball tumbles from my grip, my fingers unresponsive.

For a moment, my mind reels into panic. I'm in a dark room, forcing a guy with grab-hands to get off me. I'm ready to kick, punch, fight, scream.

Then a whistle blows, and I'm back to the present. The guy gets off of me. My whole arm is now sore. Most of the guys are laughing. They're laughing because I just got sacked.

I stand and massage my shoulder, feeling returning to my hand. It's not dislocated, that's all that matters.

Third down: another chance to prove I can do this. Let's go. C'mon.

"You OK?" Calvin mutters next to me.

"I'm fine," I say, brushing him off.

"You good, Jacks?" Justin asks, feigning sympathy. "D'you think you're still able to play? Or d'you need to stop?"

"Eat my shorts," I reply.

"Oooh!" One of the boys coos. "She got you!"

Justin's face turns to flint. I'm gonna pay for that comment.

"Turner, get ready for the hand-off. You're gonna drive the ball down. Everybody else, make sure you keep the defense off of him. Got it? Let's go."

For the third-down, we crouch in position. "Hike" is yelled, the ball is snapped, and I do what I can to lure some defenders after me, out and away from Turner. But when I look back to find Turner, I hear Justin yell.

"Jacks, get open! Get open!"

"What?!" I call, then notice the brown ball flying through the air just a little too far to my left. I'll never reach it in time. I sprint after it, but it's no use. It hits the ground and bounces several yards ahead of me.

"Where were you?" Justin yells.

"Seriously?!" I snap back, red hot anger rushing to my face.

"Yeah, Jacks, that was all you," Turner mouths off.

"Lay off, man," Calvin speaks up calmly.

"Lay off your mom," Turner retorts.

Coach toots the whistle - several short, sharp blasts in a row.

"That's enough! Roberts, you're done for the day," Jarhead yells.

"What? But - "

"Get off my field. Go home. You're done."

I look around, stunned. Some of the guys are sniggering, trying to hide their laughter behind helmets and hands. They disguise their smug grins with innocuous nose-wipes or elbow coughs.

"C'mon, Coach - " says Calvin.

"I don't want to hear it, McIntyre." He holds up a hand. "I won't have no one causing trouble on my field. She needs to leave."

Capping my inner grammar Nazi, I refrain from correcting the poor bastard. Instead, I silently, calmly, with all eyes on me, tread casually over to the sideline bench, pick up my Big Gulp, grab my board, and as soon as I hit the parking lot, I skate away, tossing the warmed, near-empty soda cup into the trashcan as I roll. A perfect ten outta ten exit, I'd say.

I skate until I hit the 7/11 I stopped by on the way to practice. This is where I go for all my needs.

I grab a glass bottle of Yoo-Hoo chocolate milk from the refrigerator section, slap the exact change on the counter, wave to Denny the cashier, snap the cap open, take a sip, and roll out.

I skate home in the early-evening, late-August fading sun. When I hit my driveway, I step on one end of my skateboard, shooting it up to my hand. I tuck it under my arm and guzzle Yoo-Hoo around to the back of the house, where the stairs to my second-story walk-up apartment are. A limp basketball net is nailed above the garage door. A flat basketball hibernates, weathered, near the garage gutter spout.

I pound up the paint-peeled wooden steps to our front (back) door.

I open the door and am greeted by the sound of belching, the smells of beef stew, sweaty socks, and beer. I lean my board against the wall beside the door.

"Where were you?" Zennen asks, his Belorussian accent thicker than usual. He's been drinking.

I want to say "None of your damn business," but that would evoke the wrath. So I just say, "Around."

"You hear that, Mary Beth?" he says to my mom. He's not even looking at me. His glazed eyes are glued to the TV. "Your daughter's been rolling around town for hours again. You know what I think? Drugs."

"I am not doing drugs," I assure calmly. But it's no use. No one hears me.

"Honey, Zennen and I have been concerned about your behavior."

From where I stand, I have a view of the micro-living room. I have to walk around the wall to my left to see my mom, sitting at the kitchen table, counting her tip money and balancing her checkbook. She's not looking at me, either.

"Take a seat," she says, thumbing bills from one hand to the other.

I don't.

Instead, I pull a bowl out of the cabinet, rinse off a spoon in the sink, grab a box of cereal from the counter - off-brand Lucky Charms, this week - and pour the rest of my Yoo-Hoo with it into the bowl.

"Mom," I say, pausing to eat a spoonful of cereal. "I'm not doing drugs. Seriously. Do I smell like marijuana? No." Another milky, crunchy, sweet spoonful.

"We're just worried because you're always gone. We don't know where you are if you're not at home."

"Well, I could definitely be at work. Or the arcade, or Calvin's. That's pretty much the extent of it." I take another bite, waiting for her to say something.

Her eyes widen. She puts the cash down, organizes it into a neat stack, and recounts. She stops at the end.

"I'm missing twenty. I know I had six-fifty when I left work. There's only six-thirty here." She looks hard at me. I can just hear her mind scream, DRUGS. "We'll talk about this later." She sighs. "I don't know how we're gonna make this month's payment." She puts her head in her hands. You can see the remnants of her beauty queen days, despite her now chronic stress and exhaustion. Gray hairs and crow's feet can't hide her radiance.

I take my bowl and head to my room. It's just a little closet, what once was the long, thin pantry between the stairwell and the kitchen. I take a detour through the living room where my twelve-year-old twin brothers are sitting on the ratty carpet, playing video games?

I ruffle Bowie's hair. "Hey, lamebrains. Where'd you get the Nintendo 64?" There's no way Mom or Zennen got it. We can barely afford to have a telephone.

"Jimmy," Axel and Bowie say in unison.

"Ah." I raise my eyebrows. Jimmy has been their imaginary friend/scapegoat since they were six. He doesn't exist - only, Mom hasn't figured that out yet. She thinks he's their very real, very rich best friend from school.

And she thinks I'm the one who took twenty bucks to pay for drugs.

"Alright. Well. Enjoy your gift from Jimmy," I smile. Then, crouching to their ear level, I whisper under the electronic soundtrack, "This is the last time I cover your asses." My smile resumes, and I stand up, satisfied.

"We love you," the boys reply, eyes never deviating from the screen. The sound of manic electronic pings follows me to my room. I chuckle bitterly. Love. What does it even mean?

My room is just wide enough to fit my twin-sized bed, with no gaps between it and the wall. On the far end, behind my headboard, is a small window. There's about two feet between the foot of my bed and the door, where I keep a knee-high chest of drawers to hold my clothes. To get to my bed, I have to literally climb on top of it.

Along the walls I have various shelves containing stacks of CDs and old little kid football trophies. I also have a rack where I hang my guitar. Then there's all the posters. Mostly bands are plastered to the walls and ceiling, but there are some movies and athletes, too. The only light is a bare bulb with a ratty hanging string directly above my bed. Sometimes if I sit up in bed at night to get some water, I'll forget the string is there and nearly jump out of my skin at the feeling of the long spider thread tickling my nose, face, and hair.

My Discman almost always is hidden under my pillow. That way no one takes it, and I can listen to music as I fall asleep.

And then there's the one chunk of my wall still covered with a map, strings, pushpins, and scraps of paper scribbled with fragmented theories, forgotten ideas, and false-hopes mistaken for evidence.

I oughtta take it down one of these days. It only serves as a useless reminder now.

I sit on my bed for the next few hours, eating cereal, listening to music on my Discman, and watching the world fade to black outside my window.

I figure I'll call Calvin tomorrow after work, go check out the team roster once it's posted outside the athletic director's office. I doubt I made the cut. But they never cut anyone anyway; they can't spare the players. But what am I gonna do if I don't make it? Give in to defeat? Or duke it out?

It'll be alright. I'll make the cut. Everyone always does. Even Angus. No sweat.

I watch the back-porch lights of my neighbors and the stars overhead as I listen to "Iris" by the Goo-Goo Dolls. I inhale the warm summer night and dream of the day I can finally get out of this town.

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