He scribbles something fast and looks up.
“Gray.”
“You—?” Matt turns his board around, showing it to the camera. “How didyou guess that?”
How could hepossibly?—?
Robert laughs. “You’re so fuckin’ predictable, Jesus.”
Matt is many things, but predictable? He’s not predictable. He scrubs at his board almost violently, erasing any trace of the stupid answer.
“What is my favorite food?” Robert reads. “Wait, are we talking about in-season? Or off?”
“Off season,” the director answers.
“What is my favorite food to eat during the off-season?” Robert repeats. Lower, he laughs and says, “You’re never gonna guess this.”
“How do we know he’s not lying?” Matt asks, raising his marker for attention. “What’s stopping him from giving fake answers to throw me off?”
“Cause I’m not a whiny lil piss baby who needs to win some meaningless social media video to feel good about himself.” Robert writes for a decent amount of time before he looks up. “Go on. Guess.”
Well, with the amount of food that exists, Matt has a better chance of winning the lottery than getting this right.
Still, he jots down his best guess and shows the camera. “Chicken fingers and fries.”
“You literally think I’m still seven. Unbelievable.” Robert holds his board up to the camera and the director looks surprised.
He prods Matt with, “Why did you choose chicken fingers?”
“Because when we were kids he was obsessed with them.”
“I wasseven. That’s a normal thing for kids to eat. We never ate fuckin’chicken fingerswhen we were teenagers. Grow up.”
“When we wereteenagerswe had to eat whatever they had at the track.” Matt prickles with frustration. “Butbeforewe travelled for meets, you ate them for every single meal. Chicken fingers for breakfast isn’t normal for any child! You’d probably still be eating chicken fingers if Mama didn’t get involved.”
“Your mom?” the director encourages.
Actually, itisa funny story. Something to knock Robert down a peg.
“Yeah, my mom. She was tired of makin’em, so one time she rolled a couple’a tacos real tight and called them ‘Mexican chicken fingers’.” Matt laughs. “They weren’t even chicken! They werecarnitas?I think? I’unno, but it broke the cycle. From then on he ate whatever Mama made. What?”
The director’s grinning like he struck oil and Robert looks pissed.
It wasn’t that bad of a story. Certainly not ‘he got hard when we wrestled’ bad.
“What did you write?”
Robert’s handwriting has always been shit, but it clearly says‘tacos de carnitas’with a pointed little ‘(NOT chicken tenders)’ under it.
Robert taps the bottom part with his marker and says, “Still predictable. I win.”
Matt remembers Robert’s favorite track from the last time they did a questionnaire, and Robert misses Matt’s favorite animal. He actually doesn’t have a favorite animal, so he writes‘snakes’since Robert used to hate them. Judging by his face, some things never change.
The drivers quickly wrap up filming, thanking the director and social guy before heading out. Their schedules are synched, and it’s weird to ignore that, so Matt keeps close to Robert, even if neither of them wants him to.
“You were right,” Matt says, extending an olive branch. “I don’t know you anymore. I think we just proved that. I’m willing to learn, though. I don’t want us to hate each other.”
Look at how mature he is—letting bygones be bygones. Even with a black eye.
