Everett
THEN
I remember gettingcar sick when I was six. It was a long drive, a thoroughly planned out road trip from Monterey all the way to Vancouver where my parents made overnight pit stops to national parks like Mount Rainier and Olympic. I threw up a few times, surviving off Gatorade and saltine crackers until my body somewhat adjusted.
Now, at seventeen years old, it seems I’ve outgrown those stages of motion sickness that come with long car rides. Instead, I’m able to ride out the boredom through the drone of my parents’ playful bickering in the front seat and the rubbery hollow thump of my palms against the basketball cradled between my thighs.
But this time, my view isn’t rows and rows of colorful foliage and mountains that hide the outside world with columns of thick forestry. Instead, I’m surrounded by the coastal breeze and the oceanic blue horizon as we leave Orange County.
“You’re going to fit in just fine, Everett,” my mom calls from the front seat, her fifth attempt to reassure me since we’d left Sacramento with a small U-Haul hitched to the back of the car eight and a half hours ago.
“And if those kids give you a hard time, you tell them to shove their shiny BMWs up their asses,” my dad chimes in. “Right along with their rich people money and fancy houses.” He swivels his head, throwing a quick glance in my direction as he changes lanes on I-5 heading into Carlsbad.
“Yeah, Dad,” I say, running my nail along the dark silicone lining on my basketball. “I’ll make sure to put them in their place.”
He ignores my sardonic tone, keeping his eyes on the road ahead of him. My mom asks him something about the washer and dryer back home in Sacramento, something for him to take care of when he flies back up next week while she and I get settled down here in Del Mar Heights.
Senior year certainly isn’t turning out how I thought it would. I thought I’d be starting my last year of high school up north, finally breaking the “new guy” curse. I think this’ll be three schools in four years? Or was it four? I lost count after sophomore year and first period English when Mr. Moon had me stand at the front of the class to tell everyone “two truths and one lie” about myself, which resulted in the most embarrassing guessing game that centered around the big question: Was I really abducted by aliens? (Was it not obvious?) Maybe it’s the difficulty of forming any sort of status in a school full of teenagers eager to stake their place and ready to rip you to shreds based on judgment and popularity. Or it could simply be the fact that any sort of label or standing in a social setting sets off warning bells in my head like a fire alarm. One full of smoke signals and a fiery heat ushering me away from group gatherings.
“You are still trying out for the team, right?” I catch my dad’s gaze through the rearview mirror, meeting my eyes again, but now with a more concerned edge.
“Yeah, Dad,” I say through a deep exhale. “Of course.”
“Maybe I should put in a call to the coach. If they know who I am?—”
“No, please don’t do that. I don’t need people knowing who you are.”
“Come on, Everett,” he argues. “What’s the point of this contract and name-dropping rights if not to get my son on the varsity team?”
I respond with an eye roll.
“I can even throw in a meet and greet with Peja Stojakovic,” he offers, his voice sing-songy.
“Wow, using your players for personal gain. Is that how you’re going to start off the season as the Sacramento Kings’ new head coach?”
“I dare them to question their boss.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I think I’ll avoid the use of nepotism to ‘fit in,’” I say. “Wouldn’t make me any better than those spoiled kids with their BMWs.”
“Just give it your all. And make sure that Coach lets you try out,” he adds. “I know they always say their rosters are full, but they can always fit?—”
“Eddie,” my mom interjects. “Let him figure it out.” She runs her hand along his arm, gently putting a stop to this conversation.
“I just want to make sure he gets in. Those coaches at UC Davis are tough. Much tougher than high school coaches.”
“Dad, I’m not even sure I’ll get in,” I protest. “And I already said I’m not going to play in college.”
“I know.” He presses the heels of his hands to the steering wheel, holding his palms and fingers up in surrender. “But if you do change your mind, you need to have all the resources at your disposal. You can’t join a college team if you didn’t even play your senior year.”
“Yeah, well, if I stayed in Sacramento, I wouldn’t have this problem.”
“Everett,” my dad protests. “We already talked about this.”
“I know, I know.”
“Everett,” my mom adds, throwing in her two cents. “If your dad wasn’t so busy up there with this new coaching job, I’d love for you to stay, but?—”
“But you need to move here. I know, Mom.”
