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The same girl is the one thing we won’t be competing for. I haven’t come out, not now, and probably not until high school, but at a young age, girls have never done it for me. I’m more attracted to the asshole I hate than any female, and that was when I realized I was gay. It’s not something I’m ashamed of. And as much as my mother will support me, the dickhead—what I call my father most days—won’t.
Mrs. Craven, our pre-algebra teacher, makes it to class right as the bell rings and starts listing new problems. I’d taken her in third period, but they moved me so I could take a foreign language this year, something my father, the dickhead, insisted on.
She starts with a new equation, and Clark raises his hand. Mrs. Craven hands him the chalk, and he approaches the board, beginning the problem. I watch him work it out, but he misses a step.
“Sorry, Mr. Farmer. That’s not correct.” He returns to his desk, but he still needs to be defeated and I am the one to show him how very wrong he is.
“Who else would like to try?” I raise my hand from the back of the class. “Ah, Mr. Lynol.” Everyone turns around because I haven’t been in this class for the first week of school. “Mr. Lynol transferred in from my third-period class. Why don’t you give it a try?”
I make it to the front of the room and turn around as I smile directly at Clark. His chin lowers to his chest and it’s fucking Christmas morning. I revel at the defeated look on his face. I take the chalk he’d had in his hands and solve the problem.
“Good job, Mr. Lynol. All that was missing was this final part. You would have gotten it right, Mr. Farmer.” I walk back to my desk, and she reviews all the steps, even the one Clark missed.
From behind, Clark’s shoulders slump, and here we go. Now pre-algebra is part of our war, too. Bring it on.
PE is next, but no one has located the coach. I take it upon myself to go search for the man. I round the corner of the locker room and hear a conversation I’m not part of. But I recognize the voices and stay out of the way to listen. “I’m not against wide receiver, Coach, but I have my heart set on quarterback.”
“I hate to say this, and I wanted to take you aside, by yourself. Xander surprised me. He never played flag football in sixth and seventh grade. But he’s a natural. I’ll use you as a backup, but you’re too valuable to sit on the bench. I need you as a wide receiver. I’m not picking Xander over you. You two have different skill sets. And if you’re being honest with yourself, son, you know you’re only mad because Xander got the position over you. But I can’t score without my wide receivers, and you and Micah Jonas will be my stars.”
Let Clark be the wide receiver as I lead the team as quarterback. I strut away. I’ve never been as pleased with myself as I am now. I leave them to finish up the conversation, and fuck does it feel good to beat him twice today.
* * *
“I’m wide fucking open,Lynol. Throw the ball to me, asshole.” It’s what greets me in the fifth game of the season when I enter the locker room at halftime. Clark and I, together as wide receiver and quarterback, are as volatile as ever.
I’m not throwing to him or any other motherfuckerbecause no one is open. The other team has us by the balls, and everyone knows it.
“Stop it, Farmer. No one is open. It’s not Lynol’s fault. The poor kid has been sacked three times already. So, maybe we shouldn’t blame him.” Coach turns to me. “Are you okay, Xander? That last sack was bloody fucking brutal.”
“Yeah, I’m okay, Coach.” The coach turns around, and I flip Clark the bird as he throws his helmet at a locker.
“I’m telling you guys, especially the offense, fucking protect Xander. Jonas and Farmer, find a fucking way to get open, and maybe we won’t get our asses handed to us.”
Coach’s demands and gripes have me smiling as if I won the game, but fucking Clark Farmer got his ass chewed out, and for the perfect motherfucking golden boy, that’s rare.
“Okay, if we’re going to get out there and win the game, let’s work like a fucking team.”
On the field, the offense has found a way to block for me. On the last play of the game, as I run the ball, a large defensive lineman makes a beeline for me. Clark is the only motherfucker open. Sending the ball soaring in the air, a perfect throw, Clark jumps high to catch the ball and runs in for a touchdown, winning us the game. Everyone celebrates the asshole as I sulk off the sidelines like we lost.
4
CLARK
Senior year
“Please tell me it’s not Notre Dame?” My ma’s voice can be heard as I open up the door. I don’t know who my ma is talking to, but I have a guess, and they’re discussing colleges. In three more months, I’ll graduate with a full-ride to Notre Dame on a football scholarship.
“Thank god. Could you imagine?” There’s a pause. “I won’t say anything, believe me. Somehow, I had expected it would be an issue, but I’m glad it’s not.” My ma’s eyes flash to me, and she returns to the phone. “Hey, I’ve got to run. I’ll give you a call later. Yeah, same here. Bye.”
“Hey, Ma.” I lean in to kiss her on the cheek and pull for the freshly baked cookie she has on the plate. “Who were you talking to?” More so, who doesn’t know that I’m attending Notre Dame in the fall?
“Oh,” she stutters and is such a lousy liar. “It was your Aunt Marie.”
“Nice try, Ma. Aunt Marie knows I’m going to Notre Dame.”
She moves to the refrigerator and grabs milk and eggs, not looking at me. “Oh, you misunderstood me. Anyway, while I have you here, we’ve got to set a date for your freshman orientation.”
“Ma, I know you were speaking with Liz Lynol. The pretentious asshole is going to Harvard, so we’ll have a break from each other.”
