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By Root 719 0

we have no sting. No one comes out to watch our games, the only panty offering we’ve had was from Montgomery, and assistant coaching is a straw too short to pick your teeth with. We have thirty-six players this year, but half of them don’t know the rules of football. They’re here because two physical activities are mandatory, and cross-country running fills up fast. The only real players are Brennan, the quarterback, and Dallas, a receiver. They both have football-crazed fathers who suited them up at age seven. Since we only play other academic schools, we usually win. Brennan throws to Dallas for the touchdown over and over until the opposition catches on, at which point Brennan hands the ball to me and I run it to the end zone with Bay blocking. We call Sarah Havelock off the bench when we need a kicker. That’s our entire playbook.

Running is the reason I’m on this team—that and my fondness for inflicting and suffering pain and violence. Coach Emery says I run like the devil’s chasing me. I told him that when I look at a field, I don’t see the players so much as the space between them, like negative space in a work of art. He told me to shut my mouth and run.

Today I run faster and shiftier than ever. Mr. Reid asks if I’m on speed meds.

“Fighting strengthened your game,” Brennan says as we clear the field.

Dallas agrees. “You’re not a coward anymore.”

Coach Emery jogs up and asks, “How do you go so fast on midget legs?”

I explain the mathematics of leg length and pendulum swing, but he doesn’t appreciate it.

“You’re assigned to the middle school team on Saturdays,” he tells me. “They requested an assistant coach and I’m giving them you.”

“Are you serious? Grade sevens and eights? They’re five feet tall.”

“Then you’ll fit right in.” Coach Emery walks away, leaving everyone laughing except me.

“Why are you watching a movie when your homework is unfinished?” Mom asks when she gets home with groceries. She’s always in a bad mood after spending money.

“Did you never relax after school when you were a kid?” I ask.

“I did my homework first, unless I forgot it.”

I can’t imagine carrying books and papers back and forth to school. I’d forget them every time. Then Mom would have something concrete to flay me with instead of intangible things like “going that extra mile,” which is a damaged metaphor now that fuel is so expensive. Going an extra mile is unjustifiable.

“I’ll get to it after dinner,” I say.

“Show me what you have.” Crack goes the whip.

I scroll through the day’s homework. “The human organism—an anatomical diagram with system descriptions. A law review—three pages, I did it in class. Two chapters of North American history—Xavier says it’s all a lie. A translation of some psycho religious text—I did that in math class. Trigonometry—piece of cake. And I should plan my art exhibit in case I’m selected.”

Mom whistles. “School is so demanding these days.”

“Only academic school. Throwaways just read and count.”

“Don’t call them that. They’re children just like you and Ally.”

She opens the day’s announcements on Blackboard and reads: Students in grade four will receive Hepatitis vaccinations next week. Nurses are needed to administer needles. An honorarium will be paid to volunteers. She messages back with her cv, seizing the chance to make a dollar in exchange for a few hours of sleep.

“You can’t come to my school,” I say.

“It’s not your school. It’s Ally’s school.”

“But whenever they get to my school, you can’t do shots there.”

“Why not?”

I shudder. “School nurses are not good, Mom. They’re dregs who work for minimum wage. You can’t associate me with that.”

When she speaks, her voice is icy. “Are you calling me a dreg?”

“No. But you’d look like a dreg if you came to my school.” She stares at me, eyes black as coal, but I persist. “It doesn’t matter what kind of people we are, Mom. It matters what kind of people we appear to be. You can’t do shots at my school. It would kill me.”

Thankfully, Dallas calls at that moment and asks me over to work on science. I run to the door and Mom shoves me out.