Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [35]
The barbell clanked against the brace as I lowered it too far.
What is that expression? Fool’s paradise. When I was happy, I just thought everything was going okay. But things weren’t okay. How can I ever ask a girl out again? Sage’s betrayal tops Brenda’s. Christ only knows what the next girl I date might do.
I let the weight fall back into the rack.
It’s never going to work out for me. I came so close, but close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.
chapter thirteen
THAT WEEK, it warmed up and most of the snow melted. That was a good thing; I was not in the mood to shovel drive ways. In fact, I wasn’t in the mood to do much of anything. After school, I’d go home and lock myself in my room and listen to music, or go to the shed and lift weights. I went three days without seeing Mom. Jack called me a couple of times, but I pretended like I wasn’t home.
Sage came back to school the next Monday. Not to bio, thank God. I saw her in the hall between classes. For a moment, I mistook her for Tammi. She seemed like she had shrunk. Maybe it was because she was hunched down. Or walking slowly, less sure of herself than before. When she noticed me, she immediately hurried away.
I grinned as I opened my locker. Sage was afraid of me. Scared. Timid. She’d think twice before treating a guy like that again. If she knew what was good for her, she’d keep to herself from now on. Not be so friendly, so joking. No longer be herself.
I paused. No longer be Sage. Was that really a good thing? Did I really want her to become something else because of me?
I slammed the locker. Whatever she was going through, she’d brought it on herself. I was the one who’d been wronged. It was all her fault.
That Sunday, Jack stopped by the trailer to remind me that we were playing touch football that afternoon. I told him I didn’t feel good, but he refused to take no for an answer. Eventually, I let him drive me out to the game.
Once or twice a month, about a dozen of us would gather in the dirt lot that might or might not have been part of Veterans Park. We called it touch football because sometimes a junior higher or a girl would join us. However, every game eventually descended into all of us pounding on each other in the mud.
We’d stand in a huddle as Jack barked off plays more elaborate than the Normandy invasion. Then we’d run out on the field and plow into the other team until someone crashed into the bike rack that marked the end zone.
I normally loved these games. I’d convinced myself that playing in these pickup matches meant that it didn’t matter that I couldn’t make the real team. Today, I was just bored. What was the point of all this? I wanted to go back home and be alone.
I glumly took my place opposite a big blond nineteen-year-old named Chad. Jack’s brother threw a pass to Tim. Tim wasn’t expecting that (normally, all he did was block). He stared at the ball for a second before being dog piled by the other team. First down.
It happened when we were about to score the first touchdown. Chad tried to tackle one of our guys, and I blocked him a little roughly. His nose banked off my forehead.
“Ouch!” he yelped, clutching his bleeding nose.
“Sorry.” I was already wandering back to my position.
Chad had pulled a wad of tissue from his jeans pocket. “Just watch it, faggot.”
He probably hadn’t meant anything by it. When you’re a teenage guy, you pepper your conversations with faggot, butt munch, and douche bag. In the strange world of male bonding, questioning someone’s sexuality and hygiene was a way to demonstrate friendship and camaraderie. Unfortunately for Chad, I was overly sensitive about my sexual identity that day.
“What did you call me?” I bellowed. Chad, who was blowing his bloody nose, looked back at me with surprise.
“What did you call me?” I shouted again, enraged. Chad took a step backward.
The other players were staring at us. Chad, unsure of why I was screaming, blinked at me.
“I, um …”
I balled my hands into fists. “Don’t you ever call me that,