Weird Girl and What's His Name Read online

  “Since last fall, I guess.”

  “You gonna come out for the team?”

  “The football team? Not planning on it, no.”

  “Why not? Tryouts are coming up.”

  “I thought you guys didn’t play again till next fall.” I knew I was a big guy, but playing football had never occurred to me. Partly because, unlike pretty much every other male in America, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about football. But also because being a big fat guy wasn’t exactly something I wanted to draw everyone’s attention to. I hadn’t bothered to attempt playing any sport since sixth grade, when our neighbor convinced my mom to sign me up for community-league soccer. Because it would be good for me. I spent most of the time riding the pine, but I got a trophy because everyone got a trophy. For being such good sports.

  “We start practicing in the summer. Whip you guys’ butts into shape.” Morris winked at me. I wondered if Morris was his first name or his last. I thought about the way he introduced himself. Sorry, I’m Morris. It was almost like one of those word tricks, where it reads the same backwards and forward. Like Madam, I’m Adam. What do they call those? Anagrams? Palindromes? Lula would know. I’d have to ask her later.

  “You ever play football?” Morris eyed me up and down again. “Pop Warner? Mighty Mite?”

  “I played soccer one year. Community league.” I could tell he was nonplussed.

  “You should try out anyway,” Morris said. “Can’t hurt. Come by my office sometime. We need some big fellas like you. Fresh blood on the offensive line.”

  Fresh blood.

  “See you ’round.” Morris winked at me again. Was he just messing with me? Was this a trick? I thought about Lula, doing her best Mrs. Lidell Withering Stare. I wanted to say something like I bet you’d like to whip my butt into shape. Or I’ve got an offensive line for you. And flip him the bird. But instead I threw the towel over my shoulder and headed over to the pull-up bar. The one I was always afraid I would rip out of the wall. Because I was still just a lardass, any way you look at it.

  LULA COULDN’T STOP FUSSING WITH HER hair. I told her I’d help her with it, but she was driving me nuts. And making me late.

  “Is it getting too dark? I don’t want it to be too brunette.”

  “It won’t be. It’s Natural Reddish Blond.” Clairol Nice ’n Easy, number 108. Lula was going from her usual dirty-blond color to Scully Red. Even though I thought her original color was really beautiful. And Gillian Anderson’s hair isn’t really red, anyway. Gillian Anderson being the actress who plays Special Agent Dana Scully on The X-Files, of course. I even emailed Lula a picture of Gillian Anderson outside of some premiere or something, and her natural color is almost exactly the same as Lula’s. Maybe a shade lighter. But Lula said she probably dyed it that color so that she wouldn’t get bothered on the street all the time by crazed Philes. Lula wanted Scully Red, so that’s what she was getting.

  “I think it’s time.” She kept poking at the cotton around her ears.

  “Two more minutes.” I checked my watch. Tick, tick. Come on. . . .

  “Thanks for letting me do this over here, by the way,” Lula said. “Janet would freak if I stained her white tiles.”

  “No sweat.” My mother wouldn’t notice if we painted the whole bathroom red. Lula managed to sit quietly on the folding stepstool for the next minute and a half. Finally, I took my watch off and helped her tilt her head back into the sink. I rinsed her hair until the water ran clear, added conditioner, rinsed that, finally squeezed the water out of the ends and blew it dry. I could tell right away she was happy. Her head was a bright cap of flame.

  “Scully Red,” I presented the mirror.

  “Oh my gosh. It’s perfect.” She looked at the back with the hand mirror. “I’m so super hot now.”

  I laughed as I gathered the empty dye bottles and tossed them in the trash.

  “Seriously. I’m really into myself with this hair. I’m the FBI’s Most Wanted. What do you think? I’m the hotness, right?” She puckered and made a supermodel face at herself in the mirror.

  “I think it’s remotely plausible that someone might think you’re hot,” I said, quoting The X-Files in my best Mulder deadpan. But Lula didn’t laugh. I tried John Keats. “Actually, you’re dangerously hot. Try not to swoon to death while gazing upon your steadfast hotness.” At this, Lula cracked a brief half-smile. She really was pretty, with or without the Scully hair. She had Janet’s model cheekbones. Lula didn’t think she was pretty, though. She thought she was too skinny, too flat-chested. And, worst of all, she had Leo’s nose.

  “Would you go straight for Scully?” Lula asked. She was still looking at herself in the mirror. “Like, what if, one boring afternoon at Andy’s, you’re restocking the Harry Potters, and in walks Gillian Anderson—”

  “Why on earth would Gillian Anderson walk in to Andy’s Books?”

  “Because she’s shooting a movie on location in Hawthorne. And she’s super bored, because it’s Hawthorne.”

  “Why wouldn’t she just drive into Raleigh, where something interesting might actually happen?”

  “Because . . . traffic is terrible! I-40 is backed up in both directions for miles. So, she’s stuck in Hawthorne, and you charm her with your legendary no-foam cappuccino and your extensive knowledge of the Edith Wharton oeuvre.”

  “The Edith Wharton oeuvre?” I laughed.

  “Yep. And next thing you know, Scully’s all ‘Ooh, Theodore. You’re such a charming young man . . .’” Lula giggled.

  “Wait, Gillian Anderson, or Scully?”

  “Same difference,” Lula waved her hand. “For the purposes of this argument. A hot redhead walks into a bookstore. Would you go straight for her? If you liked her and she was into you? Would you just say, what the hell, and go for it?”

  “For starters,” I asked, “why would some famous actress be interested in me? Never mind a fictional federal agent who clearly has a thing for her partner.”

  Lula sighed. “Don’t be so literal, Rorysaurus. This is a theoretical discussion. Theoretically, some chick thinks you’re the bee’s knees. Would you do it?”

  “I don’t think—it doesn’t really work that way,” I told her. I don’t see how anyone can just “go straight” for someone. You either are or you’re not, in my opinion. And I don’t really want to think those kinds of thoughts about Gillian Anderson. She’s probably my favorite actress ever; she’s in the movie version of my favorite non-sci-fi novel, The House of Mirth, by Edith Wharton, who is, next to Jane Austen, probably my favorite writer of all time. The House of Mirth is so tragic and beautiful, and the movie’s great. I’ve made Andy watch it, like, twenty times. Gillian’s so amazing in it. I cry every time I see it. But I can’t picture myself going to bed with her. It’s not like that for me.

  “You mean even if some hot girl wanted to sleep with you, you think you’d be unable to, uh . . .”

  “Lula, this is getting into kind of a weird area, here.”

  “Sorry, I know. TMI.” Lula laughed. I turned on the faucet and began scrubbing the dye off my wrists. “I guess what I’m trying to ask you is, let’s say somebody came into your life. Let’s say this person was female. And you weren’t looking for it, or expecting it, but you really hit it off with this person. You connected on a deep level. And even though you know that normally you wouldn’t be attracted to this person, because, you know. She’s female. Uh. You realize that it’s a pretty small town and you haven’t found anyone yet that you . . . that you would prefer. Who prefers you back. So maybe you start thinking that it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. With this . . . with this girl.”

  I turned the faucet off. “Lula, are you trying to ask me to the prom?”

  “You’re totally not taking me seriously.”

  “This is serious? I thought it was theoretical.” I scrubbed red dye off the faucet handles, ignoring the petulant look Lula was giving me. “Okay, my answer is, no, I probably would not sleep with your theoretica
l hot babe. Small town or no. Look, the way I see it, even if some hot girl was into me right now, we’ll be in college soon, where I’m sure we’ll both have four years of awkward encounters with drunken frat guys to look forward to. So, no, I don’t need some awkward attempt at hetero sex just to temporarily satiate my . . . whatever.”

  “Gee, Rory, you really are a romantic.” Lula rolled her eyes. I scrubbed at the red splotches in the sink. This whole conversation was making me nervous. I mean, why did Lula care if I’d sleep with some random woman? Was she suggesting that she and I should sleep together? Surely not—our whole friendship was the exact opposite of Mulder and Scully, in that respect. Not a single molecule of UST between us. Did she know about Andy, and she was taunting me or something? This whole relationship with him was getting way too stressful. Maybe it was time to come clean. Maybe tonight I’d ask Andy what he thought about just telling Lula. She wouldn’t let it get around. She could even help, maybe. I could tell my mom I was staying at Lula’s and spend weekends with Andy. Maybe even entire weeks.

  “Anyway.” She tucked her newly red hair behind her ears. “You wanna come over and see Janet and Leo make their shocked faces at me? We could work on the Guide. The Philes are getting antsy for Season Four. I had an idea for ‘Small Potatoes.’ Remember, the one with the tail babies? You know the end part where Eddie Van Blundht impersonates Mulder and goes over to Scully’s house, and . . . hey, Rory?”

  “What, yeah?” I looked up from my sink-scrubbing.

  “Are you mad at me or something?” Her voice softened. “It’s like you’re totally zoning out.”

  “No, I heard you. You said you’re quitting the FBI to become a spokesperson for the Ab Roller.” Another X-Files quote. I was starting to feel bad. Distracting Lula with jokes.

  “Ha ha,” she said. “I’m serious. Am I, like, bugging you or something?”

  “Bugging me? No,” I told her. “I just have to do some . . . other stuff now. For my mom. So . . . maybe tomorrow.” I strapped my watch back on, trying not to be too obvious, checking the time. I knew Andy was waiting for me. This was the hardest part of being with him. Making up stories. Lying to Lula. It was the only time I wished I was straight. Or at least dating someone my own age.

  “Okay.” Lula said, her mouth turned down. “Have fun doing other stuff.”

  Thankfully, my mother came home at that very moment, and Lula always got uncomfortable around her. She hated drinking. Lula, I mean. So she left without me having to make any more excuses. I waited until my mother retreated to her room with her tumbler full of Chardonnay, and I walked out into the cool spring afternoon, cutting through the woods until I got to Andy’s back porch, hidden in the safety of the creeping dusk.

  six

  THIS WAS PROBABLY A MISTAKE. FOOTBALL tryouts. I mean, yeah, I was one of the biggest guys on the field. And I could run okay for a fat dude. I guess all that cardio at the gym paid off. But I didn’t know any of the terminology the coaches kept barking out. I kept getting in the wrong group of people, going to the wrong side of the field, getting yelled at by the revered Coach Willard, whose legend loomed large in town but who turned out to be a rather peevish little man with a whistle and a fat gut that strained above his belted khaki Dockers. After a while, it became funny, and I wished I’d told Lula I was doing it, so she’d be there to watch. She’d be laughing her head off. The whole thing was so stupid macho, and probably the gayest thing I’d ever done in public. All the grunting, everybody’s butt in the air. And all the drills had these super gay names like “The Man-Maker,” “The Machine Gun,” and “The Rodeo.” But when it came time for the sled, where they had all us big guys put on pads and helmets and run like hell at this sort of foam dummy on wheels and slam into it as hard as we could, I actually did all right.

  “Hey, you’re getting the hang of it out there, man.” Sexy Seth slapped me on the back as I attempted to simultaneously catch my breath and chug Gatorade.

  “Thanks,” I wheezed unsexily. “You work fast.”

  “Huh?”

  “Telling Morris about me. He came up to me at the gym, like, right after I saw you.”

  “I didn’t say anything to Coach Morris,” Seth said, confused.

  “Oh. I guess I thought . . .” Hey, wanna see my new football move called The Backpedal? Seth probably had no recollection of running into me at Walmart. And why would he? I felt myself blushing a million shades of red, and I hoped that if Seth noticed, he would just think I was dying of heatstroke.

  “Oh yeah, ’cause of my mom.” Seth smiled, or maybe he was just squinting in the sun. “I know, she kept bugging me to talk to you about trying out, after we saw you at the store. But I never did go to Morris, ’cause . . . I mean, it’s not like I didn’t think you could play. I didn’t think you wanted to. I figured, you know. You’re one of those . . . bookish guys.”

  “Bookish?” Is that what the kids are calling it these days?

  “I just meant, like, you’re Mr. Straight As. I always see you guys reading in the quad—you and your girlfriend . . . uh. Lois?”

  “Lula.” I didn’t bother to correct him on the girlfriend part.

  “Right. Lula. Sorry, man—I’m shit with names.”

  “Come on, ladies!” Coach Willard barked at us. “You gonna stand around and gossip like a buncha hens, or you gonna play some got damn football?!”

  “I’m just saying,” Seth shook his surfer hair out of his eyes and put his helmet on. “I know you take all those College Prep classes and stuff. And being on the team kinda takes over your life. You gotta wake up early as hell, work out all the time, rain or shine. Practice before school and after. You think you got time for it?”

  “Do you think I’m gonna make the cut?” We jogged out onto the field, side by side.

  “Ain’t up to me,” Seth smiled. “But if it was, I’d say we could use a big guy like you if we’re gonna make it to State next year.”

  Coach Morris blew his whistle and called me over for something called pass-blocking drills. The other guys groaned, but I had no idea what that meant, so I just put my sweaty helmet back on and got in the back of the line.

  “Callahan, get over here,” Morris commanded. “Briggs, you too. Ty, put that dummy up right on the line.” A few yards behind us, another one of the assistant coaches, Tyver, set up this thing that looked like a stand-alone punching bag, or an inverted exclamation point. “Callahan, that dummy over there is Seth Brock, okay?”

  “I can definitely see the resemblance.”

  Morris squinted up at me. “Now, remember that two-point stance I showed you earlier?” I nodded, dropping into a sort of lunge. “That’s it. Just keep those shoulders back, elbows in. Yep, you got it. All right, now, Briggs here is gonna try to get at Brock, right there behind you. And you’re not gonna let him. That’s all you have to do. Briggs gets by you, hits that dummy, you lose.”

  I nodded. Speed Briggs—a large, gregarious black kid—was pretty much the only guy at Hawthorne who was bigger than me. He shook his head as he dropped into a crouch in front of me.

  “Set!” Morris yelled.

  “Nice knowin’ ya, rookie,” Briggs chuckled.

  “Hut!”

  Speed came at me. I stepped back, my heel sliding in the muddy turf. Speed bore down; I felt wet clay oozing into my left sneaker. I pictured the dummy behind me, pictured Seth shaking his hair out of his eyes. Bookish. Suddenly it was like some spring uncoiled in my legs. This weird roar came out of my throat and I lunged, shoving Briggs off me like he was an overeager puppy. It was like I couldn’t see for a minute, and then I could, and Briggs was face down on the ground. Nobody said a word.

  “Oh, shit, man,” I knelt down. “Are you okay?”

  Speed was laughing. He rolled over and held up his hand. I pulled him to his feet. He was still giggling, picking a clod of grassy mud out of his facemask.

  “Hot damn!” Speed hollered, spitting dirt. “That boy’s a monster!”

  �
�Attaboy, Callahan!” Morris slapped me on the butt. “Back in line. Lytle, Torres, you’re up next.”

  Lula would be having a total fit right now.

  “YOU DID WHAT?” LULA WAS INCREDULOUS. We were out in the courtyard, eating lunch.

  “I just tried out. It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s Hawthorne Football, Rory. It’s the biggest deal in town.”

  “It’s not that big a deal to me. One of the coaches goes to my gym. He asked me to come to the tryouts, so I did. I probably won’t even make the team. I just did it as a joke.”

  “Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “I’m telling you now.” I couldn’t believe she was so upset. “I thought you’d think it was funny.”

  “I think it goes against everything you stand for.” Her mouth was turned down, and with the red hair, she did kind of look like Scully for a minute. “I don’t see how you could participate, even as a joke, with those jock assholes.”

  “Lula, come on. I told you, it’s no big deal.”

  “Those are the kind of guys who take guys like you out into the middle of nowhere and leave them tied to fence posts—”

  “Nobody’s tying me to anything, Lula, geez. I’m almost three hundred pounds.”

  “Whatever, Rory.”

  Now I knew she was upset. Lula hates it when people just say “whatever” and leave the rest of the conversation hanging.

  “None of those guys has ever done anything to me. They don’t even know I exist,” I tried to assure her. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. A couple of those guys had told me to “Move it, lardass,” in the hallway from time to time. And one guy last semester, a linebacker who was graduating, asked me to help him write history papers for Mr. Kinney’s class, but that was because Mr. Kinney asked him to ask me.

  We spent the rest of the lunch in relative silence. Except that I couldn’t really eat, not when Lula was upset with me. So I tried to make amends. I told her that her hair looked really Scully-esque today. I told her that we should watch the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy again, since we hadn’t done that in a while. I told her she could even fast-forward to all the Aragorn parts. That got a little smile out of her. The bell rang, and we got up, collecting our trash. She still didn’t say a word. Later, in Chemistry, she passed me a note.