Tony and I again met eyes like we had just been drafted into some sort of berserking spec-ops fighting force. I pictured all the weapons I could use, and I wouldn’t even have to hide them because I had my mother’s blessing. We had a couple of hatchets in the shed we’d brought home from the lake house—one for me and one for Tony—that could get the job done.
“Just got off the phone with Pat Kershaw. This is bad. There was a picture circling…”
“Yeah, they just said that.”
“The entire school is pandemonium. You know two of those boys were captains? Their lives are ruined.”
“You know pandemonium is where demons and…” I started.
“The fucking football players?!”
“Eyy! Ohh!”
“You care about those damn, disgusting football players’ lives? What about the victim?! Jesus Christ, Tony!”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“I’m so out of here.” And she stormed off down the hall and into their room.
My father shoveled his eggplant into his mouth and washed it down with a glass of Italian Water. Tony and I waited for my father to explain what in the heck was even going on, but he didn’t say anything about it.
He never liked to talk about anything controversial or dramatic or serious. My mother accused him of always making her the “bad guy” because she would be “forced to tell us how the world actually works.”
“Hate those Sccccummit Hilltoppers, right, Vito?” said my father.
“Yeah.”
“What was the score of that game this year? Eighteen-twelve?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you have, two touchdowns?”
I hated when they called it the “2003 Tostitos Fiesta Bowl” when the entire season took place in 2002 but the championship game was in January.
Mr. and Mrs. Geiger, both Ohio natives and graduates of Ohio State Law School, were fully decked out in crimson and silver Buckeye regalia. In fact, they were so excited that their alma mater was in the national championship that they bought my entire family jerseys for the event.
But Ohio State was playing Miami—the cool team—and everyone at school was pulling for the Hurricanes. I thought we’d be rooting for Miami too, because my Uncle Shorty played football and baseball there, but my father so reviled “jerks” that he was dressed in silver and crimson.
Tony, Karl, George, and I piled into the Geigers’ basement and I sucked down sodas while wedged into the couch cushions—these sodas were permitted because it was a “party.” But as soon as the game started, the phone in the basement began to ring: “Vic! It’s for you!” Mrs. Geiger called down the stairs.
“What?”
“Who the crap would be calling you here?” said George.
I popped out of the couch and rushed to the phone so I wouldn’t miss the opening drive. “Um… hello?”
“Vic, it’s Paxton.”
“What is it, Paxton?”
“Vic, I have some news. Hey, why didn’t you come to Mitch’s, anyway?”
“What is it, Paxton? What is the… the damn news?” I said, covering the bottom half of the phone so they couldn’t hear me upstairs.
“Okay, Vic, so Julie wants to be your girlfriend.”
“Julie Fischer?”
“Yes! Julie Fischer. What other Julie would I be talking about?”
“Julie Greenberg, Julie Lowenthal, Julie Esposito…”
“Alright! I got it. No, it’s Julie Fischer.”
I could hear the Greek chorus chattering in the background: “buzz buzz buzz Vic bizz bizz bizz bizz Julie Fischer.”
“But isn’t she with Glassman?” It only made sense—they were the number ones on their respective hot lists.
“She likes you. She’s here now. I don’t know why you’re not here.” Yelps and screams filtered down from upstairs.
“Vic, it’s John. Hey man, you watching this game? Yo, so Julie Fischer likes you. Don’t worry about Glassman. Yeah, he’s here too, but he doesn’t hate you or anything. It’s cool. We were thinking you go out with Julie and he will go out with Jenna.”
“Like a trade?”
“Yeah, man. No. I mean, I guess like a trade. Jenna’s cool with it. She’s here too.”
I felt like I had been left out of an important meeting, as if Paxton had invited all of the knights to the round table and then took my seat.
“Vic? It’s Paxton. Okay, so…”
“Hey, I gotta go, Paxton,” I said and hung up the phone.
I wedged myself back in the couch right as Miami went up 7-0.
“Hey Tony, can I have some of your Pepsi?”
“Yeah, fine, but don’t backwash.”
“Hey, so I might trade girlfriends.”
“Trade girlfriends?!” shouted George. “What the shit are they running at that school? And look at this shit! These idiots can’t even tackle.”
“You upgrading?” said Tony.
“Yeah, well, Julie Fischer is number one and she wears these black pants. All the girls do, they’re called ‘So Lows,’ and Jenna wears them too. But she’s mad at me, I think, because I wouldn’t touch her in the bathroom. I think she’s hot too. I just didn’t have a rose.”
“What the shit are you talking about?” asked George.
“Hey Karl, you catching any of this?” asked Tony.
Karl was, as always, shirtless at the computer playing Warcraft III: Reign of Chaos. His reputation for being a video game whiz kid had grown to the point where classmates had started calling him Qwerty.
The phone rang again: “Vic! It’s for you!” Mrs. Geiger called down the stairs.
I unwedged myself from the couch once more and rushed to the phone in the other room. “What is it, Paxton!”
“Vic, it’s Josh… Glassman.”
“Oh, hey, Josh.”
“Hey, you watching this game? So what do you think?”
“I think they need to blitz Dorsey more.”
“No, I mean about Julie and Jenna. Do you… do you like Julie?”
Like her? I didn’t think I was allowed to like her until I moved up the hot list into the single digits. “I mean, I’m with Jenna?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t even touch her at Rosenblatt’s.” How many times would I have to explain chivalry and the rose? I could hear George yelling at the TV and I wanted
