For Joaquim dos Santos, Class of 1987, from his loving father, Antônio dos Santos, Class of 1960. “The soul comes afterward.”
I told Thao everything, spared myself nothing. Not the kiss with Chase that had preceded the assault, not the lies by omission and the lies by evasion and the bald-face lies I had been telling him the past week. The last of the sunlight extinguished, the lamp above us was only gradually brightening, and Thao’s expression was hard to read. I assumed he was getting angry, waiting for me to finish before he raged. But when I reached the part of my story about Gwen and the last days’ catastrophes, he didn’t scream or huff away. He took my hand and held it with both of his. My teammates had mocked and prodded, heckled and ostracized me with no cause—and meanwhile here was a boy I had betrayed, lied to, maybe even endangered, who was taking my hand and bringing it to his lips to kiss whenever I reached another humiliating node in my story.
I finished talking, and only now remembered I hadn’t showered after practice.
—I must stink, I said.
He lowered his face to my chest and sucked in a big breath. When he raised his face, I said:
—I love you.
It was the first time I’d ever said this to someone who wasn’t my mother or father. I had always thought that when you told someone you loved them, it was simply a statement, a declaration. I realized now it could also be a plea.
—I love you, too, he said.
—I don’t know when I can see you again.
—I know.
—Not until things calm down.
He nodded and took my hand again.
—Okay.
The dorm windows were dark, save for the occasional all-nighter. Birdsong dribbled from the oaks, and a few straggling insects bumped against the lights of the tall curling iron lamps spaced along the quad’s edges. A security guard walked in the opposite direction on the flagstones and nodded absently as we passed.
The Hay was deserted, and I had to turn on the locker room’s lights to dress for my stadium. Coach Hightower was waiting at the top of the tunnel when I got there, a gob of Skoal deforming his cheek. He wordlessly started down the tunnel, leaving me to follow. Our footfalls made dry squeaks on the rubber floor.
Dew coated the whitewashed concrete of the stadium steps, which made running up and down them tricky. I needed to sprint hard enough to satisfy Hightower, while not so hard I’d slip and tumble down the equivalent of a medium-height office building. I
got into a steady rhythm, shoes pat-pat-patting, the sky beginning to blush while the stadium and game field remained blue. If I had just sat on Chase’s couch and let him have me, I would be in Thao’s bed this very moment. If I had just walked past Chase’s apartment after the talent show, I would still be the starting Will. I wondered if Reshawn continued to dream about throwing himself off the top of the chapel.
Usually a stadium involved running up and down every staircase, but I was only halfway through my punishment when Hightower yelled:
—That’s enough!
It was an unexpected kindness, and when we ascended the tunnel we walked side by side. I opened my mouth several times to speak but didn’t manage to get words out until halfway up.
—I’m sorry, Coach.
Hightower spat chew juice onto the floor.
—You know how bad it looks for one of my guys to skip a lift? he said. This week?
—Yes sir.
—You ain’t the only one with a boss.
—I know, Coach. I have to go to South Bend. My parents already bought plane tickets.
We stopped at the top of the tunnel. I needed to turn right to get to the locker room, while Hightower was headed left to the elevator bay. He contemplated something.
—Don’t you breathe a word of this to anybody, he said.
I nodded, and waited.
—Yesterday morning, Coach Zeller told the coaches he wanted to make an example outta somebody. Get people on their toes. You drew the short straw. So let him cool off another day and I’ll get you reinstated. Meantime, cut out that sloppy shit I saw from you yesterday. That ain’t like you at all.
—Yes sir.
I practically skipped back to Mennee Hall. I slept through the morning again, missing all my classes the second day in a row—but this time it was because I wanted to rest so I could shine in practice. I walked to the Hay at two, ignoring calls for “Gwen!” in the locker room, then preempted anybody from denying me a seat in the team meeting by sitting in the last row with the assistant coaches. Another piece of cardboard with “Gwen” written on it was glued to my locker when I returned downstairs to dress, but I bottled the anger, would use it down on the practice fields.
Special Teams was the first period that day. I stood on the sideline, watching Farrell take my reps with the one kickoff. He was twenty pounds lighter than I was, nowhere near my speed or power.
The twos were called in, and when I stood next to Devonté in the huddle I left my hand at my side, expecting him to be as disgusted as Donald. But Devonté not only grabbed my hand, he squeezed it. I realized then that he hadn’t called me Gwen, not once, and to this day I still don’t quite know what he meant by that squeeze.
We were practicing an onside kick, and when the huddle broke I bunched on the kicker’s right side with six other players. The kicker raised his hand and stutter-stepped forward, and when he lofted the ball into the air I sprinted after it, desperate to recover it, show the coaches what they’d be missing if I wasn’t starting on this
