The Music of What Happens - Bill Konigsberg Page 0,6
over to me. I’m playing the Cardinals’ offense.
“So, what actually happened when you disappeared last night, MAXIMO?” Betts asks as he punts. He says the last part real loud and slow.
I shoot him a quick-but-deadly look that he doesn’t see because his eyes are on the screen. I hate being called my birth name. Imagine naming a human baby Maximo Ashton Morrison. Hell to the no. “None of your damn business,” I say as my returner catches the punt and goes literally a yard before he’s swarmed by Cowboys. “Do I ask you what you do with the ladies? Not that you don’t tell us anyway.”
“You’re too secretive,” Betts says. “That’s not normal. I know something happened.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “Seriously don’t sweat it. You’re way too up in my business. Makes me think you’re interested. And if you are, don’t even, because I’m out of your league, dude.”
Zay-Rod snorts. We call him Zay-Rod because his name is Xavier Rodriguez and, like Alex Rodriguez — A-Rod — was, Zay is a third baseman. The baseball team coined him X-Rod and we tried that for a while, but Zay is here to stay.
Truth is, yes, something went down last night. And maybe if it went better, I’d spill. I’m not shy. But this isn’t the motherfucking View. We don’t sit around and talk about our feelings. We play varsity baseball at Mesa-Guadalupe High School. We fiend on Madden. We eat Poore Brothers jalapeño potato chips by the bagful. We’re the Three Amigos, and I’m so lucky, because I have the most loyal buddies in the world. They’d do anything for me. I’d do anything for them. I don’t want to change that.
“Stop running out the clock. What kind of punk-ass shit is that?” Betts says.
I say, “Right. Wanting to win is punk-ass. Like you didn’t do the same thing with the Pats?”
“Shut your hole, dipshit,” Betts says. “Like you should have done last night.”
“Snap,” says Zay-Rod, and I shoot him a look, like, Aren’t we teammates here?
He flips me off. Apparently all is fair in trash talk, even among teammates. Good to know.
“You know this kid Jordan something?” I ask as I finally bring my Cardinals to the line of scrimmage. “Skinny dude with lotsa acne? Emo? Black hair hanging over his face?”
“You just described twenty percent of my homeroom,” Betts says.
“I don’t know how to explain him. He’s … I’m gonna work on a food truck with him.”
“You’re wha?” asks Zay-Rod. “I thought this was the Summer of Max. You were gonna wake up at noon and shit? You were gonna binge watch Cartoon Network and hang in the pool all damn day.”
I bit my lip. “Yeah. Rosa was not down with that.”
Betts laughs. “Since when does your mom lay down the law?”
“Since I came home at six this morning,” I blurt, and then I’m sorry I said it.
Betts hits the pause button on his controller just as my running back takes the handoff from Carson Palmer. “Hey,” I say, annoyed he’s stopped the action.
“I knew it. Soon as you said you had to jet last night. I was like, No way that dude’s going home. I knew it.”
I grab my phone out of my pocket and see what’s up on Snapchat. Nothing.
“Yup,” confirms Zay-Rod when I don’t say anything. “That whole ‘I need to get up early’ shit was weak. Where’d you go? Was it this Jordan kid?”
“Relax. I’ve only been with like five guys.”
“Did you hear what I just said?” Betts asks. Looking up and to my left and right, I see him and Zay-Rod looking at me funny. I smile and laugh, as if one of them just told a lame joke.
“Shut up,” I say, and by habit I pick up my phone again and then put it down. “And no.”
Betts says, “Holy shit. Max Mo got some, yo! Max Mo got some!” and Zay-Rod cackles.
“Yeah he did,” Zay-Rod says. “What was his name? This some Grindr hookup and shit? Pitch or catch?”
Betts laughs like crazy and I say, “Shut the hell up.” I pull my leg from under his.
“Oh, come on. You can tell us,” Betts says.
“So anyway, I’m gonna work on this food truck because Rosa was not having it when I came home in the morning. She texted me like twelve times and I had my phone off. I’m fuckin’ stupid.”
“Was Stupid his name?” Zay-Rod says, laughing, but he stops fast, because I’m not laughing.