Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,57

it is the first time I have uttered the truth aloud to anyone. My breathing steadies.

Man, he says, and shakes his head, and I miss seeing him every day. I miss him period.

You know, anytime you wanna come by, he says.

Really? I say.

Always, he says. You know. Anytime.

I don’t know if it is this exchange or what but we lose spectacularly. 31 to 7. Dee is astoundingly good and I’m proud of him. Of his whole team. I have never played worse in my life. When I’m on the sideline no one talks to me. No one looks at me, not even Trevor. Coach sounds puzzled when he comes up to me. Are you sure you’re OK? he asks, and I say I’m real sure.

After the game we pile into the Cohens’ SUV. Parents up front. April in the back, one arm draped over the seat next to her, tapping out some rhythm on the upholstery. Me and Trev in the way back.

Trevor is furious. He cries when we lose, the baby. I know not to talk to him but I can tell that the Cohens are trying to figure out what to say.

Trev, says Mrs. Cohen, and Trevor says Do. Not. Speak to me.

Mrs. Cohen puts her hands up in the air like Whoa, whoa, and she turns fully around to smile at me. I smile back briefly. I like her.

Then Mr. Cohen glances at his wife, and then glances at me in the rearview mirror.

Hey Kel, he says. We were thinking. Would you—maybe it’d be nice to stop at the hospital today? After the meal? Say Happy Thanksgiving to your mom?

Maybe, I say.

There is a pause.

OK, says Mrs. Cohen. Well, would you like a ride there?

No thank you, I say.

Are you sure? says Mr. Cohen. Because we’re not—

Guys, he said no, says April, from the back.

We’re not far from it, says Mr. Cohen.

You guys, says April, and I love her suddenly.

When we get home there are tons of people in their house. The grandmother arrived while we were out and let herself in according to plan and she is running their kitchen like the captain of a ship. Trevor’s aunts and uncles and cousins are all there.

Mrs. Cohen brings me around introducing me to everyone. It is clear by the overeager looks on their faces that they have already been told about me. About my mother.

Trevor goes directly to his room and does not say hi to anyone. He slams his door loudly enough for all of us to hear it.

Don’t mind him, says Mr. Cohen.

I guess we don’t have to ask if you won, says a man I assume is Trevor’s uncle, and I smile weakly.

Do you want to go shower, honey? asks Mrs. Cohen. I realize I am standing in my full football gear and I still have my helmet tucked under my arm.

Sure, I say, and I walk away mechanically.

Well, I hear Mrs. Cohen say, thank God for you, Mom! We’d be eating at midnight if you hadn’t—

And the grandmother says That poor boy.

I get dressed carefully. I noticed that everyone downstairs was wearing very nice clothes. The men were wearing jackets. Trevor’s grandmother was wearing a dress and pearls. On my brief visit home I stuffed a ton of clothes into a laundry bag without really choosing, and then I brought the whole thing up to my room and left it in a corner. When I got home from school the next day most of the clothes were clean and folded and put into drawers in the white wicker dresser and the nice pants and shirts were ironed and hanging in the closet. I pick out Dockers and the blue shirt my mother bought for me freshman year, which still fits but barely. I shake them out briskly and then put them on. The shirt will barely button across my chest. I rummage in the bottom of the bag for my dress shoes and then I spit on them and lift up an edge of the bedspread and polish them.

I sit on my bed until I hear Trevor go downstairs, and then I follow him.

When I see him I’m ashamed. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt and track pants and he’s sock-footed. April’s wearing jeans. Trevor’s cousin Mark, who is his age and sort of a hippie and who I’ve met maybe twice, is wearing a T-shirt that says GONE PHISHIN’ and his jeans have great gaping holes in them. Sometimes I still get things