RUNNING BACK

Chapter 2: Oh Shih Tzu

"You ain't slow." He flashes a row of blindingly white teeth.

I shake my head.

"Man of few words?"

I nod my head yes, trying not to make eye contact. He cocks his head ever so slightly to the left staring at me intently with those effervescent eyes for what seems like a lifetime. There's something there. Curiosity for sure, but there's something else as well. Doubt, maybe.

"All right, bruh," he finally says. "See you at practice."

I guess that means I made the team. Hell, maybe everybody makes the team. I don't know. This isn't going to be easy no matter what because I know what redneck of the woods I'm in and the kinds of obstacles I'm about to face.

As I drag my sweaty ass toward my car, I pry off my brother's helmet for the first time since I got here. Earlier in the week, I tried to remove all traces of the giant W sticker with a razor blade and rubbing alcohol. At one point, I sliced my thumb and some of the alcohol seeped into my cut. Hurt like a bitch. The rest of the helmet is faded and scratched, but the ghost of the decal is that original shade of dark shiny gray, unmarred by contact. My fingers trace the scars of all the hits he took over the years he wore it, this helmet a chronicle of pain. I study it like an archeological artifact that reveals secrets about its wearer, as if it might help me understand his heart.

I don't know that I will ever really understand him. Especially not now that he's gone.

I turn the key in the ignition and the AC comes on full blast. After a few beats, the fan blows icy air against the goosebumps on my arms.

Across the lot, Little and Jackson are walking toward the locker room talking. Beyond them, Coach Carson and Pretty Boy Carson appear to be engaged in a heated debate, the football fields and trees that stretch on endlessly through the Sam Houston National Forest and all along Lake Livingston behind them. The pines in July are still a vivid green, and the searing heat of August hasn't bleached them dry yet. The sky is a bright robin's egg blue and big. So big, even in the piney woods of Texas.

For the first time in a year, a glimmer of happiness mixes within the sadness. It has to do with playing football again and the way that Coach Murphy smiled when he saw my time. That smile reminded me of the way my dad used to beam at me and my brother when we pulled off a play to win a game. That seems like another world.

I suspect today's happiness is going to be short-lived. Coach called me son, but nothing could be further from the truth. And when he finds out the truth, he isn't going to be so happy. This isn't the first time in my life that someone will be disappointed to find out I'm not a son after all.

On my way to the house, I pull over in the woods near Lake Livingston state park, hop out of my Ford Explorer, and creak open the back hatch to climb inside. Changing out of my football pads into regular clothes in the back of an SUV is no easy task, but necessary. I'm going to have a hard enough time explaining the buzz cut, so I'm not in a good position to tell my mom that her older daughter made the Blue Lake Warriors football squad.

I sail into the driveway praying that no one is home. My mom and dad are both at work at the university, but I'm not so sure about my sister. I sneak in the back door of the house and tiptoe into the kitchen. As I'm opening the refrigerator door to grab a Gatorade, I hear a shrill screech behind me. Shit. Emma's here.

"Oh my god, Peyton! What happened to your hair?"

I turn around slowly and raise my hand to my scalp in mock surprise. "What? You don't like my new do?"

Her ponytail secured with a large blue bow perched on top of her tiny little skull bops back and forth as she shakes her head in disgust, giving me the stink-eye. "I don't give a rat's ass about your hair, Peyton, but Mom and Dad are going to freak."