Chapter One: 77 Days Until the Incident

CHAPTER ONE 77 Days Until the Incident
Every summer, Brandon says it is hotter than the devil’s ass crack, and I have never quite understood what he means by that.

NOTE: How hot is the devil’s ass crack, exactly? And how many degrees hotter is it outside than said ass crack? The logistics. That is what I am concerned with.

But here on this field, lined up in the sweltering Florida summer sun, my breath gathering in the enclosed space of plastic, foam, and metal that is this ill-fitting borrowed helmet, I think I feel the heat of that ass crack in my lungs.

I cough twice, clearing the swampish humidity from my throat, and focus on the field. It is summer tryouts for our high school football team. I stare at the tall, red-jersey-wearing boy in front of me. He shouts coded instructions to the offense with confidence. Then he claps and readies himself to receive the ball from the center. The quarterback. The star. My big brother, Brandon. The ball snaps and Brandon has it in hand before I can blink.

My time to move. Brandon drops back and pretends to line up for a throw. I rush forward, realizing his intentions easily. That twitch in his left calf, the subtle twist to the right, the imperceptible glance around. This pass is meant for me. I charge forward, grabbing the ball from his hands, and run toward the sweaty mass of bodies that awaits me. This is the hard part.

I practice these plays with Brandon often. Just me and him. A play action here, a draw there. The difference is, when it is just us, I do not have to crash my body into other people. I do not have to hear their breathing, feel their sharp exhales on my skin or their scrabbling fingers pulling at my clothes when the play is over. Those are the stressors. The things that push me over the edge. But so far, so good. The tryout has gone off without a hitch. I have dodged tackles and rolled away from contact like my life depends on it. Twenty more minutes of showing off and dodging touch and I will finally, officially, be on the football team with my brother. We can play together for his senior year—our last chance.

I have to focus.

I spot the opening in the defensive line, tuck the ball to my side, and push through. I know I have it. I always have it. I know where everyone is on the field. I can see it like a built-in map in my brain. I am going to cut through the hole in the defense and score a touchdown during this tryout and prove to these coaches that—like Brandon reminded me this morning—autism or not, I will be an asset to this team.

I lower my head and push past the defenders and the weak spot they leave open for me. But a harsh crash in my left rib knocks the breath from my lungs and I cough in response. A hand swipes up and tips the ball from my grip. I feel it slip out of my grasp as I careen toward the turf and bodies descend on top of me, desperate to recover the ball and prove themselves worthy of a spot on the team.

Most people have never been at the bottom of a football pileup. It would stress even the most mellow person out. Hands seek the ball, and when they do not find it, they poke instead at eyeballs, they tug at the corners of mouths, pull lips, hit, punch, and it only takes twelve seconds of this—three eye pokes, two lip tugs, and a thumb jammed past my face mask and halfway down my throat—before I am curled up, screaming and shaking.

I thrash, eyes closed, disconnected from my body to protect my mind, and push everyone away from me. I do not care about the ball. I do not care about the game. I do not care about the team. Right now, I care about my space. I care about my skin—on fire, burning all over, crawling with the sensation of searching hands. It is too much. I need space. I need peace.

The pile around me clears. My eyes stay closed, but I can feel the open space suffocating me. I struggle to catch a breath. The air shakes in my quivering airways and my throat constricts, stifling my screams. Then a shadow falls over me, blocking the light filtering through my still-shut lids. I brace for more rough contact, but the arms surround me and gently squeeze. I struggle against the pressure.

“Breathe, A.” Vanilla and cinnamon and sweat mingle in my nose. “I gotchu. Breathe with me.”

Brandon’s voice is like my father’s. Smooth. Marble but not cold. His voice is the feel of warm water sliding across skin. Brandon takes a deep breath and I mimic it. I struggle against the pressure, but he squeezes tighter.

“I gotchu, A. Just breathe. Just breathe. Don’t worry about nothin’ else. Breathe.”

The sun burns red against my eyelids. My breath slows with every breath Brandon takes.

“It’s all right,” Brandon says now. “It’s okay.”

I look up at Brandon and tears sting at the corners of my eyes. I had it. I had it all mapped out. I knew where everyone was on the field. I knew how to reach the end zone. I had it.

Brandon takes off my helmet and holds me at arm’s length.

Realization of my failure hits me and the tears finally fall.

“Is it the sun?” He covers my eyes with his hands, then stands and lifts me with him. I sniffle but let Brandon half carry me, staring at my cleats the whole way to the sideline. I try not to focus on the eyes I feel boring into me or the whispers building as we move. Brandon sits me on the bench.

“Dude, what the heck was that?”

Who is talking?

“Ay! Get back on the field,” Brandon snaps at whoever yelled. I focus on my brother’s head instead of looking around. Looking around will only make it worse. I try to count the tiny hairs on his faded cut. “A, you all right? You think you good to get back on the field? You need a sec?”

“I think we’ve seen enough, Brandon.” Coach Davis approaches, holding his clipboard up over his face to block out the sun. His long blond hair glints in the intense light. “Let him rest. We’ll have team decisions up next week, Aiden. Why don’t you head home?”

Brandon nods now. “Yeah, see, A? It’s gon be all right. Just rest. Wait for me until the tryouts are over and we’ll go home together, all right?”

I do not respond. Brandon gives me a crooked smile and tousles my locs.

“They understand, A,” Brandon whispers now. “Don’t worry about it. You did great today, all right? It’s me and you this year. It’s us. We gon be on this field, in matching jerseys, together.” Brandon rubs the top of my head one more time, and I watch his retreating back as he leaves to join the rest of the players.

I feel the eyes on me as I sit on the sideline. I feel the glances from the assistant coaches. I feel the apprehension radiating from everyone around me. I close my eyes. I allow the grief of loss to wash over me, although my tears have dried in the heat. They will not understand. I know that already. I know how others react when I do not fit the norm. This is already over even though I was so close.

I had it.

I lie in the grass, grasping at random blades, rubbing my fingers along the faint prickle of each one, like mini cacti, before pulling them free from the ground. The front yard is quiet other than the breeze in the palm fronds. Everyone who would have been driving home this evening has already arrived, happy in their houses and welcomed by their families, smiling and celebrating some small win in their lives. I cannot stand to be inside my own home right now. I have no small win to celebrate.

I consider the tryout again, consider the overload I felt, consider the pileup and the resulting reaction. My skin crawls just thinking about it. I thought my mental preparation was enough. I knew what to expect. I knew what could happen. I was ready, but clearly not ready enough.

I find the Little Dipper—my favorite constellation—first before I pick out Orion’s Belt in the sky, thinking about each star in that perfect line. Each knows its place. Each knows what it has been created to do. Burn and exist. Never moving. Never grasping for more than what it should. I should learn my place too. I should be content to quietly burn until my light is gone, never moving out of line, never trying to be more than what I am. I’ve thought this before. It is what kept me from trying out for the team for so long, but I had to try before Brandon graduated. This year was our last chance to play on a team together. I tried and here I am. Back in line.

Footsteps crunch to my left, but the cadence is familiar. I do not lift my head to look. It is my brother.

“Did you find the Little Dipper yet?” Brandon’s voice is soothing. A balm on my nerves.

“First. Always,” I say. I turn to look at Brandon standing over me, and he smiles. He lowers himself down and lies next to me on the lawn. We do not speak for three minutes and twenty seconds. I count.

“You thinking about how tiger pee smells like buttered popcorn?” Brandon asks.

I smile. “Nope. Thinking about how pandas do handstands when they pee.”

“So, you ain’t thinking about how only half of a dolphin’s brain sleeps at a time?”

“Of course not. I am thinking about how crocodiles cannot stick their tongues out.”

“Okay, you got me, I actually ain’t know that one.” Brandon laughs. He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze before letting go. “You all right?”

I do not answer. I do not want to lie.

“I mean, you can be. You should be. I think it’s all gon work out, A,” Brandon says now. “I think the coaches sounded good about it. I feel like they really saw your talent and they gon see that it’s more important than anything else.”

I listen. Brandon is all hope and light. A constant burning passion, like a star. He knows his place. The Big Dipper.

“I really feel like, regardless of anything, you gon get on the team this year. It’s only your first time even trying out for the school team. And, I mean, if worse comes to worst and you don’t make it this year—”

“Do not say that there is always next year,” I interrupt. Next year, Brandon will be gone. He will be away at college and I will still be here. Even if I end up on a football field, which at this point feels highly unlikely, it will not be with him. It was supposed to be with him.

“Why not?”

“Because that was not the plan.”

I can feel that Brandon is frowning without looking at him. I can feel it in the way his body shifts, how his shoulders grind into the ground below us. In the way his hand twitches back toward mine but stops short.

“Well, we can hold out hope that the plan is still in effect,” he says.

I frown now. I know within my bones that it will not happen. I knew as soon as Coach Davis said that he had seen enough. I hear it in the tones of voices around me all the time—the moment when people write me off, when they decide that I am more trouble than I am worth. Brandon never hears it. All he sees in me are the bright spots. The shining. Polaris. The Little Dipper. I do not want to ruin his night, though. I do not want to ruin his hope, even though mine is already gone.

“We can hold out hope,” I say now.

Brandon does not answer, but I feel his body relax. My agreement is enough to make him happy again. The promise of my hope—no matter how false—is enough for him, and I need him to be happy, even if it is short-lived.

I need him to be happy for the both of us.

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