Every Happy Family by Dede Crane

his V-card punched in Paris. And, despite his sophistication, or maybe because of it – Beau has no idea – Alexei is crude around the subject of girls.
    â€œJust think she’s funny,” says Beau and grabs his pumice stone.
    â€œGood. Gay as a parasol is my guess. But the Japanese, hey, they’ll let anybody on their swing. Satomi reminds me of Hello Kitty, if Hello Kitty wasn’t a kitty, or a doll.”
    Beau drops the subject, sits and pulls off his socks.
    â€œChecked out Jenna?” Jenna was one of the girls on Alexei’s list of hot girls.
    â€œShe’s all right.” He files the ridge of callous that’s forming on his left heel.
    â€œI hear she’s drooling to get her hands on you, Bobo. And Melissa too. You know her. She’s the blazing redhead in your English class.”
    Beau, perversely, is never attracted to girls attracted to him.
    â€œTalks too much,” says Beau, blowing away the dead skin.
    â€œTell them that whoever gives the best blow job can go out with you. Have a blow-off.” He laughs, a tight high trilling. “Best of three,” he adds laughing harder, the sound like his head’s coming unscrewed.
    Beau forces a snicker, keeps pumicing.
    â€œSpeaking of gay.” Alexei scoffs at Beau’s foot then spins back to his computer.
    â€œKeeps the blisters away,” he says checking his other foot. Alexei wouldn’t understand the truth. That soft-skinned feet means he can feel the ground, meld with it, like an exchange of fluids. And though he thinks this contact makes him infinitesimally slower, it also makes him infinitesimally harder to knock over.
    He opens his side of the closet and takes out the brand new uniform. He likes “suiting up” as he thinks of it. Likes the way his black underarmour hugs his thighs and butt, defines the muscles of his chest and arms. Loves this black and gold jersey with his number, 18, and the warm-up jacket with his name sewn in perfect cursive on the sleeve. Beau Wright. Great rugby name, people always say. He pulls on the used shorts he bought from a guy in the house who claimed they were worn by Stephen Jones, captain of Wales and a friend of a cousin back in Ireland. Alexei said Beau’d been had, but whatever, they were top quality, only a small tear that he easily stitched.
    Dressed, he admires his body in the closet door mirror, flexes his neck and practices his “cannibal” look. “The other guy should be convinced you’re about to take a bite out of his face,” coach Dugan said at last week’s practice.
    He fusses his hair into place then shuts the door, grabs two protein bars. He’ll eat one at halftime, one directly postgame.
    Alexei swings around in his chair. “You could strangle someone with those thighs, you know.”
    Beau snorts to hide a smile and grabs his bag. “Have a good jam,” he says. Alexei’s afternoons are spent with a quartet of student musicians.
    â€œMake someone ugly, Bobo.”

    â€¢â€¢â€¢

    â€œBeau-man!”
    â€œKiller.” Beau stops to let his teammate catch up and is glad to see Killer’s black eye has healed so fast and so well. Dropped a dumbbell on it was his story.
    â€œHow’s it going?” Killer is beaming. “Game day!” He’s always happy as far as Beau can tell. The kind of happy, though, that looks like a decision, and effort.
    â€œYeah,” agrees Beau. Today it’s only an exhibition game, but he’s more nervous than pumped. He’s here on a scholarship after all, and it isn’t for his good looks. Or, as Quinn likes to point out, for his grades.
    â€œI saw a picture of you,” Killer says.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œArt class. Ms. Jameson was using it as an example. Was totally you.”
    â€œA girl named S...S...Satomi did it.”
    â€œSatomi’s gifted, man. Going to be famous some day. Like