age.”
“Well, she has no husband to speak of,” Mrs. Watson says.
James has no idea who or what they’re really talking about, and he doesn’t really care—it’s about boring old people and has nothing to do with his life. So he shuts himself into the bathroom, turns on the sink, and wonders when they can just go home.
Around five o’clock the next day, James’s phone rings, startling him out of a catnap. James got his own private phone line last summer. Not because he’s a big phone talker, like a girl, but because his dad got sick of all the shouting up and down the stairs to tell him the phone was for him. Now, as the phone rings, he decides to let the machine get it. He’s too groggy to talk. The machine clicks on after the fourth ring, but no one speaks—it’s a hang-up. He
hates
when people can’t bother to leave a message.
It’s getting dark out now, so he hops off his bed and flicks on his overhead light. Maybe he should shower to wake himself up? Or maybe grab a soda in the fridge? He’s actually hungry again, too, even after the pigfest from yesterday.
But the phone rings again. This time he answers it.
“Hello?”
“James?”
“Oh, hey, Tyler,” he says, recognizing his voice. “Did you call a few minutes ago and not leave a message?”
“No, man. Not me.”
He wonders if he’s lying. “So, you still having a party tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Not a huge one, but it should be bad-ass. You gonna come? Maybe bring Nathen and those guys?”
James wants to ask,
And Alex? Can I bring Alex?
Even though he doesn’t want to, not really. “Yeah, I should be able to come. What time?”
“Oh, like eight or so? Once the game is over?”
“Cool. See you then.” He’s still not sure if he’ll go or not. Maybe he will call one of his boys. Or there’s always Clare, who supposedly wants to go to a movie. Sheesh. He’s glad no obligations pull at him tonight. He can be lazy and continue to sit on his ass.
Later, after his shower, and after his mother gets home from a day of shopping and announces they’ll have leftovers for dinner at seven, James’s phone rings again.
“Yo,” he says.
There’s a pause, then Alice’s voice: “I have a new boyfriend, so you can go fuck yourself.”
And before he can respond, she hangs up.
Should he call Clare or not? Or should he go to Tyler’s party? These are the questions that occupy James on Saturday. Not life-or-death decisions or anything, but still, they distract him, even with the Alabama and Auburn game raging on TV. It’s a tug-of-war. Part of him just wants to stay home.
He sits in the den, watching the game with Dad and Mom. Mom isn’t really that interested—she reads magazines and looks up only when James or his father make exclamations about good and bad plays. Alabama is winning at the half, but barely. Anything can happen. The crowd is boisterous, loud, a sea of blue and orange—Auburn’s colors—with a chunk of Bama crimson in one pocket of the stadium. James imagines people all over Tuscaloosa—all over the whole state—glued to their TVs, armed with beers and soda and snacks, shouting and cursing, depending on what’s happening.
Alex pops in on occasion, but he’s not glued to the TV like the rest of them. He doesn’t give a shit about football. Mom and Dad entice him to stay—“It’s a great game, Alex, come watch”—but he begs off, claiming he has homework to do. At some point during the third quarter, Alex pops his head in and announces he is going for a run. As far as James knows, Alex has no idea about Tyler’s party later. He came in James’s room last night, when he was about to fall asleep. He gave a tentative knock, like he was almost hoping James wouldn’t hear it.
“Come in,” James had shouted from the bed. His TV was on, a repeat of the
Late Show,
but he wasn’t paying it much attention.
Alex edged his way in, pausing in the doorway. “Hey. Uh, sorry about you and Alice. I didn’t
“Well, she has no husband to speak of,” Mrs. Watson says.
James has no idea who or what they’re really talking about, and he doesn’t really care—it’s about boring old people and has nothing to do with his life. So he shuts himself into the bathroom, turns on the sink, and wonders when they can just go home.
Around five o’clock the next day, James’s phone rings, startling him out of a catnap. James got his own private phone line last summer. Not because he’s a big phone talker, like a girl, but because his dad got sick of all the shouting up and down the stairs to tell him the phone was for him. Now, as the phone rings, he decides to let the machine get it. He’s too groggy to talk. The machine clicks on after the fourth ring, but no one speaks—it’s a hang-up. He
hates
when people can’t bother to leave a message.
It’s getting dark out now, so he hops off his bed and flicks on his overhead light. Maybe he should shower to wake himself up? Or maybe grab a soda in the fridge? He’s actually hungry again, too, even after the pigfest from yesterday.
But the phone rings again. This time he answers it.
“Hello?”
“James?”
“Oh, hey, Tyler,” he says, recognizing his voice. “Did you call a few minutes ago and not leave a message?”
“No, man. Not me.”
He wonders if he’s lying. “So, you still having a party tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Not a huge one, but it should be bad-ass. You gonna come? Maybe bring Nathen and those guys?”
James wants to ask,
And Alex? Can I bring Alex?
Even though he doesn’t want to, not really. “Yeah, I should be able to come. What time?”
“Oh, like eight or so? Once the game is over?”
“Cool. See you then.” He’s still not sure if he’ll go or not. Maybe he will call one of his boys. Or there’s always Clare, who supposedly wants to go to a movie. Sheesh. He’s glad no obligations pull at him tonight. He can be lazy and continue to sit on his ass.
Later, after his shower, and after his mother gets home from a day of shopping and announces they’ll have leftovers for dinner at seven, James’s phone rings again.
“Yo,” he says.
There’s a pause, then Alice’s voice: “I have a new boyfriend, so you can go fuck yourself.”
And before he can respond, she hangs up.
Should he call Clare or not? Or should he go to Tyler’s party? These are the questions that occupy James on Saturday. Not life-or-death decisions or anything, but still, they distract him, even with the Alabama and Auburn game raging on TV. It’s a tug-of-war. Part of him just wants to stay home.
He sits in the den, watching the game with Dad and Mom. Mom isn’t really that interested—she reads magazines and looks up only when James or his father make exclamations about good and bad plays. Alabama is winning at the half, but barely. Anything can happen. The crowd is boisterous, loud, a sea of blue and orange—Auburn’s colors—with a chunk of Bama crimson in one pocket of the stadium. James imagines people all over Tuscaloosa—all over the whole state—glued to their TVs, armed with beers and soda and snacks, shouting and cursing, depending on what’s happening.
Alex pops in on occasion, but he’s not glued to the TV like the rest of them. He doesn’t give a shit about football. Mom and Dad entice him to stay—“It’s a great game, Alex, come watch”—but he begs off, claiming he has homework to do. At some point during the third quarter, Alex pops his head in and announces he is going for a run. As far as James knows, Alex has no idea about Tyler’s party later. He came in James’s room last night, when he was about to fall asleep. He gave a tentative knock, like he was almost hoping James wouldn’t hear it.
“Come in,” James had shouted from the bed. His TV was on, a repeat of the
Late Show,
but he wasn’t paying it much attention.
Alex edged his way in, pausing in the doorway. “Hey. Uh, sorry about you and Alice. I didn’t
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