Track No. 10 You Don’t Own Me
LESLEY GORE
“Mi sono rotto i coglioni.”
Andrew Harding’s a fuckin’ statue.
He’s stuck there—dumbass of the year—half-eaten by the midnight hour, one foot on the bottom step, his left hand grippin’ the porch rail as if it might swing at him first. The other hand’s in his pocket, tryin’ to cage the rage as he stands there, starin’ up at three girls drippin’ in porchlight, and Elle, in his dead friend’s jersey.
One girl cackles from the swing. “If it ain’t Andrew Harding—the man, the myth, the mouth.” Another hushes her from behind a phone with a camera aimed right at him.
Underneath it all, some cracklin’ old song with a vintage voice crawls out of fuzzy speakers from somewhere in the house. It’s playin’ low, worn-out, faint like it’s comin’ from another time.
The rain’s gone but the air’s still damp, still stickin’ to his skin. It’s a cooler night, but heat from sweat still found a way to bake itself into the nape of his neck, curl behind his ears, his white tee suctioning to his spine.
He’s got his teeth clenched, tryin’ to block out the whole scene.
But he’s already standin’ in it, fucked.
It’s already a memory: a porch, a song, a 1960s waltz torchin’ the ground beneath his feet, girls laughin’, moths zappin’—the kind of moment that comes back whenever midnight turns bitter and September-colored.
Yeah, he never thought the story’d flip like this: him and Roger both ghosts, Elle out here grinnin’, glass full of Prosecco and no fucks, Roger’s jersey number sittin’ small on her tit, 59 stitched above the curve.
They were thirteen when Roger picked his number, right after the season Aroldis Chapman threw a fastball and beat the record at 105.8 mph. Roger wanted everyone to know he was next. “One-oh-five-point-nine,” he said, mouth full of Big League Chew. “All I need is a tenth, and I’ll make history.”
His number 59 never changed after that.
They played on the same travel team in the summers—Jersey State Heat.
Roger pitched, and Andrew played first. It didn’t matter that Andrew wasn’t from Montclair.
Coach liked his reflexes, said Andrew had hands like Velcro and always knew where the ball was goin’ before the ball did.
His moms only let him join the team ‘cause Coach agreed to pick him up from Union City every other weekend.
Roger was Montclair money.
Andrew was Union City bus fare.
Roger had new cleats every season.
Andrew’s were held together by black electrical tape.
But Roger only trusted Andrew, knowin’ he’d be ready for the ball without lookin’. And he always was.
Back then, they could read each other without speakin’, always ran the classic fake-out ball trick like pros: runner takes a lead off first, lookin’ to steal, ‘til Roger steps off the mound, throws down to first, runner dives back—safe. Andrew fakes the toss back, and Roger pretends to catch it, steppin’ back on the rubber, settin’ up the next pitch.
Kid on first starts creepin’ off the bag again—a fuckin’ idiot.
Andrew tags him with the ball that never left his glove.
Other coaches would lose their minds each time they pulled it, stompin’ the ground, spittin’ fire. “Baseball one-oh-one! You watch the damn ball! Don’t watch the pitcher, watch the ball!” Kickin’ up dirt. “Swear t'God, if one more of you falls for that lazy-ass trick…”
Andrew’d hear Coach cacklin’ behind his aviators, smackin’ his gum.
The dugout was sunflower seeds, Gatorade in crushed bottles, boys with bruised shins talkin’ shit and drawing dicks in the dust with bats.
Roger always grabbed Andrew to warm up, ball in one hand, glove on the other. “Ready?” and Andrew always was, crouchin’ low in the dirt, catchin’ every goddamn throw until his palm burned.
Roger threw faster when Andrew caught. And maybe that was it. Maybe Roger liked the way Andrew never said no, never blew him off, never flinched.
Most weekends, they partied after games. Sometimes in somebody’s basement, other times out in the Claremont woods—warm Bud in Wawa bags, blunts in Altoid tins, and somebody’s cousin blastin’ Biggie from a Bluetooth speaker. Just kids tryin’ to get grown too fast.
Andrew never drank. When you grow up with two moms who get loud, sloppy, say shit they don’t remember, and cry for no reason, you learn early that buzzed ain’t beautiful. He hated the way it smelled, the way it made people act.
One night, Roger got piss-ass drunk, way worse than usual.
They’d lost a home game. One where Roger had blown a perfect inning in front of a scout from Rutgers. He lost his shit, screamin’ at the ump over a bad call, then mouthed off to Coach in the dugout, gettin’ himself benched for the first time in four years.
That night, he disappeared into the trees with a fifth of Jack.
Andrew found him slumped against a trunk, hoodie up, eyes shot red, cursin’ his whole future, tryin’ not to cry but failin’ like hell. “They don’t want me. No one wants me. I’m fucked. My whole future’s fucked.”
Andrew sat beside him and let him vent and fall apart. He didn’t move when Roger cried on his shoulder. “You ain’t fucked, bro,” Andrew told him. “Shit happens. You’re still good.”
Roger shoved his face into Andrew’s jersey, then Andrew felt Roger’s mouth press against his neck—a sad prayer attached to no god.
Andrew told himself it was nothin’, only drunk grief misplaced. But it wasn’t nothin’. He knew Roger was into him, but he never thought he’d ever grab Andrew’s hand and pull it into his lap, pressin’ it up against his erection. Or that Roger would tug down his zipper and let his dick out.
Lookin’ back, Andrew knew he should’ve stopped him, but in that second, he froze. In that moment, he thought if he pulled away, he’d be another person rejectin’ him, another person who didn’t want him, another person who’d benched him.
Andrew looked away, shifted.
“Okay,” he said. “I got you.”
What felt like forever only took a minute. Afterward, Roger panicked. “Shit—I’m sorry. It ain’t—I just—”
Andrew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, fingers shaking.
He didn’t know what to think. Was he comforting him? Was he being used? Did he use him back ‘cause it gave him a sick form of validation? Did he say yes ‘cause he wanted to help, or ‘cause he couldn’t bear Roger hatin’ him if he said no?
“Don’t, man. You’re hurting.” Andrew hesitated at first, not knowing where to look, where to put his hand.
Then he ripped off his jersey for Roger to wipe his tears while Andrew gazed into the dark, holding in his own.
He didn’t know what he was more sad about: knowin’ those sixty seconds were gonna fuck him up for a long time, or that he just led on his best friend, makin’ him believe he felt the same, which might’ve caused more harm than good.
The following day, Roger acted like nothin’ happened, and Andrew didn’t wanna be the first to bring it up. He figured the booze blotted out Roger’s memory, and it’d become somethin’ Andrew would have to live with alone and never talk about.
Figured—let him drink it gone while I carry it.
So yeah, Andrew knew Roger was in love with him. He knew the whole time, but talkin’ about it meant cuttin’ the whole friendship loose. So he looked the other way, said nothin’, pretended, played dumb.
Roger was the first to bring a girl around. Took ‘til age twenty-six.
Andrew was happy for him, even though he never cared to have a girl of his own. Hadn’t yet met one worth cuttin’ into his shift hours or hospital runs. But maybe Roger read too deep into that, saw the empty space next to Andrew and thought it was reserved for him.
But Roger was in the minors and every guy on the roster kept runnin’ his mouth, askin’ why no one ever saw him with a girl. Roger got sick of hearin’ it, so he got one. Wore her like a uniform—problem solved.
Elle was the kind of girl who looked good standin’ next to him in a picture. Tall, blonde, all legs. Five-foot-eight barefoot. The kind they raise in Montclair—private schools, then beach weddings in Sag Harbor.
Roger asked Andrew what he thought of her once.
“She’s chill,” Andrew told him, but left out the part that Elle was always tryin’ to talk to Andrew, be closer to him, and that he caught her watchin’ him sometimes, even when Roger was right fuckin’ there. Andrew knew that starved, can-you-see-me look.
Roger never touched her, laughed with her, or acted like she was his.
She was background.
A prop in a cover-up.
A lie to photograph.
And all Andrew could do was stand in the scene and watch it all go down, Roger pretendin’, Elle bein’ neglected, knowin’ the whole thing was fake. It wasn’t even Andrew’s lie, but he felt trapped in it, too. It wasn’t his job to fix it, but it still felt like his fault.
When Roger died, Andrew didn’t cry. He didn’t have time between double shifts, the back-and-forth to the doctor appointments, with Ma pukin’ blood again and the electric bill starin’ at him from the fridge.
Cryin’ was a luxury. There was no room for grief when you’re broke and busy.
But the longer he denied Roger’s death, the higher the grief piled up inside him.
So when Elle texted that first night, he thought it could be that kind of night: two people sittin’ on a porch, swappin’ stories, talkin’ shit, both missin’ the same dumbass. They could laugh, he could say Roger’s name out loud ‘til it stopped hurtin’ for five goddamn minutes.
But that’s not what it was.
When he showed up, she didn’t ask how he was doin’ or say I’m sorry you lost your friend. She didn’t wanna know what he remembered about Roger or if he’d been sleepin’, eatin’, breathin’ right since the casket closed and he buried a fifteen-year friendship.
Nah. She leaned back on her porch chair, legs spread, no fuckin’ underwear. And for one sick second, he thought—this is all my fault.