September 16th, 2008
Toby, again
On Tuesday, Milo’s at practice fifteen minutes late. His coaching consists of showing off for the pretty girls while the “uggos” sit on the bench, and three people go home crying. One of them is me.
I sit at the kitchen table at home. Cooking relaxes me, so I’ve got enchiladas in the oven that rival Moms. Gordita warms herself in front of the stove, and I flip open my laptop and log into my school email, where JerryAnn’s email taunts me. Eleven days it’s sat in my inbox, unopened.
When I suggested finding a replacement coach, Dr. Jacobs placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Toby, sometimes the most important thing you can do for a kid is care enough to show up.”
Do I care? I mean, I want the money. Do I care beyond that? JerryAnn gave me a black eye, faked me into a date, and tried to frame me as a child molester. Do I care enough to sacrifice myself to a bully? Thirteen girls are counting on me, and a few of them paid for their jerseys, and I’m getting paid to coach them…and I suck at it. They need more than just a guy who shows up.
I growl and open JerryAnn’s email:
Toby,
I’m sorry.
You’re right, I didn’t think about how this evening would affect you, and I regret everything about it. You should hate me and mistrust me. Please believe me when I say I honestly made a stupid mistake. I’m not a teenager, but I still make stupid mistakes.
I want you to know that I think you’re a good guy. Cate trusts you, and that speaks volumes about your character. I’m sorry about a lot of things: the black eye, calling you an escaped convict, tricking you, and putting you in a bad situation. No one should ever be bullied, and I never intended to bully you.
I don’t expect a call or any response, for that matter, but if you’ll let me, I would like to apologize in person and try to make it up to you.
Sincerely,
JerryAnn Rice
I read it three times. She put her number under her name, and she’s right to suspect I’ve deleted it from my phone. My fingers shake when I punch her number into my contacts.
The timer beeps, so I pull the enchiladas from the oven, shut the door with my knee, and turn it off. The enchiladas smell like Mom. I made too much, but I’ll freeze some and eat more than I should tonight. I scoop myself a heaping plateful, bring it back to the table, and watch the steam rise.
Gordita yawns in the quiet of our apartment as I eat alone in silence, then push the plate aside and pull my phone in front of me.
Hi, JerryAnn. I got your email. If you want to make things up to me, meet me tomorrow at 3:20 in the Cleveland Middle School gym.