October 24th, 2008
Toby
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling for the fifth night in a row. This time, Gordita sits on my head. I let her butt smoosh my face, helpless to do anything about it because…well, helpless sums it up.
We lost the game on Friday. Surprisingly, Cate has been showing up to practices, but she and JerryAnn don’t speak to each other. Milo is blissfully unaware of JerryAnn’s efforts to help him. Cate won’t talk to me in Spanish class, and I miss it. Rose wants me to shave my mustache because it’s giving her a rash, but I don’t buy it. Letting go of my mustache would be a betrayal to my mother and myself.
Gordita stretches, and as her fur tickles my nose, an idea forms in my cat-covered head. I pick up Gordita and throw on some grubby clothes.
At 11:02 p.m. I toss Gordita in the backseat, and she perches herself up by the rear windshield while I fill my trunk with supplies, then head to Walmart to buy more supplies. Once I have what I need, I drive to JerryAnn’s apartment and park next to her car. For the first time all week, I’m not helpless. I open my trunk, take out my jacks, and jack up JerryAnn’s car, which is unlocked, as usual. I pop the hood and rig my trouble light.
JerryAnn wasn’t kidding about not taking care of her car. It’s a twenty-year-old Honda Accord, and I think the fluids haven’t been flushed even once in its lifetime. I don’t have the time, money, or tools to flush everything, but I top the fluids off then grab a drip pan from the trunk, move the light under the car, put in earbuds and start an REM playlist, then slip under the car and revel in the familiarity of changing oil. But the oil filter screw won’t budge. I hear Annie Lennox from the “Eurythmics” singing Here Comes the Rain Again . It’s a good song, but weird to hear while listening to REM. Something taps my foot, my head jerks upward, and I hit it hard against the car’s undercarriage.
“Ouch.” I slide out from under the car, holding my head.
JerryAnn sits on the curb wearing a hoodie and basketball shorts. Her hair is wet, and she is eating yogurt. She pulls a spoon from her mouth. “Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” My hands are filthy, and my watch says it’s 12:30. I sit beside her and wait for her to say something. It’s an early fall night, warm, and beautiful. A light breeze plays with the drying wisps of JerryAnn’s hair, a strand of which sticks to her lips. She opens her mouth, the hair falls, and she takes another bite of yogurt.
We’re silent until her yogurt cup is empty, and she looks over at me and smiles, sadly. “Do you need any help?”
I smile back, amused that she hasn’t asked what I’m doing. “Do you have any WD-40?” I can’t remove the oil filter screw, and if it’s stuck, I’m stuck.
“I just ran out, but I’ve got some XV-20.”
“I don’t know what that is, but it may work.”
“Yeah, it’s a bluff, XV-20 isn’t a thing, I just don’t know what WD-40 is.”
I laugh.
She puts her fingers to her lips, reminding me to whisper, but all it does is remind me that she has great lips. It’s the middle of the night, Natalie and Cate’s lights are out, and most apartments are dark.
I whisper, “I need something to loosen a screw that won’t budge.”
JerryAnn pushes up her hoodie sleeves. “I’m strong. Let me give it a try.”
She’s sincere, and knowing her, she’d climb under the car and succeed, but the last thing I need is JerryAnn helping me with the one thing I’m not helpless at. I can’t convince Mr. Rice to mentor Milo, I can’t convince Rose that I need to keep my mustache, and I can’t get Cate to talk to me, but dang it, I can change JerryAnn’s oil.
I shake my head. “No. Could you just look around your apartment and find something oil-based that I could squirt or rub onto the screw?”
She nods. As soon as she turns around, I hop under the car, put the socket on the screw, and grunt and push and put every bit of frustration I have into that stupid screw until it falls. The oil drains, and I slide out from under the car.
JerryAnn stands in front of the car holding a cube of butter in her outstretched hand. “You don’t need this anymore, do you?”
“Nope,” I wink. “I’m not making cookies.”
She smiles. “It was the only oily thing I could find.”
I smile. “I just wanted you to leave so I could grunt really loud without you hearing.”
JerryAnn smiles. “Oh, I heard you. Why do you think I came out here in the first place?”
Fair point. A steady stream of oil gushes into the drip pan. Waiting, I sit on the curb.
JerryAnn sits beside me. “You hum while you’re working.”
I shake my head. “I do not.”
“You do.” She nods, looking at her sandaled feet.
The gush of oil becomes a trickle.
She faces me. “Where’d you learn to work on cars?”
She pushes her hoodie down, and her hair smells sweet and clean. I focus on the butter in her hand because looking into her eyes is a bad idea, and with “Here Comes the Rain Again” playing in my mind, there’s no telling what those eyes might make me do.
I stretch out my legs. “My first job was changing oil at a lube shop.” She faces me, eyes narrowed. Yeah, bad idea, because her eyes are sad. I shift my gaze back to the butter. “I wasn’t the most manly guy, growing up.” At the word manly I shift my voice as low as it can go. “Mom taught me to cook, sew, and clean, and I figured learning to fix and maintain our car would save money and be manly.”
“You know how to do all that stuff? Cook, clean, sew, fix cars?”
I shrug. “Yeah.” The steady drip has slowed.
“That’s impressive. I don’t even know what WD-40 is.” JerryAnn moves the butter to the little space on the curb between us. “I don’t know if I should be grateful to you or angry at you for trying to save Mathilda.” She hits her foot against the tire of her car. “Behind my back.”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to know I’d done anything to your car.”
“Then maybe next time, don’t hum and grunt so loudly.”
Her eyes are like catnip because I can’t stop going back to them.
“Why are you trying to save her, anyway?”
I shrug. It’s too tricky to crane my head down far enough to see the butter so I stare at Mathilda. “She needs saving, and I can save her.” A breeze blows toward me, and the scent of engine oil is replaced with JerryAnn’s shampoo, soap, and something uniquely JerryAnn. “You smell good.” I want to take it back as soon as I say it, but the words are out.
She lets out a puff of air. “It’s called showering and wearing deodorant. You should try it sometime.”
It’s been a long day, a long week, and her snark irks me. “Why do you do that?” I face her but she’s looking down. “Every time someone compliments you or says something nice to you, you ignore it or bite back with some snarky comment. One of the girls said you looked pretty yesterday, and you said, ‘Yeah, I do look pretty…pretty funny.’ You act like you’re confident and tough, but you’re too insecure and vulnerable to accept a compliment.”
JerryAnn stands, nods, wipes cement crumbs from her backside, and walks back to her apartment without a word.
I crawl back under the car, replace the screw, and slide back out from under the car and find JerryAnn reaching for the cube of butter she left behind. Then she stands in front of the hood, narrowing her eyes at me. “I have to be tough.”
I grab the 5-quart bottle of oil and use my keys to stab through the seal.
“I have to have an unrealistic faith in myself that I can accomplish things that defy reason, physical limitations, even physics. I have to ignore the voices around me that want me to fail. There are always more people out there who want me to fail than want me to succeed.”
I remove the oil cap from inside the hood and place the funnel in it.
“I also have to be tough because I’m a woman. No matter how good I get, there will always be people who think I don’t really play ball because I’m not a man.” Her arms are folded across her torso. She’s no longer wearing her hoodie, and she’s shivering.
I gesture to her door. “Go inside. You look cold.” Lifting the oil, I pour it through the funnel.
She doesn’t budge. “I build walls around myself and I’m not the most sensitive person out there, but tough is all I know how to be.” She sits on the curb.
I check the oil level with the dipstick a few times, adding oil until it’s full, and then shut the hood and turn to JerryAnn. “All done.”
She stands.
“I topped off your fluids and changed your oil. With the new air filter, your car might even smell less fishy.”
She smiles. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”
Without JerryAnn, I'd never be able to coach our basketball team. “Nothing.”
She shrugs. “Ok, but you’re filthy. After you clean up out here, come in and wash up.”
I’m hesitant. It’s the middle of the night, and I promised Rose I’d avoid JerryAnn.
“Hey.” She hits me on the arm with her elbow. “While you’re washing up, I’ll make you some butter.”
I laugh. “In that case, give me a minute.”
JerryAnn sits on the curb, waiting. Clean-up is quick, and in minutes I shut everything into my tarp-lined trunk, and Gordita’s eyes glow back at me from the rear window. I open the back door and grab her.
JerryAnn stands. “Who’s this?” She reaches for Gordita, who I expect to hiss and scratch, but JerryAnn wraps her arms around her and pulls her in, and Gordita purrs.
“Meet Gordita.”
“Like the taco thing?” Gordita nuzzles her head into JerryAnn’s armpit.
“Yeah, but Gordita means little fatty in Spanish.”
JerryAnn laughs.
Gordita sticks her head out and licks JerryAnn’s chin. The little traitor has never been that nice to me. JerryAnn limps her way to her apartment, and I follow.
I know she’ll hate it, but I say it anyway. “You’re limping.”
She opens her door, lets me walk in first, then sets Gordita down on the carpet. “I overdid it today. I overdo it every day.” She nods to the bathroom. Her apartment hasn’t changed except for the addition of a recliner next to the wall that is equal parts leather and duct tape.
I go to the bathroom, scrub up past my elbows, and wash my face where oil has dropped by my hairline. Bags have taken residence under my eyes, but my mustache looks great. When I step out of the bathroom JerryAnn is crouched in front of me digging through a collection of 80’s sitcoms, DVDs, and CDs from a tote she’s slipped out from under the bed. She grabs a season of Growing Pains , pulls out a disc, and then sees me.
She shoves the tote back under her bed. “I made us hot cocoa.” She points at the counter, where steam rises from two mugs.
“I didn’t think you ate sweets.”
She lowers her head and raises her eyes. “We met at a donut shop.” She flips open the laptop on her bed. I walk to the counter, where there’s a single stool, but before sitting down, JerryAnn calls. “I got dibs on the stool. You get the chair.”
Hot mug in hand, I survey the chair as if it’s diseased. “You know, most people in your position—a human—would invest in a table and chairs, maybe even a couch after living in an apartment for several months.”
She sits on the stool, takes a sip, then blows into the mug and sets it back down. “I don’t want to be chained down by furniture.” Gordita circles JerryAnn’s leg, and JerryAnn picks her up.
Exhausted, I move in closer to the chair. “I hear that. Every time I sit down in a chair to eat at a table, I think to myself, ‘I’m trapped, I’m trapped, get me out of here.’”
JerryAnn laughs. It’s a good laugh, not as great as the one when Milo and I wore Mom’s dickeys, but it’s nice. I take a sip. It scalds.
JerryAnn puts Gordita’s face up to hers and talks to her like she’s a baby. “When I go pro, I’ll need to leave everything behind, and furniture is big, and I don’t want to feel trapped by stuff I won’t need.”
“So, you stick with the necessities?”
“Exactly.” Still a baby voice.
“Like butter?”
“Yep.”
“And a massive collection of 80’s DVDs, sitcoms, and music?”
JerryAnn smiles. “They relax me.” She sets Gordita down and returns to her laptop. “Do you mind if I watch a show? It helps me wind down before I go to sleep.”
I walk over to the chair with my mug. JerryAnn walks ahead of me and pulls the chair’s side lever which extends with a loud pop. My eyes widen.
JerryAnn laughs. “It won’t bite. I’m giving you the good seat.”
My eyebrows raise. The familiar introduction to Growing Pains escapes her laptop’s little speakers, and I climb into the recliner, careful not to spill. I take a sip of cocoa, now cooled a bit, and relax into the chair.
“With your injury, do you think you still have a shot at going pro?” It’s a stupid, cruel question, but JerryAnn and sleep deprivation make me stupid.
She steps away from the laptop and walks back to her stool. “The tough athlete in me thinks I do.” She’s silent for a few seconds. “But the realistic part of me thinks it’s a long shot.”
“Is that why you’re so interested in helping Milo? To give him the chance you might not have?” Another dumb question. I sip more cocoa and face the screen, but it’s hard to see. The familiar voices take me back to elementary school, when reruns taught me English.
“Toby?” JerryAnn whispers. “Is that still how you see me? You labeled me a selfish bully months ago, and no matter what I do, you keep putting that label back on me.”
She’s right.
She sighs. “No, I don’t want to help Milo so I can relive my glory days, or something stupid like that. I want to help Milo because he’s Milo.” She blows into her mug. “And I can help—or at least, Dad can.”
We’re quiet, listening to The Seaver’s family, a heavy silence between us while canned laughter spills from the laptop. I should leave, but getting out of the chair would be impossible and I want to finish my cocoa.
JerryAnn sighs. “The friend my dad mentored—I knew she’d done drugs, but I begged him to help her. I was naive and thought basketball would be enough of a high and she’d stop doing drugs, but I kept her history from Dad, the drugs, the problems. But Milo is different. His eyes are clear, and he’s clever, funny, and talented.”
I shift in my seat. The weight of hopelessness that dissipated after changing JerryAnn's oil comes back with a thud in my chest. “Why does it have to be your dad? Why not you?” I take a sip of cocoa, and it burns down my throat.
She takes a sip and a swallow. “Dad is a certified sports agent. He knows how to get sponsors and get colleges to show up to Milo’s games. He knows what he’s doing, and I don’t. I can help Milo be a better player, but I’m a broke college student taking a year off due to injury who puts cheese puffs in her car and spends the money her dad gives her for car maintenance on clothes.”
My head sinks into the back of the chair. “Your dad’s a jerk.”
“Dad isn’t a jerk.” JerryAnn’s voice is quiet. “He’s a man who’s been hurt. And he won’t get fooled twice.” She pauses for a second. “He always shows up.”
It’s the same phrase Dr. Jacobs used to convince me to coach. As if showing up is enough, as if all it takes to be a great coach or father is to be present. Dr. Seavers on Growing Pains would never settle for that.
JerryAnn yawns. “Dad supports me, makes sacrifices for me. He’s the only person in my life who shows up.”
My mind is in that fuzzy haze between sleep and awake, and I tell myself to get up and leave, but my body doesn’t listen. Instead, I speak. “I wanted the Seavers to adopt me.” As a kid getting bullied, having a psychiatrist for a dad seemed like the solution to everything.
JerryAnn whispers, “I want the Seavers to adopt Milo.”
I finish the last sip of cocoa and put the mug between my knees so the last chalky drips don’t spill on the duct tape. I should get up, but the chair is soft and comfortable, hot chocolate is still warm on my lips, and a sensation I haven’t experienced for a long time wraps around me like a familiar blanket. I’m relaxed.