Chapter Six Julian #2
“D’jeet one of those?” Marco nudges me to bring me out of the mists of sadness that have claimed me as one of their wraiths.
“Huh?” It takes a second to translate the Jersey dialect—d’jeet, meaning did you eat. I’m out of practice speaking my own language? How sad. Everything is so sad. I clutch a hand to my chest. “Oh. Yeah. Two, actually.”
“Two?” Marco’s chin drops as both his brows lift high into his hairline. He’s got a great hairline, just like Uncle Rocco.
“You’re probably never going bald,” I muse.
Marco tips his head back and laughs so hard, it makes his chest rise up and down with each har, har, har. I watch it, mesmerized. It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Now I’m laughing, staring down at my own chest. Am I doing it, too? I am!
Marco slings an arm around my shoulders, little chuckles still rippling through him, and corrals me toward the backyard. “Come on, Julie. I’ll help you look for Dr. Appa.”
“Right! Dr. Appa!” I grab three cookies to go.
The warm night air encases me like a pair of silky bike shorts, but all over my body.
Like if I pulled a second pair over my head and stuck my arms through.
I laugh, loud, feeling free and light and covered in silky bike shorts.
Marco brings me over to a beer pong table, where the other two Ohs, Aldo and Ellio, are setting up to battle against mean, little Eve Ionides and Graham Keegan, who was positively merciless in Quiz Bowl but otherwise a nice guy. I step behind Marco for safety.
“Anyone seen Dr. Appa?” Marco asks on my behalf.
“Yeah, maybe ten minutes ago?” Graham says. “He’s inside.”
“He isn’t, though!” I run my palms down my face. “He’s too short. So elusive.”
“Lemme take care of it.” Marco gestures for my phone, quickly rattles off a text, then smiles to himself as a fast reply comes in. “Dr. Appa’s meeting us here.”
“Thank you.” My eyes feel strangely wet. I had no clue Marco was this—this—
Nice.
“Don’t mention it, buddy.” He claps me on the shoulder. “We’re gonna have a good time.”
Marco joins his brothers on the opposite end of the table as Eve finishes filling the last red cup of the beer pyramid. Beeramid.
I snort, and Eve looks up at me like I’m deranged. “What’s wrong with him?” she asks Marco.
“Beeramid!” I proffer, gesturing at the red cups.
Her eyes dart from me to Marco. “My question stands.”
“He ate two of your protein bars.” Marco grins.
“You made the protein bars?” My eyes widen. I take one of Eve’s small, lesbian hands in both of my own and briefly consider proposing. There’d be no sex, sure, but I would keep her rich in oats. “I had no idea you could make protein. You’re so talented.”
“Two?!” Eve exclaims up at me, just like Marco did.
“What? I paid for them.” I swallow, insecurity rising within me viciously. “I hadn’t eaten anything all day.”
Eve blinks at me, then slowly retracts her genius baking fingers from my adoring grip. “This should be interesting.”
“Eh, he’ll be fine.” Marco air-practices the arc of his shot. “We’ll order some pizza if it gets too much.”
Pizza…
Suddenly I’ve never wanted anything more.
“What is this?” Graham asks as Marco takes his place in the front of the Ohs’ line-up. “We were two-on-two!”
Marco gestures. “Julie’s standing right there, man.”
I glance at Eve, who’s eyeing me warily. “Should I play—”
What is this game called again? My brain feels like it’s made of trampoline; everything I ask it to recall bounces right off. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“—with your… cups?”
“Ew, God, don’t say it like that!” Eve recoils but moves out of the way to give me first turn. “Just get the ball into their cups. Their cups, Julian.”
I grasp the ball between my fingers and swallow as I step up to the table.
Eve and Graham have never liked me, and I’m certain that if I fuck this up, they never will.
The one time I tried to play this in college, I didn’t get a single ball in.
I got so angry at the stiff-arm jokes and losing that I stormed off and refused to play ever again.
But now, the mechanics of my body glide in an easy harmony as my shoulder externally rotates, the muscles adducting to accelerate the throw enough to propel it across the table.
I’m as surprised as everyone else when the ball lands with a frothy, little plink into the Ohs’ front cup.
“Okay, Julian!” Eve claps like a tiny, maniacal coach. “Do that again!”
I can’t believe it, but the second throw lands, and the third one, too.
Eve and Graham become increasingly belligerent with each sunken ball, jumping up and down behind me, whooping like hype guys in a parking lot fight.
The Ohs, who I’ve spent my adult life desperately avoiding, are even more supportive, pumping their fists and chanting Julie, Julie, Julie with each of my wins before groaning good-naturedly and emptying another of their dwindling cups.
Other voices join in the cheering, our table the center of a small, enthusiastic crowd.
Graham retrieves the slick ball and hands it to me.
My cousins haven’t even had a turn yet. One cup remains.
“You can do it, son!” Eve squeezes my non-throwing arm with steely determination in her eyes.
This shot has become the most important goal in my life.
Half the town is watching, and for once, they’re rooting for me.
There’s no ill will, no rolling eyes, no can you believe this guy shakes of their heads.
Even Mr. Donahue is hunched forward, palms braced against his thighs, spectating from the sidelines.
“I’ve got odds on a perfect game, perfect game—who’s in?” A few hands reach over his shoulder to press cash into his.
I press the ball to my chest, touched. Mr. Donahue’s… taking bets?
Sweat prickles down my neck as I lower my throwing arm and turn to address the crowd. “I just want to say, your support means everything.”
Cheers boom around me. I am Rocky, entering the ring. Jon Bon Jovi spotted in the frozen aisle at Shop Rite. Guy Fieri’s frosted tips just, like, all the time.
“When I first grasped this ball—”
Eve yanks my sleeve. “Just shoot. No speech.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “I won’t let you down!” I thrust my arm high into the air, feeling the rowdy cheering in my very bones.
I take my spot, aim, and—
plink.
The crowd goes wild.
“Aww, great job, sweetie!” I turn around as a soft hand pats my back, my heart lurching in my chest as the crowd disperses.
“Mom?”
Her face is loose and happy, and it breaks into a grin positively dripping with oxytocin. She is wearing a long, lime-green feather boa and a plastic top hat intended for St. Patrick’s Day, except somebody has taped a weed leaf over its shamrock. Her eyes are bloodshot and dilated.
Beside her is Dr. Srinivasan, smiling proudly and housing a bag of Cheetos.
I blink at her, utterly dumbfounded, as she pulls me into a big, embarrassing hug, swaying side to side and refusing to let me go.
The smell emanating from her clothing brings me back like a time machine to our old garage, where Dad languished day after day, doing absolutely nothing with his life and—and—
Smoking marijuana.
“Are you high?” I pull out of her arms forcefully, but she doesn’t seem to clock my question or my rising anger.
“This is wonderfully open-minded of you, Julie. Supporting Nomi’s dispensary at her Pot Luck like this.” Mom beams dopily at me. “I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”
Pot luck? Nomi? Dispensary?!
I can’t process any of this because Mom’s standing there, stoned out of her mind in her ridiculous weed hat, and still, her words pulse through me like a bigger, stronger heartbeat than my own.
I’m so proud of you, sweetie.
My eyes feel suspiciously heavy, like they might produce tears over this, which is outrageous and cannot be borne.
“I’m not here because I’m open-minded,” I spit it out like it’s a dirty word. “I’m here to pick up Dr. Srinivasan.”
Her grin falters, then collapses into the small, disappointed frown I know too well. Dr. Srinivasan places a calm hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Gisella.”
“I can’t believe you, Mom!” I rake my fingers into my hair. “I can’t believe you’re here, doing drugs!” I point at Dr. Srinivasan. “With him!”
Before she can say another word, I turn and flee into the house, up the stairs within, through a door I slam shut behind me, and then, out the window.
Shit. I should’ve stopped with the door.