14. “All Happy Families Are Alike” #2
He watches three dots rise then vanish. Karen Austin is probably tempted to say something like, What did you expect?
Well, Dub expected that his father would come watch him play at least once during his high school career.
Derrick never missed a game of Dub’s three brothers—but Dub knows he’s different because he’s in boarding school two thousand miles away.
He’s also different because he’s gay—Dub came out to his parents and brothers over the summer once he started dating Calhoun—but he’s going to give his father the benefit of the doubt and assume that this has nothing to do with Derrick canceling.
Finally a response from his mother: I’m sorry, honey. I love you.
“Fuck!” Dub shouts. He made a dinner reservation at Hobgoblin for the following night since he figured Hakeem and his parents would eat at the Wooden Duck as usual.
He calls Hobgoblin to cancel, and just as he hangs up, Benj pokes his head around the corner, startling Dub.
He didn’t realize anyone was still around.
“You okay, bro?” Benj asks.
“Yeah,” Dub says. “It’s just… my dad canceled on me last minute.
He’s not coming.” Dub had been looking forward to showing off Tiffin because it’s the antithesis of the massive, rah-rah high school in Colorado that Dub’s brothers attended with its two-hundred-person marching band and cheerleaders who win national championships.
Tiffin is genteel, refined, classic—and, against all odds, Dub Austin fits in here as a student, an athlete, and a person.
He’s part of the fabric of the school, and he wanted to gloat to his father, who he’s pretty sure doesn’t know how to tie a Windsor knot or the meaning of “antithesis.” Now Dub will be one of the few Tiffin students without a parent showing up. And it’s his final Family Weekend.
Benj says, “Do you want to come to dinner tomorrow night with me and my moms? We’re just going to Moon Palace.”
“Your moms?”
“Yeah,” Benj says. “I have two moms. Who are, you know, married to each other.”
“Right, I get it,” Dub says. This explains why Benj has been so supportive. How did Dub not know this about Benj? But then again, how would he know?
“Last year”—Benj stands up to his full height; at six-foot-five and 280 pounds, he’s the biggest guy on the team—“I intentionally told my moms the wrong date for Family Weekend because I didn’t want them to come.
I was embarrassed of them, I guess. I didn’t want any of the guys to know.
” Benj smiles. “But your senior speech really helped me. The way you live your truth and make it seem so easy, so natural… it’s inspiring, bro.
So this year my moms are coming, and I’d like you to meet them. ”
“I’d be honored, man,” Dub says. “Thank you.”
By the time Dub leaves the Field House, it has started to rain, and not just rain but pour.
Dub runs to Classic North holding a towel from the locker room over his head.
The dorms are completely empty; everyone is at the reception, then they’ll go to the steak dinner at the Paddock.
Dub is tempted to skip both—he has the entire building to himself, he can FaceTime Calhoun—but he needs to eat well before game day.
He throws on an old pair of sneakers with his school clothes, finds a hooded raincoat in the back of his closet, and makes a mad dash for the tent that’s been set up in front of the Manse.
The wind ripples the top and sides of the tent; the Tiffin pennant at the peak has ripped in half.
Dub imagines a gust of wind plucking the center pole from the ground like a toothpick from a sandwich and the whole tent flying away.
When Dub enters the tent, the air is steamy, the mood exuberant.
There’s a jazz trio playing in one corner.
They’re third-formers, Dub realizes. Mrs. Spooner finally admitted some kids with musical talent.
(Dub can’t help thinking how happy this would have made Cinnamon.
If she were here, she’d grab a microphone and sing ska.)
Dub heads for the grazing table in the middle of the tent, repeating Benj’s words in his head: The way you live your truth and make it seem so easy, so natural…
The compliment took Dub by surprise because, ever since giving his senior speech, Dub has second-guessed his decision to come out.
On the one hand, it’s liberating; he doesn’t have to hide or pretend.
On the other hand, he knows people view him differently.
When they see him, they don’t think of him as athletic or smart or kind or goddamned good-looking.
They think of him as gay. While Hakeem hasn’t been openly hostile or said anything derogatory, there’s definitely tension between them, which is the real reason Tiffin hasn’t won a football game this season.
The connection they used to share—they could read each other’s mind on the field—has been broken.
Either Dub’s throws are off or Hakeem drops the ball.
When Dub told Coach Bosworth that he and Hakeem have been out of whack since the announcement, Coach said: That’s Hakeem’s problem, not yours.
Except it is Dub’s problem. Hakeem talks to Dub only when necessary, and the one time Dub asked, “What’s good with you ignoring me?
” Hakeem said, “I’m not ignoring you, bro. Chill.”
But Dub can’t chill. He’s worried that Hakeem now realizes Dub spent the first three years of school crushing on him.
Dub never had romantic feelings for Cinnamon or Taylor; it was always Hakeem.
When Dub thinks of the situation from this angle, he understands why Hakeem is keeping him at arm’s length.
Hakeem would be wondering if Dub ever watched him in the showers, if Dub ever fantasized about him at night.
The parents are all drinking, talking, laughing; the atrocious weather seems to have made the gathering more convivial, and there’s an air of permissiveness.
Dub sees Royce Stringfellow holding a glass of white wine.
Dub plucks a sparkling water off a tray, then attacks the miniature rowboat filled with sushi.
He looks around, hoping to find Benj with his moms—but instead, Dub inadvertently locks in on Taylor with her mother, Kathy Wilson, who is standing with Hakeem and his parents, Ray and Alysha Pryce.
Kathy sees him and waves enthusiastically, beckoning him over.
Then Mr. Pryce notices Dub—and looks away.
Seriously? Dub thinks. Papa Pryce is going to be like that?
Dub wants to leave the reception and skip the steak dinner, but at that moment, Benj finds him.
He’s with two women—one tall, big-boned woman with a mass of red curls who’s wearing a long gauzy dress that has gotten thoroughly soaked, and one slender Asian woman in jeans, a navy blazer, and duck boots.
“Dub, these are my moms,” Benj says. “Moms, this is our QB1, Webber Austin.”
The women beam and fuss, coming in for hugs instead of handshakes.
“Benjamin told us all about you,” the mom in the blazer gushes. “He says you’re a natural-born leader.”
Saturday morning, the rain has slowed to a drizzle, but field conditions are sloppy. Still, the mood in the locker room is buoyant: The Thoroughbreds are finally going to win a game.
Right?
Dub ate his weight in medium-rare rib eye, baked potato, creamed spinach, and seven-layer coconut cake, he hydrated, he got eight hours of sleep, stretched in his room, did breathing exercises, and texted back and forth with Calhoun, who said: I wish I could be there to watch you play.
Walking over to the Field House, Dub felt pumped, ready. He’d had a good conversation with Benj’s moms; he learned that Benj had an older sister at Cornell. Duck boots mom explained that she had carried Benj’s sister and red-haired mom had carried Benj. They’d used the same sperm donor.
Benj, who had been drizzling béarnaise sauce over his steak, gagged. “I don’t think Dub wants to hear about sperm donors, Mom.”
But Dub did, sort of. He wanted kids of his own someday, though he had no idea how to make that happen.
As team captains, Dub and Hakeem take turns giving the guys a pep talk before heading out onto the field. Today, it’s Hakeem’s turn.
“Everybody has to play his best today,” Hakeem says.
“Because my parents are watching and my dad is a hard-ass and if we lose, I’ll never hear the end of it.
” He laughs. “Kidding—there is no ‘I’ in team. Let’s just go out and dismantle Colbert for everyone’s enjoyment, okay?
Hands in, ‘Roll ’Breds’ on three, ready? ”
They gather in a circle and thrust their hands into the middle; Dub is careful not to touch anyone.
“One… two… three.”
“Roll ’Breds!” the team shouts.
Hakeem leads the charge onto the field.
Tiffin’s team is bigger and stronger, better coached and better prepared—but they can’t seem to get a rhythm going.
Because the field is muddy, Dub focuses so intently on planting his back foot when he throws that his passes are just missing his target, which is Hakeem—and Hakeem is bent. He glares at Dub. “Man, you suck.”
Dub is tempted to admit that Hakeem is right—Dub does suck—but instead he just eyeballs him back. “Fuck you, Hakeem.”
Everyone in the huddle is silent. Is there going to be a fight? Or will Dub and Hakeem transform their fury at each other into fuel for an explosive play?