He cried like a baby, said Knox. A baby who shat himself.
The boy hadn’t come back to school yet with his new clothes but when he did they would be ready. They would redo the candy bar incident but worse. The boys would jump him in the locker room and shove the candy bar up his butt and pull a pair of shit-on boxer briefs over his head. The new candy bar was naked of its wrapper and sealed inside a plastic bag. It sat in the middle of the table like a centerpiece. Graham bragged about how he snuck into the girl’s locker room the week before and jacked off into a shampoo bottle in their showers.
Max had vaguely heard of the concept of American hazing. His gut clenched. He jabbed at the layer of marbled ham hanging from his sandwich, hoping no one was going to ask him to do something like that. But he enjoyed the sound of the boys’ laughter. It soothed him the way the sound of autobahn traffic did, whirring when his dad went particularly fast. Max could close his eyes and get lost in the drone of wheels purring over pavement and engines vibrating at fast speed. But there was always something threatening running underneath the highway rumble. It was harmless until it was not. All it took was one turn and the traffic became dangerous and the laughter became cruel.
Max plowed his fork through a lump of just-add-water potatoes that the ladies in hairnets had applied to his plate. Sandwich and mashed potatoes and chips. Max found the combination intriguing. White on white on white. A woman with purple nail polish had given him an extra cookie. Taking it made him feel bad for her. He hated watching elderly ladies stand on the other side of the buffet in lab coats and serve him. It was worse when they grinned, and lipstick was smeared on their teeth. Sadness could crush an appetite.
Lorne joined the table. He slammed down his tray and started to make his way through a footlong. He’s still hungry, thought Max. And Max felt hungry, too. Lorne held the sub in both hands in front of his face and opened his freckled lips. He didn’t seem to be listening to the conversation at the table, but then he smiled. It startled Max. He was listening. Lorne dotted his mouth with a napkin, guzzled an energy drink, and continued through his sandwich with a kind of ravenous precision Max was sure did not leave any room for pleasure. It was about efficiency. It was about consumption. He noticed Max watching him and raised one finger like hello.
MAX STOOD IN FRONT OF the weight room mirror and lifted a barbell to his shoulder. Let it drop to his hip. His bicep swelled. In the mirror, he watched Wes bench-press. Knox stood above Wes, spotting the quarterback in case he buckled under the load. Max switched arms. Davis did legs in the corner. Boone worked out his shoulders on a stationary machine. A vein bulged in his neck.
Coach came in and leaned against the door frame. He said, Max, you got a minute?
A half-eaten ham sandwich sat on Coach’s desk. Mustard leaked from the crust. In a painting on the wall, Jesus lifted his hands above the bent heads of a crowd that had gathered. Purple rays shot down from Jesus. Jesus was a white man with rosy cheeks and long brown hair and a sharp angled chin. Max scanned the rest of the office. If God’s Way had won trophies, Max figured they would have been displayed on the bookshelf. The only achievements Max noticed in the windowless room were a framed diploma with the Coach’s name saying he had earned a BA in exercise science, a heart-shaped photograph of his wife and Hayes, and a taxidermy raccoon Max assumed Coach had killed himself.
Son, we sure are glad to have you this season, said Coach. Even if you aren’t starting, you are an asset to our offense. Wes needs a good backup receiver. Someone he can rely on. You keep practicing, and I think you’ll surprise yourself with what you’re capable of. I see determination in your eyes. Speed in those legs. Now that’s not something we teach. That’s something God gives you.
Max nodded.
Coach opened the playbook and turned it toward Max.
This is Wes, said Coach, pointing to a square with the letters QB in it. Wes, he’s the focal point of the offense—the one who starts every play. Knox, center, snaps him the ball. Wes drops back. This here.
This would be you.
His pen landed on a circle with the letters WR in it.
You’re nimble. You’re fast. You got to move quick. Zoom. Zip. In and out.
Max nodded again. He let the sport sink into him. The plays he’d need to know. He tried to grasp the fundamentals. Coach leaned in closer, and Max leaned in, too.
A TEXT MESSAGE FOUND MAX standing in his kitchen about to slice the midsection of a lemon. The sight of Pan’s name on his screen caused his stomach to rise into his sternum. Pan sent a selfie of himself drinking diet Mountain Dew with just his lips showing: bright green on skin where drink met mouth. The next text showed a pink tongue extended. A blue Skittle sat in the center. His cat, Mr. Sprinkles, was curled up on his shoulder.
Protection, Max thought.
Before going to sleep, Max listened as the protection scissors above his door swung from a string hammered into the crown molding. They seemed to sway mysteriously. No breeze touched them. The tip scraped the wall and started to chip away at the paint. It was like Pan was in the room with him picking at the color, tapping on the door. Pick, pick. Tap, tap. Max didn’t need protection. He rolled over in bed and dreamed of suicides on the wet field in the wet wind with the strong boys.
In Physics, they wrote notes back and forth in the margins of Pan’s comic books. Pan took a Sharpie and drew a dress on Superman. He gave Mary Jane Watson a huge dick. He outlined thought bubbles that climbed from their lips.
What should she say? Pan asked Max. He wanted to put words in their mouths. What should Mary Jane say to Spidey?
Pan spoke of himself like he was a loner, but Max saw he was engaged in many social scenes at school. Girls especially seemed to like Pan. One girl was always by his side. The girl appeared to be enduring a lecture whenever Max spotted them together; a smile perched on her mouth as if everything Pan said was slightly funny. The pair passed Max at his locker one afternoon and Max strained to hear what Pan said, but he couldn’t hear anything but the slam-bang of lockers hitting their hinges. Max thought he might walk up to them and say hello, but what would he say after that? He didn’t know. Max leaned against the locker. Lockers. In Hamburg, you took all your books home with you from school. But this was just like the American TV shows. Just like Saved by the Bell.
At practice, Max watched Pan wait in the parking lot in his tiara. Max threw the football with Wes for warm-up. A man arrived on a motorcycle to pick Pan up. Pan climbed onto the back and held the other man’s body. They flew away. The motorcycle engine lingered like a scream in Max’s ear.
Distracted? asked a whisperer.
Lorne stood behind him.
He pushed on Max’s shoulder pad. The weight of him was much.
No distraction, said Max. Just ball throwing for warm-up.
Good, said Lorne. Big game coming up. First game’s a big game. Always.
He winked at Max like he knew him. Max felt the sweat on his face turn cold.
DAVIS INVITED MAX TO ATTEND a campaign luncheon for the Judge. It was a small affair in a backyard. The heat had begun to lift into a temperature that felt almost pleasant against his bare arms. Pan texted. Max knew enough not to tell where he was, but he didn’t know where this intuition originated. If he could trace the source of his intuition, Max would say it was a spot lodged under the curve of his right rib.