Swallow

Chapter 7

Many significant subjects plagued the hectic mind of a teenage boy. Aaron, for instance, stared at the cartoon turkey on the Go Turkeys! sign at the concession stand by the football field and thought, What if we added a bra to the turkey? Wouldn't that be funny? Because, like, a bra, turkey breast . . . I mean, the jokes practically write themselves.

"Aaron!" Coach's voice cut the thought short.

Aaron startled and the stupid smile on his face relaxed into something resembling seriousness. He worked his fingers through his shaggy blond tresses and cleared his throat. "Yeah?"

"You listening to me, boy? You got a look on your face like you just got asked what the square root of 256 is."

"Sixteen, sir," Herman—towel boy and the brain behind most of the homework assignments by members of the football team—called from nearby on the bench.

Herman was probably the dorkiest guy Aaron had ever seen. The polo-shirts-under-vests type, which made sense to Aaron; after all, if Herman spent a lot of time learning useless stuff and doing homework for half the football team, he had less time for things that mattered, like fashion. A couple of the guys laughed at Herman's comment and Aaron thought, Good one, dude, but he didn't say it while Coach was on one of his rants.

"Shut your mouth, Bernstein," Coach said. The old guy had hairy arms, black slacks pulled up too far, and a black collared shirt tucked in neatly. He had been wearing out the grass in front of the bench with his pacing, shouting about weak defenses.

"Yes, sir," Herman replied.

He hadn't even cracked a smile, taken by surprise at the humor everyone else saw in his comment. He was merely answering a serious math problem as if Coach had meant it literally, and that was the thing that made it most hilarious to Aaron. He fought back howling laughter as Coach's intense gaze burned into him.

"I said, are you proud of that throw you made out there? You know, the crappy one?"

He knew exactly which throw Coach was talking about. As soon as the pigskin had left his fingers, he'd known it was a mistake. He'd let go a fraction too soon, sending the football sailing right out of Seth Montgomery's reach. If it was an actual game, that could have cost them the win.

But it wasn't his fault. Surely the mistake must have somehow been the fault of the ball and not his own. It could have even been the wind, for all he knew. He couldn't possibly take full responsibility for something so uncertain, so when his answer came out, it was an indecisive one.

"Yea-no, Coach!"

"Well, which is it, Renfro?" Coach asked impatiently. "Yes or no? Because I'll tell you how I feel about it. It was bullshit! You think we're going to win against Powell Valley with bullshit tosses like that?"

"No, sir!" Aaron said, because he knew that was what Coach wanted to hear and he was ready to get out of there. He wanted to go home and film himself playing Xbox so he could post it online. He had some new gamer jokes to try out. His fan base was still fairly small, but steadily growing, thanks to his wisecracks.

Coach Thorpe, on the other hand, was a down-to-earth sort of guy. Funny had never worked on him.

"You going to crush Powell Valley Saturday or what?" Coach shouted.

What he was looking for was competitiveness.

"Yes, sir!" Aaron said.

"What?"

Persistence.

"I said we're going to crush 'em, sir!"

"What?"