I couldn’t believe Trent Bolger, of all people, would drive across town after practice to watch Chip’s soccer game.
Chip patted me on the back and jogged over toward Trent.
I followed behind, a little slower, angled to meet Dad where he stood with Grandma and Oma.
“Good game, son,” Dad said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I wish you could’ve seen us win.”
“You were great out there. You played your hardest.”
Next to him, Oma said, “I bet you won’t fall for that trick again.”
“I guess not.”
“That number 7 was something,” Grandma said. “Is he already committed somewhere?”
“Oh. Um. I don’t know his name.”
“I’ll go ask the coach.” Grandma patted my arm as she passed me. “You’ll do better next time.”
Oma turned to Dad. “My knees are acting up. Meet you at the car?”
“Sure.”
Once my grandmothers were both out of earshot, Dad let out this low breath.
“They don’t mean it like that,” Dad said.
“Like what?”
“Like...” Dad swallowed. “I just don’t want you to think they’re disappointed in you.”
“Oh.”
I mean, I did think that.
How could I not?
Disappointed was the default setting for Oma and Grandma. Just like love was the default setting for Mamou and Babou.
My eyes started burning again. I looked up toward the sun so Dad wouldn’t notice.
Next to us, Trent said something that made Chip laugh like a donkey.
Cyprian Cusumano had a hilarious laugh.
I glanced their way at exactly the wrong time, because Trent caught my eye. He did that thing where you stick your chin out to acknowledge someone.
Trent Bolger was the kind of guy you see in movies, where there’s always one guy who’s kind of mean to everyone, but they put up with him because he’s good-looking or something. But Trent wasn’t even good-looking. His nostrils were too big for his nose, and he had a terrible haircut: an undercut with a little oval of longer hair on top, combed to the side for the most part but left to do whatever in the back.
It did nothing for his very aggressive forehead.
“Darius?”
“Hm?”
Dad chuckled. “Go be with your friends.”
