The Ninety-Pound Center

"You can't be serious."

"Hey! You don’t have to act so surprised."

Lucas swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, pushing his laptop to the side.

"You're going to get yourself killed."

Jack rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and heaving a long-suffering sigh.

"Will you stop being such a drama queen? It's just football."

"Exactly," Lucas pointed out, "It's American football, ergo, homicidal,” he made a face, “Does your mom know about this?"

“Um…” Jack mumbled, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck, “Not really.”

Lucas snorted, “Good luck with that.”

“Luc, come on. I’d letter my first year!”

“That would be impressive if only one could somehow disregard the glaring fact that we haven’t won a single game in five years. There’s a reason you’d be on varsity, and it’s not because you’re a phenomenal athlete. Have you ever even played football before?”

“Of course,” Jack snapped, “I’m an American. It goes right with tailgating and beer pong.”

“Pop Warner when you were six does not count as having played ‘football,’” Lucas made a pair of skeptical air quotes around the word, “What would you even be playing, anyways? Third-string punter?”

“Starting center,” Jack held his chin up defiantly.

Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Starting center,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

“How much do you weigh? Ninety pounds?”

“One-ten.”

“Yes, and I am Winston Churchill.”

Jack glared.

“One-oh-five.”

“On a wet day, I’m assuming.”

“Does it matter how much I weigh?” Jack burst out, “I’m a good snapper.”

“And a better doormat, I’m sure,” Lucas muttered under his breath. He stood and brushed past Jack, stalking off down the hall.

“Luuuc,” Jack pulled out the name, hurrying after him, “Help me convince Mom to let me play. She’ll listen to you.”

Lucas snorted again, loping down the stairs, “Your faith in me is a little misplaced, I think. Why are you so bent on playing football, anyways? I thought you wanted to do baseball this year.”

“Yeah, but that’s not until the spring,” Jack replied, hopping down, birdlike, behind him, “I need something to do to keep in shape until then.”

“There are an infinite number of far more logical alternatives,” Lucas said, spinning around the bannister and making a beeline for the kitchen, “The most obvious being cross country. It’s non-contact, skill-level inclusive, and perfectly suited for cardiovascular conditioning.”

“I don’t want to run cross country,” Jack wrinkled his nose, “It’s so boring.”

“I’d rather you be bored than concussed.”

“I can take care of myself,” Jack bristled indignantly.

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Lucas replied, yanking open the fridge and staring at its contents for several long moments before turning on his heel and heading for the pantry. “What about tennis? Tennis is a fall sport, and it’s pretty close to baseball.” He made a vague waving motion with his hand, “Swinging a stick-like object to hit a spherical object. It suits your metaphorical skillset.”

“I’ve never played tennis before.”

“You’ve never played football before either.”

“I mean, the tennis team won CIF last year, and most of the guys are returners. I don’t think I have much of a chance of making even the frosh-soph team.”

“I don’t think you have much of a chance of playing starting center and making it out alive. Run cross country. Our first meet isn’t until next Saturday. That’s plenty of time to get in shape.”

“Yeah, and get up at, like, six in the morning. To run.”

Lucas snatched open the pantry doors and stared inside.

“I could make a number of rather more astute observations about the sport of American football, the first of which involves spandex and jock itch.” He reached into the pantry and pulled out a banana, which he offered to Jack.

Jack shook his head, face red.

“Really, what’s gotten into you lately?” Lucas asked, deftly peeling the banana and popping half of it into his mouth in one bite, “It’s just your second year of high school and you’ve already started taking AP’s—you can afford to relax a little before you pile on all the extracurriculars.”

Jack shrugged.

Lucas squinted at him, chewing slowly. After a moment, he frowned.

“Jack—” he began.

The front door rattled open.

“Hey Uncle Rick!” Jack shouted.

“You again!” Richard Riley boomed, towering into view around the stairs, “I’m going to have to start charging you room and board.”

“Could I get a family discount on that?” Jack shot back.

“You,” Uncle Rick levelled a finger at Lucas, “Are rubbing off on him. He used to be a respectable young man.”

“I doubt that,” Lucas mumbled around the rest of his banana.

His phone chirped, and he pulled it out of his back pocket.

“Cat’s asking if she can come over,” he said.

Jack shot him a look.

“Are you actually asking me for permission?” Uncle Rick grunted, “Why start now?”

The front door rattled open again.

“Hey Uncle Rick!”

Uncle Rick paused, hand on the refrigerator door.

“Well,” he muttered, “Never mind.”

“Hey guys,” Cat popped her head into the kitchen, smiling cheekily at Lucas, who shifted uncomfortably, “Mom says dinner’s in ten minutes.”

“You couldn’t have, I don’t know, just texted us or something?” Jack asked, askance.

“We live next door, Jack. It’s not like I ran cross-country to get here.”

Jack turned to glower at Lucas.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lucas protested.

“Do I want to know what you three are going on about?” Uncle Rick rumbled, placing a large bowl of salad down on the counter.

 “Jack made the varsity football team,” Cat sang, twirling her way into the kitchen.

“My God. I’m so sorry,” Uncle Rick said, turning back to the fridge and handing Lucas a large glass jug.

Jack scowled, “Why do you all think it’s such a bad idea? A letter’s a letter. So what I get thrown around a little? The football season only lasts seven weeks. I can last at least that long, don’t you think?”

“He’d be their starting center,” Cat whispered loudly to Uncle Rick.

Lucas shifted the jug to his other arm and neatly lobbed his banana peel into the trash, shooting another look at Cat, who frowned slightly.

Uncle Rick raised his bushy eyebrows and whistled lowly.

“I’ll tell your mom to look into upgrading her health insurance plan.”

“Speaking of whom,” Cat jumped in quickly, “We should get back to help her with dinner. C’mon, Jack.”

Lucas caught Uncle Rick’s eye.

“We’ll be there in a few,” Uncle Rick said, “I, uh, have to warm up the cider first.”

“Great!” Cat pulled Jack almost bodily out to the door, which, as she stood nearly a head taller than he, really was no great task.

After the front door had slammed shut, Lucas raised an eyebrow and said, “You ‘have to warm up the cider’? I haven’t heard that one before.”

“You gave me The Look. I freely admit I briefly went into panic mode,” Uncle Rick replied with a faint smile, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter, “So what’s up?”

Lucas fidgeted with the glass jug and set it down on the counter.

“I’m… not sure,” he admitted at last, “But Jack…” he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, “Don’t you think he’s been acting rather… odd lately?”

“I think I’m going to plead the fifth on that one.”

Lucas huffed a laugh that sounded more like a sigh, “Well, I think I’ve kind of figured out why, or at least some part of it. The part that doesn’t have to do with a genetic predisposition toward sainthood, that is.”

Uncle Rick raised his eyebrows and waited.

“I feel like… I’m getting in the way,” Lucas began uncomfortably. He continued in a rush, “I mean, he’s been trying so hard to do so many things, things he doesn’t even like, like play football and take physics when I know he hates physics, and it seems as if he’s just doing everything to compete with me, or impress me, or whatever, but I don’t know why because he’s always been the one trying to set an example for me, and, and—bloody hell I’m not making any sense!” he hissed, screeching to a halt, “I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous. Forget it.” He snatched up the cider jug.

“Hey, hey, hey, hold on a second,” Uncle Rick held up a hand. He pointed at the jug. “Put that down. We need to talk about this.”

“Coach, really, it’s not import—”

“—Yes, it is,” Uncle Rick cut him off sharply.

Lucas set the jug back down on the counter.

“You’ve been with us—officially, at least—for about two years now, so it’s about time we had this conversation anyways,” Uncle Rick paused, staring levelly at Lucas, “You know I’ve fostered several kids before, some for several months, some a few weeks. They’re all great kids, and I keep in touch with most of them, whether they’ve been adopted, aged out, transferred, whatever. My point is, Luc, that you’re still here. Just you. Every month when I get that letter from the agency, I file it away. You want to know why?”

Lucas looked down at his feet, hands fisted in the pockets of his jeans,

“Luc, come on, look at me.”

Slowly, he raised his eyes, jaw clenched.

“I want you here, Luc,” Uncle Rick said, “God knows why, but I do. I really do.”

Lucas swallowed.

“I know you’re worried about aging out—no, don’t give me that look. I know you’re worried; your birthday’s coming up next month. But think about it, Luc. You’re practically Anne’s third kid, and Jack, genetic predisposition to sainthood aside, really looks up to you. He’s trying to impress you with this whole football business, and you’re worried he’s starting to see you as too much of a big brother when you might be leaving before the end of the year.”

Lucas flinched, blinking.

“I know you haven’t told him about aging out because he came and asked me about it over the summer when you were out with Cat,” Uncle Rick hesitated again, then continued, quietly, “I’ve had the papers for a while, almost a year, Luc. And I would have asked. I probably should have asked. But I see you with Cat, and I’m pretty sure I know what you’d say.”

The late evening sun blurred against the linoleum counter.

“Franklin Delano Roosevelt married his fifth cousin,” Lucas choked out, “And that turned out mostly alright.”

Richard Riley gathered him up in familiar, comforting arms.

“I would have said yes,” Lucas sobbed, “If you’d asked, I would’ve said yes.”

“I know,” Richard Riley replied, “I was afraid of that.”




A Note:
I actually drafted this over a month ago after a flag football game in which I played the titular ninety-pound center. This was during a period in which I was trying to take a break from my horrendously drawn-out, melancholic prologue to the TOU, so I decided, just as an exercise, to attempt something on the more humorous side of bleak and vaguely vacuous. Of course, my writing never turns out that way, and after literally weeks of cortisol-fueled revision coupled with a laptop death and resurrection, literal tears were still shed.

I like to think, though, that this is a happier kind of sad.