The Best at It: Chapters 11–15

It’s my first time, as Brent said, actually “tossing the ol’ pigskin” with another person. The only reason saying that doesn’t make me barf is that Google assured me that footballs aren’t actually made of pigskin. And even though they used to be made of animal bladders (vomit!), that was like over a century ago.
Mine is made of rubber. Vulcanized rubber.

After pleading with Mom to take me shopping for the football, I also begged her to take me to the bookstore to buy Football for Dummies. She wasn’t a fan of the title (“Just because I’m buying this for you doesn’t mean I’m condoning the use of the word dummy!”)

All week long, in addition to scouring Football for Dummies, I’ve also been doing home workouts in the safety of my bedroom.

And I didn’t just do regular pushups: I also put my feet up on the bed and hung over the side of it. According to the YouTube videos I watched, decline pushups are the key to a “massive chest.”

“Second of all”—she widens her stance and pulls the ball back by her ear—“this is how you throw it.”

But I steel myself. I refuse to move. It’s cruising so hard I think I hear the wind whistling around its edges. I grit my teeth.

“I didn’t know Rahul played sports.” His voice has the slightest edge of contempt in it. “Maybe my boys could teach him”—his belly shakes—“how to catch the ball with his eyes open!”

Each twin was sprawled out over an entire sofa, while Arun and I had to sit cross-legged on the floor, eye level with their gnarly toenails.

Do you know what kind of spinal injuries you could sustain?

Do you know what kind of spinal injuries you could sustain? Trauma to the brain?

Either way he wraps his arm around Dad’s shoulder and loudly pronounces again, “Boys should play football.”
“What’s that?” Mom bristles.

“Yeah, to kill yo face!” another voice responds. They burst out laughing.
Wow. That’s aggressive.

I gingerly dart to the bathrooms and lock myself in a stall.

During halftime, we disappeared behind the stands and choreographed dances to the pep band songs.

I don’t know if it’s adrenaline, the fact that I weigh basically nothing, or if I’m actually on my way to building a massive chest, but the first eleven aren’t that bad.

I muster up every ounce of energy I have, pushing my body up as hard as I can.

Brent jeers, “Heads up, sucka. Let’s go!”

In retrospect, the ambulance was probably overkill.

He slid his hand under my leg and tenderly prodded at my ankle.

“Can you believe this?” I ask, the medicine making the throbbing in my ankle slowly subside.

A wave of embarrassment crashes over me again as I think about all the new fodder I’ve given Brent.

He takes an almost imperceptible step backward.

We rehearsed our songs over and over until they were basically perfect, so you can imagine our surprise when the cast list went up and we were both relegated to “townspeople.”

Even though Mrs. Daugherty, the drama teacher, said that the townspeople could only fake-talk during the group scenes, Chelsea insisted we learn actual Scottish accents to keep things authentic.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll figure something out.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, and I hear the skepticism in her voice.

Chelsea was right though—so far I haven’t found anything TV-related in the entire state of Indiana. Like, zilch.

“You’re the ideal spokesperson for a bank because you’re so good at numbers!”

I throw my arms around her. “Thank you!”
“Okay, okay.” Chelsea gently extricates herself from me.

I hobble over to the stool.

She warily eyes my clothes strewn out on the sofa.

She warily eyes my clothes strewn out on the sofa.

“You’re going to be on TV?” Arun asks incredulously.

And then a rainstorm of flashbulbs goes off. I shield my eyes.
The paparazzi are relentless.

Outside, Mom honks the horn, and for a second I contemplate running upstairs to grab a different shirt.

The school day feels interminable, but somehow, at last I’m sitting in Mr. Hayden’s class.

Then she whispers conspiratorially, “I brought some makeup.”

“Rahul, we’re running out of time. Don’t overthink this.”
“Fine,” I concede.

I stealthily drag Chelsea down the hall.

She delicately grabs a paper towel, using just the tips of her fingers, and starts toward me.

I’m fixated on my reflection. It’s a little garish, but I also kinda like how light it makes my skin look.