+ LOVING ELIJAH MCCAY +
VOL. 1: CHAPTER FOUR
This morning is harsh. My mother, once again, bugs me about eating breakfast. But I know, that within the next few fours, I'll see Elijah again, and he'll realize where he knows me from. And I just don't want to have anything in my stomach available to throw up, when that happens.
Rick won't stop texting me, complaining about the fact that he feels so nervous, he's sure he'll combust into a fit of either nervous giggles, or word vomit.
My father feeds Toro, eyes wandering over to me every few seconds, as I struggle to swallow my mothers meal whole. "I found your old bike misplaced, this morning. But haven't rode it in quite a while, right?"
My chewing slows, as I don't dare look up toward my father's knowing stare. "Y-Yeah, it's been a while. I had no idea it had been moved."
"Who did you go see?" He doesn't waste anymore time, delving right into the questioning, as I now know that my white lies are going right over his head. "Alaric? Terrance?"
I groan, "Abba, no, I didn't go see Terrance. I told you, that's over."
"Is it really, Gage? Because you never talk to me about these things, and then you become angry when I start to ask questions. My father would have never let this slide, you know? Back in Israel, he knew everything that went on in my life. But with technology these days, it's too difficult to keep tabs on you."
My father shakes his head disappointedly, as he begins to make himself a rather large cup of coffee. I want to defend myself, but I know that it will through one ear, and out of the other. Usually, my mother will stick up for me in times like this, but she had an early shift at the hospital, leaving my father to be the one to take me to school.
Dumping the rest of my mother's food in the trash, making sure to hide it with Toro's leftovers, so that she, too, doesn't give me an Israeli speech on how good, Jewish boys don't throw perfectly good food away.
"I'll be in the car." He murmurs aloud, leaving me to roll my eyes, and follow closely behind him.
Once I slide into the passenger seat of my father's SUV, he seems to be extra irritated after his own ranting, me wanting to so desperately explain what had happened both Terrance and I.
He pulls out of garage, the machinery automatically closing behind him, as I laugh to myself. He always bashes technology, but uses it every single day. I watch him a little more, preparing myself for the extensive backlash that might come out of me explaining Terrance and I's history to him.
"He has a sucky personality," my little bit of words has him frowning, eyes momentarily finding mine, before returning back over to the road.
"What do you mean? I thought you said that he was different. That he wanted to take you out to a nice dinner? Whatever happened to that?" His words are loud, firm, like he's trying to determine whether or not I'm lying.
"Just—just let me talk, Abba," he reluctantly allows me to continue, "He did take me out to dinner. And it was nice. But we didn't see each other over the summer—at all. And coming back this year, he was just . . . different. Like, he wasn't the sweet guy who brought me roses, last year. He's now, the guy who wants to assert dominance in every room he enters."
My father nods, and I can tell he's trying to take a step in my shoes, trying to see if he can at all see where I'm coming from. "Ah, I see, you don't like him because he's changed. Changed into someone with a bad personality." My father explains in broken English.
"Yes, exactly, Abba. And I think I'm done with boys for the time being. Just going to focus on my schoolwork, you know?" My father beams at this, the grey in his eyebrows raising on his forehead.
He speaks, once more, just as we're pulling into the parking lot of Wayland High, "that makes me very, very happy to hear, Gage. Now, have a good day."
The passenger side door slams shut behind me, as my father is now on his way to his office, me making me slugged way through the damned hallway, full of kids I've either never spoken to, or have only spoken to once.
I want to find Rick as soon as I can, but knowing him, he's most-likely the first person there, nailing coach about his position, trying his best to get an even high ranking on the chart.
Maybe he's there, I think to myself, as I begin create probably untrue, and most-definitely dramatic scenarios in my head, filling myself to the brim with possibilities that Elijah may look my way, and put together the pieces. Unlike what he had done last night. Hence his questioning.
Once I slide through the doorway, and into the boys lockers room, I see that very piece of paper in Coach Witherspoon's fingers, my teammates all taking seats at the benches before him. All including Rick.
As I slip into the seat beside him, he doesn't notice me for seconds, me having to tap his shoulder twice. "Rick, hey," finally, he turns, "has coach started yet?"
"Not yet," he pants out, fingers clutching at his thighs. "What if I didn't make it, this year, G? What if this will be the first year that I'm either benched or kicked out completely."
Shaking my head at his foolishness, I grasp onto his shoulder, eyes boring into his. "No, Rick, you will not be benched, or kicked off the team, alright? You're too damn good. I can vouch for that, and so can Georgetown, because you know that they have their eyes on you."
Rick doesn't say anything else, merely nodding, and leaning into my grasp on his shoulder. "You're right, I'm fucking fantastic."
I want to console him more, and make sure that all of his nerves and jitters go out of the window, considering he's the only person I've ever met that has ever even come close to be as good as me. Maybe even better. But I'd never say that his face, he'd take it as a pity phrase.
Coach fixes the zipper of sweater, throat clearing with the intention of gathering everyone's attention. "Alright, everybody, before I get into this, I know that you all have put your heart and soul into this game. But as most of you know, this isn't for everybody.
"But I just want you to know that you've done phenomenally, whether you end up on my team, or not. And lastly, I know all of you have heard rumors about a little Jr. Coach I'll be letting on this year, so I'm done hiding it, Elijah, you can come out now, son." Those words are like a blow to my system, as my heart practically goes into a cardiac arrest at them.
Elijah McCay walks out of Coach Witherspoon's office, with a sweater matching Coach's, his hands buried deep inside his pockets. He waves a quick hello, eyes pinning down everyone's before finally—reaching mine.
I can see the recognition flash his pupils, as I can't help but return my gaze to the ground. He knows I lied to him about him ever seeing me before, considering this was the first place we'd ever met.
Then, it happens. Coach Witherspoon doesn't waste another second, him saying every name that made it onto the team—well, last name that is.
"—Matthews, Adonis, Abrams, DeLuca, Garcia, Montoya, Fernandez, Bradford, Geller, Kensington, Cilleti—" Both Rick and I let out a gasp of relief as Coach Witherspoon finally says our names.
Rick's smile matches mine, as I find myself reaching out to him with the biggest hug we've ever exchanged. Through the hug, I could practically feel every doubt and worry he'd had, drift away, him rambling on about how he's going to Georgetown next fall.
Behind Rick, is Elijah, both arms crossed over his chest, as he stares. Stares with an inquisitive, yet confused expression, like he now understands where he knows me from—like he now remembers our only ever conversation.
And at this moment, I swear I might hurl.