Manning Up Read online

  Please visit our website, www.west44books.com.

  For a free color catalog of all our high-quality books, call toll free 1-800-542-2595 or fax 1-877-542-2596.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Walsh, Bee.

  Title: Manning up / Bee Walsh.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2020. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382677 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382684 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383346 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 W374 2020 |

  DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2020 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2020 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Seth Hughes

  Photo credits: cover (helmet) studiogstock/iStock/Thinkstock; cover (texture) -slav-/iStock/Thinkstock.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  Coach Says

  Coach says I need to keep my head down when I rush the defensive end. Running back. Head down. Eyes up. Take him down. Coach says I need to lift my feet. Coach says I need to focus. Coach says I have to be ready for Friday. I have to be ready.

  Eyes on the Prize

  Today at practice, Coach asks me where I see myself in five years. Five years. “Here, I guess.” “No son, where do you want to be?” “Here, I guess.” “Jack, you need to get your eyes on the prize.” The prize. What is the prize?

  Anything

  I’d give anything to be able to put on invisible clothes like that wizard kid in that book. Walk around and no one would look at me. No one would pat me on the shoulder and ask me about the game. No one would ask me how my mother is holding up. I could do anything and no one would say anything about it.

  Mom

  Mom had me when she was my age now. Seventeen. She had Beth two years later. She said from the moment she met our dad when she was 12 in the same town we live in now that she was gonna love him for the rest of her life. When Dad died eight years after I was born, I heard Mom cry and make sounds I didn’t know people could make. Beth and I don’t talk about it but I hope every day that she doesn’t remember. But it never stopped Mom from putting dinner on the table. Or putting herself through night school to become a paralegal. These days, she helps people who are here illegally figure out their rights and how they’re gonna feed their kids, too.

  It ’s hard

  It’s hard growing up in the same town that your parents did, and their parents before them. Everyone knows everything about you. Texas is funny like that. Everyone knows if you miss church on Sunday. Everyone remembers your father’s funeral. It’s hard, sometimes, when everyone wants you to “go on to better things” and all you want to do is stay.

  First

  I was one of the first guys in my grade whose voice got deeper and face got hairy. I was taller than everyone my age by the eighth grade. And running sprints on the field with the varsity team when I should have been with JV.

  Make It

  All the guys say I “make it look easy.” Me and the QB throwing the ball halfway across the field. Easy isn’t getting up early every morning to run five miles. Easy isn’t three times a day in the weight room. Easy isn’t hating myself every night at dinner because I don’t want Mom or Beth to worry about why I don’t eat.

  Sometimes

  I can’t even believe that Beth and I are related. She amazes me with all the crap she gets into. Last year, she decided she wanted to be one of those people who build houses or schools or something. Now, she makes me drive her all over the place, wearing her bright blue shirt, hammer in hand. When she was 10, she told Mom and me at Christmas she wanted to be a doctor “just like Dad.” And that’s when I knew she didn’t remember him at all.

  Rest In Peace

  You know how sometimes after someone has died, you sort of fill in the details of their life to make their story better? I think that’s what Mom did after Dad died. Sort of told us the stories as she wanted to remember them. Not that Dad wasn’t a really good man, just that he didn’t live long enough to have that many stories to tell. Mom would tell us about their first date, how he swept her off her feet. Or how much he loved helping his patients. In reality, Dad dated Mom’s best friend for a year before they started dating. And he wasn’t a doctor— he did billing for a local doctor’s office. And fixed cars on the weekend. I like the stories that Mom tells us. So I don’t correct her when she fills in the details.

  Through The Walls

  When I was nine, I heard Mom crying in her bedroom through the wall of the room I shared with Beth. We were supposed to be getting our own rooms. But after Dad died, it was like everything in the house froze. I know that she cried often because I would wake up early and see her red face. But that night I heard her, and all I wanted was for Beth not to wake up. I think I grew up that night. I never wanted to make Mom cry like that. And I never wanted Beth to know anyone could ever be that sad.

  Seventeen Years

  I don’t know if any 17- year-old guy is normal. Or maybe there is no such thing. But whatever it is, it can’t feel like this. Or at least everyone else doesn’t look like they feel this way.

  Literally

  I literally cannot stay awake during chemistry. It’s not like I’m not good at it. I study. I get A’s and sometimes B’s. But I just don’t care about negatively charged ions. I just want to get onto the field and run. I need to feel my body under my pads under the sun. Where nothing can touch me.

  Towns Like These

  Comfort, Texas. They make TV shows about towns like mine. Fourth-generation families. The men still wearing their championship football rings. Girls pushing strollers down the same streets their moms pushed them down. The whole town closes down and crams into the bleachers at the high school on Friday nights to watch the Comfort Bobcats. The same way we all pack into the pews of the churches. I think most guys my age either can’t wait to get out and not be like their parents. Or they will propose to their probably already pregnant girlfriends at prom and buy the house next to their parents. I think that I’m somewhere in the middle. I wouldn’t have chosen this town, but I don’t hate it now that I’m here.

  The Note

  Someone put a note in my locker before homeroom. The handwriting looked kinda like Beth’s or Mom’s, but there were hearts over the i’s. The writer said they were looking forward to watching me play Friday night against our rivals. They said they’d be holding a sign with my number on it— 19. They said I should keep an eye out for them rooting for me.

  Girls

  I am too nervous to look for a girl holding a sign with my number. Instead, I take down every guy who gets in my way and we crush the other team until we win. I can’t talk to girls. Not girls who hold signs. Not girls who leave notes. Not girls who want to talk to me.

  Mom Asks

  Mom never asks me directly if I’m dating anyone. But she always finds ways to almost ask if I’m dating anyone. “Do you have any special plans this weekend? “The cheerleaders really seem to be fans of yours.” “I saw in the paper the movie theater downtown is offering two-for-one deals on Sunday evening tickets, if you’re interested.” I hate brushing her off, but I hate even more that she has to ask at all.

  Another Note

  This morning, I find an
other note slipped inside my locker on game day. “I’ll be holding up your sign again.” “I like that your hair falls in your face when you walk down the halls.” I shove the note in the back of my locker and go to math class.

  Heavy

  It’s too heavy most days. Carrying around this weight. Carrying around this body. Trying to do the best. Trying to be the best. Too heavy.

  No Feeling

  There’s no feeling like rushing 40 yards through a crowd of men thinking they can stop me. Right to that touchdown line. They can’t stop me.

  Harder

  At practice, Coach yells while we run that the harder we train, the harder our opponents will fall. The harder we train, the harder our opponents will fall.

  At Night

  Some nights, I stay up late after Beth and Mom have gone to bed. Looking at pictures of pro football players online. Their bodies and their game are so controlled, so disciplined, and it shows. I think that I could never be that strong, that fast, or that good. I stay up late at night and look up meal plans and gym plans and try to be good enough.

  Burger and Fries

  It’s tradition to go out after each game to Waring’s General Store. All the guys on the team, the cheerleaders, fans, moms and dads. Waring’s serves the best burger, fries, milkshakes in town. The sesame buns, the buckets of ice cream, the glass Coke bottles. It hasn’t changed in 50 years, kinda like this town. The guys all order burgers and milkshakes. Their girls pick fries off their plates. I’ve found that if I don’t sit down at any one table for too long no one questions why I don’t order anything.

  Tired

  This week I have been so tired that even Coach noticed. “What’s wrong with you, boy?” I don’t say that I haven’t eaten in three days. I don’t say that I’m not sleeping. I don’t say I don’t know if I even want to go to college. “Just a little under the weather, sir.”

  Dad’s

  There’s a picture on the fireplace at home. Dad sitting in the front seat of his 1986 Chevrolet K-20 pickup. “One of the only brand-new things your dad ever owned,” Mom says. “That truck, you, and your sister.” He loved all three just the same. When I was old enough to drive, I went down to the used car lot in town and told Bill I wanted a 1986 Chevrolet K-20. Just like Dad’s. It took seven months, but we finally tracked one down. It needed a new transmission. I didn’t care. A year after I turned 16, I finally had my truck. Just like the picture on the mantel.

  Terry

  I’ve known Terry, well, almost my whole darn life. Terry’s mom died when he was born and Terry’s dad hasn’t been the same since. Mom jokes that Terry is her third kid because of how often Terry has eaten dinner with us and how many of Terry’s pictures went up on our fridge when we were kids. He’s like a little brother to me. I keep eyes on him when he gets into trouble at school. And I think I’m the only reason that Coach let him on the team. Terry’s always scribbling in that notebook of his. And I’m always, well, doing what I do. Brothers have secrets, too, I guess.

  Dream

  It’s always the same dream before a big game. Dad, Mom, and Beth cheering from the sidelines. And me 100 miles away trying to get there, unable to find my way.

  Morning

  No one likes early practices that Coach insists are the difference between good teams and great ones.

  Best Days

  My best days are the ones when I know everyone has everything that they need from me. When Mom doesn’t stay up late at the kitchen table looking at bills. And Beth doesn’t cry herself to sleep because kids are real mean. And we’ve won another game and the guys punch me in the arm in celebration. The best days are the ones I don’t have to think about anything at all.

  NO

  Coffee. Cigarettes. Alcohol. Drugs. Junk. Snacks.

  Mirror

  I spend too long looking in the mirror at my body. I look at the muscles, the bruises, the fat, the hair. And I wonder why I care so much. And if the other guys look at their bodies as much as I do.

  Choking

  When we go out to dinner, Mom, Beth, and me, I can’t not order food. Every bite feels like I’m choking, like it’s going to come back up. Sometimes I think they notice. Sometimes I think Mom looks sad. Like she knows something, but isn’t sure what.

  Interrupted

  I have study hall every other day during fourth period. I study during study hall, which the guys used to pick on me for. They stopped after I got a 3.5 GPA junior year. Today, while I was doing my AP U.S. History homework, my guidance counselor came into the library and interrupted me. Asked if I could come with her to her office for a few minutes. I had only been to her office a few times before. Choosing classes. Once after I got into a fight. She wanted to talk to me about “how I was doing” and “if I felt ready.” Ready for what? I wasn’t sure at first. “Ready for the rest of your life?” I shrugged. But I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to tell her I wasn’t.

  FOMO

  I can’t imagine leaving home for good. Once a month, Beth, Mom, and I make pizzas and watch a movie. It’s my job to go to the store on the way home from school so Mom doesn’t have to. Beth likes to spend too long picking out toppings. I like to let her. I don’t want to miss out on movie nights or any other nights away from them.

  Every Time

  I start to think about high school ending, and how everything is going to change, I feel like I’m going to barf. Most days, I am sick to my stomach. So sick I can’t eat. So sick I don’t want to eat for days.

  The Hallways

  Every day it’s the same. Same classrooms, same posters, same hallways. Same conversation with Mom over my cereal. Same ride to school with Beth. Same locker-room talk with Terry. “Excited for the game this week, honey?” “How many times have I told you not to touch my radio, nerd?” “Dang, boy, where you find them muscles?” Same worry about letting them all down.

  Push Heavy

  I read this line in this small book my sister left in the kitchen. It said to “push heavy.” Something about fireworks. Something about fighting the Big Sad. I didn’t understand a lot of what was in the book. But I understand being sad. And I understand pushing heavy things. And I understand how heavy sad can be.

  Be the Man

  At the dinner table. On the field. In the weight room. For my sister. For my mom.

  Home to Mom

  This is how it’s always been, after school, after practice, after hanging with the guys. I’m the one who kills the spiders. And I’m the one who double-checks the doors are locked at night. I come home to Mom and to Beth, no matter what. That’s how it’s always been.

  I Can’t

  I never say it out loud. Not to Mom, not to Beth, not to Coach, not to anyone. I can’t. I can’t eat pizza with the guys. I can’t let them watch me chew, and chew, and chew, and not swallow. I can’t waste the food Mom works so hard to get for us. But I can’t wait for her to go to sleep so I can throw it up. I can’t tell Coach why I’m so tired when he needs me not to be. And I can’t give excuses to the guys on the line when I miss the block. I can’t be less than they need me to be and I can’t be more than I can stand.

  Not Much

  There’s not much I know that feels like getting in front of the guy trying to get in front of our quarterback seconds before the whistle blows. There’s not much I know that feels like knowing I’m the fastest guy out there. Not much like pushing down five guys and still standing.

  225 Days

  Some of the kids already have countdowns in their lockers. It’s only September! Only 225 days left until we’re out of here. Only 225 days left until we’re out on our own. I don’t have a countdown in my locker. I’m not ready for all of this to be over.

  Beth on the Weekends

  Beth always asks for rides to school, like I’m going to say, “No.” She makes me take her in early so she can tutor the middle schoolers
in math or biology. I have to wait for her to finish her Honors Club meeting after practice. Fifteen minutes always turns to 30, but I don’t mind. Because Beth on the weekends wants to go to the movies with Mom and me, wants to go grocery shopping instead of partying. Beth wants to watch a movie with me on a Saturday night, when maybe I’m not feeling quite myself. I don’t mind waiting 15 minutes for Beth to get out of her nerd club because we won’t have these drives home for much longer. I love Beth, especially on the weekends.

  The Letter

  I come home to Mom crying in the kitchen today. Mom is holding a letter in one hand and covering her mouth with the other. I think maybe it’s something about the house or Dad’s pension. Instead, she hands it to me to read. “Congratulations, Jack, on being accepted to…” It’s not about the house or money. It’s about me, and how someone at a college wants to pay me to come play football for them. Mom isn’t crying because she’s sad or scared. She’s crying because she’s not anymore.