Ichallenge normalcy. That’s what I’m exceptional at, according to Professor Coolidge. I “ask the subject or the reader to be open to changing their thought process,” he said when it was obvious I had no idea what he meant by “challenging normalcy.” I wasn’t even aware that it’s something I’ve been doing.
“However,” he added, “I don’t see a lot of looking inward. You’re asking the reader to consider something I don’t see you yourself putting much thought into. Again, lots of logic, but bring in your heart. I see it at the door. Especially with the ‘Allegory’ paper, it was there. Invite it in.”
Siri’s voice suddenly in my ears and disrupting my playlist and train of thought tells me I’ve got a new text from Vale, pushing Coolidge out of my head. I abandon the mower for asecond, jog over to the patio, and grab my phone, seeingHow’s the yardwork going?displayed on the screen.
I open the camera, taking a selfie, my eyes squinting a little from the sun, my whole body sweaty because for some reason in the last twenty-four hours, the nice, comfortable enough for a windbreaker weather from yesterday peaced out and the heat came back in full. I get my bare torso, the old, faded pair of gym shorts I put on, and a maybe just as old pair of Crocs all in frame for him.I can’t wait to take a shower.
“Gabi, ya,” Pops calls, walking out the front door. “Send the pictures to your girlfriends later.”
“It—” I let out, before deciding not to say anything back. What am I expecting Pops to say when I tell him that I actually sent that picture to this guy who’s tutoring me? Who’s gay and the best friend of a girl I hooked up with a handful of times before she very clearly said she’s not interested in being my girlfriend? Let him think it’s going to a whole list of girls in my contacts. There’s a normalcy I’m not trying to challenge today.
“And take a break,” he adds. “You keep mowing any more, you’re going to hit dirt. Ven pa’ca. I got you a strawberry limeade.”
“Ya voy, Pops.”
I take a seat on the wooden plank floor of our porch, leaning against the railing, taking in the, at the very least, coolershade. When Pops hands me my limeade, I try my best not to chug it down in one gulp. He takes a seat in his rocking chair nearby, slowly going back and forth on it as he tells me, “Thank you for taking care of that, boy. Your mom’s making an extra pot of chili colorado and rice. She wants you to take it back with you. Share it with your roommates.”
“I will,” I answer.
Memories of him sitting there watching me do drills in the front yard come to mind. How, when I heard or saw him get up, Iknew that he was about to correct me on something. His yells of “there you go,” and “three seconds faster, boy,” and “confidence, Gabi; focus,” ring in my ears so clearly still, he might as well be saying them to me here and now. Another memory comes to mind, of a girl who used to live across the street I was always trying to impress. I even brought out some hand weights and would work out on the porch, hoping she’d see me. And then one of a high school friend who’d meet me at the curb every morning in the last few months of our senior year for morning runs, and even into the summer before he moved to Los Angeles for college. And then, for the second time in the span of a few weeks, I’m remembering that one time, at that one party, when we kissed, and I left wondering if he felt anything.
“We need to talk about what happened at your game? That goal attempt that had you bothered?”
I shake my head, staring at the small handprint in the concrete walkway withGabiwritten out underneath it. “No. It’s fine. I’m over it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I promise.”
“Handled?”
“Handled. Not like it’s never happened before.”
“Alright. Then tell me how school’s going. All As?”
“Oh. Uh, good,” I reply, my head going from the lawn to Pops. “Pretty solid. Philosophy’s still rough, but it’s getting better. I’ve got a friend that’s tutoring me. And trying to get some stuff started on this final paper about a guy named Risieri Frondizi so I’m not doing it all the week it’s due.”
Pops’s head goes back, confused before snapping his fingers and pointing them at me. “Sí. I remember him. He played for Milan. Somewhere midfield, right?”
“No.”
“Juve?”
“No, I—” I let out a breathy laugh and shake my head. “He’s a philosopher. Philosophy class, Pops.”
“Pues, maybe he did philosophy during the off-season. What about Fro-Dizzy?”
“He wrote something I’ve got to do my final paper on. Read it and tell my professor my thoughts.”
“Sounds easy. Did you read it yet?”
“Soundseasy. I took a look at it and, one, man is pretty wordy. Some of it’s easy to understand right away, but a lot of it just hurts my head. There’s some advanced terminology that’s got an even more wordy explanation, which, I’m learning, is basically how all of philosophy is. But my teacher wants me to focus on the ideas of it and how it’s relatable to my life. This guy’s main thing is challenging the idea that who we are is permanent. That it’s wild to think we reach a point where we are who we are and nothing about that changes afterward. He says that we change all our lives, and my professor wants me to connect it with maybe how I’ve changed over the semester. But I … what if I haven’t? Or I don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Change.”
Pops’s head tilts to the side, eyes still on me. His arms cross, and he slouches a bit in his chair, his feet keeping him from rocking. “You’re saying you moved out of this house, live with a bunch of your teammates—eighteen-, nineteen-year-olds all by themselves—and nothing about you has changed? Nothing about the person you were this time last year would be surprised about who you are now?”
