Page 63 of Eye of the Beholder
“I’m giving my next one to you, apparently.”
“So generous. But you’ll be okay. Suffering builds character.”
He grins and turns back to the computer screen, pointing at it. “All right. Football. I couldn’t decide how to teach you about this, but I finally decided to just show you a game so you can see it play out. It’s really pretty simple…”
And then he starts talking. And he goes on. And on, and on, andon.
Football is not simple. It is not interesting. It is not fun to watch. It is none of the above.
“So, see here,” Cohen says a while later, pointing enthusiastically to the slowed-down play-by-play he’s got up. “Here he passes to—Mina?”
“Huh?” I say, shaking myself. Oops—were my eyes closing? I think they might have been. “Right,” I say quickly. “He’s…passing? To…someone.”
Cohen folds his arms across his chest. It does excellent things for his biceps. I try not to notice, because I’m already going against my better judgment in the name of chocolate, and I don’t want to perpetuate anymore female stereotypes today.
“You’re not paying attention,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.
“I am,” I say. And…Isortof am. “The red team wants to get the ball there.” I point to the screen. “And the blue team is trying to stop them. And then the blue team will get the ball, and they’ll try to get it to the other side, and the red team will try to stop them.”
I glance at Cohen, who’s watching me with a pained expression.
“Well, it’s not the most fascinating thing in the world,” I say, feeling defensive.
And I’m surprised to see Cohen’s face fall. He runs his hands through his dark-blond hair. “I’m not doing a very good job at explaining it.”
Then it hits me: it’s not about the football. He’s trying to teach me something, to see if he’s any good at teaching. And I’m just blowing him off.
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re doing great. Just go back a little. I was confused by that last part.” And by “that last part” I mean the whole thing, but I don’t tell him that. Because the most gifted professor on this planet could explain football to me, and it would still not go over well. I just don’t care about football. But for Cohen’s sake, I’ll try.
This time around, I actually pay attention. I won’t say it magically becomes interesting, because everyone knows that’s not going to happen. But I start to get it a little better. I ask a lot of questions, because this terminology is not at all intuitive.
“The pocket?” I say a minute later, looking at Cohen. “What’s a pocket?”
Cohen pauses the video. “Here,” he says, pointing to the quarterback. “Where the quarterback starts.”
“Right.” This is so boring. So, so boring. But it’s cute to see Cohen so excited—that part is fun. “Okay, keep going.”
We don’t watch a full game—because heaven has mercy on me—but by the time Cohen deems me passably informed, I feel like we’ve watched twenty.
“See?” he says, shutting his laptop and stretching out his long legs. “Now you can talk to Jack about football.”
“I can,” I say. “Thank you.” I scoot off his bed and stand. My legs are both asleep.
“Sure,” he says, smiling at me, and he looks really happy.
He looks so happy, in fact, that I can’t help but smile back. “Well, I’m going to go learn how to flirt,” I say. “Are you coming?”
“Eh,” he says, waving his hand and opening his laptop again. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
I shrug. “Wish me luck.”
He salutes, and with that I leave his room.
20
Mina
“Flirting can’t be worse than football,” I say under my breath as I descend the stairs. “Flirting can’t be worse than football.”
