One Shot Away (12 page)

Confused, her eyes go from Diggy's grin to Little Gino's, Bones's, Jimmy's, and Trevor's. Splotches of pink appear on her checks and her birthmark deepens. They are all waiting for her to slap his face or curse him out. She grabs a stack of stiff menus and heads to the back of the restaurant with Jimmy's parents following.

“What's up with that?” asks Jimmy.

“Nothing.” Diggy cracks his neck, one side to the other.

“That's not nothing,” says Jimmy.

“Come on, what's up with that, yo?” Bones shoves him. “You must be hitting that butter face.”

Diggy stiffens at the description and draws in a breath. “No, she just likes me.”

“I'm talking to the Dig Master General,” says Bones. “You're telling me she lip-locks you like you just got back from the war, and she just likes you?”

“That's what I'm saying.” He grins, hoping to end it.

“Jimmy, do you get this?” asks Bones. “He's got to be doing her.”

“That was some kiss,” says Trevor.

“Yo, Chief Sitting Bullshit, butt out,” snaps Diggy. “Your dog face never had a first kiss.”

“Chief?” asks Trevor. “I told you about that.” He pushes Diggy in the chest. Diggy could knee him in the balls, but takes it. He's not going to throw down here at Jimmy's party.

“Trevor, cool it,” says Jimmy. “Everyone, cool it.”

Diggy follows the guys to the table. Stone-faced, Jane flings the menus at the wrestlers, then strides through the swinging kitchen doors. Mrs. O'Shea plops her leather pocketbook on the table.

Mr. O'Shea removes his jacket, revealing a “Molly Pitcher Raceway” T-shirt with a dragster kicking up dust across his chest. He leans in next to Diggy. “I've got to give you credit,” he says in a whisper. “When I was your age, all I wanted was the prom queen type, and I never got any.”

“I'm not dating her,” Diggy exclaims. “And what's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, hooking up or whatever you call it.”

“Mr. O'Shea, with all due respect for you and everything, don't assume that about her, okay? Because it's not true.”

Trevor has taken off his denim jacket. All he's wearing is a black wifebeater. In December! What a first-class jerk. He's beyond pathetic.

“Trevor, you're as big as the Hulk,” says Mrs. O'Shea.

Diggy has to admit, Trevor is jacked to the max.

“Green teeth and all,” says Jimmy. They laugh.

Mr. O'Shea grabs Jimmy around the neck. “When I was eighteen, my father took me to a bar.”

“And they had no trouble finding one,” says Mrs. O'Shea.

Mr. O'Shea kisses her neck. She grabs his face, moves it away, then she kisses him on the mouth. Ricky sticks his finger in his mouth as if he's going to barf. But Diggy thinks it's kinda sweet. Last time he knew his parents touched was when they conceived him.

Diggy doesn't bother following the conversation. He's too busy watching for Jane, waiting for some eye contact. He owes her an apology. Yet he's not at all ready to announce that they hooked up.

Jane comes to the table holding her pen and order pad. “Technically, I'm not supposed to offer the special in its last fifteen minutes. And Trevor, technically, you're supposed to have on a shirt with sleeves.”

“He's got to show off his muscles.” Jimmy punches Trevor in the arm.

“But I'll let it slide,” says Jane.

Mr. O'Shea has his paper bag on the floor beneath his chair. He rummages around it and removes a can of beer, then a wine cooler for the Mrs.

The Early Bird has three choices: chicken parm, shrimp parm, and spaghetti and meatball; in parenthesis it says “one meatball.” Everyone goes for the chicken parm without the cheese, except for Roxanne. She orders the house salad that's not one of the specials and doesn't come with a soda.

Jane scribbles all of this on her pad.

“And garlic knots.” Mr. O'Shea smiles. “How's that sound?”

Everyone groans. “What are they,” asks Bones, “a billion calories each?”

Jane raises a menu to her face and mouths “bastard” to Diggy, then goes to the kitchen.

“I'd like to make a toast,” says Roxanne. “To Jimmy.” They raise their glasses. “To the sweetest guy. Happy Birthday.”

What a suck-ass toast. Diggy can't imagine Jane saying anything that lame. Everyone touches glasses.

Jimmy opens Roxanne's gift bag and pulls out a tiny teddy bear wearing a red wrestling singlet and headgear. Mrs. O'Shea goes on about it being “so, so cute.” Diggy thinks it's about the stupidest gift he's ever seen.

“The team is going to have a good year,” says Mr. O'Shea. “All we need is Trevor at one-seventy.” Everyone's eyes go to Trevor.

“Don't look at me,” he says. “You saw what happened to me at one-seventy.”

“But that's all that's open,” says Diggy.

“It's too heavy. I was one-fifty-two this morning.”

“You had Richie Armbrewster on his back, didn't you?” asks Diggy.

“I can make one-fifty-two without trying and you're starving yourself. There's something wrong with this picture.” Trevor looks around the table. “Besides, my chances are a lot better at one-fifty-two.”

“Are you saying you're going wrestle me off?” asks Diggy.

“Are you saying that, yo?” Bones leans forward.

“Hey, come on,” says Mrs. O'Shea. “Easy, let's leave it for the coach.” She puts her hand on Trevor's bare shoulder. “He's not saying that.”

“Well, then what is he saying?” Diggy wants an answer, now, in front of everyone. “Trevor, you couldn't even make varsity last year. You get lucky with that fireman's carry and now you're talking smack about taking my spot.” Diggy wants some support. The guys nod at him.

“It's like a brotherhood respect thing,” says Bones. “Diggy wrestled varsity at one-fifty-two last year. Right, yo?”

Hearing this makes Diggy smile inside.

“Besides,” says Bones, “Trevor, you're going to be awesome at one-seventy. You can eat all you want and keep packing on the muscle.”

Everyone waits for Trevor to say something. He stares at the tablecloth.

“You see,” says Diggy. “All the weight classes are set. I told you before, I have the one-fifty-two spot.”

“But you're more like one-sixty-five,” says Trevor.

“How do you know?” asks Diggy.

“How many days did you starve yourself?” asks Trevor.

“That's not your business.” Diggy hasn't eaten anything but two apples and baked chicken breasts for two days. Last night, Randy took him to their county club. They sat in the sauna until Diggy almost blacked out.

“You could wrestle one-seventy easier than I could,” says Trevor. “You'll be one-seventy when we leave here tonight.”

“Oh, snap,” says Gino.

“How can you talk about anything? Last season you were a scrub. Then you knee me in the face.” Diggy points his finger across the table. “You've got to earn your spot. You wrestle like somebody doing a bad robot.” Diggy stares defiantly at Trevor. “Am I right?” No one says anything. “You better start eating, because I'm not giving up my weight class.”

Bones whispers a chant, “Wrestle-off, wrestle-off,” and the guys join in. “Wrestle-off, wrestle-off.”

“Cut it,” says Mr. O'Shea.

“Trevor, you definitely have gotten bigger,” says Mrs. O'Shea. “You could probably handle one-seventy.”

“You might as well start eating,” Diggy says. “No one is going to survive a wrestle-off against me.”

“I used to have a gym in my basement,” says Trevor, ignoring Diggy. “I couldn't bring the weights when we moved.”

“How is that working out?” asks Mrs. O'Shea. “I see that they're doing work on the motel.”

“I'm getting used to it,” says Trevor.

Jane brings two loaves of hot bread, a basket of garlic knots, and a dish of butter pats.

“Get the butter off the table,” yells Jimmy.

Jane picks it up.

“He can't resist butter,” says Mrs. O'Shea.

The garlic smells so good. Diggy grabs a hunk of bread.

Mr. O'Shea shoves garlic knots inside his cheeks. “My imitation of Jimmy getting his wisdom teeth pulled.” He frowns. “Ma, it hurts. Ma, it stings.”

Jimmy punches his father in the arm.

Mr. O'Shea laughs so hard he spits the garlic knots into his napkin.

“Honey, act respectable.” Mrs. O'Shea pats her husband's hand.

Everyone is ha-ha-ing their asses off. Everyone except Diggy. He's watching Trevor, burning his eyes into his skull, hoping he realizes a wrestle-off is a major disrespect. A bitch slap. Trevor's announcing,
I'm going to take your weight class
.

Jane sets the food on a stand and serves the steaming dishes of pasta. Diggy only has half a chicken cutlet on his plate. The guys have two each. Jane gives him a defiant stare and whispers, “Choke on it.”

They begin hoovering up their meals as if they haven't eaten in a week, which in Diggy's case is almost true. He shouldn't be eating, but he can't stop. Besides, it's a special occasion.

Jane moves around the table, filling water glasses. She's good at her job. Diggy's never had a job, not even something part time. It has always been wrestling.

When Diggy comes up for air from his chicken, Jane is holding the kitchen door open, pointing toward the rear of the pizza parlor. His phone buzzes with a text.

Text 7:
Meet me—bathrooms

Jane leaves the kitchen and walks by without glancing at Diggy or the table. Ricky is left holding up his empty soda glass. Diggy counts to ten, then gets up. “Gotta drain,” he says.

She's standing next to the ladies' room. “Must be my new cologne?”

“That was stupid.”

“You're just like all the rest of the cocksuckers. Why did I think you'd be different?” Hurt simmers in her eyes.

“You're making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Oh, am I? You've been at my house like every night this week.”

Shame rises from his half-full stomach.

“In my bed.”

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“You don't have to be sorry,” she says. “I know it's not all your fault. I know I'm
Jane the Stain
.” A single tear rolls down her cheek.

“I never had a real girlfriend,” he says. “I'm not good at it. I didn't know if we were, you know, really going out.”

“You mean, or just hooking up?”

He searches for a plausible excuse. “When you kissed me in front of the guys, I was, you know, like, shocked, that's all. It had nothing to do with you.”

“Really?”

“I swear.”

She wipes her eyes with her palms. “Shut up and kiss me.”

He puts his arms around her and looks into her eyes. Maybe he could date her. The guys would have to get used to it. The bathroom door swings open. The light shines across Jane's face and all he can see is her purple birthmark.

T
ODAY IS THE FIRST WRESTLE-OFF OF THE SEASON.
D
IGGY
M
ASTERS
vs. Trevor Crow. It's going to be a war. Diggy sucked weight to 156. Four pounds to go. A couple of Ex-Lax and that will be gone too. His stomach is tearing him apart, begging for food. If he loses today … Diggy smacks himself in the head. He can't lose. There is no losing.

Jimmy is on the center of the mat working with Trevor, showing him how to bend from his hips. Trevor takes his stance in front of Jimmy, lowers himself by bending his knees. He shoots and wraps his arms around Jimmy, lifting him off the mat.

“Jim, can I talk to you?” asks Diggy.

“Sure.” Jimmy follows Diggy to the pull-up bars.

“What are you doing?”

A bead of sweat rolls from Jimmy's crew cut. “You mean with Trevor?”

“No, with Pocahontas.”

“I was showing him—”

Diggy tries to laugh. “Believe me, nothing's going to make any difference. I'm not going to go easy on him.”

“He doesn't expect you to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You should do the team a favor and move up,” says Jimmy.

“How am I going to move up? You've got one-sixty.”

“You'll have a better chance at winning at one-seventy than Trevor. He's never been on varsity.”

“Jimmy, come off it. You know my record at one-fifty-two. I'm just about unbeatable. Why should I risk going to one-seventy?”