Record 25: Malibu, Saturday, July 5th, 2014. Day.
in the coffee bean today. it’s the afternoon. i don’t feel well. there’s a crumbling that starts in my forehead. it spreads to the back of my skull, and charges down my spine like lightning. i don’t want to lose again. last game was a wrecked train. 42-6. and it was cuz of me. coach said. i remember this and feel upset.
today is another day.
i drink my venti iced white mocha latte and do my stats homework that i don’t understand. i think about anything but tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. tomorrow’s game. i get a brainfreeze and clench my eyelids tight and remember that since I worked out so hard in the sun during football practice i should probably be drinking water to hydrate myself so I don’t get dehydrated.
i wait in line. i ask for a cup of water and the barista gives it to me with ice.
when i get back to my table, and my back is hurting even more now since i took a hit in the gut from rocko, our tackle, i see rocko and some other football brahs from my high school.
“haha. yo. i knew this was your shit trav.”
“yeah. totally. my name’s on my homework.”
i look down to make sure. yeah. it’s there. travis robinson.
the brahs laugh.
i laugh with the brahs.
i drink my water to hydrate myself.
“so are you guys gonna get a drink or nah?” i ask.
“nah.” says one of the not-rocko guys. i don’t know his name, even though i should.
“we’re gonna head out to zuma.” rocko says. “we gotta show you something pretty dope.”
the pch had breezy air that i could feel stinging my cheeks since rocko had all the windows in the range rover down and a kanye remix blasting so no one could talk. only yell. one of rocko’s brahs, who’s another football player too i just don’t know his name, jabs me in my ribs and shows me an instagram of malibu high’s quarterback with a knife buried in his chest, splayed out horizontally on blazing beach sand.
i hand the phone back to the brah, saying:
today is another day.
everyone slams the range rover doors except for me. i close my door gently and me and the brahs carry plastic beach pails and shovels and the brahs dawdle on iphones and ecigs and we drift down the curved walkway to the beach. we take off our shoes on the sand. rocko and some of the brahs keep saying:
“it’s chill dude, it’s chill.” giggling too like they were happy since our team was now forreal going to win the next game win the next game win the next game win the next game.
“trav?” my eyes are on rocko. he and the brahs. standing over the qb’s body on the beach sand.
a milf walks by carrying a wine cooler and a baby.
“scuse me boys.” she says, traipsing past us and the body.
rocko and the brahs stare at her ass and slap each other’s hands. rocko kneels. over the body.
“should i take it out?” he asks, pointing to the knife.
“yeah bro. that’s fucking evidence.” says a brah.
“wait.” i say, totally knowing the whole truth:
today is another day.
“shouldn’t you wear gloves or something?” i ask and the brahs squint with afternoon sun in their eyes. “so they can’t get your fingerprints.”
“oh fuck.” says rocko.
“what?” i ask.
“i didn’t wear gloves when i stabbed him.” he says.
“yo you shouldn’t admit to that shit.” says a brah, to rocko, and rocko agrees, and goes home to get gloves.
the cooking mittens rocko brought warmed my hands as me and the brahs dug a hole with plastic toy shovels. it took three hours to dig a hole that was big and deep enough to fit malibu high’s qb. me and the brahs and rocko buried the qb standing upright, with his head protruding from the sand. i look in the qb’s still-open eyes and think about tomorrow’s game.
“shouldn’t we cover up his face?” a brah asks. “so families can’t see him?”
rocko agrees and the sun starts to set. one brah lifts a plastic beach pail from the sand and chuckles and places the pail on the qb’s head.
“nice.” says rocko.
“what if somebody finds him?” i ask.
rocko and the brahs glare at me. i feel embarrassed. i feel upset.
today is another day. it’s turning into night.
“we wore gloves bro.” rocko says.
i get out of the range rover in the coffee bean parking lot. i climb into my black lexus car with a head full of static and remember that i haven’t finished my stats homework. i close the door and look at the sky.
the sun is gone. the night is black, and i can see some stars.
tomorrow is another day.