Clouds, he thought, moved about the same up here. The sky seemed deeper blue than back home, which he remembered as almost white with sunshine and dust. Dark shapes moved overhead, talking at one another, shaking their heads disappointed. Lawrence couldn’t say how long he’d been on his back, staring at the afternoon sky.
“Jackson,” one of the overhead blobs said, its voice deep and surrounding. “You about done down there, pussy?”
A smaller dark splotch floated into Lawrence’s vision and held a cylinder to his face. Cold, sugary water ran between his teeth and around his cheeks. He swallowed, feeling slightly better. He could almost, he thought, remember where he was and where home was. Racking his brain for the information made his chest spike with pain.
The largest blob was speaking again, and the voice wrapped around Lawrence’s mind and vibrated the very turf beneath him.
“Just ’cause Mitch is out doesn’t mean we don’t have other options. You hear me Jackson?”
Lawrence attempted a nod. He thought he managed one, but the sky blob had already disappeared from view.
He finally made it. A true freshman playing for the University of ______. Starting at eighteen years old. Insanity.
Jesse Lawrence had been as horrified as anyone on the sidelines or in the 100K-plus-seat stadium when he saw Cole Haskle’s leg bend that way. So much so, he hadn’t quite understood what was happening when he was pushed out onto the field.
The ________s had been up by seventeen with just a couple minutes left in the game, so he couldn’t have screwed it up if he tried. Even still, he completed a pass to enormous cheers that brought him out of the fog. He had been a starter as a freshman if just for a few seconds.
The prospect that Cole would be out more than those few plays hadn’t occurred to Lawrence until later. “With a break that bad?” People assumed he was joking. When it dawned on him that he was the QB, he felt a rush of power and terror so sudden he steadied himself against a chair with white knuckles to keep from collapsing.
Even by Monday, after most of the coaching staff and players acknowledged the elephant in the room, he still hadn’t spoken with Coach _______________ about the unexpected promotion. Practice continued as usual, except with him in the driver’s seat. He executed well and felt, for the first time in a long time, comfortable. Like when he screwed up, people might just say “Good try, kiddo!” The thought almost made him cry real tears in his dorm room.
But then Wednesday arrived and he still hadn’t seen the head coach. Coach ___, the offensive coordinator had, of course, spoken with him, yelled at him during practice, given him pointers, knew his name. Wasn’t it customary for a new quarterback, Lawrence thought, to be congratulated or at least acknowledged by the person in charge? Back home, every girlfriend’s dad he ever met gave him a talking to. Was the team not the coach’s baby? He craved that talk. Somehow needed it.
Outside his dorm, which was catty-corner from the practice field, was an old and faded plaque. A girl had died there. Suicide, years ago. Meadow was her name. Looking at the plaque, the name and years, made Lawrence feel small. Like he would be forgotten.
“You hearin’ me, Jackson?”
The clouds spoke again. Singing. They knew more and saw more than Lawrence could. Over the horizon. They even knew, perhaps, his real name. His chest burned with glory. In rapture, he couldn’t breathe.
“Jackson, you a pussy or what?”
Lawrence recognized the word. Less used at home, apparently more here. Pussy. Maybe he should start using it more. He tried to respond.
“Shit,” the cloud above sang. “Is there something wrong here? Is this kid dying?”
The other cloud sang at the largest that it could be a heart attack. That strokes came with drooping faces, which Jackson apparently didn’t have. That he couldn’t possibly be dehydrated given that sweet water, Glacier Freeze, sprayed, unasked for and continuously, into his mouth.
“You good, Jackson?
Since the announcement, static took up residence inside Lawrence’s skull. If there had been dissent, he couldn’t hear it.
In high school, the only kid who could ever break through his offensive line during practice was Micha. Micha stood six-foot-five and weighed at least 300 pounds. Lawrence had been laid out by the guy six times total. The prospect of that happening again was enough to inspire Lawrence to never get sacked ever. Thankfully, no one from their district was both as large and mobile as Micha. This was college ball, however.
James exploded through Lawrence’s line, which collapsed instantly. The massive shoulder pad made contact with his chest. His own pads slid up around his neck. Though he wouldn’t, possibly couldn’t know after the fact, already Lawrence couldn’t breathe. He felt a huge arm by his helmet. The face and arm blocked out the sun and world. His back hit the ground, then a second and worse Micha collapsed on top of him.
The pain emanated from his inside, his chest and lungs and heart. Pain, however, represented only a fraction of what he felt. In the moment, and for several minutes after, it was as though the world was collapsing. Like hope didn’t exist. He couldn’t breathe. Like everything and everyone he cared for as well as all he ever dreamed was doomed.
“Hey kid, how many fingers am I holding up,” the greatest cloud said.
Lawrence did something with his hands. The blobs above exchanged worried glances.
“Jackson,” the cloud said, “do you recognize me? You know who I am?”
He thought despite the pain. He needed to know, though he couldn’t breathe. The world was ending but salvation awaited.
“Are you God?”
For the first time, the cloud gained a human face. It smiled and the other blobs followed suit, laughing, gaining form around their master.
“Jackson, for the next sixteen weeks, you better believe it.”
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