Bee Walsh - Manning Up

Please visit our website, www.west44books.com .

For a free color catalog of all our high-quality books, call toll free 1-800-542-2595 or fax 1-877-542-2596.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Walsh, Bee.

Title: Manning up / Bee Walsh.

Description: New York : West 44, 2020. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382677 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382684 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383346 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Childrens poetry, American. | Childrens poetry, English. | English poetry.

Classification: LCC PS586.3 W374 2020 |

DDC 811.60809282--dc23

First Edition

Published in 2020 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

Copyright 2020 Enslow Publishing LLC

Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Seth Hughes

Photo credits: cover (helmet) studiogstock/iStock/Thinkstock; cover (texture) -slav-/iStock/Thinkstock.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

Printed in the United States of America

CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

Coach saysI need to keepmy head downwhen I rushthe defensive end.Running back.Head down.Eyes up.Take himdown.Coach saysI need to liftmy feet.Coach saysI need to focus.Coach saysI have to beready for Friday.I have to beready. Today at practice,Coach asks mewhere I see myselfin five years.Five years. Here, I guess. No son, where do you want to be? Here, I guess. Jack, you need to get your eyes on the prize.The prize.What isthe prize? Id give anythingto be ableto put oninvisible clotheslike that wizard kidin that book.Walk aroundand no onewould lookat me.No onewould pat meon the shoulderand ask meabout the game.No onewould ask mehow my motheris holding up.I could doanythingand no onewould say anythingabout it. Mom had mewhen she wasmy agenow.Seventeen.She had Bethtwo years later.She saidfrom the momentshe metour dadwhen she was 12in the same townwe live in nowthat she wasgonna love himfor the restof her life.When Dad diedeight years afterI was born, I heard Mom cryand make soundsI didnt knowpeople could make.Beth and I donttalk about itbut I hopeevery daythat she doesntremember.But it neverstopped Momfrom puttingdinner on the table.Or puttingherself throughnight schoolto becomea paralegal.These days,she helps peoplewho are here illegallyfigure outtheir rightsand howtheyre gonnafeed their kids,too. Its hardgrowing upin the same townthat yourparents did,and their parentsbefore them.Everyoneknowseverythingabout you.Texasis funny like that.Everyone knowsif you misschurch on Sunday.Everyone remembersyour fathers funeral.Its hard, sometimes,when everyonewants you togo on to better thingsand all youwant to dois stay. I was oneof the firstguys in mygradewhose voicegot deeperand facegot hairy.I was tallerthan everyonemy ageby theeighth grade.And runningsprintson the fieldwith thevarsity teamwhen I shouldhave beenwith JV. All the guyssay Imake it look easy.Me and the QBthrowingthe ballhalfwayacross the field.Easy isntgetting up earlyevery morningto run five miles.Easy isntthree times a dayin the weight room.Easy isnthating myselfevery nightat dinnerbecauseI dont wantMom or Bethto worryabout whyI dont eat. I cant evenbelieve thatBeth and Iare related.She amazes mewith all the crapshe gets into.Last year,she decidedshe wantedto be one ofthose peoplewho build housesor schoolsor something.Now,she makes medrive herall over the place,wearing herbright blue shirt,hammer in hand. When she was 10,she told Momand meat Christmasshe wantedto be a doctorjust like Dad.And thatswhen I knewshe didnt rememberhim at all. You know howsometimesafter someone has died,you sort offill in the detailsof their lifeto make their storybetter?I think thats whatMom did afterDad died.Sort of told usthe storiesas she wanted toremember them.Not that Dad wasnta really good man,just that he didntlive long enoughto have that manystories to tell. Mom would tell usabout their firstdate,how he swept heroff her feet.Or how muchhe loved helpinghis patients.In reality,Dad dated Momsbest friendfor a yearbefore they started dating.And he wasnta doctorhe did billingfor a localdoctors office.And fixed carson the weekend.I like the storiesthat Mom tells us.So I dont correct herwhen she fillsin the details. When I was nine,I heard Mom cryingin her bedroomthrough the wallof the roomI shared with Beth.We were supposedto be getting ourown rooms.But after Dad died,it was likeeverythingin the housefroze.I knowthat she criedoftenbecause I wouldwake up earlyand seeher red face.But that nightI heard her,and all I wantedwas for Bethnot to wake up. I think Igrew upthat night.I neverwanted tomakeMom crylike that.And I neverwanted Bethto knowanyonecould everbe that sad. I dont knowif any 17-year-old guyisnormal.Or maybe thereis no such thing.But whatever it is,it cant feel like this.Or at leasteveryone elsedoesnt look likethey feel this way. I literallycannot stay awakeduring chemistry.Its not likeIm not goodat it.I study. I get Asand sometimesBs.But I just dont careabout negativelycharged ions.I just wantto get ontothe fieldand run.I need to feelmy body undermy padsunderthe sun.Where nothingcan touch me. Comfort, Texas.They makeTV showsabout townslike mine.Fourth-generationfamilies.The menstill wearingtheir championshipfootball rings.Girls pushingstrollers downthe same streetstheir momspushed them down.The whole towncloses downand crams intothe bleachersat the high schoolon Friday nightsto watch theComfort Bobcats. The same waywe allpack intothe pewsof the churches.I think most guysmy ageeither cant waitto get outand not be liketheir parents.Or they will proposeto their probablyalready pregnantgirlfriendsat promand buy the housenext totheir parents.I think thatIm somewherein the middle.I wouldnthave chosen this town,but I dont hate itnow that Im here. Someone puta note in my lockerbefore homeroom.The handwritinglooked kinda likeBeths or Moms,but there werehearts over the is.The writersaid they werelooking forwardto watching me playFriday nightagainst our rivals.They said theyd beholding a signwith my number on it19.They saidI should keepan eye out for themrooting for me. I am too nervousto look for a girlholding a signwith my number.Instead,I take downevery guywho gets in my wayand wecrushthe other teamuntil we win.I cant talkto girls.Not girlswho hold signs.Not girls who leave notes.Not girlswho want to talk to me. Mom never asks medirectlyif Im dating anyone.But she always findswaysto almost ask ifIm dating anyone. Do you have any special plansthis weekend?The cheerleaders really seem to befansof yours. I saw in the paperthe movie theaterdowntownis offeringtwo-for-one deals onSunday eveningtickets,if youre interested.I hate brushing her off,but I hate even morethat she has to askat all.