“I didn’t know. I had no idea. Jesus. I about swallowed my fork. Mr. Mizerak points at me with a steak knife and says, ‘Son, you can finish high school, but by God, you’ll marry this girl, and then I’m gonna teach you how to drive that new John Deere.’ I said, ‘Yes, sir,’ ate my pie, and walked out the door.”

“Never went back?”

“Nope.”

The red from the exit sign outlines the angles of his face and neck, and lights up the ends of his hair. A shower drips in the murky depths of the locker room. In the gym, the band is still playing.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” he says. “I never got a chance to tell you that.”

“She wasn’t just my friend,” I tell him. “She was a lot more than that.”

Junior nods. “You really miss her,” he says. “It’s like you miss yourself.”

I sigh. “I guess so. I can’t really feel anything. It’s like all the switches got turned off.”

“I know how to do that,” he says.

“Is that why you started drinking?” I ask.

He asks me if I remember that game against Minnechaug where he sacked their quarterback twice and then messed up his hand and they taped him up and put him back in the game. “Broke two bones in my hand,” he says. “But I only missed one play.”

“You didn’t used to drink. You were the only one who didn’t drink because you were—”

“I know—” He smashes the locker to his right with his elbow. “Jesus Christ. You think I don’t remember that?”

“Don’t do that. You’ll break another bone.”

“So what? I don’t even care.”

“Junior, I don’t know what the right thing to do is. But—you can’t just leave her out there all alone by the trophy case.”

“Oh, shit,” he moans. He swallows, wipes his hands on his tux, and stands up. “I wish I had a beer right now.”

“Go talk to her. She usually has two.”

“Really?” This interests him. “Okay,” he says. “If she’s still out there, I’ll talk to her, okay? But she’s probably gone.” I reach up, and he pulls me by the hand. There’s so much strength in his arm I practically float up.