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have agreed to have MacArthur fifteen years later to prove I was a fluke.)
    Probably there were some really rocky times when I was younger—though I don’t remember them too clearly—because Mom is forever apologizing for letting me go through what she did, and when she’s really mad at Dad, she says if she’d had a lick of sense, she’d have left him while he was changing back into his shitkicker boots and jeans between their wedding and the reception. Mom’s got some mouth on her. He didn’t ever actually beat me or anything like that, but he’s always roughed me up pretty good when I don’t do what he wants. Either with his open hand on the back of my head or with words. But actually I think her life with him has been worse than mine. At least he still fights with me. He’s long since quit communicating with Mom at all—which is a lot worse in my book—and my guess is she’ll be on the first train out of here the day after MacArthur’s high school graduation, in aboutseventeen long years. He’s just a better father than he is a husband, I guess. That’s a little like saying I’m a better artist than a ballet dancer. I’m not much of either.
    Wrestling’s my sport, which is another reason Dad and I butt heads. From early November, right after football season, until March, three seconds after my last match at state (where Petey is waiting at mat side with a six-pack of corn dogs and a giant peanut butter milk shake), I’m in a constant state of nutritional deprivation, living on a diet of nuts and leaves and pine sodas (a glass of water with a toothpick). I drop from 185 or so at the end of football, to 160, where I was the runner-up state champ last year and where I intend to be the Man this year. It ain’t easy. See, I have to wrestle my mother all the way—who thinks it’s criminal to drop a tenth of my body weight so I can roll around in a sweaty heap for nine minutes with another idiot whose mother doesn’t have the good sense to make him eat right either—and with my father, who constantly reminds me of his heroics at Oklahoma and calls me a wus every time I come home without my opponent’s cauliflower ear in my workout bag. God, Dad can just take the life out of wrestling for me sometimes. Guess I should have known enough to stay away from his sport,though there’s something to be said for the fantasy of going one better than he did—of wrestling number one at Oklahoma.
    I set the Montana state high school record for the quickest pin during my first match this year—a little more than three seconds—with a lightning takedown that left my opponent aghast at the laws of physics that allowed his body to be so swiftly in motion and then just as swiftly at rest on his shoulder blades. But Dad wanted to know why I didn’t string the kid out awhile to give myself some practice. Gimme a break, Cecil B.
    I have only a semester of high school left. Part of me wants to wait Dad out, but another part wants to put him in his place so maybe he’ll go a little easier on MacArthur. You know, give Dad the experience of humility the Bible says is such a big deal. If I know myself, that second part will win out.
     
    “I think I’ve found my career,” I say at the dinner table. Family Rule 605 says all table conversation will be solemn: talk of world events, school issues, anything informative that the entire family can participate in. Dad’s look tells me so far this qualifies. “We had a television screenwriter visit English class today,” I continue. “He showed us how to set up a teleplay and toldus a little about the kind of money you can make. Then he had us break up into small groups and brainstorm ideas for different kinds of series or newsmagazine programs or whatever.”
    “That’s interesting, dear, but do you think it’s something you could seriously get involved in? I mean, television screenwriting—”
    Dad waves his hand over the table. “Don’t discourage him, Maggie. I think