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“jock” and a poetry student…that’s all I really know—he eventually got his PhD in modern poetry from Indiana University.)
    He’s dead…He’s dead…He’s gone forever…
    Thoughts like that can still crush me like boulders.
    At one point, we visited an athletic facility with this glass case at the front that contained a giant picture of my dad—giant black hair bursting from his head—crushing a tennis ball. He was a national champion in tennis. The big-knuckled running backs coach barked, “You’re a legacy, Felton. Wouldn’t it be excellent to grow the Reinstein legend right here where it started?”
    I’m not going to Northwestern , I thought. The Reinstein legend includes dangling from your neck in a garage.
    My poor dad. My poor grandpa. Poor Jerri. My poor little brother.
    Sad Felton too. That Sunday was the last time I saw Aleah for nine months.

Chapter 8
    University of Sexpot
    Over the course of the next month, I barely thought about recruiting (although recruiters thought about me—I got dozens of texts a day and Jerri screamed and yanked the phone out of the wall once because the constant ringing apparently made studying accounting very difficult).
    There was homecoming, which Grandpa Stan and Andrew came up for. I didn’t go to the dance because Aleah had another damn recital that night in Chicago, plus she was acting weird, plus I’d never been to a school dance and I didn’t feel like treading those waters, even though Cody said I might be named homecoming king (I wasn’t even on homecoming court), plus Andrew wanted to go to Steve’s Pizza with Bony Emily, his best friend, and I like pizza, so I went with them and they talked about stuff I didn’t know anything about, but I ate a lot so I was happy…plus…whatever. We destroyed Prairie du Chien in the game. Killed. I killed them, which apparently made Grandpa Stan weird out.
    Sunday morning, sitting at Country Kitchen, Grandpa Stan stared at me. “You doing okay, my friend?” he asked.
    I stared back. Andrew stared at the side of my head. Lots of staring. “Sure. Pretty great.”
    â€œYou ever feel sad? Maybe it’s hard that Andrew moved to live with me?”
    I stared some more. Andrew’s stare made my ear feel itchy. “Me?”
    â€œYou? Sad?” Grandpa said.
    â€œSad. Sure. Who doesn’t feel sad?”
    â€œI don’t,” Andrew said.
    A year and a half earlier, Andrew had refused to come into the house. He’d burned all his clothes and shaved his head. He lived like a caveman in the freaking garden. “I witnessed your total breakdown,” I said, turning to him. Staring at him.
    â€œThat was then. This is now,” Andrew said.
    â€œBack to you, Felton. You all right?” Grandpa asked.
    â€œI…I think so?” I said.
    â€œYou sure loved stomping on your opponents in the game the other night.”
    â€œThat’s my job,” I said. “Destroy.”
    â€œI’d like you to think about that some,” Grandpa said.
    â€œThink?” I asked.
    â€œMeditate on it,” he said.
    â€œHow do I do that?” I asked.
    â€œThink. We’ll talk some more when you come down for the holidays,” he said.
    â€œTovi’s coming down for winter break too,” Andrew said.
    At that moment, my Farmers Breakfast was delivered in a sizzling cast iron skillet! Delicious.
    We had a nice weekend.
    ***
    And then another conference game and then three playoff games in two weeks, which culminated in the state championship game against Ashwaubenon, which was a struggle into the third quarter before Cody, Karpinski, and Kirk Johnson blew it open with passing, so we won big.
    For three days after the game, it felt like the whole school celebrated, the whole town really. There were banners on Main Street and we all rode on top of a fire truck and the marching band