The Bread We Eat in Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page A

onto the float without disturbing the paper sea and reached up, straining, and finally just going for it. I’m a tall girl, see how high I jump. The sun came down in my arms, still warm from the gym lights and the after-hours HVAC. The Thunderbird came with it, all red cheeks and Crayola green wingspan and I looked down to see Coyote grinning up at me. He’d let me take it, if I wanted it. He’d let me wear it like a crown. But after a second of enjoying its weight, the deliciousness of its theft, I passed it down to him. It was his year. He’d earned it.
    We drove home through the January stars with the sun in the bed of my truck and three pregnant girls touching it with one hand each, holding it down, holding it still, holding it together.
    On game day we stabbed it with the Devil’s pitchfork and paraded our float around the stadium like conquering heroes. Like cowboys. Marmalade looked vaguely sad. By then Coyote was cleaning off blood in the locker room, getting ready for the second half, shaken, no girls around him and no steroid needles blossoming up from his friendly palm like a bouquet of peonies.
    The first half of the championship game hit us like a boulder falling from the sky. The Thunderbirds didn’t play for flash, but for short, sharp gains and an inexorable progression toward the end-zone. They didn’t cheer when they scored. They nodded to their coach and regrouped. They caught the flawless, seraphic passes Coyote fired off; they engulfed him when he tried to run as he’d always done. Our stands started out raucous and screaming and jumping up and down, cheering on our visibly pregnant cheerleading squad despite horrified protests form the Springfield side. Don’t you listen, Sarah Jane baby! Yelled Mr. Bollard. You look perfect! And she did, fists in the air, ponytail swinging.
    Halftime stood 14-7 Thunderbirds.
    I slipped into the locker room—by that time the place had become Devil central, girls and boys and players and cheerleaders and second chair marching band kids who weren’t needed til post-game all piled in together. Some of them giving pep talks which I did not listen to, some of them bandaging knees, some of them—well. Doing what always needs doing when Coyote’s around. Rome never saw a party like a Devil locker room.
    I walked right over to my boy and the blood vanished from his face just as soon as he saw me.
    “Don’t you try to look pretty for me,” I said.
    “Aw, Bunny, but you always look so nice for me.”
    I sat in his lap. He tucked his fingers between my thighs—where I clamped them, safe and still. “What’s going on out there?”
    Coyote drank his water down. “Don’t you worry, Bunny Rabbit. It has to go like this, or they won’t feel like they really won. Ain’t no good game since the first game that didn’t look lost at half time. It’s how the story goes. Can’t hold a game without it. The old fire just won’t come. If I just let that old Bird lose like it has to, well, everyone would get happy after, but they’d think it was pre-destined all along, no work went into it. You gotta make the story for them, so that when the game is done they’ll just…” Coyote smiled and his teeth gleamed. “Well, they’ll lose their minds I won it so good.”
    Coyote kissed me and bit my lip with those gleaming teeth. Blood came up and in our mouths it turned to fire. We drank it down and he ran out on that field, Devil red and Devil gold, and he ran like if he kept running he could escape the last thousand years. He ran like the field was his country. He ran like his bride was on the other end of all that grass and I guess she was. I guess we all were. Coyote gave the cherry to Justin Oster, who caught this pass that looked for all the world like the ball might have made it all the way to the Pacific if nobody stood in its way. But Justin did, and he caught it tight and perfect and the stadium shook with Devil pride.
    34-14. Rings all around, as if they’d all