Page 12 of Make the Play
“A little,” Jason laughs. Though he doesn’t seem to be laughing at Emerson, the little knot of tension in his chest doesn’t fade. He’s never been able to relax around other people, not even his own family. The last person he felt comfortable enough around to just be himself was his mom and she’s been gone so long he can hardly remember what it felt like not to hide. “So where are you from, Emerson?”
“Pennsylvania,” Emerson answers, turning his eyes out the passenger window, a far safer thing to look at than the man sitting beside him with the mile-wide smile and chin dimple. It is deeply inconvenient to notice how big and handsome Jason is, while also having the urge to jump out of the moving car to avoid feeling awkward around him because he’s a stranger. Not that Emerson thinks he’d be less awkward if he wasn’t a stranger. There are people he’s known for years he’s still awkward around, but that’s kind of just his default at this point. It’s why Emerson doesn’t have friends back home, and why he really never dates, ever. Most of the time he retreats into his books and avoids social interactions, not wanting to be perceived too deeply. It’s easier to keep people at a distance, or avoid them entirely. Then he won’t have to spend all his time exhausted by the effort of trying to fit in.
The other glaring issue in all of this is that Jason probably isn't gay or queer. The label wouldn’t matter to Emerson, especially not since even if he was, there’s no way he would be interested in Emerson anyway.
“Can’t say I’ve ever been there,” Jason continues. Emerson wonders if he always talks this much. “Actually, I don’t know anything about Pennsylvania. What’s it like there? Is there anything you miss? Did you like it?”
There are too many questions for him to answer them all, but they make Emerson think about how flat the landscape where he grew up compared to the mountains that border Santa Leon. He thinks about the city full of skyscrapers and cars and buses he was raised in, about the sweltering humidity and bugs. He thinks about his bedroom that shared a wall with his cousin Landon who was the same age as Emerson and spent his entire life resenting that Emerson came to live with them, and made sure Emerson knew it. About the lack of privacy and constant overstimulation from his music and his friends and his teasing. He thinks about the way his aunt and uncle’s apartment had never felt like home. How nothing had felt like home since the day his mom died.
“No,” Emerson answers quietly, not even sure which question he’s answering. All of them, perhaps.
Just because Jason is making small talk on their drive, doesn’t mean he’s actually trying to get to know Emerson. He’s probably just being polite. Emerson has to remind himself not to be too honest. People don’t usually want that. Like when they ask how you are and you’re supposed to say fine or good, even when it's not true.
“I’ll make sure and scratch it off my travel list,” Jason laughs, making a show of scratching something off an imaginary list midair. “Speaking of travel lists. You know where I wanted to go really bad as a kid?”
Emerson has no idea if this is a rhetorical question but he answers anyway just to be safe. “No.”
“The Hershey chocolate factory. I guess that makes me a liar because it’s in Pennsylvania, which means at some point I did want to go there. I was convinced it was like the chocolate factory in Willy Wonka, but like without the Oompa-loompas and stuff. Or that creepy tunnel during the boat ride.” Jason shudders dramatically. “That tunnel gave me nightmares. I did like that room with edible flowers. I always wondered what it would taste like. Did you ever want to eat one of those?”
Unsure how they went from small talk about Emerson’s place of origin to eating Willy Wonka flowers, Emerson can do nothing but turn and stare at Jason while trying to make sense of the giant, rambling man beside him. He knows he’s not that great at understanding most people, but this is beyond that. He can’t comprehend how someone who looks like Jason—so big and handsome, a quintessential jock—is also so nice to him for seemingly no reason. Well, there’s got to be a reason. There’s always a reason. It occurs to Emerson that maybe someone at the school put him up to it.
The silence stretches on, but Emerson finds himself unable to contribute to the conversation. He has no idea what to say and is very preoccupied by trying to figure out what Jason wants from him, so he continues to stare.
Seemingly unaffected by Emerson’s intense eye contact and inability to uphold his side of the conversation, Jason continues to talk. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you weren’t also freaked out by that tunnel.”
“I was not a fan of the movie,” Emerson offers, surprised at his admission.
“Was it the tunnel? It was the tunnel, right?”
“No.” Emerson how honest he should be. “I, uh—I don’t like chocolate, so the idea of an entire factory full of it makes me gag.”
Thinking about it at all makes Emerson shudder with a visceral revulsion. The only thing worse than solid chocolate is liquid chocolate. The smell and texture alone is such a sensory ick.
“Emerson, you’re killing me,” Jason groans. “First you don’t like donuts and now you don’t like chocolate? Are you even human?”
“They tell me I am,” Emerson sighs, waiting for Jason to say something unkind in response. His cousin and the rest of his teammates on the football team never had a shortage of barbs about Emerson’s preferences, his personality, or anything about him really. He’d learned early on not to let people know anything about him, trying to bury himself in his books to avoid being perceived and ridiculed. Not that it really helped much. Especially not when he had the tendency to hyperfocus on whatever books he was reading to the point he zoned out around other people or info-dumped on them, both of which made him an easier target. He’d hoped becoming an English teacher might offer a cover. If books became his job, it might be safer, more expected from others, for him to be so intense about them.
To Emerson’s surprise, there’s no unkind remark, only the echoing sound of Jason’s laugh. It makes his cheeks burn and his chest ache. He should be used to being laughed at but if he’s learned anything, it’s that sometimes there’s no getting used to a world that isn’t designed for you. Maybe no matter how hard he tries, he’s always going to stand out in all the wrong ways.
“You’re funny, Emerson.”
The words stop Emerson’s train of thought. The warmth in his face doesn’t fade but his heart slows a beat. Oh. Jason was laughing at him, but notathim. That’s…new.
A lump forms in Emerson’s throat, a rush of heat spreading through his body. He has no idea how to respond to Jason’s words. Thankfully, he’s spared from having to when someone behind lays on their horn, clearly unhappy with Jason not gunning it through the intersection.
“I’m going, I’m going,” Jason mutters to himself. “Honestly, that’s the one thing I hate about drivers here, impatient fuckers.”
While Jason continues to talk about the local drivers, Emerson’s attention wanders to their surroundings. Street names and cardinal directions might be impossible for him to follow, but he’s pretty decent at memorizing random landmarks. Or he tries to be, anyway. It’s a necessary skill when considering how often he’s gotten lost, even in places he’s been before. He doesn’t want that to happen here, not when he doesn’t even have anyone he could call to help him. At least back home his uncle would come get him, albeit with a lecture that always left Emerson feeling full of shame and embarrassment.
Doing his best to try and memorize the landmarks, he tracks them all trying to gauge how far away they might be from his apartment. So far he’s been too anxious about things while on the bus to really focus on the surroundings, but with Jason now silent and the inside of the truck blissfully quiet and cool, he’s able to focus his attention on things that might help him orient his location if he ever does go the wrong way.
Leaning his elbow on the door, he rests his chin on his upturned palm while his eyes track the surroundings. The problem for Emerson is that until he has some kind of frame of reference for something—visiting a location, making up a story about what might’ve gone on there, his brain refuses to hold on to the information. It’d gotten him in so much trouble at school and from his aunt and uncle who seemed determined to believe the worst of Emerson, that he just didn’t pay attention. He tries to pay attention now, but all his brain keeps doing is focusing on the sound of Jason’s breathing and wondering if he’s going to speak again, and if so what might he ask Emerson? He tries to rehearse what he might say if Jason asks him a basic question about work or moving, so he’ll be prepared just in case.
To his relief, Jason doesn’t engage him in any more uncomfortable small talk. Rather, he offers the exact information that Emerson desires but hasn't yet mustered up the ability to verbalize.
“I’m not sure how used to the area you are yet, but it’s just a couple miles further to your place,” Jason says. Whether he can tell Emerson is antsy or this is just another example of his propensity to talk, Emerson has no idea, but it’s appreciated either way. “Luckily the traffic isn’t too bad this time of day. If it were even half an hour earlier, we’d be crawling right now. Which reminds me, I wanted to warn you. Don’t ever leave between five-thirty and six, unless you just wanna be sitting on Via Princesa for forty minutes with all the people who commute inland trying to get back home. Don’t even get me started on what the traffic does to the bus being on time. You’re gonna wanna leave right on time or stay later past your classes, maybe do a little grading on campus so you don’t have to take it home.”
“How do you know I’ll have grading?” Emerson asks, realizing he never did tell him that he was the new teacher. Then again, given how personable Jason is there’s no shortage of people who could’ve told Jason all about him. He wonders what they said. He tried to tell them as little about himself as possible during his interviews. And the only people he’s met besides the principal and vice principal is the nice older woman who works in the front office, though Emerson can’t remember her name.
