The Education of a Poker Player by James McManus

Author:James McManus
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BOA Editions Ltd.

After dinner the littler kids clear the table and Gramma lights thirteen candles, using the last match to start a new Kent. Kevin’s already singing as he carries the cake from the kitchen: “. . . ’cause ya look like a monkey, and ya smell like one too.” While everyone else sings the right words, he yells, “Don’t forget to make a wish!”

After considering a hi-fi, I wish for a second-base feel off of Laurie, then blow them all out with one breath. I doubt I’ll get even to first before the summer after eighth, when some of the less fast St. Joan girls start to put out, if they ever do. I’ve prayed plenty of times for Laurie to let me kiss her, but a feel isn’t something you’d pray for. Not just because it would be sacrilegious—because it might majorly backfire.

“So what’d ya wish for?” says Kevin.

I wink and say, “I forget,” which gives me a better idea: maybe Margie will kiss me this summer. My voice might stop cracking by then, and she’ll see how much taller I am.

My mom cuts the cake—white with chocolate frosting—then slides the lopsided cubes onto pink paper plates. Sheila’s passing out the plates and plastic forks while Gramma and Kevin pile the presents in front of me. He holds up what’s obviously a football wrapped in green paper. “I predict he likes this one the best.” From the sizes and shapes of the others, it’s clear I ain’t getting a hi-fi.

From my mom, a crew-neck blue sweater, adult M. From my dad, shaving cream and a razor I wish I needed more than I do, though shaving every day with fresh blades is supposed to make the hairs come in thicker. From “The Kids,” though no doubt bought by our mom, The Night They Burned Down the Mountain, which I’ve already read, and The Edge of Tomorrow. Thank you, you’re welcome, etc., but Dr. Tom Dooley, you’re boring! The football’s from Great Uncle Jack, an official—and slippery—Wilson NCAA model with white stripes on either side of the laces. No card, though. No money.

“Short look-in on three,” I tell Kevin, finding the laces, “hut-hut-hut.” I hit him in the belly for a couple of yards as he dashes into the living room.

“Ditka drags him across the goal line,” he yells, stiff-arming a tackler and diving into the couch, “for a touchdown!”

My mom and Gramma moan, shake their heads while my dad and I clap. Ellen claps too and says, “Yay!”

Bouncing back up, Kevin yells, “As the Bears become the ’63 champs!”

“Rah rah, go team,” Ellen says, with a fake cheerful smile. So f. her.

From Gramma Betsy, Grampa Tom, and Uncle Thomas, it looks like I’m getting more books. Taped to the wrapping is a card with a black cat electrified with fear of a “13” made of five lightning bolts. Inside it says, “Good Luck on Your Birthday” above their three signatures—and a one, a two, and a ten-dollar bill. Oh my God.

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