Motive

Trent opened his eyes to a clear sky and a rising sun. He held a football in his hands, brand new, the smell of leather stuck to his fingers.

He rose from his bed. On the windowsill, there were footballs. His floor, too, littered with footballs. His stereo alarm played the news, and the news was of football. Trent dressed into a sweatshirt and baggy pants. He put on a visor. He went to the bathroom to shit, and, as he shit, he read a football magazine.

He flushed and went to the kitchen where his mother, Sara, cooked a four-course breakfast of eggs and bacon, French toast and strawberry crepes. Sara was a pretty woman, or used to be, until Trent's dad, Tom, beat the shit out of her. Tom was an asshole, everyone agreed, and yet assholes are everywhere, and assholes always get their way. So Sara used concealer to hide her bruises.

"Cooking a four-course breakfast, mom?" Trent asked as he sat down.

"Trent!" Sara said. "All your favorites, of course!"

"Did Dad beat you up last night?"

"No. Probably tonight, though."

"He's such an asshole."

"I know, but they get their way."

Sara set baskets of food down for a feast of one; it was clearly too much for any one person, and yet Trent, being a football player, scarfed every bit.

Sara sat with Trent and her cup of coffee.

"So, you have football practice tonight?" she said.

"Uh-huh."

"And then a football game on Friday."

"Yeah."

Trent ate a spoonful of scrambled eggs, chased with two forks of French toast.

He ate so fast. Sara watched him with mechanical observation.

"So," Sara said. "What do you think of the big football game?"

Trent's dad Tom walked in. Tom was an asshole, really rich, good-looking, and mean to Sara and Trent. He basically thought his shit never stank, even though in the end Trent was going to do something that brought a lot of shame to the family, and change Tom's standing in the community forever. Tom wore suits and he had a dimpled chin. He had three mistresses, all bitchy blondes who wanted to marry him.

"Trent," Tom said.

"Sir," Trent said.

"Honey," Sara said.

"So Trent," Tom said. "Big football game Friday."

"I was just saying that --" Sara said.

Tom waved her off curtly. "Please." Tom stared through Sara, and Sara stood up and withdrew to the sink. Tom now straddled the chair next to Trent. He pulled Trent close with an arm, as if his son were a conspirator.

"Whaddya say we leave the old lady behind this Saturday and go up to campus for the big football game?" Tom said. "I'll show you around, you can meet the boys. You're going to be a fourth generation Tate man, you need to start knowing the lay of the land."

Since Trent was going to rape Sidney Ashford a night before the big football game Friday, and then he was going to run away in shame, Trent knew he would never be a Tate man, fourth generation or otherwise. Of course, Tom didn't know that, and Tom wasn't supposed to know, until after Trent had run away and Trent called to tell Tom he was an asshole and that things would never be the same now that he'd raped Sidney.

"Sure, Dad," Trent said.

"Honey," Tom said to Sara, his arm still wrapped around his son. "We're going to Tate this weekend to get Trent here a lay of the land."

"For the big football game?" Sara asked.

"That's right," Tom said. "Football."

"Football," Trent said.

"Football!" exclaimed Sara.

Tom left for work and Sara retired to the laundry room to wash socks. Trent gathered his books and opened the front to a red-haired, freckled kid in the yard, a plain red ballcap covering his tufts of curls, a football spinning in and out of his hands.

"Hey Trent!"

"Hey Jimmy."

"Wanna toss around the football?"

"Gotta go to school Jimmy."

"Cause I got this football."

"You oughta go to school Jimmy."

"Nah, can't. My grandma's gonna die here in about an hour."

"Shit Jimmy. I'm sorry."
"S'okay. I'm supposed remember my Nana's cookies, though."

"What kind are they?"

Jimmy thought hard for a second. "You know I don't know. I think I'm supposed to look in her coffin and smell the scent of them and --" Jimmy snapped his fingers and pointed. "Chocolate chip. Peanut butter chocolate chip."

"I think I'd like peanut butter cookies."

"Nana made some great ones."

"But my dad is strict about no peanut butter anything."

"Your dad's an asshole."

"He is," Trent said. "But pretty quick here the joke's gonna be on him."