Receivers

Thursday nights, half the country gathered in their living rooms to watch Chad Dylan Scott shake blonde hair out of his eyes, curse his football teammates, and strip down to his Hail Mary boxers. His abs were like the ridges in an ice tray, rigid, but a jostle and a shake would be sure to make something wet. Dena Brown, twelve and sprouting, watched with her momma from their apartment on the end of the city where the rent was still cheap. “I hate sports,” her momma said one Thursday, “but I like this show.”

By sixteen, breasts had sprung up from Dena’s chest like sunflowers from dirt. She had to tell a boy “No” for the first time. She stepped out of his Cadillac and marched away from his headlights in heels a size too big. Later, inside the apartment, she found her momma watching TV in the easy chair. “You’re late,” she said. “and go put my shoes back where you got them.”

That season, Chad Dylan Scott began his fifth year of high school, second officially, and fell in love with Angel Hearting, the butt-chinned Baptist who waved pompoms as he ass-ed, damn-ed, and hell-ed his team to victory on the football field. Angel could hell as well as Chad. She had the same blue eyes and hair sleek enough to line the coffins her father sold. When she appeared on screen, the dubbed-in studio audience applauded.

Dena graduated two years later. No one clapped for her except her teary-eyed momma. “That’s my baby,” she said, “all my dreams come to bear.” Dena was five feet even, brown like polished wood, and she wore her high school graduation gown like a coatrack in a blanket. She wasn’t big enough for her own dreams, let alone her momma’s.

The finale aired. Dena and her momma watched together, mother and daughter still bonding over fake football and abs, touchdown perfect.

Chad Dylan Scott graduated from fictional high school with two state championships; a prom king crown, sash, the whole tacky get up; one pregnancy scare he never found out about since Angel kept that one in her silk-lined pocket; six fistfights, which made for six come to Jesus moments, glory and hallelujah; around two hundred beers, at least once per episode; a DUI; and a pity date for Lorraine Woodhouse, a wheelchair bound spitfire who spoke four lines in a single episode during season three. Scott went out in a blitz, confetti over the football field, him on the shoulders of his teammates, wide receivers, mostly extras. The screen went black, rolling credits, the end of the scrimmages, the offsides, the hell Scott charged toward Angel.

“That’s done,” said Dena’s momma. She had not yet taken off her work attire, all black with her security guard badge. The evening news started, wildfires and politics. They watched for a moment before turning it off to sit alone together.

Chad Dylan Scott took to doing made-for-TV movies after that, the kind where he could be the boyfriend, the husband, the killer, the man of drool, sweat, and dreams.

Dena watched other shows. She started college, tried beer, hated beer, and dated one boyfriend after another. The older she got the more damns she found in the back of her throat, the pit of her stomach. Nothing quite as soft or as sweet as a Thursday night spent with her momma, thirty-minutes, an abundance of Scotts, all interchangeable, in a prime-time peace that surpassed understanding.