Crash

“‘Want to hold him?’ He handed me the turtle, and I took off on my bike. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. I steered with one hand and pedaled like a demon up the sidewalk. Then I quick-stopped, put the turtle on its back in the middle of the sidewalk, and called, ‘Ha-ha, tricked ya!’ I took off.”

Crash wants desperately to hurt Penn’s feelings—he hates it that Penn is so cheerful and hates it even more that such a dorky kid likes him—but he can’t bring himself to injure the boy. He steals the turtle but immediately sets it down for Penn to retrieve to demonstrate his power within the relationship. It doesn’t matter: Nothing he does really gets under Penn’s skin. It drives him crazy.

“I stormed up to the garage, over to the flower garden, out to the street, back to him. I took a deep breath. I got up in his face. I stared. I dared him to blink first. I wanted to hate him, I wanted to stay mad, but I was having problems.”

Penn is incapable of playing by Crash’s rules and frustrates Crash’s every effort to torment him. Penn doesn’t understand that he’s supposed to be hurt and offended. Even worse, Penn persists in befriending Crash despite everything. Penn is likable and innocent, which confuses Crash and provokes him to anger as he rejects that in Penn what he wishes he could be at home.

“I was six years old and had never lost a race in my life. That’s why I was so surprised when I reached out to push off the cool blue metal of the mailbox to see his hand there, too […] That night, even after I closed my eyes, I kept seeing our hands hit the mailbox together.”

Penn represents a challenge and a puzzle Crash doesn’t know how to solve. Penn’s attitude doesn’t fit into Crash’s world; all of Crash’s tough-guy moves don’t work on him. As Crash overcompensates for his absent parents through athleticism and aggression, Penn’s approach contrasts Crash’s way of life that leaves a stark impression on him.

“How pitiful could you get? He had only one toy to his name—and what was worse, the dumb porkroll didn’t even know how bad off he was.”

Penn’s lack of material possessions leads Crash to believe he finally has an advantage over Penn. Crash’s competitive nature and insecurities are illustrated as he diminishes Penn’s status to comfort himself in the face of the Webb family’s happiness and contentment.

“‘To answer your question, no, I wouldn’t say we’re poor. Would you?’ ‘Looks like it to me,’ I said. ‘Your kid hardly has any toys, and you only have one floor on your house.’ I decided to be nice and not tell them it looked like a garage. More smiles. ‘No,’ said the father, ‘we’re not poor at all. In fact, I would say in a lot of ways we’re rich.’ Could’ve fooled me. Maybe they have a limo out back, I thought.”

The Webbs understand that riches aren’t really counted in the number of possessions a person has but in the amount of love and aliveness in their life. This attitude informs Penn’s reserve of goodwill and positivity. Crash, though, is completely at a loss when visiting a family whose views on material culture differ so completely from those of everyone else he knows, highlighting the absence of depth in his own life.

“For some reason it bugs me, how alike Webb and my sister are. Especially with nature stuff. They go walking his turtle together. It shows you how immature he is, hanging out with a fifth grader. And they’re both perky.”

The same happiness in which Penn basks also affects Crash’s sister, Abby, who has become friends with Penn. Crash’s projection highlights his desire to feel like a child again, even as his definition of coolness forbids him from taking an innocent interest in nature, science, and the other subjects permitted only to, in his mind, immature children.

“Abby raised her arms and swung around with a grin as big as a hoagie roll. ‘We all ate a meal together!’ I headed off. The living room was getting dark. I twirled my finger. ‘Whoopee. Just like a real family.’”

As the novel progresses, it becomes clear that the Webbs are the happier family, and the hard-working, work prioritizing Coogans are struggling. Crash takes the resulting frustrations out on the football field, while Abby fights back, trying to unite her family. Her friendship with the eccentric but cheerful Penn creates a link between the two families; the goodness of the one thereby leaks over into the dysfunction of the other.

“All last year we tormented Webb. Mostly little stuff, like messing with his locker or his clothes or his books. Like something would be missing, then mysteriously show up the next day or week. Or he would wonder why everybody was pinching him till he discovered the PINCH ME sign on the back of his shirt. He’s so dumb. He never figures out who’s doing it. He never gets mad at us. In fact, he never gets mad at anybody. Day after day, his chippy chirpy perky self. What a moron.”

Crash has grown into a ranking middle-school athlete whose malice stems from a sense of entitlement. In his world, Penn is fair play for socially elite students. Crash’s easy contempt for Penn, though, glosses over the fact that Penn never loses his temper and stays above the hazing. Ironically, while trying to assert his social and physical dominance over Penn, Crash hides from himself that he isn’t as elite and popular as he wants to believe.

“It’s like they’ve just barely been making it through the day and they finally get home and one little word from us—sometimes it’s just a question, like ‘Do you know where my Frisbee is?’—and bam, they’re crushed. Sag city. Sometimes I wish we could turn the day upside down so that their main time at home would be in the morning, before they get all worn out. I’ll tell you, at the end of a day it doesn’t take much to crush a parent.”

Crash’s description of his parents takes on a tone of a parent speaking of their child, flipping the traditional dynamic. Crash understands he must accommodate for his parents and illustrates the emotional neglect he experiences in a nonchalant tone. Though he attempts to downplay his parents’ absence, Crash’s wish to turn the day upside down is a rare moment of vulnerability amid displays of aggression and arrogance.

“Somebody was cooking somewhere. Whenever I smell cooking like that, it makes me want to go right into that house and eat along with them. But I can never tell which house it’s coming from. Only one thing for sure: it’s not coming from my house.”

Crash yearns for family connection, but his parents are too busy. To him, cooking means mealtime with loved ones, an experience he rarely has. The center of his life isn’t football, but the gaping hole left by absentee parents. He assumes that the aromas of good food aren’t coming from his own house, where such meals, and the closeness they imply, rarely happen.

“And Scooter would tell us stories. Not cuddie-your-teddy-bear stories, but screamer stories, tremble stories, sink-your-teeth-into-your-teddy-bear stories. My parents know what’s going on, so they don’t call the police when they hear their kids screaming bloody murder. And I mean to tell you, when he says he’s in the jungle on a moonless night or in the back alleys of old Hong Kong or in a salt swamp infested with sea crocs—well, you are there with him. And when he tells you to check the vine you feel on your leg, and you look and see it’s not a vine at all but a thirty-foot anaconda already coiled three times around your leg—well, you gulp, and you shriek and you might even grab onto your little sister for dear life.”

Scooter provides the family connection that Crash and Abby need. He’s there for them, knows how to entertain them, and gives them a sense of belonging. As Crash describes Scooter’s storytelling skills, he demonstrates a childlike wonder that he rarely shows otherwise. Scooter allows Crash to be a kid again through his interactions, while also revealing that Crash is emotionally younger than his age due to his parents’ absence.

“On the football field I don’t run around people, I run through them. Life is football.”

Crash neatly sums up his football philosophy. Whatever he wants, he ploughs through obstacles to get it. There’s nothing subtle about his approach; he either wins or gets knocked down. He has yet to learn other approaches that don’t alienate the people he wants to win over. Crash’s simple and straightforward thoughts about football stand in stark contrast to his feelings off the field, at home, where he is rarely able to achieve the same results.

“I was remembering how the big-time jocks in high school and college get all the girls they want, and I was thinking, Hey, it’s true, and I wanted to say, I really like how you hardly use any makeup. But I didn’t know how to say it, at least with words. But my hand knew how to do it; my hand was reaching out to say it, to touch that perfect unmade-up face, the most beautiful face I ever saw…My fingertips never reached her cheek. She slapped them away.”

Crash attempts to apply his football philosophy to his first crush, lacking the self-awareness to understand how he crosses boundaries in doing so. His body, in reaching out to his crush, reveals a moment of honesty under layers of boasting and insecurities. Crash’s attempt to get close to Jane is entitled, however, and illustrates his assumption that because he gets what he wants on the football field, it will translate elsewhere.

“Like every year, the Christmas tree stands in a corner of the living room. Like every year, all it has on it are white lights and teddy bears. You believe it? ‘When you have a home of your own, you can decorate your tree any way you want,’ my mother says, every year. I got news for her. I’m gonna be outta here a lot quicker than she thinks. One minute after I graduate from high school I’ll be in my own apartment, me and Mike. And the lights on our tree will be all different colors, and there’ll be all kinds of balls and tons of tinsel, you’ll think the tree was silver.”

Crash is unable to connect with the Coogan family Christmas tree filled with teddy bears and white lights. The tree serves as a metaphor for the Coogans themselves. By all appearances, the Coogans are a successful, happy group, like that of a bunch of teddy bears, but hidden from sight is the missing element of real love and caring. Scooter’s hospitalization serves to aggravate Crash’s views of his family further, as Crash resents his mother’s lack of inclusion when decorating the Christmas tree. Where Scooter includes Crash and Abby in his stories, Crash does not feel the same from his parents, reflected in their holiday traditions.

“Christmas is the day after tomorrow. I woke up thinking: You didn’t buy him a present yet. That means you don’t expect him to live. Then that same thought rolled over and showed me what was beneath it: Every minute that you don’t get him a present, he’s a minute closer to dying. You’re killing him.”

Scared that his beloved granddad may die from the stroke he’s suffered—and feeling guilty about tackling him during a family football game—Crash fixates on the idea that buying a gift will save Scooter’s life. The stroke reminds Crash that, in matters relating to his family, he often has no power to fix problems. He must cast about for anything that relieves his anxiety to self-soothe.

“Mike got a Jetwater Uzi and a Walkman, which I didn’t get. He got a TV, but my old one is bigger, 21 inches to 18 inches for him, plus he doesn’t have Auto Sleep Off or Wake Up on his remote, like I do. He got three tapes to my two, but my two cost more than his three.”

Following his parents’ desire to be materially better than others, Crash focuses on his presents and how they compete with his friend’s presents. Though Crash is unfulfilled emotionally, he focuses on the fact that he can boast that he is materially satisfied in comparison to his friends. This helps him ignore his own insecurities and allows him to feel as though he maintains the upper hand between himself and Mike, even in circumstances such as Christmas presents.

“I don’t know why, but I just stood there for a minute. The leaves were long gone from the trees. Some of the bare branches were forked and jagged. They looked like black lightning against a sky smeared with raspberry jam.”

After Scooter’s illness advances, Crash begins to widen his perception of the world beyond his limited self-centered view. He sees things he never noticed before, such as his sister’s efforts to protect a mouse in their backyard, Scooter’s attempts to speak again, Jane’s condolences about Scooter’s illness, and bare trees against a dusk sky. Quietly, he begins to learn how to open his heart to others and slowly let the world in.

“Crash Coogan. The Crash Man. Suddenly the name didn’t seem to fit exactly. I had always thought my name and me were the same thing. Now there was a crack of daylight between them, like my shell was coming loose. It was scary.”

Scooter’s stroke hits Crash hard, and he begins to change. No longer does he think it’s cool to be mean to other people. His self-image shifts, and the light of a new vista shines through, one where he can see himself as a different person. It’s a major transformation that takes courage to accept.

“How would you like it if a truck came to spray poison on you just because somebody decided to call you a weed?”

Abby argues with her father that weeds are plants by another name and deserve to live. Her words refer, though, to more than just weeds: They’re a comment about anyone or anything that gets rejected just because it’s different or perceived as a problem. Her insights shed light on how she and Crash feel their parents see them: as a problem to take care of instead of children to foster and grow.

“Even though it doesn’t look it, track is kind of like football. Sure, there’s no ball and no shoulder pads, and nothing in your way except the string across the finish line. But you can demolish a kid just as much by beating him in a race as by plowing him under on a football field.”

Crash reveals his immaturity again as he views the competition in track in terms of demolition of other people. He gains his confidence from being larger and faster than his peers and seeks to validate his value through sports. As he communicates his confidence, Crash demonstrates the areas of growth his character still requires.

“The thought came to me: they would have liked each other, Scooter and Henry Wilhide Webb III. Two storytellers. Both from the great flat open spaces, one a prairie of grass, one of water. Both came to watch when no one else was there.”

Penn’s great-grandfather reminds Crash of Scooter, his own grandfather. In this moment of reflection, Crash realizes that he and Penn have a lot in common. In ostracizing Penn, Crash has not been able to see the similarities between them before and demonstrates growth in finally embracing the good Penn has to offer.

“A voice closer to me said, ‘Good luck.’ It was Webb, sticking out his dorky hand, smiling that old dorky smile of his. No button. I shook his hand, and it occurred to me that because he was always eating my dust, the dumb fishcake had never won a real race and probably didn’t know how. And now there wasn’t time. ‘Don’t forget to lean,’ I told him. His face went blank.”

Ever the gentleman, and ever wishing to be Crash’s friend, Penn offers his hand at the start of the pivotal footrace between them. Shifting suddenly from bully to friend, Crash blurts out good advice, as if, somewhere deep inside, he wants Penn to have a chance. Already, Crash is pivoting away from his old cruelty and toward his new generosity.

“[…] it felt good, not being behind, not being ahead, but being even […]”

Crash lets Penn win the race so he can run in the Penn Relays while his great-grandfather, a former contestant, watches and beams. Crash has discovered a better way to live, as friends being great together. It’s a whole new world in which he can gift his abilities to others so that they, in turn, can give of themselves to those they love.