Crazy Dangerous (15 page)
The talking and shouting got louder and louder, the guys congratulating themselves on their brilliant victories.
Finally, Mark said, “You guys, you guys.” And immediately everyone got quieter. Everyone listened when Mark spoke. “You guys,” he said, “enjoy the day, but don’t get ahead of yourselves. This was just a warm-up for next week, remember.”
Everyone around the table nodded. “That’s right, that’s right.”
“Hamilton and Ondaga are nothing,” said Justin.
“They’re not nothing,” said Mark. “But they’re not Empire, and they’re definitely not Cole.”
Those were the big meets every year. Sawnee against Empire and Cole. The first was scheduled for next Saturday. Only a week away.
“Empire and Cole,” said Justin. “They need to learn a lesson, no question.”
“Cole is nothing,” said Nathan.
“Cole has the Hammer,” Mark said. The Hammer was the trophy for the county championship. “They went to state.”
“Yeah, ’cause they cheated,” said Nathan with a sneer. “You know they did, Mark. If we’d had the guts to put up a challenge . . .”
“If the principal and the school board had backed us,” said Justin.
“If the
town
had backed us!” said Nathan.
This conversation had been going on for a year now. There were rumors that some of the Cole guys had used performance-enhancing drugs. Mark had led a delegation to ask our principal to challenge their victory, but the principal had declined, saying he would assume Cole won fair and square unless there was solid evidence they hadn’t. He didn’t want there to be bad blood between the schools.
“Whatever,” said Mark. “Come the big meet, we have to show them all what we are. Don’t forget that.”
I looked around the table. Everyone was quiet, nodding. See, Mark was not just the hero of the day. He was the hero of the team, the team leader. You could tell it just by looking at him. He had this—I don’t know what the word is—this
presence
about him. Like a movie star or something. It was partly that he ran so fast and won so much. But partly it was just the way he sat and looked so sure of himself. Whatever it was, it was like there was an aura around him that made him stand out from the rest of us, that made everyone stop talking and listen whenever he had something to say. Even when other people talked, the other guys sort of glanced over at Mark to see what he thought, to see if he approved of what was being said, if he agreed or disagreed. As I watched him, I couldn’t help but wonder to myself:
What would it be like? To be
that
guy, you know? To be the guy everyone looked up to. To have everyone want to know what
you
thought, what
you
wanted .
. .
As I biked home that afternoon, I sort of fell to daydreaming about it. I daydreamed that people looked at me that way, that everyone in school asked themselves and one another: “What does Sam think about it? Where does Sam stand on that issue?” I thought,
Maybe if I got on the track team, I would eventually become the center of everything like that .
. .
But I doubted it. It was just a stupid daydream. No matter how much of a celebrity I was at the moment, I knew it was temporary. I didn’t have Mark’s aura and I never would. I wasn’t tall or handsome or sure of myself like he was. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever caring one way or the other what I thought about anything.
Technically, of course, I was still grounded, so when I got home I had to go back to cleaning out the garage. If you’ve ever read the story of Hercules and the Augean stables, that’s what it was like—although I don’t remember Hercules being all sore from getting beaten up when he did that, so maybe it was easier for him. Anyway, I shoved the last box into the attic just before dinnertime. After dinner, because of the whole being-grounded thing, I stayed home with nothing much to do. I watched some TV, then hauled my battered flesh upstairs and fooled around on my computer. I tried to find Joe for a chat, but he was out. I tried to reach Cal, another friend of mine, but he was out too. It made me feel pretty alone, but then, that’s what being grounded is like, as you may know.
But then something cool happened. I was still sort of hanging at the computer, cleaning up my tunes, leaving a couple of messages on other people’s walls, whatever, when a chat message came up.
Z-GIRL: Wuzzup, Sam?
I sort of caught my breath. Z-girl. Her picture came along with the message. I could hardly believe it. I typed back:
ME: Zoe?
ZOE: Hey.
ME: (trying to sound cool and collected) Hey. Zup?
ZOE: Hanging. Babysitting my brother. You?
ME: Same. Well, no brother. But just hanging. Still grounded cuz of the fight.
ZOE: Stinx 2 b U.
ME: No doubt. Cud be worse tho. Didn’t c u at the meet.
ZOE: Didn’t go.
ME: Mark ruled. Won two events and the relay. 50 in the 400.
ZOE: Cool.
I narrowed my eyes. Seemed like sort of a bland response, you know? When you’re chatting online, of course, you can’t hear a person’s tone of voice, so sometimes it’s hard to know what they’re feeling exactly. But I would’ve thought the news of Mark’s track heroics would’ve gotten something out of Zoe more like “Cool!” or maybe even “Cool!!!!”
ME: You don’t sound too impressed.
There was a pause. I have to admit I sort of watched the screen in suspense. Whenever I saw Zoe with Mark and the other track guys, she always seemed really at ease, really friendly with them. I guess I always figured if Zoe wasn’t already Mark’s girlfriend, she would be eventually. Was I wrong?
Now the answer came back.
ZOE: I’m kind of off Mark.
My reaction to this was, let’s say, complicated. I mean, I won’t lie: It made me kind of glad to think that Zoe wasn’t going out with Mark. That she was free to go out with . . . someone else, say, if the situation should arise. On the other hand, I didn’t know how anyone as smart and nice as Zoe could be off anyone as cool and great as Mark. I mean, Mark was my friend now too, and I didn’t want to think that Zoe had done something wrong to him. Like I said: complicated. I started typing again.
ME: What, did you guys have a fite or something?
ZOE: No, no. Nothing like that.
ME: Mark’s a good guy, no?
This was me being loyal to Mark—but also trying to find out more about what was going on.
ZOE: I guess. He can be kind of arrogant sometimes.
I sat back from the computer, surprised. Really surprised. Nathan and Justin—they always struck me as a little arrogant, I have to admit. A little snide, you know. Sneering at other people, other teams. But Mark? I didn’t think of him as arrogant at all. I mean, yeah, he was sure of himself. Why wouldn’t he be? Dude wins three events, runs a fifty in the 400? I mean, come on. It gives him the right to swagger a little bit, doesn’t it? I thought Zoe was being unfair and I felt like I ought to defend Mark.
ME: He’s the man, thazzall. Everyone looks up to him. Wants to know what he thinks. Wants him to like them. Maybe that makes him sure of himself, but not arrogant.
There was hardly a pause at all, then Zoe wrote back:
ZOE: Jeff Winger’s the same way.
My mouth actually dropped open as I read that.
ME: ???????
ZOE: It’s true. Think about it.
ME:
Jeff Winger’s the same way as Mark???
That’s what I was about to type. But I hesitated with my fingers hovering above the keyboard.
Because I did think about it. And after a second or two, I could sort of understand what Zoe was saying. I mean, if you thought about it a certain way, all the things I said about Mark Sales were true of Jeff Winger too. Ed P. and Harry Mac looked up to Jeff the way the track guys looked up to Mark. They listened when Jeff talked—and when they talked, they glanced over at him to see what he thought about it. Same kind of thing.
But that didn’t make Jeff Winger and Mark the same kind of people. It just meant they were both leaders, in their own way. But consider who they led and what they led them to do. Jeff was a thug leader who led thugs. Hanging out in some abandoned barn, teaching one another how to break into places and steal things. Mark was a good guy who led other good people. Training and working out and winning meets.
So why was Zoe saying all this mean stuff about Mark? As I thought about it, I glanced over at the window. I saw my reflection on the dark pane: me and my still-banged-up face, sitting at the computer, chatting with Zoe. Which suddenly struck me as pretty amazing. Not that long ago, I could hardly work up the courage to talk to her, and now here I was chatting back and forth like we were old friends.
I put my hands on the keyboard, about to type a response.
But before I could, my cell phone rang. A number appeared on the readout, but I didn’t recognize it.
I typed SB for stand by. Picked up the phone.
“Yo,” I said.
A voice came over in a whisper: “Sam Hopkins.”
I was so surprised my mouth opened for a long time before I could get a word out. Then I said, “Jennifer?”
“I’m here.”
“What? Where?”
“Here,” she whispered. “Outside.”
I shook my head, confused. “Outside what?”
“Outside your window.”
“What?”
“You have to come down. Right now.”
I turned in my chair to the window. I saw my own reflection again, holding the phone, staring, stunned.
I heard Jennifer’s weird whisper come over the line to me like the voice of a ghost:
“Help me, Sam Hopkins. Help me.”
As I sat there stunned into silence, holding the cell phone to my ear, words appeared on the chat screen.
ZOE: Sam?
I glanced back to the monitor. Zoe. I typed SB again.
Still holding the phone, I got up and went to the window. I pressed my face close to the glass, but I couldn’t really see much below. So I opened the window and stuck my head out. I felt the night air wash over my face, cold and damp.
My window looks out on the little grass alley that runs along the side of my house, the place with the bike port and the willow tree where I’d had my conversation with Jennifer a little over a week ago. The sky was cloudy and there was no moonshine, but the light from downstairs spilled out of the house windows. By that glow I could make out the shape of the bike port just below me and even the witch-hair shape of the willow branches off to the side.
I didn’t see anyone down there.
I was about to pull my head back in and shut the window.
“Sam Hopkins?”
I started at the sound and banged my head against the windowsill.
“Ow!” I clutched the back of my head, rubbing at the pain.
And again, from outside: “Sam Hopkins.”
“Jennifer?” I called back softly.
