Cryer's Cross (7 page)

“I thought he was deaf,” Marlena says.

“He was,” Kendall says. “Nico figured he was faking it.”

“When did you eat your lunch?”

Kendall smiles. “There’s a big oak tree in the back corner of their farm. His older sister and brothers built a tree house in it and left it once they grew up. We’d go up there and eat lunch and play all day. He didn’t mind playing house with me, or acting in all the dumb little plays I always wrote. It was like we were meant to be together forever.”

Marlena looks like she’s about to cry again.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

Kendall takes a deep breath, lets it out, and smiles shakily. She leans forward in her chair, puts her chin in her hands. “What am I going to do without him? He’s my best friend. It’s like half of my soul was ripped out.”

Hector quietly eases out of his chair and leaves the girls to talk.

Almost as if Marlena turned a switch, Kendall finds herself spilling everything—her fears, her sadness. How upsetting it was when people insinuated that Nico had something to do with Tiffany’s disappearance. She even tells Marlena about her own secret problem. Her obsessive-compulsive disorder, and how this stress is making it harder than ever for her brain to settle down. How she’s hoping so much for soccer to help her cope, but now there’s that worry too. How this buddy system thing is going to ruin everything. She can’t even go for a run when she wants to. And how scared she is, wondering who’s next to disappear.

It’s after nine when Mrs. Fletcher returns for Kendall. She comes in for a minute, carrying a plastic container of something, and sets it on the counter. Says a quick sympathetic hello to Marlena and makes small talk with Marlena’s parents in the kitchen. Kendall, feeling a little vulnerable, gives Marlena a gentle hug good-bye and goes outside, where Hector stands, leaning against the railing
of the big wraparound porch, watching Jacián.

“Thanks, Hector,” she says, “for making me talk about Nico. That really made me feel better.”

Hector nods and smiles. “It always hurts, but it helps, too,” he says. “I’m glad you’re not so stubborn, like some.”

Kendall watches Jacián. He’s moving more slowly now. She can only imagine how exhausted he must be. When he slips on dewy grass, he flops to the ground and lies there on his back, chest heaving. “I guess maybe we all have different ways of working things out,” she says. “Sometimes they even make sense.”

Hector squeezes her hand. “Thank you for coming. Will we see you again tomorrow, then? Marlena won’t be in school for a couple days. Not until she can get around on one crutch, or until her shoulder is well enough to handle a second one.”

Kendall nods. “Sure, I’ll be glad to come by. Maybe I can just. . . .” She pauses as she realizes that it’ll be just her and Jacián tomorrow for their first day back.

“Come home with Jacián after soccer, maybe?”

Mrs. Fletcher comes out and closes the door behind her. “Ready, Kendall?”

Kendall squeezes Hector’s arm. “Maybe. We’ll see.” She turns to her mother. “Yep. Ready.”

They wave good-bye, and are home four minutes later.

Nico’s driveway looks dark and lonely.

She doesn’t want to get up today.

Everything is about to be very different.

She thinks about faking sick, but she knows her mother will just force her out of bed. “I highly regret this day in advance,” she says to the ceiling. Finally she hoists herself out of bed and gets ready for school. She halfheartedly packs her soccer clothes and wonders if she’s actually already played the last game of her high school career.

When Jacián pulls up in one of Hector’s ranch trucks, Kendall shoves the rest of her toast into her mouth. She chews quickly and swallows, grabs her stuff—then sets it all down again because her OCD won’t let her leave the
house without brushing her teeth. Jacián comes to the door and knocks.

She spits out the toothpaste, rinses her mouth, and wipes it dry, then grabs her books and runs to the door. He’s standing in her way.

“Hi,” she says.

He nods curtly. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He strides over to the pickup and opens her door for her. Stands there impatiently as she stares him down, Kendall wondering what his possible motive could be.

“You don’t need to do that,” Kendall says. “I can handle getting a door myself.”

“My grandfather will ask you if I opened the door for you.” He goes to the driver’s side. “I’m just trying to make the old man happy.”

“I’ll tell him yes. From now on.”

“Fine.”

He starts the truck and turns around in the driveway, navigating the bumps carefully. Kendall glances at him and slumps against her door, hugging her book bag. She stares out the window as he turns onto the gravel road. She looks over her family’s farm, and she hates this day. Hates everything about it. She sees her father up on the big combine as Jacián’s truck picks up speed. Her father doesn’t see her. He’s trying desperately to catch up for
all the time he spent searching for Nico, she knows. She won’t see much of him until after harvest is over.

They drive in silence. Jacián pulls into the dirt parking area next to the school building. He parks and turns off the ignition and sits there. Kendall looks at him, and then back at her lap.

“You talked to Coach,” she says.

He nods. Doesn’t look at her.

“What did he say about the team?”

He pulls the keys from the ignition. Opens his door. “He said he’ll let us know what’s going to happen at practice today.” He clears his throat and gets out of the truck. Heads for the door to the school and goes inside.

Kendall gets out too and shuts the door. Watches the students coming to school in groups now. And then she feels her chest tighten. She remembers all of her rituals—the wastebasket, the markers, the curtains, straightening the desks. Her heart drops and she hurries inside, sees that some of the students are already sitting down. Fear stabs through her. This can’t happen.

Everything is thrown off, and she can’t let anybody see how weird she is. Anxiously she glances at the wastebasket and nudges it with her foot until it’s properly turned. The markers are askew so she saunters over to them as if she’s going to draw a silly picture on the white board like some of the other students do. Instead she bumps the tray and knocks
them onto the floor. She picks them up again and puts them in their proper order. And then she goes over to the windows where other students mingle, whispering about how weird it is to be back after what happened, again. She tugs at the curtains that she can reach and lines them up, pretending like she’s looking for someone. One window remains blocked, people standing in her way. She bites her lip anxiously, trying to maneuver a path, but finally she just gives up and leaves it. She hurries over to the senior section, trying to straighten a few desks as she goes, and feeling an overwhelming failure. She knows it’s not going to be right. She doesn’t notice Jacián watching her, a look of mild curiosity on his face.

She slips into her desk next to Jacián and taps her fingers anxiously, unable to do anything about it. It’s going to bother her all day, she knows. Maybe at lunch she can take care of things.

And then, when she sets her backpack on the floor, she turns to her right, like she’s done every day for twelve years. To talk to Nico.

And no one is there. His desk is empty.

Every bad thing comes rushing at her. Every emotion—surprise, grief, fear, anger. She gasps a little as she experiences the moment she’s been dreading for days now. And then she feels the rush of a sob coming so fast and hard she can’t stop it.

“Fuuuck,” she gasps. She buries her head in her arms on her desk and fights it for as long as she can. She doesn’t
want to cry anymore. Not here, especially not now. Not in front of everybody. Because Kendall’s supposed to be strong. She’s tough. She’s grown up with boys surrounding her. She played and got hurt with them on the playground, and she didn’t cry then. She broke her nose playing dodgeball in seventh grade when Eli Greenwood winged one at her face from six feet away, and she didn’t cry then—not for real, just the stinging tears that happen automatically when your nose gets hit. And she even broke her arm when she jumped off the bag swing at its highest point, at the river with Nico where he liked to fish with his dad. Totally missed the water, landed on the bank. It was a drought summer that year.

She didn’t cry then, either, but Nico carried her home, the bone just barely piercing through the skin of her forearm, and even though she said she didn’t want him to carry her, she really was a little bit too faint over seeing her own bone to fight it too hard.

That was the first day he kissed her.

And now here she is, bawling in front of all the boys she grew up with.

Almost all, that is. The most important one is missing.

That makes her cry harder.

After a minute she feels a hand squeezing her shoulder. Hears a voice by her ear. “It’s okay, Kendall.” It’s Eli
Greenwood’s voice. Kendall takes a deep, shuddering breath and tries again to contain her sorrow. She lifts her head. Eli is crying too.

She rummages for a tissue in her backpack. “Sorry, guys,” she says. “Stupid me. God.” She feels embarrassed. “Where’s a tissue when you need it, huh?” She knows her nose must be bright red. She sniffs hard.

“Dude, it’s cool,” Travis says from behind her. Even Brandon isn’t saying anything. She glances at him, and he looks miserable.

They’ve all been affected. For the seniors this hit feels so much more personal than Tiffany Quinn. Kendall thinks maybe she knows a little better how Tiffany’s closest friends must have felt. She looks over to the sophomore section and catches the eye of Tiffany’s best friend, Jocelyn. The girl gives Kendall a sympathetic smile, and Kendall smiles gratefully in return.

Jacián, quiet all this time, but watching, points a finger toward the front of the classroom, where Ms. Hinkler stands, trying to get the students’ attention. “You still need a tissue?” he asks gruffly. “I’ll get you one.”

“No, I’m okay,” Kendall says. “Thanks.”

Jacián nods as Eli goes back to his seat. Everyone settles in to try to concentrate.

For most of them the only way to get through it is by moving on.

Somehow she makes it through to lunch, when she gets a chance to straighten the curtain and the desks. She can’t stand to go outside to eat lunch in their spot. She can hardly stand to look at Nico’s desk. It’s so empty. So cold.

By afternoon she can no longer concentrate at all, and even Ms. Hinkler is giving her a free pass indefinitely to lay her head down and just try to get through it.

When school is over, there’s nothing Kendall wants more than to play some soccer. Get the whirlwind out of her head. Work out the grief and the anxiety. Think about something else for a change.

She suits up in the locker room, alone again without Marlena, and makes a little wish that Coach has found more
players to join the team before they miss another game. Tomorrow is the next one scheduled in Bozeman. She runs out to the field and starts warming up. Counting to thirty for every stretch, counting her steps as she jogs in place. Slowly the others join her. She counts them, just to make sure.

Four seniors. One freshman. Only one sophomore now. Six.

Coach is late, and the team falls into a three-on-three scrimmage naturally, anxiously. Kendall feels naked without Nico there. They had so many plays together. So much nonverbal communication. Years of it. There’s no quick fix when you’re missing that.

Jacián is also looking a little bit lost for plays without Marlena. The two end up on the same team with Brandon, and they fail miserably, like it’s their first game ever.

They scrimmage for twenty painful minutes before Coach shows up. When he strides onto the field, everybody comes to a standstill. He waves them all in.

“Guys,” he says. Kendall notices the wrinkles by his eyes for the first time. He looks tired. He waits for everybody to quiet, glancing at his clipboard, fingering the whistle around his neck.

“Hey, guys, gather up. It’s good to see you again.” He gives a grim smile. “Wish it were under better circumstances. We’ve lost two of our best at the moment. Update, Jacián?”

“She had a rough night, but she’s tough.” Jacián’s dark skin gleams with sweat in the afternoon sun. “Doc says she won’t play this season at all, though.” He looks down. “Sorry, guys. She feels bad.”

Kendall looks at the grass.

“And you’ve all figured out by now that we’re down to six. Last year we played with nine and it was tough. This year with eight would have been already approaching impossible. It’s different with one game, but game after game for a whole season . . .” Coach pauses. He shakes his head as if he doesn’t want to say what he has to say next.

“I made a dozen phone calls last night, people. And I don’t have a single possibility for new players. Not one. Not even one who hedged or wavered on a maybe. We’ve squeezed a third of our high school for our soccer sports program. That’s a ton more, percentage wise, than most other schools nationwide. We’re maxed out.” He pauses. Sighs. “We’re done, guys. I’m sorry. This is the end of the road for us.”

The whole team stares at the ground, nobody daring to look up.

“To you seniors who played your last high school game as juniors,” Coach says, “I’m especially sorry. This isn’t the way to end a career.”

He glances at Jacián and around the group. “Some of you have a lot of talent and have a chance of playing on a
college team. I hope you give it a shot. Keep practicing on your own. Don’t give up.”

Coach pulls his baseball cap from his head, smoothes his cropped hair back, and replaces the cap. “That’s it. I’m sorry. We did the best we could. I’ll be on the grounds for a bit if anybody wants to talk further.” He stands for a minute, almost unsure, and then he turns and walks back toward the school building.

The team stands in silent shock, realizing the season’s over, watching their coach walk away for the last time. For some of them their soccer career is over. It’s hard to swallow that.