Out of the Pocket (10 page)

“But you have, like, perfect grades, right?” I asked, removing my 83

hand. “And you write for the school paper and your SATs are probably, like, insane.”

He half smiled. “They’re pretty good,” he said. “But you never know with a place like Stanford. You never know.”

“That’s true,” I said. “It sucks that your folks put all that pressure on you.”

Finch sat down on the concrete, and for a moment I wondered if we were done. But I knew the right thing to do was sit down, too, so I did. We faced out toward the mostly empty parking lot, and it was sort of nice.

“You probably want to be out with your friends,” he said.

I shook my head. I needed several hours to decompress after games. Guys like Austin and Dennis and Rahim always went out afterward, and I didn’t get it.

“This is kinda nice,” I said.

Finch smiled and turned a little red, and for just brief second I looked at him and realized that under the nerd he was not a terrible-looking guy. And then I blushed.

“So who cares?” I said. “So you don’t get into Stanford and you go to another really good school. What’s the big deal?”

He crossed his thin, slightly hairy legs Indian style. “I’m sure it seems stupid to you,” he said. “But it’s more than that. I’m just so tired of being me, you know?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know. I mean, I had lots of stuff going on, but I never really felt like I didn’t want to be me. I just sometimes wanted to be me with fewer problems.

“I just feel like I’m stuck being me,” he said. “And I don’t want to be.”

I chuckled a little and shrugged again. “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

Finch turned to me, his face very serious.

84

“She checks my homework,” he said.

I snorted. You know how some people snort when they laugh, and it’s cute? This wasn’t that. It was totally involuntary and real, because I had just played an exhausting football game, and I was secretly gay, and this nice, nerdy kid I’d known since we were like twelve had just told me that, at seventeen, his mom still checked his homework. The snort was about as appropriate an answer as I could come up with.

Finch frowned. “She does. She makes a photocopy of it, and marks my homework up with a red pen, and makes me redo it. Every night, I do my homework twice.” He was gripping his knees with his hands.

I took a deep breath so that I didn’t snort again. But this time I laughed. I wasn’t trying to be mean, but I couldn’t help laughing.

He frowned again and I could tell he was sorry he had confided in me.

“Thanks,” he said, and he was about to stand up, so I put my hand on his shoulder and held him down.

“Finch,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“Yeah, well,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” I said. “We all have weird things. About a year ago my mom asked me if I had a playdate with Austin. And she totally didn’t get it when I laughed at her. She’s a mom. That’s what they do.”

Finch closed his eyes and I could see his cheeks puff out a little in amusement. But he composed himself.

“Come on, Finch. It’s a little bit funny.”

I watched the smile slowly pour over his face, and then he laughed, and I laughed, too, and there we were, the weird duo of Finch Gozman and Bobby Framingham, cracking up while sitting on the concrete of the parking lot on a late Friday night.

85

“Playdate,” he repeated, laughing in that spastic way he has.

“Mommy, my homework’s done,” I said, doubling over.

When we finally stopped laughing, Finch looked like a different person.

“Thanks,” he said. “You really cheered me up. I didn’t think you’d be the kind of person who would waste your time with me.”

“Nice self-esteem,” I said, and he laughed, and I did, too, and it crossed my mind that Finch and I were sort of friends now. I imagined what Austin would think if he were watching this. His head would like totally explode.

I softly punched his shoulder as a good-bye and walked toward my car. It was dark now, the only illumination coming from sporadic streetlights, every ten yards or so.

I was thinking about after the game, how we’d gone nuts in the locker room, with music blaring and stuff flying around the room: water bottles, chairs . . . Coach was right there with us. It was so cool to see him joking around for once. He had gone up to Rahim at his locker and said, “Hey, Bell! I’m takin’ you out of the starting offense.

You’re a full-time kick blocker now,” and Rahim had looked at him like he was crazy for a second before realizing that this was Coach’s idea of a funny joke.

“Good thing, ’cause I’m done with this offense anyway. Got a QB

can’t throw, and a coach can’t even call plays right. Never givin’ me the damn ball!” and the room was silent for a split second before everyone exploded with laughter.

It was the most unlikely sentence for Rahim to say, ever. I was walking in the dark parking lot, thinking about that, when I realized that I was going to tell Coach. What harm could it do? I mean, I’d be telling him the truth, right? And I knew he cared about me, so he’d try to help me out. I thought about timing, and decided to do it soon, maybe that coming week.

86

For once, elation overcame my fear, and I felt like sprinting to my car, and driving really fast.

Austin, Dennis, and Rahim were basically fine with me being gay. Why wouldn’t Coach be fi ne, too? Telling the world, maybe that was a bit much, but Coach was smart and maybe he’d help me figure out the right thing to do.

Every squeak of my sneakers along the concrete parking lot told me that if I played this right, it was all going to be okay.

“I’ll take Jewish ballplayers for one hundred, Alex . . .”

The voice came softly from my left, maybe ten feet away, so I turned slightly and saw that there was a figure leaning against the bed of a silver truck. I’d been daydreaming and hadn’t seen anyone around, so hearing a voice startled me. There were fewer than thirty cars remaining in the entire parking lot. My car was ahead, about forty feet on the right.

I squinted, but couldn’t quite see who it was.

“Hi?” I said tentatively, not breaking my pace.

The voice laughed, not a nasty laugh at all, more amused and playful. “Okay, here’s your clue,” he said. “He was a premiere southpaw before arthritis took him out of baseball in the mid1960s.”

“Huh?” I slowed my walking. He laughed again, and slowly his face came into view for me through the shadows.

It was the mystery reporter whom I’d first seen at our game at Huntington Beach, the dark-haired guy with the goatee.

I’d forgotten momentarily that I’d seen him again earlier that night. “Oh, it’s you,” I said, realizing that meant nothing. I might as well have said,
Oh, it’s a homicidal maniac.

“We’re playing
Jeopardy!,
” he advised me, smirking. “As I said, he was a great lefty before arthritis ended his baseball career. Mid1960s.”

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I felt somewhat safe with this strange stranger. “Sandy Koufax?”

I asked.

He buzzed at me. “Zzz. Wrong answer,” he said.

“Huh?”

“The correct answer is, ‘Who is Sandy Koufax?’ ”

I raised an eyebrow at this strange guy. “The correct question is who are you?”

“Who is Bryan Paulsen?” he said.

“What is nice to meet you,” I responded, and I couldn’t help but smile as my heart continued to pound.

“Sandy Koufax is a total jerk,” he said. “I couldn’t believe how he severed ties with the Dodgers just because of some rumors that he was gay.”

Sirens again. “I don’t know anything about that,” I said, trying to fi gure out how to say good-bye to this weirdo and get to my car.

We stood in the silent parking lot, looking not quite at each other but sort of past, as if we weren’t alone. It was only us, and that was a little close for comfort.

“It was on Outsports, the gay sports Web site,” he said.

“What?” I couldn’t look at him.

“You’ve never been there?”

“No!”

“Hey, don’t get defensive, guy,” he said, rubbing his elbow and approaching me. I shrank back. “I just wanted to talk to you, finally.

It’s always so hard when the other reporters are around, but you keep sending me the message, loud and clear.”

All I wanted to do was sit down and digest what was whizzing around my head, way too quickly. “Sending you the message?”

“Yeah, you cruised me.”

“I what you?”

88

“You . . . looked at me,” he repeated. “The first time I saw you.

Huntington Beach. And today again.”

He’s gay, and he thinks I am, too. Is this a good thing, or a bad
thing? Is he setting me up? It’s all too much.

“Dude, I didn’t even see you today.”

“No?” He grinned and raised an eyebrow.

“No. You’re way off base. Sorry.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to look him in the eye and flinching as soon as contact was made. I was suddenly chilly. “And now I have to go.

Good-bye.” I hurried to my car, nearly breaking into a sprint but avoiding that out of fear that he’d take it as a sure sign I was gay, and hiding.

“Hey, wait,” he called, and I battled my urge to turn back and talk to him. I was hyperventilating. I fumbled for my car keys, hit the button on my keyless entry, and climbed into my car, slamming the outside world out as quickly as I could. I got out of there and didn’t turn back, praying he wouldn’t follow me.

89

“This is such an L.A. date. Drive separately, communicate by cell phone along the way, then play virtual games together. No need to physically interact at all. I love this,” said Carrie.

We were entering the Laser Tag Amusement Center in Newport Beach, about a twenty-minute drive from Durango. It was a typically warm Saturday morning, a day after yet another win, 35–17 over Point Linda. The first thing I noticed as she got out of her car was that Carrie had dyed her hair fl aming red.

The effect was that she now looked like a beautiful girl whose hair was on fi re.

“I just can’t believe you’re into this,” I said. I’d never thought of Carrie as the sporting type, but she had suggested it.

“I am SO into this,” she said, using her best Valley Girl accent.

“Are you kidding? A chance to shoot you repeatedly? Count me in!”

Carrie scurried ahead of me, impatient to get going.

90

“Next thing you’ll be joining the NRA,” I said, following close behind her. “Carrie and guns together, just what the world needs.”

We were ushered into a dark area with neon signs and black lights, a type of waiting area where this geeky girl, really tall with braces and a face full of acne, her voice high-pitched like that of a squealing pig, explained to us what was about to happen.

“Now listen up!” she whined, every syllable stressed, raising the pitch at the end of every sentence, as if it were impossible to talk without the use of exclamation marks. “I’m going to tell you how this works, so listen very carefully!” She glanced at us expectantly.

“Find a laser pack and strap it on! Then go and find the gun you want to use!”

She said this as if telling young people to grab guns was a time for great enthusiasm.

I glanced over at Carrie, who was looking at her with an intense seriousness that I have come to understand is a form of mockery, and suppressed a giggle.

Carrie raised her hand and didn’t wait to be called on before asking her question. “So should we get the guns first, or the laser pack?” she said, her eyes scrunched up like this was confusing.

The attendant girl was blessed with an obvious gift for enthusiasm, even in the face of people who ask really dumb questions.

“Pack fi rst!” she said, beaming.

“The pack, then?” Carrie asked, confused.

“Yes!”

“Should I just hold it in my outstretched hands, or strap it on?”

“Strap it! Strap it on!” She walked over to the packs, put one on, then drew the strap around her and buckled it. “See! It’s just like a seat belt in a car!”

“Oh!” said Carrie. And just like that, she dropped the dumb rou91

tine and followed instructions. Our attendant thought nothing of Carrie’s quick change of character.

She must have seen weirdness all day long.

“Run through the maze and shoot anyone you see,” she yelled.

I thought of Dennis, suddenly wishing he were here.

“Fifteen hits and you’re out!”

Carrie looked down at her hands and began to count her fingers.

She began to raise her hand, but decided not to. I could tell she was going to ask for more clarifi cation.

“Other rules: You can’t try to hide the lights on the front and back center of your laser pack, the part that registers when people have shot you! You can’t lie down on the fl oor!” the girl yelled.

“Darn, a perfectly good filthy floor, and I can’t even lie down on it,” Carrie muttered
.

“You have to leave the playing area immediately once you’re out, following the neon exit signs,” she screamed.

“Also a darn, sounds like a place where I could really settle down,” I responded.

“When you’re shot, your pack will vibrate and go dead for a few seconds. During this time, you can’t shoot and no one can shoot you.

So it’s a good idea to run! Fast!”

I looked over at Carrie, who seemed very intent on all the information, a girl on a mission. “Okay, guys,” the girl said, at the peak of her manic enthusiasm. “Are you ready! Go go go!” She flung open the black door leading to the maze and shouted after us that we had two minutes to fi nd a place to hide.

That’s basically what it is, I realized. Hide-and-go-seek for the over-six crowd.

It was a three-story maze. I discovered this as I ran toward the other end of the maze, where I encountered first stairs leading up, and then stairs leading down. Seeing metal grating in the ceiling, I 92

headed down, figuring it would be easier to not have to worry about being shot from a floor below. Blaring guitars seared into my brain as loud rock music pounded through the corridors, Kelly Clarkson screaming that she would never believe some guy, never again. My thought was to hunker down low, crouch, make myself small, and stay where I was. The more you moved, the more likely you were to get shot. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to fi gure that one out.