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His voice bounced from wall to wall, echoing. His teeth gnashed against one another. He sprinted two steps at a time to the top of the stairs, his feet pounding through the soles of his Wrestling shoes. He wanted to turn around, tear back down the stairs, and face McClellan again. This time he'd hit him, and hit him hard.

Instead, Ivan charged past the empty classrooms, ripping off his T-shirt, reaching the locker-room door, and yanking it open. Only then did he look back down the hall. There weren't any footsteps, no one following him, cajoling him to come back.

Ivan stormed into the room and crashed both fists on top of the paper-towel dispenser. The metal caved in and the box shot to the floor, breaking apart, sending the roll bouncing under the chair and screws skittering under the heater. Before the box could come to a stop, Ivan stepped back and kicked through, lifting the box against the far wall, filling the room with a loud clatter.

Five minutes passed, maybe ten. Ivan couldn't remember his thoughts or whether he paced the room or slumped down on the floor. He looked around. The destruction surprised him. The paper towel dispenser couldn't be fixed, that was obvious. Ivan picked up the paper-towel roll and set it on the sink.

His legs shook. He slumped down on a locker-room bench, tired—suddenly very tired—confused and scared.

And again, he wanted to strike something. His fist curled. Anger flooded his mind as his eyes fixed on the poster. Every wrestler's name—but not his. Who the hell would embarrass him like that? He hated each one of them. He hated Hannen. He hated McClellan, most of all.

"Fuuuuck!" he screamed so loud, it hurt his ears, and for so long, his voice withered to a scratchy hiss. Ivan jumped at the chalkboard, ripping down the poster, tearing it in half. Then in half again. He stuffed what was left into the garbage can to lay among the used spit cups, bloodied cotton swabs, and wads of crumpled paper towels.

From her bedroom, Shelley pressed her face to the window, cupping her hands around her eyes. "Come down," Ivan said, in a forced hush. He gestured to the front door. Shelley moved away.

It was late. Ivan had waited at the end of the Petersons' driveway a long while for Shelley to walk in front of her window. His shoulders hurt and his legs ached. It was only hours since the blowup at practice, though it seemed like days ago. Ivan still hadn't gone home yet. He had spent most of those hours sitting in the cold on Layaree's Wall. He clenched and unclenched his stiffened hands.

Soon, Shelley appeared at the front door. "My parents are sleeping," she said. "What's up?"

"I need to talk to ya."

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"Let me grab my coat."

Maybe it was a mistake to drag Shelley into this mess, Ivan thought. Maybe he should tell her to forget it, that he would deal with it himself. Then he'd slip into his house without his father noticing. Hide in his bedroom. Spend some more time thinking. The answer would come to him then.
Something
would come to him then.

Shelley opened the front door again, buttoning her coat, swinging a scarf around her neck. "What's the matter?"

Ivan walked down the driveway, unsure where, or whether, to begin.

In quickened steps, she caught up with him. "Hey..."

"Today was bad," he said. "Real bad; probably the worst day of my—" He stopped himself. "Not the worst, but damn close."

Shelley followed him to the middle of the street. "What happened?"

"I'm off the team."

"Off the team? What are you talking about?"

"McClellan kicked me off the team."

"Off the
wrestling
team?"

"Yeah."

"Why? Why would he do that?"

"We're in practice, and I'm drilling with this freshman, a kid named Hannen. He's really doggin' it, trying to make me look bad. So I tell him. Then he starts in with me, saying crap." Ivan rubbed his knuckles.

"You didn't hit him, did you?"

"McClellan takes his side. What'd you expect? Bailed on me freshman year. Nothing new now. He's always been jealous—wishes he had half the talent I got. He was baiting me, pushing me. He knows I hate him, and he just kept pushing me ..."

Ivan stopped, and for a while, neither said anything. Eventually, Shelley said, "Ivan, tell me honestly, whose fault was it?"

"They could care less about winning," Ivan said. "It's one loss after another. They all go home happy. No one does a damn thing about it."

"But you guys won on Saturday."

"Liberty Hill? You, me, Modine, and a few of the neighbors could beat that team."

"Oh, that's not fair, Ivan. Our guys were so excited, yelling, jumping around. The only one that didn't seem happy was you."

But Ivan was in his own world. "Don't even remember how I got to the locker room. I just went off. Smashed the paper-towel thing right off the wall. Cracked the mirror. I can't remember it all ... It was like I was outta my body, watching me tear up the locker room. I was so mad—crazy mad—yet my brain was just kinda calm." He looked at Shelley.

"I'm tired, ya know," Ivan said. "Not sleepy-tired, but..." He tried to think of the right words. "Living-tired. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear for a long while."

Shelley moved close. "You can't."

"Maybe not." Then, without knowing really why, he said, "Ever think about dying?"

Shelley seemed startled. "No," she said. Then hesi-tantly, as if afraid to hear his answer, she asked "Do you?"

"I have these dreams sometimes—nightmares, really. Scare the hell outta me. I'm floating, arms crossed. The ground comes up underneath me—a casket surrounds me. Shovel after shovel of dirt covering my legs, my stomach, my chest, my mouth. And I'm gasping for air, but the dirt just pours down my throat. Choking me."

Shelley held his hand. "You've gone through so much."

"Wasn't my choice."

"But you survived better than anyone might've. God, you're so much stronger inside than I am. Than I'll probably ever be. And look what you've done with Wrestling. You're the best in the whole state. Don't throw that away. Just apologize."

"To who?"

"Coach McClellan."

"No."

"Yes, Ivan," she said. "Tell him that freshman—what's his name?—was messing up in practice. It made you frustrated, so you threw a punch, but you didn't mean to."

"But I did," Ivan said. "I wanted to
kill
him."

"Ivan, your whole Wrestling life is on the line. You can say what you want, but I know how important that is to you. You made a mistake, that's all. Tomorrow, I'm sure Coach McClellan will see things differently."

Shelley wouldn't let him off the hook, Ivan knew. But she had also helped ease what troubled him, if only for a while.

"Look, it's late," Shelley said. "I gotta get back. We'll talk tomorrow. In the morning, if you want—before you straighten this whole thing out."

They stopped at the end of the Petersons' driveway. Up one end of Farmingdale and down the other, all was quiet. The scarf slipped off Shelley's neck. She reached for it, but Ivan's hand was there first. He wrapped the scarf around her neck to the other side. He felt the warmth of her breath before it was lost in the cold. He thought to kiss her. In the middle of this mess, a kiss—a simple kiss—seemed okay. Maybe a little of Shelley would make up for a whole lot of Wrestling. His lips moved toward hers. Slowly. He smiled, embarrassed, then glanced away but quickly looked back into her eyes, unsure what to do or say. But something inside was drawing him nearer.

"Yes?" she said.

"I, uh..." Ivan was distracted. Something else gnawed at him. He drew no closer, and for that moment, Shelley seemed disappointed. He could forget this afternoon, but not for long. He straightened up. "Ya know what? Ya know what pissed me off the most about this whole thing? I mean, this might be kinda dumb, but it pissed me off."

Shelley leaned into him, almost touching his lips with hers. "Tell me."

"That damn poster."

"What poster?"

"In our locker room. You shoulda seen it. Thing was stupid. Can you believe someone wasted time on it, all because we won one goddamn match? That's such crap. I just ripped the thing into shreds. Tossed it into the garbage, where it belonged."

Shelley turned away. She touched a finger to the corner of her eye. "I made it," she whispered.

Ivan wasn't sure he heard her right. "What?"

"The poster," she said. "I made it."

"No, no, I'm talking about this one in the locker room. It said 'Congratulations Lennings' in big letters. It had a—"

"Maroon and black border," she finished.

"You made—" Ivan stopped himself.
No...

Shelley's voice was choked with hurt. "I spent so much time on it. Hours. I tried to make it look good because winning seemed so important to the team. Stenciling the letters, choosing the colors, filling in each one."

"
You
did it?" Ivan's voice was weak.

"Didn't you see my initials in the bottom corner? Next to your name." She wiped her eyes and sniffled. And sniffled again. "It's late."

A million thoughts came to mind, but no words came to Ivan's mouth. He watched Shelley run to the front porch and disappear behind the front door.

It was 1:32
A.M.
Ivan leaned wearily against his bedroom window. He had managed to sneak inside the house and into his bedroom. Tomorrow morning, his father would probably hear from someone at work about him being kicked off the team. Bad news spread quickly in Lennings—any news spread quickly in Lennings. But Ivan would worry about that when it happened.

Across the street, Shelley's light was still on. "I should be really impressed with myself," Ivan whispered. "I screwed everything up ... Wrestling ... Western Arizona ... Shelley..."

He despised Hannen and McClellan with a fury he had never felt before. And now, Arizona might as well be a million miles away. But he worried mostly about Shelley. He wondered if she was crying. He wondered if she hated him. He worried that he had lost his best friend. For good.

In the hall closet near his bedroom, Bobby squeezed himself under the bottom shelf. He tried to sit but was only able to hunch sideways. He had on a rubber suit, sweatpants, and a sweatshirt, and had propped pillows along the walls and door as insulation, then covered himself with two wool blankets. It was pitch-dark, stiflingly hot, and so cramped, his neck ached.

He pulled slack on the telephone cord and put the receiver to his ear. "Yeah, I'm here."

It had been the same routine the past few weeks. He and Carmelina would sit on the phone and talk about nothing, break into an argument, then hang on in silence. Bobby was waiting for the fighting. It wouldn't be long now, he was sure.

"What are you
doing
?" Carmelina said.

"Sitting in the closet."

"Why?"

"To sweat."

"Don't ya sweat enough in practice?"

"You can never sweat enough," Bobby said. Each breath made the tight space hotter.

"So you sit in a closet?" she said. "Are you mental?"

"The districts are on Friday—"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard all about these districts."

"I gotta worry about my weight," Bobby said. A drop of sweat tickled his cheek, and dampness rose along the folds of his stomach muscles.

"You're lucky that's all ya gotta worry about."

Bobby said nothing.

"Don't wanna hear that, do ya?" Carmelina said. "Think I wanna have a baby? Think I wanna work in a damn department store, kissing rich white women's asses all my life?"

Bobby had expected this. "When are you going?" he asked.

"Oh, so now ya worry about the mess we're in," she said.

"Carmelina, just tell me when."

"Thursday."

"What time?"

"Four. Maria told me they make me pee in a cup. And take blood. Probably ask me a hundred questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Think they'll ask my name?"

"You wanna find out so badly, go with me."

"I can't go on Thursday, Carmelina. I got practice. It's the—"

"God-damn districts," she answered. "I'm not expectin' a thing from you, Bobby. I'll get a ride there and a ride back."

He paused. "I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry; why even say it?"

"I'd take you on Sunday, Carmelina, I swear I would," Bobby said. "I can't go on Thursday. I don't have a choice. I can't say, 'Coach, I gotta miss practice the day before the districts. Why? Well, my old girlfriend's pregnant.'"

"You're an asshole."

"Why?"

"It's just like Maria said..."

Bobby lifted off the wool blankets, letting the heat escape, allowing himself that small reprieve. Carmelina had him talking much longer than he wanted. Only ten minutes—fifteen, tops—he had told himself. Now it was almost an hour. He was hungry and dehydrated and so tired from all the fighting. He shifted his body, but there was no way to sit comfortably. He again covered himself with the blankets.

"Not listening, are ya?" Carmelina said.

"I'm here."

"I hope when you're sitting in your Wrestling practice, you're thinking of what's in my belly."

Bobby made the sign of the cross and clasped his hands together.
Our Father, who art in Heaven ... Hallowed be thy name ... Thy kingdom come...
. He finished one Our Father, then another. As he said the words to himself, the distraction gave him a hint of comfort. But the heat was too much, the blankets too heavy, the space too small. Though he was sweating a little, he was far too dehydrated to sweat enough.

"Say something," Carmelina said.

"Hold on," Bobby said, kicking the door open with his foot and knocking away the pillows and blankets. He sucked in the cool hallway air, then quickly stripped down, tossing the sweats and rubber suit to the tiled bathroom floor. The sweat on his naked body was slight. Much less than a quarter pound, he figured.

"Look, I gotta sleep," Bobby said. "I'll call you on Thursday. When you get home."

"Nah, ya mean after
your
practice."