Pins: A Novel (21 page)

“But he just said–”

“Look, we gotta get a lawyer. He’s got to watch himself until these other boys are arrested.”

“But they didn’t all–”

“Wait–”

“He has to go to confession tomorrow.”

“Marie.”

“I don’t care, school, or no school, he goes to conf–”

“Can we worry about his eternal soul a little later and just try to keep him out of jail right now?”

She sat, finally. His father stood, checking for visitors, peeping Mike.

As Joseph sat on the sofa, his parents conducted the “discussion” before him. He had to answer a lot of questions. He couldn’t cry again. It wasn’t in him. He still felt numb, watching his parents take in the fact that their first-born had just gone bad.

“Will you be okay if you go to school tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes. I already–” he stopped himself from saying ‘narced.’
 
“I already told. They can’t do anything to me in school.” He really just wanted to see Dink, to explain.

“And you wanna go to your match tomorrow,” she said, as if he were asking to skydive.

“Yeah. Please? They’re gonna do a thing for Anthony at the match.”

“You have homework?”

“Naw, it’s …nothing.”

“Get some rest.”

“I wanna watch the news. See what else they got.”

“Joseph–”

“Please?”

“You go to bed right after,” his father said.

His parents continued their discussion upstairs, but softly. They kept the upstairs phone off the hook, or were talking on it. He’d already tried to sneak a call to Dink’s house.

Visiting Mike and Soph in their rooms, explaining some lie to tell them, Joseph heard his mother walk about above him. He tried to warn her the kids were both supplied with a foolproof Fib-ometer. He’d have to compare stories again if she didn’t tell the truth.

“Whatcha watchin?” Mike had snuck downstairs for more cookies, obviously dissatisfied with their mother’s version of things. Joseph watched him walk into the kitchen, return. It didn’t look like he was going to get rid of that baby fat anytime soon.

A special local edition of some teen show spilled into the living room. Girls who never looked twice at Anthony sobbed openly for cameras. He wanted more news, to see what they found out. Nothing but that detective taking credit for Joey’s spillage.

“Fuck. I am so dead.”

Mike smiled, as if given a present to use against him later.

He imagined himself out on parole, a renowned tattoo artist, Curt Gowdy doing a voice-over: “Overcoming the tragic events of his school years, in which he was tied to the death of a fellow teammate, Joseph Netchie, the avowed homosexual, after spending ten years in federal prison, returns to the sport he loved.”

“What’s so funny?” Mike muttered, half a cookie falling out of his hand.

“Nothing.”

Mike picked up the broken cookie, ate it. “So, what did you do?”

Joseph looked up to his brother. “I messed up big time.”

“I’m sorry. Here.”

“Thanks.” He took one.

Mike watched him eat, stood over him, viewing the body.

3

The boys on the team had joked about the extras in movies, how crowds like that never came to their matches, especially cheerleaders, especially in January, in the dead of winter, on a weeknight.

The next night half the school and a hundred other people and three dozen members of the press awaited entry before they’d even unrolled the mats.

Bennie and Hunter had been plucked by the cops the night before, and with footage on the tube. They appeared somber in cuffs, but Lamar Stevens, whose cousin was a policeman, told them, “Hunter was bawling his eyes out, tried to hide in his daddy’s garage before they caught him.”

Tommy Infranca fumed. “How come they only come now that one of us died?”

“It’s morbid, is what it is,” Coach Cleshun muttered as the boys huddled in the locker room. Joseph thought so, too, since the look Dink gave him pretty much guaranteed they just might be dead soon.

While the boys from Montclair warmed up on the mat, their busloads of fans filled the bleachers. They’d even brought extra cheerleaders, as if to ward off the implied taint of their opponents.

Coach Cleshun called out to nobody in particular. “I want you all to forget about this when you’re out there. I want you wrestling one hundred percent!”

“A hundred per cent of what?” Troy muttered as he laced a shoe.

With three forfeits on the blocks, Troy and the Shivers had been all over the practice mat, pouring hints into the eager, if not inept JVers Eddie Whiteherst and Brian Haney, who’d volunteered to fill the weight slots of their “alleged killer” teammates. They’d shut it out, or acted as if they had, focusing on moves and technique, which was good. The principal and a few other guys in suits had “just stopped by to see how things were going before the tribute.” They hadn’t left the vicinity, which was not so good.
 

Once the crowd filled in, the cameras took perches ringside, the boys all gradually found things they needed to do, in the locker room, away from the glare.

Joseph said nothing. He had no idea how to behave, so he opted for sullen, wary. It took less energy than upset, crying.

Dink hadn’t said more than a few words since practice, wondering why he hadn’t been arrested yet. It loomed, though.

At practice, though, Coach Cleshun had them all sit down for a talk about drinking, and “anger management.” Cleshun began to make announcements about who would fill in for the three missing slots, but stopped.

“Okay, so, um, since so many people are here tonight for this, it seems, I’m sorry to you one-twelve guys who feel like you’re missing an opportunity, but we are going to forfeit that weight category, and the visiting coach and player have agreed to give that victory to our, your slain teammate, Anthony, uh. Anthony Lambros.”

At that point Joseph could not hold back. Dink turned to him. They shared a long silent hug that nobody dared joke about, not even when they banged against a locker, still hugging, Dink almost trying to smother the sobs out of his sparring partner.

The opening music: cut.
 
The fancy moves around the ring: cut. Nobody complained.
 
Inside Joseph knew they all felt odd, strange. They just walked in silently, hoods up.
 
But even Walt tripped on Jeff Shiver’s leg just walking out to the gym.

By the time they got seated, Dink still hadn’t more than glanced at him. But when they sat side by side, Dink pressed his leg against Joseph’s. They stuck that way, unmoving, until he had to get up to stretch.

Few people in the bleachers looked familiar. Cameras, little ones, were everywhere, held by strangers, Dink’s dad, Buddha’s dad, Dustin’s older brother. A bunch of other people kept taking pictures. They pointed at the bench, the mat, scanning.

Aunt Lilla brought Grandmama, who looked like a ghost to Joseph, waved to him. His mother had brought Sophia. Mike stood up, waving at him like it was a party, until his father yanked him down behind someone else’s dad. His father’s look was not one of concern, but a glare that said, If you freak out, I’m right here. His mother smiled to another woman up the aisle, then darting back down as if checking for snipers. Joseph felt he ought to check the exit doors.

The principal and some students, actually Chrissie and Kimberly, put together a little cluster of announcements and speeches, and the principal spent a lot of time talking, as did another man from the school, the superintendent, some teachers. It took longer than anyone thought. Cameras rolled.

At an awkward moment where even his coach sounded apologetic, Cleshun turned behind him. “These gentlemen have asked me to simply let them play the sport they love, for a teammate they’ll miss.”

The ref and a kid from the other school, in street clothes, shoes off, walked out on the mat.
 
Instead of holding up the hand of Anthony’s opponent, as would happen with a forfeit, the ref signaled to his left. People stared at the empty space where Anthony should have been.

Everyone else realized, or some of them did, because the quiet in the gym was only interrupted by someone who snapped a flash picture, as if Anthony might show up later on film.

Dustin lost.

Tommy lost.
 

“You’re up, Neech.”

He shook hands with his opponent, Somebody Guerrero, whose wisp of a mustache, and possibly the sweetest baby face Joseph would ever bump against, crushed him enough without the added announcement of his being a two-time county champion.

As they shook hands, the kid smiled, disarmingly.

Yanked down by a swift single leg grab, on his belly in the first ten seconds, Joseph let the kid ride him, try a bulldozer after half a minute of near-crossfaces. It wasn’t like the kid couldn’t do it. He was enjoying just humping Joseph’s butt.

Oh, man, I lost it, he thought. I’m already gone.

His skin still tender from Dink’s love only a day before, he found each nudge from the beautiful boy burned him. His was a different body, his thoughts still raw with desire. He tensed a moment, tried a move, but then thought, why?

The ref called a stalemate.

The boys stood. Joseph reminded himself to keep his face toward the cameras. That would be all he needed, not only pegged, but his ass all over the nightly news.

Come on, Guerrero said with a nudge of his chin, bouncing around Joseph like a boxer, faking Joseph out with little hand grabs before they got down to it. Joseph looked into his eyes, charmed by his smile, then felt the floor smack his back as he collapsed under the blow of a takedown. Joseph rolled over, grasping for basic defense position, unmoving, arms at ten and two, a stilled clock.

He was pried from all sides, until he felt himself grabbed around the waist, coming up off the floor, flipped over. His nose met the mat first.

By the time he recovered after the ref’s whistle, he wiped a bit of snot
 
–wait– blood.

Coach Fiasole appeared, wiped his face with a towel. When he took it away from Joseph’s face, it was splotched dark red.

“Easy, head back.”

“I’m okay.”

Fiasole shoved a swab up his nose, wiped his face again.

Joseph looked over, saw the other coach wiping Guerrero’s shoulder, then he knew. It was the same as the day a bunch of guys coated their arms and legs in a foamy antiseptic.

He thought of all those stories about guys with AIDS looking like old men, here was this cherub about to flatten him. He looked to Dink for support, but all he saw was a little hooded boy, bent over, tapping his feet.

He turned back to Fiasole. “Say it.” Colto.

“What?” Coach Fiasole asked, holding the bloody towel, looking a little too nervous about the blood.

“Say it!”

But the ref was calling him back. Coach Fiasole just held his hands out, like, what can I do? His minute was up.

“Come on, son.” The ref signaled him back.

Coach Cleshun yelled, showed a little move, but Joseph returned, alone. Nothing Cleshun or Fiasole or his dad or Dink or anybody could yell or say would help.

Joseph got into position, the two lines marked for knees, hands. After the whistle, the rest was a blur. He tried to mouth-breathe so he wouldn’t blow the swab out of his nostril. His arm was yanked from behind. He got flipped, his neck hit the mat. For a brief eternity of pain and tightness, Guerrero’s hard hip bone pressed into his backbone, one arm cranking his elbow.

As the ref dropped beside them, his palm waving back, forth, signaling no, not yet, Joseph shoved his right shoulder up. The kid pressed down on top of him, tugging, grabbing him like hard clay, forcing him down. Joseph pressed his torso up, crunching his spine in a bridge, the top of his head, his heels pressed into the mat, all the pain darting into the ends of his body, his face contorted, staring out as the upside down world looked on. If he could only roll over, find a last shred of strength, he could escape.

But Joseph was gone, his breath gone, there was no way out, except to wait for a moment, a breath of air to give him a sliver of hope.

The timer cranked off.

He didn’t even stand upright, just kneeled to catch his breath, look at no one while the ref raised Guerrero’s arm. Guerrero tapped his shoulder, pulled him into a hug, muttered, “I’m real sorry, guy.”

All he could do was try to clear his dizzy vision long enough to find his chair, just get away, just sit down, breathe.

He felt Dink’s hand on his back. Joseph flinched, not wanting Dink to touch him, to jinx himself, but he let Dink do it before he walked away to the mat. The announcer bellowed names. People clapped listlessly.

Joseph kept his head bowed, couldn’t look up, but he had to, he had to see. Please, Dink, please don’t let him get you. Put it away for just a bit.

Another hand on his back. Assistant Coach Fiasole leaned low over his shoulder, offering another paper towel. The whistle blew, people were screaming, so Joseph didn’t hear what Fiasole said. It didn’t matter. He’d brushed his face against the side of Joseph’s neck, stayed standing behind him, hand on his shoulder for a whole period, guarding him, empty chairs on either side. Joseph leaned down to the wrinkled pile of Dink’s sweats, placed them on Dink’s chair, looked back behind him to where a lot of people in the bleachers were looking.

At the gymnasium doors, four policemen had entered, stood against the wall, failing miserably at being inconspicuous. Joseph’s glance turned back to Dink.

He touched Dink’s sweats again, held his hand there, witnessed his longer, more painful loss, tied for two periods, then only a one point loss, but then, Dink was distracted by flashing cameras. He tried a grab behind, a mistake. The opponent hooked Dink’s arm around, drove in, had him on his back in a slow painful pin.

Dink came back, sat. Joseph offered him water. Dink gulped it down. Cleshun looked at the two of them with a glare. Dink grabbed for his sweats, covered up. They huddled close as the others won, lost. Joseph wasn’t watching. His eyes were on the drops of sweat that fell from Dink’s chin to his knee.

His parents seemed to be watching only him, even though Joseph hardly moved. Dink settled down, gave Joseph a nudge. The two exchanged a glance. Dink muttered into his ear, under the sudden quiet, “I think my chauffeurs have arrived.”

“We gotta talk.”

But Dink just gulped down water, let the empty bottle drop to the floor. He leaned in to Joseph’s side, said softly, his hand on his thigh, “Whatever happens, man, I love you.”

He more nudged faces with him than kissed him. Still, in front of them all, its power sent a shiver that radiated outward. He heard whispered comments, but the pain and shame in Joseph’s body fell away to nothing. He floated inside a crust of sweat.