Socket 3 - The Legend of Socket Greeny (5 page)

“I suppose.” He had that look again, as if
she was speaking the language of love and only he could hear it.
Then she blushed.

“I’m going to leave you two alone,” I
said.

“Well, come by later.” He grabbed me before I
could get away. “And don’t tell Chute we’re not in there. We’ll
watch it on relay, but I can’t get in there to see it live.”

“So you want me to lie?”

“No, just tell her you saw me and that I saw
her, that’s not a lie. If she gets suspicious, just run. That’s
what I do.”

He looked at Janette for support, but she
didn’t know Chute all that well, yet. Chute wouldn’t miss something
like this for either of us and she expected the same in return.

“When are you bringing me out to the
Garrison? You’ve had Chute out there like twelve times. Me? I’ve
been there once.” He put one finger in my face to make his point.
“You like her better than me or something?”

“Infinitely.”

“My feelings are hurt.”

I pushed his hand away. “Every time I ask you
to come out you got something planned.” I stared at Janette for a
long second. “Who’s fault is that?”

She nodded in agreement. Streeter said, “All
right, well, I got a life. Sue me.”

“Maybe I could schedule you to come out in a
few days, before I leave on a trip.”

“Two days?” He rubbed his chin and glanced at
Janette. “Yeaaaaah, I can’t do that.”

“You’re hilarious, you know that?”

“How about this? I project into your office
through virtualmode, you can show how the whole molding technology
works. You don’t need permission for that.”

“I’ll see.”

Virtualmode club members grabbed Streeter and
Janette followed. He pointed at me as if to say
do it.
I
nodded but they were already discussing the next meeting, taking
down the banner and boxing up the gear while the kids screamed for
more action from the monsters. By the time I reached an entrance to
the stadium, the corridor was mostly empty. Two minutes before the
ceremony began.

Eight-thousand seats in that stadium. All
filled.

Lightners floated above the stadium
spotlighting the crowd that cheered when their images appeared over
the field in three-dimensional detail. Holographic fireworks
streaked harmlessly from one side to the other, like a battle of
green, blue and red fizzling missiles. Hundreds of shiny lookit
orbs hovered around, their red eyelights circling their shiny
softball-sized bodies, scanning and directing the crowd. I made my
way near the front, stood along the railing just above the
field.

Security guards were along the perimeter.
There were some real important people on the stage in center field,
including the governor, mayor and all the members of the county
school board. The rest of the stage was occupied by coaches and
parents. There in front, sitting with a blanket over his lap in a
wheelchair, was Chute’s father, Mr. Thomas, who was paralyzed in
the car accident that took his wife’s life. Behind him was Chute’s
older sister, Angela, her hands on his shoulders.

A bone-rattling explosion shook the seats,
and then the sky lit up. Fog oozed from the tunnel at the end of
the field, smoky tendrils crawling over the grass. Synthesized
music hammered out a beat. The head coach emerged from the thick
cloud and the crowd erupted.

He reached center stage and shook hands. And
then the first player stepped from the smoke, hands in the air,
dancing in a circle, whooping the crowd to another level of
fanatical frenzy. Another tagger emerged, hopping up and down,
swinging his arms. The announcer’s voice barely registered above
the excitement. The third player out broke rank and raced for the
wall where fans leaned over with outstretched hands. The next one
out followed until several of them were running along the perimeter
shaking hands and signing shirts and programs. The crowd rushed
down the aisles to get a piece of the action.

Two students pushed by me, booing. They threw
poppers at the players, laughing with the squeal of gear-induced
euphoria. Their energy tasted sulfuric, their synapses burning from
the small patches they hid behind their ears that kept the dopamine
production on high. They started to throw another round of
poppers.

“Turn yourselves into security.” I barely
spoke above the noise, but they didn’t need to hear the words. They
felt them. “Report you are using illegal gear and need help.”

Their complexions became pasty. They were
frozen in mid-throw, absorbing what I just imprinted on their
minds. They accepted my thoughts as their own, felt the compulsion
to turn themselves over to the authorities. The command wouldn’t
last long, soon it would fade and they would resume control of
their being, but it would last long enough to get them out of the
way.

“AND, FINALLY!” the announcer shouted, “SOUTH
CAROLINA’S MOST VALUABLE PLAYER…”

The crowd drowned his final word out,
shouting a name that had been called hundreds of times during the
tagghet season.

CHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUTTTTTE!

Chute stepped out of the tunnel. My chest
melted, seeing her step into the spotlight. The crowd began
throwing stuff onto the field. My instinct was to stop them, but
then I realized… roses. They were throwing roses. Some had stems,
others threw just the flowers that perished in a flutter of petals
that looked like a pink cloud falling onto the green grass. She
raised her hands to catch them.

We would be together, for the rest of our
lives, that much I knew because, from time to time, I had a vision.
We’re old. My hair is thin, but still white. Streeter is short,
round and bald. Wrinkles soften Chute’s face and her red hair is
more of a rust color and sprayed with strands of gray. I’m holding
her right hand. In her left, she holds a rose. We’re in a wasteland
of dead trees, their silvery-gray branches barren. Weeds brush
against our knees until we reach an enormous stump worn and
chiseled by the weather. Chute kneels and places the rose on the
stump. We stand in silence. She lays her head on my shoulder.

It feels like we’re paying tribute to
someone, but I don’t know who. All I know is that it’s a solid
vision. As solid as they get.

We’ll be together, to the end.

Chute reached the steps leading up to the
stage and the coach handed her a long stemmed rose. It was the
students that started the rose ritual, throwing them like hockey
fans threw hats on the ice after a hat trick. It started with any
old flower, but when Chute was quoted on the news that roses were
her favorite, it was roses the rest of the season. Whenever she
scored, it rained red.

Her teammates pulled her onstage. Together,
the whole team raised their arms. The crowd went berserk. It was
several minutes before there was any control. In fact, no one could
hear what the coach was saying. When he was finished, he turned it
over to the other very special people. They handed out awards to
various players. They each got to say something, shouting out to
their friends and families and pretty much whatever came to mind. I
could barely hear them.

Chute was the last up, blushing as the crowd
ramped up again, tossing more roses, turning the field more red
than green. She held her father’s hand and tried to speak but
choked on her emotions, which only riled up the crowd more. When
she finally spoke, and the crowd settled, she sincerely thanked
everyone for coming, it meant so much. She held up the MVP award –
a glittering globe – and the crowd responded.

“I hope this empowers girls everywhere.
NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE!”

She wiped her face and kissed her father’s
cheek and hugged her sister. She thanked her mother and wished she
could see her now.

Best ceremony ever.

It was almost midnight.

I waited at the back entrance, watching the
team leave. Chute was the last out. She was escorted by a security
guard to my car in front of the school. I opened her door, thanked
the man and went around to my side and when I got in we met in the
middle, hugging tight. I loved the way she smelled. “I knew you
were there,” she said. “It was like I could feel you, you
know.”

I know.

The last of the crowd was being ushered out
of the parking lot by security. I took the wheel and drove down the
empty road littered with programs and cups.

“Can you believe it?” Chute pounded the dash,
shaking her head and screaming. “I’m going home with this!
Can
you freaking believe it?”
She displayed the globe award on the
tips of her fingers. The surface was clear and polished, but it was
milky and opaque in the center, like it contained a galaxy.
“Socket, I don’t know if you know this.” She eyeballed me, deadpan.
“But I could be the best tagger of all time.”

I laughed. “Where was that humility at the
ceremony? I mean, all you did was thank everyone and hoped to
inspire every girl to wear a sportsbra.”

“Let’s see if I go pro.” She waved her hand
around the globe. “Oh, mighty award that looks like a crystal ball,
please tell me where I’ll be in ten years.”

Asking for the future made me cringe. I’d had
enough of that. She chanted some mumbo-jumbo, fogged the glass with
her breath and rubbed it on her shirt. She pressed it against her
ear like a seashell.

“Socket! Guess what?”

“You win every tagghet award known to
mankind?”

“No.” She leaned close. “You’re going to stop
at a red light.”

I eased up to the stoplight, already red.
“Wow. That thing really does work.”

“And now you’re going to turn left.”

“Um, your house is straight.”

Her hand crawled across my chest. “But the
park is that way.”

“It’s midnight, Chute.”

“Oh my.” She feigned surprise. “That means…
we’re going to turn into pumpkins any second. Promise me, Socket,
they won’t make me into a pie? Promise me!”

“But your dad is expecting us.”

She nibbled on my earlobe, her breath in my
ear. “I told him we were stopping at a party.”

“He trusts me to get you home.”

“Oh, you’ll get me home.”

The light turned green.

“Your dad,” I said. “He has a baseball bat,
you know.”

“I just want to see the park,” she whispered.
“Is that so bad?”

“But you’ve seen the park.”

Her tongue was hot. Shivers ran down my
spine. “Not tonight.”

The blinker flashed on the dashboard. I
turned left.

It was 12:50 when we got to Chute’s
neighborhood. She was looking in the mirror on the sun visor,
fixing her hair. Her house was in a cul-de-sac, a single-story
ranch with white siding. The lights were bright in the bay window
to the right of the door. Her father was at the kitchen table. He
looked up when my headlights flashed across the house. I turned the
lights off.

“We’re here.”

“I look like I’ve been wrestling.”

“It’d be good if you didn’t.”

“Give me a second, then.”

“Your dad’s watching.”

“Let him watch. We’re not doing
anything.”

Mr. Thomas sipped from a can, staring out the
window. I tapped on the steering wheel, counting the seconds. Chute
flipped the visor back. “All done. How do I look?”

The dashboard glow softly lit her face.
Sometimes I forgot time when I looked at her. She was beautiful.
Most would agree, but it was different for me. Her face moved me,
deeply. Her smile. The way her eyes crinkled in the corners. Her
energy swirled sweetly, vibrating somewhere inside me.

“What?” she said. “Do I still look like the
Hulk?”

“No.” I turned the car off. “Let’s go
in.”

The doors slammed in the quiet night. We
hooked our fingers as we walked up the concrete ramp. Chute pushed
open the front door.

“There she is!” Mr. Thomas’s voice boomed
from inside the house. “There’s my Annie-darling!”

Chute ran through the house. Her dad wheeled
in from the kitchen. She kissed him on the cheek then walked behind
him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Annie was her birth name,
but her father was the only one that called her that.

“You letting the mosquitoes inside to breed,
boy?” Mr. Thomas shouted. “Get in here and shut the door!”

I closed the door and came inside. Mr. Thomas
held out his thick hand and shook mine and then Angela came running
into the front room screaming. Chute laced her fingers with her
sister and they both screeched. Mr. Thomas covered his ears
muttering, “Jesus Christ’s holy shit,” and went to the kitchen for
another beer. Can, not bottle. Mr. Thomas always said bottles were
for girls.

The girls embraced, still screaming like ten
year olds, bouncing up and down. He took a swig of Budweiser and
watched his daughters celebrate. He flinched when they hit the high
notes, but it never wiped the smile off his face. Angela was a
cheerleader in high school, doing one of her old cheers, kicking
her leg up high and shaking her hands. “A-W-E-S-O-M-E! Awesome.
Awesome. To-tally!”

Chute imitated her, but was laughing too hard
to keep up. Mr. Thomas’s laugh boomed over the top of them. “You
see that, Socket? They’re taunting me with their perfectly working
legs.”

“Oh, stop it, Daddy,” Angela said, not
breaking stride.

Mr. Thomas put his beer on the table and
wheeled over to the girls. He expertly leaned back and pulled a
wheelie, moving in time to the dance. The girls kicked out like
Russian dancers while Mr. Thomas wheeled back and forth. The cheer
broke down when the girls fell down laughing.

“Let’s see that award, girl!” Mr. Thomas
shouted.

The girls lay on the floor, catching their
breath. Mr. Thomas waited at the table. The globe was by the front
door, so I fetched it. He muttered thank you. And then the energy
changed.