Stick (4 page)

I
sat in the car, my head swimming. I didn't want to go in. I wished my dad was out, but since he worked from home, he was always there.

I thought about Preston and what he'd said. Or not said, but asked. That was the strange thing. He never really said anything; he asked everything. From being distracted by wrappers in my car to not understanding why anybody would be upset that I quit football, he confused me. What if I did tell my dad it wasn't his business? What would he do?

I turned the car off, hopped out, and walked up the driveway.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and drinking a beer. There wasn't a day after four o'clock when he didn't have a bottle in his hand. Our house wasn't big enough to hide in or for me to go to my room without him knowing I was there, so I did what I knew I should. “Hi.”

He looked up. “Coach Williams called.”

I leaned against the kitchen entry. “Yeah.”

He set the paper down and took off his glasses. He was a big man, but not huge; I got my height from him. At six three, he was an inch taller than me. He didn't have the build of a football player, but back in his day, he was. A receiver, just like me. He'd been good—great, from what I heard. Got a full ride to Washington State University, then blew his knee out his first season. End of story. Now he was a business consultant. He looked at me. “I spoke to your math teacher. Not much for football players, but you'll be fine to play if you get the extra credit done,” he said, then squinted at me. “And by the way, you're grounded for disobeying an order. Don told me what you did in his office.”

Don was Don Williams, or Coach Williams. I rolled my eyes. Lucky me that they would have a bromance together. “Dad, he was totally out of line. I already talked to my teacher. I talked to Mr. Reeves. I did everything I was supposed to. There was no problem with anything. The guy just gets off on using his power to crap on people.”

He put his glasses back on, then picked up the paper, talking to it instead of me. “We're five games into taking the championship, and you hold the key. Roger Silvia, the scout from UCLA, is flying up for Friday's game, and you know why. He wants to meet, and I arranged a get-together here on Saturday. I'm pretty sure he's coming with an offer.”

I stood in the doorway, staring at him while he ignored me. Sometimes I think he literally didn't hear a fucking word I said.
What if you ignored everything he said? What would he do?
Preston's words came to me, and as I watched Dad, I didn't know what to do. As far as he was concerned, I didn't get to have an opinion on what I wanted to do. I'd spent the day listening to one man hammering it into me, and now I was listening to another man treat me like I was a chess piece in his game of life.

Everything rolled around my head like a spinning bingo basket. “I didn't do anything wrong, Dad.”

He took a swig of beer. “Keep your eye on the goal, Brett.”

Anger boiled through me. “What goal is that? My goal or your goal?”

He stopped mid-swig, then laughed. “You keep this up and you'll be grounded for the rest of the year. Be a smart-ass somewhere else, huh? There are much more important things going on than how you feel about being put in your place. Quit whining and be a man.”

I was tempted to grab that beer and shove it down his throat, but I didn't. I turned around and went to my room. Invisible things don't talk, so I didn't.

F
ootball players wore their jerseys to school on game days, just like the cheerleaders wore their uniforms. Banners strung across the hallways supported and celebrated the team, and an electric air filled the school with an underlying hum of excitement. The Saxons would be kicking ass and taking names.

In the first five games of the season, we'd outscored our opponents by a total of fifty-three points. I'd caught twenty-one receptions, for over four hundred yards, and had scored six touchdowns. My high school career included more completions and touchdowns than any other player in the history of the school, and I was well on the way to holding a state record for yardage. We'd taken state last year, and if we took it this year, the consecutive wins would be the first in history for Hamilton High School.

I was a star.

Lance Killinger, our quarterback, caught up to me in the hall after second period. Killinger and I didn't like each other, and it was well known that we didn't. It all started when he was born. He came out of the hatch looking down on the world, and for however much he thought his crap didn't stink, it did.

But he could throw and I could catch, and no matter how much of an arrogant assclown he was, that's all that mattered to anybody. He was the kind of guy I'd be happy to never know, but we flowed together on the field like twins. He bumped my shoulder, looking at my T-shirt. “Where's the jersey, Stick? You forget it?”

I had four minutes to get to class. “No.”

“You slacking? Skipping weights in the morning, no-showing at practice yesterday. What's your deal?”

“Been busy is all.”

“You gotta represent, man. We're the kings of this school.”

I kept walking. “Kings, huh? Is that right?”

“What's up your ass?” he said. “Big guy nervous about tonight?”

“Just heading to class, Lance. Nothing special.”

“Yeah, sure. Heard a UCLA scout is going to be here. Wow for you, even though I can nail a dime at forty yards, and the only reason you're good is that I hit your chest every time.”

I faced him. “You know what I've never told you?”

He met my stare, the challenge there. “What is that, Stick? You want to tell me something?”

I thought of everything I wanted to say but hadn't. What I wanted more than anything was my fist punching his face inside out. “I wanted to tell you that you're an awesome quarterback, and I know you're going to kill it tonight.”

He paused, a question in his eyes. “Yeah, sure. You know it. West Valley equals big-time fail. They suck.”

“You got it,” I said, taking a quick left into my class.

Sixth period let out, and I hustled to my car. As I neared, I saw Preston standing next to it. He was staring at something at his feet. I took my keys from my pocket. “Hey. Here to finish cleaning my car out?”

He looked up. “Hi.”

“What's up?”

“Nothing.”

“You just stand around people's cars?”

He looked at me, unsure, his eyes wavering. Like he was nervous, but not. “I was wondering why you're failing math. You didn't answer me yesterday.”

I almost laughed. Math. Okay. My life was turned upside down, there was a huge game tonight, and he was wondering about math. “Because I suck at it. I told you that.”

He looked at me. “I suck at football, but at least I know why.”

“Why, then?”

“Because I'm five feet six inches tall, I weigh one hundred and seventeen pounds, and I have a tendency to fall down when I run.”

I stared at him, wondering where he'd come from, and why. “Well, I just suck at it. The numbers get all jumbled in my head.”

“I could probably help you if you want.”

“Why? I thought you didn't want to know me.”

“Because I'm brilliant.”

I laughed.

He cast his eyes down. “Cool. Anyway, good luck with the game. Bye,” he said, turning and shuffling away.

“Jesus, Preston! I wasn't laughing at you!” I called to him. He kept walking. “I was laughing because you say shit that's just so out there. Stop! Come on!”

He did stop, then turned and faced me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shoulders slouched.

I pointed to the passenger door of the car. “Get in. I need my car cleaned.”

His eyes brightened. “Really?”

I opened the door. “As long as you can stand the garbage, yeah, really.”

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I checked my mirrors, then drove down 37th Avenue. “So, where are you from?”

“A womb.”

“Okay…where are you from, as in where did you come from before you started at Hamilton this year?”

“Chicago. We moved here after my dad died.”

“How'd he die?”

“He was murdered for seventeen dollars.”

“I'm sorry.”

Preston drummed his fingers on his knee methodically. “You didn't do anything.”

“I know. I just am, though. Did they catch the guy?”

He shook his head.

“So, you'll tutor me?”

“Yes.”

I smiled. “Cool. Thanks.”

He looked at me, totally serious. “I don't want to be your boyfriend. It's not that way.”

“Damn,” I said. He fidgeted, eyeing a pop can. I could almost feel his need to clean. I laughed. “Go ahead, OCD boy. Have at it.”

He picked up the can. “Being that you are alive today, your dad didn't kill you Tuesday night.”

“I don't know what's worse. Being completely ignored or being stomped on.”

Preston frowned as he stuffed the can in a fast-food bag. “Why is being ignored bad?”

I turned, heading downtown. “Because I'm not me to him. Or anybody. I'm what other people can get for themselves. Just like you said. Have you ever just had somebody completely ignore you?”

“Considering I still have egg on my backpack and the burn of being ostracized by my cooler peers is still hot in my belly, I would appreciate being ignored more often.”

I realized then that even if I had an idea of how much he was bullied, I would never truly know what it was like, and I felt a stab of guilt. “That won't happen again if I'm around.”

He reached into my console, scooping up a handful of change. “My gay stalker is going to protect me now. Yay. I'm saved.”

“I'm just saying, you know? It was a crappy thing to do, and I guess I'm seeing things differently now.”

He began separating the pennies from the rest of the change. “I don't need anything from you, Brett. I can take care of myself just fine.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, like having guys like Tilly make you into a fool in front of everybody.”

He turned those big eyes to me. “Is that what he did? Made a fool out of me?”

“Well, you got egg all over you.”

He looked down and stacked the pennies. “I suppose the definition of ‘fool' depends on what side of the line you're on.”

He was right. “Tilly is the fool.”

Preston stacked nickels. “It doesn't matter what he is. It matters what I am. What time does it start?”

“What time does what start?”

“Your game.”

“Three hours. Game time is seven.”

He continued organizing my change, so I took the long way. I figured if we took a drive in the country, he'd have my car spotless in no time, but I was just happy to have a drive-in maid. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot. “So, about the tutoring thing.”

“Yeah.”

I put the car in park. “This Sunday work?”

He nodded. “I'll have to check my schedule, but I think I'm free from around five in the morning until eleven or so at night.”

He had a paper bag nearly full of trash, and the passenger side of the car was cleaner than it had ever been. “Cool. How about I meet you here at around one?”

He opened the door. “Sure. And good luck with your game tonight.”

At six o'clock, my cell rang. I ignored it. Ten minutes later, it rang again. I picked it up, turned the ringer to silent, and put it back down. I sat in my car, sipping on a soda and looking out over the northwest part of the city. I'd been draining the tank for hours driving around, and I'd finally pulled over, hopping out and taking a leak over the bluff.

Dusk settled over the skyline, the sun below the horizon, and I sat as the pink glow of the sunset faded to nothing. I glanced at my phone. Seven missed calls. I knew each one was another marker on my headstone, but I couldn't answer. I wouldn't answer.

I thought about my dad. It had all started with playing catch in the yard. Then my first team. I remembered not being able to sleep the night before games I was so excited. I remembered knowing, deep down and almost like it was natural, that I was
good.
Nobody had to tell me. I knew. And it felt good to know I was good at something.

Then it began changing. All the praise from my coaches and other parents built up, and my dad thrived on it. I did, too. I loved the attention, and I loved the game, but there were expectations. By the time eighth grade started, high school coaches from around the city were contacting my dad, offering ways to slide around the districting rules to get me on their teams.

Once my dad saw a future in me, things changed drastically. When I was a freshman, our postgame celebrations of getting ice cream or pizza turned into reviewing tapes, going over the playbook, talking strategy. Reviewing tapes then turned into incessant replays, and soon enough I dreaded it. Good plays and great catches were skipped over, and my dad focused on every minuscule mistake I made.

By tenth grade, training schedules and food restrictions were posted on the refrigerator. Ice cream and pizza were a thing of the past. Playing catch in the yard was history. Weekly barbecues in our backyard with Coach Williams turned into two-hour sessions in the living room where my dad and he talked about me as if I wasn't there.

All those years of pushing. All those years of my dad telling me what I wanted and what I needed. All the years of punishments, all the times he'd gotten drunk and knocked me around because I wasn't good enough. Football was everything in his life, and fortunately for him, he had a son that could live his dream. But it wasn't my dream anymore. I felt like he'd snuffed it out along the way.

From up on the bluff, I could see Joe Albi Stadium in the distance. At six-thirty, the stadium lights blinked on. Half an hour till kickoff. I closed my eyes and I could hear and smell and see everything. The locker room. The echoing voices. The excitement. The muffled sound of the announcer's voice welcoming the crowd.

Coach Williams would come in and give his talk. Not really a talk so much as a sermon from the pulpit of the gridiron. He'd tell us a hundred percent wasn't enough. He'd tell us second place is loser's place, and this field, his field, was no place for pussies. He'd wind it up, his chest heaving, his face turning red, his voice a growl as he told us nobody,
nobody,
could stop us. That we were champions.

It was the one thing that Coach was awesome at. Pumping us up. Getting us ready to smash. Our opponents will not just lose; they will have their souls ripped from them. They'll feel what it's like to be crushed under the boot of the Saxons, and we'd make it happen. We're the rulers of this league, and there's nothing that will stop us. Each and every one of us, he'd say, would show the world what it meant to be the best.

I opened my eyes and looked at those shining lights making an oval around the stadium, and I laughed. No, Coach. We wouldn't. I wouldn't. I'd sit in my car and wait for the end of the world, because I was done with people telling me what I should do for reasons I didn't care about. I was done having people ruin the thing I loved the most.

At seven o'clock, I flipped the radio on, tuning in to the game. And for the next four quarters, I listened to the Saxons get their asses whipped.