Stick (7 page)

I
slogged through the rest of the day pretending I was invisible, which wasn't too hard because people treated me like I had a rare strain of the bird flu. Half the guys I saw from the team didn't even look at me. The bonus was that I didn't see Coach.

Preston was supposed to meet me at my car for tutoring at his place, but since my most awesome dad had taken my keys and I was on foot, I missed him. I didn't have his phone number, either, which sucked, so I hopped the bus downtown, walking to his place in hopes that he was there.

I walked around his building till I found the lobby and got buzzed up to the top floor. When the doors opened, I found myself in a small waiting area with two chairs. I knocked on the door to the apartment, and a few seconds later a man answered. I blinked, wondering who it was, since Preston's dad was gone. “Hi. Is Preston home?”

The man, dressed in a suit and with his tie loosened, stared at me. He was shorter than me, around forty-five years old, with a drum for a stomach. He had startling blue eyes and dark close-cut hair, and he wore a class ring on his right hand. Most times I try not be judgmental, but some people were born with asswipe smeared all over their faces, and he was one of them. He studied me for a moment before answering. “No.”

I looked back at him, weirded out by his stare. “Do you know when he'll be home? We were—” I said, but he cut me off, calling back over his shoulder.

“Diane, your kid has a friend at the door.”

By the way this guy was acting, the first thing that came to mind was the black eye Preston had had yesterday. I nodded. “I can come back later. No problem.” But then I heard shoes clattering across the marble entry.

Preston's mom wasn't what I imagined. She was dressed in a light blue silk blouse and a pair of those super-expensive jeans laced with white stitching. She had highlighted blond hair and wore too much makeup. My first impression was that she was a fifty-year-old woman doing everything she could to not be fifty. It wasn't overboard, but she easily fit into the cougar category. She looked me up and down, then smiled. “You're one of Preston's friends?”

Her eyes were kind. Warm. I nodded. “Uh, yes. He's helping me with math, and I missed him at school,” I said, not adding that the reason was that my dad had stolen my car.

She held her hand out, smiling again. “Well, I'm Diane, Preston's mother. And you are…?”

“Sti—” I began, then stopped. “Brett Patterson.”

The man's eyes widened. “Stick Patterson? Of the Saxons?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

He smiled, his face opening up like a jack-o'-lantern. “Well, damn, come on in! I didn't figure that kid had a friend in the entire world, and now I've got the best receiver in the state standing here.”

Diane looked down and wiped her hands on her jeans. Then she took a breath. “Yes, Brett, please come in. It's nice to meet one of Preston's friends.”

I followed them to the living room, and Preston's mom showed me to a leather loveseat. The man sat across from me in a matching leather recliner. He slapped the arm, shaking his head. “Stick Patterson,” he said again, grinning. “You know, I went to Hamilton years ago. Played ball, too. Great school. Best in the city. By the way, the name is Tom. Tom Clarkston. I'm an attorney.” He winked at me. “If you ever need anything, you just call me up.”

Preston's mom offered me a glass of water, which I accepted. “Thank you.” I wondered how many ambulances Tom had chased in his career.

Preston's mom sat on the other couch. “So, how long have you and Preston known each other? I'm afraid he's not much of a talker.”

I felt like I was being interrogated, but nicely. “A little while. We met in the guidance office. I'm horrible at math, and he's really smart. Actually, like a genius or something.”

Tom crossed his ankle over his knee, fiddling with the leather tassel on his shoe. “So, Stick, tell me about the season. It looks like you'll nab the title again. Great team, great team. Even read you might have some scholarships coming your way.” He nodded like he was going to endow me with some sort of old-guy wisdom. And of course, he did. “You just be picky, huh? To be the best, you've got to go with the best. Definitely stay West Coast, though,” he said, then leaned over and patted Preston's mom's knee. “Better-looking women, you know?”

I drank the water, remembering that Preston and his mother came from Chicago. “Thanks,” I said, then looked at Preston's mom. “You don't know where Preston is, then?”

Tom straightened his neck, glancing at Diane with a glint in his eye. “Didn't he say something about playing with his little comic book things?” He grinned at me. “Hey, Stick, you still play with dolls?”

Diane cleared her throat. “Tom, please.”

He nodded. “Fine, Diane, but you know how I feel about it. It's just not normal. What is he, fifteen? And he still pretends? Hell, I was working at a burger joint and smashing offensive linemen into the turf when I was his age.” He winked again, smug and satisfied. “Defensive lineman. I was the guy going after your quarterback.”

I wondered what it would be like to hook a car battery to his testicles and pull the switch, and I could easily imagine that Preston hated his guts. “Yeah, I've heard that's what defensive linemen do.”

“You know, I've got a thousand dollars on the Saxons winning this week. Pretty big money, huh?”

“That's awesome, sir.” I gave him a nod. “In fact, if I were you, I'd put two thousand on it.”

He slapped the arm of the recliner again. “That's what I like. Confidence. I'm going to do just that.”

I turned to Preston's mom. “I'd better get going. Could you tell Preston I stopped by?”

She stood, smiling at me. “Yes. And it's nice meeting you, Brett. Maybe we could have you over for dinner sometime?”

“Sure. That sounds great.” I walked to the door.

Tom called out from the living room, “You take care of those hands, boy. They're golden!”

M
y dad was sitting in one of the chairs on our front porch when I got home. It was a bit after five. A half-empty beer sat on the little table next to him, and he held a football in his hands.

I walked up the steps. “Hi.”

He stared at the lawn. “You said you missed playing catch. Like we used to.”

“Yeah.”

He stood and tossed me the ball. “Well, then, come on. Let's play.”

It took a second for me to register that he was serious, but when I did, I brightened. He'd listened. Finally. I set my pack down and we spread out on the grass, just like we used to. Start close to warm up, then move back farther and farther. He lobbed the ball to me, stretching his arm. “How was school?”

I threw it back. “Weird.”

He took a step back, throwing me a wobbly spiral. “Figured it would be.”

I caught it, the skin of the ball warm in my hands. We'd do this after school all the time before things got serious. Just him and me, throwing and catching and talking. I threw. “Yeah.”

He caught the ball and spun it in his hands. “You see Coach?”

“No.”

He threw, this time harder, a true spiral. The ball felt good in my hands, and suddenly a twinge of remorse coursed through me. I loved football. “I don't know if I want to see him.” I took a step back, throwing.

He caught it. “I know. It's hard to face people when you're ashamed,” he said, then threw.

I felt the grain of the leather and gripped the ball tighter. “I'm not ashamed, Dad. I'm like a black sheep at school now anyway, so it doesn't matter. It's done.” I threw him a lollipop pass.

He caught it, then took a step forward. “What's your plan now? Graduate, get a job?” he said, unwinding and throwing me a nail.

The ball hit my hands just like it should, the shock running up my forearms. “I don't know. Probably. Maybe I can enroll in community college. I've always liked art, you know? Remember that gallery downtown I used to go to?” I said before taking a step back and throwing.

He caught the ball. “So, you've dropped every plan you've had since you were twelve years old, and you don't know what you're going to do.” He took another step forward, preparing to throw. “Is that smart?” He really unwound this time, giving me a bullet from ten yards away.

I clenched my teeth, and threw the ball back.

He threw it back, harder than before. His eyes were flat, his expression stone-faced. “You having a good time, Brett? This fun?”

I caught it. “Yeah, Dad. Great time.” I jetted the ball to him, and it hit his chest as he caught it.

He took a stance, the ball in his hands and up by his ear. “You might want to get that job first, because…,” he said, then unleashed another bullet at me, “I'm not paying for a single thing you do from now on.”

I caught the ball easily, but it was way too hard for how close we were. I realized we weren't playing catch. Not the way I thought we were. “I didn't ask, did I?” I said, throwing him the ball.

He caught it, glowering, his eyes intense. “This is what it's about, right? Just having some fun. Everything should just be fun,” he said, then put everything in it that he had. The ball flashed toward my head.

They didn't call me Stick for nothing, I thought, laughing to myself as the ball slapped into my hands. I looked at him, at the other side of the yard, and knew things had changed between us. But I was pissed. I felt like screaming my lungs out at him or crumpling to the ground in a heap of tears. I took a breath, staring at the grass at my feet and feeling like I was trapped. Fine. He wanted it? He'd get it. I lifted my chin, staring at him. “That all you got, Dad? You might be a washed-up football player, but I didn't think you were washed out,” I said, then tossed him the ball underhand.

He stood there, his chest heaving. I'd never seen the look in his eyes before. “You watch your mouth, Brett. You watch it.”

“What? You don't like the truth? You couldn't hack it, could you? You could never be what you wanted, so you tried to make me be it. Well, you know what? I
am
better than you, and I'm not going to spend my life drinking myself to sleep every night because I live a life I hate.”

The ball flew from his hand like a bolt of lightning, just like I knew it would. I didn't raise my hands. Just stood there, staring at him. The ball slammed into my chest like a torpedo, and the air exploded from my lungs. Pain shattered through me, but I stood there, my eyes never leaving his, my arms down. He took a halting step forward, coming toward me, the look in his eyes softening. Then he stopped, the ice returning. I felt like I was going to pass out.

He shook his head and began walking to the house. “There you go, Mr. Man. There you go.”

I sucked in a breath of air. “I'm never going to catch another ball again,” I called to him.

He didn't answer. Didn't look at me. Just went inside and slammed the door shut behind him.