Swagger (23 page)

“No. Not Levi. You know that.”

Cash look confused. “How do you explain it, then?”

Before I had to answer, Mr. Diaz's voice came over the speakers. “Students, please take a seat. This is not a time for fooling around. Just take the nearest open spot so we can begin. I have important information to give you.”

The gym quieted, and then Mr. Diaz—in short, simple sentences—told the school of Levi's death. When he finished speaking, girls leaned on one another's shoulders and sobbed. Guys cradled their heads in their hands. Everybody at Harding High knew Levi—he was the six-six guy in the hallways who was kind to everybody.

Always.

I bowed my head and felt my shoulders shake. I couldn't let myself cry though, because if I started, I'd never stop.

Mr. Diaz saved me. After he'd let his words sink in, he said that counselors would be available for those who needed them. “You can stay here if you want, or you can go to your class, but I can't allow you to congregate in the hallways or in any of the other public areas. I'd ask you not to leave the school grounds, either.”

Cash climbed down out of the bleachers and left without turning back. I wanted to get away too, but I couldn't make myself stand.

It was right then—right when my throat ached so much it was hard to breathe—that I saw Hartwell. He was speaking with Mr. Diaz, his face solemn, his eyes cast downward. I hated him; I hated him to the core. He killed my friend; he killed the best person I'd ever known, the best person I ever will know. He'd taken Levi's simple heart and twisted it until it had snapped.

Another teacher called to Mr. Diaz, and he moved toward her. Hartwell turned back toward the seats, and his eyes caught mine. He nodded—a nod of sorrow and sympathy. He took a step toward me and then another step.

I wanted to run, but I didn't. Instead, I came down out of the stands and walked toward him, walked fast and with a purpose. When I reached him, I could see distrust in his eyes. “I'm so—” he started.

“I know everything,” I said, interrupting. “Levi told me. You're the reason he's dead.”

Hartwell's eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the snow camping. I'm talking about the times Levi went to your apartment for tutoring. He told me what happened.”

Hartwell's back straightened, and his voice turned business-like. “Jonas, you're upset, and I understand that, but what you're saying makes no sense. Nothing happened on the camping trip. Nothing happened at my apartment.”

“You're a liar, and I'm going to tell everyone. You're going to prison.”

“Stop,” he commanded. “Stop right there and come with me.”

I
DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY I FOLLOWED
him to his office—maybe because he was a teacher and I was a student—but I followed him. He had me sit in a blue plastic chair while he sat in the swivel chair behind his desk.

“Let's be clear with one another. You're suggesting I abused Levi, right? That's what you're accusing me of.” His voice was eerily calm, as if he were discussing the scouting report on an upcoming opponent.

“That's right,” I answered, determined not to back down.

“And what is your proof?”

“He told me.”

Hartwell smiled contemptuously. “He told you? We're talking about Levi, remember? Levi wouldn't even say the word
damn
. So what exactly did he tell you? That I did something bad? And that means what? That I drank a beer while I was tutoring him? It means nothing, Jonas. Nothing. And Mr. Diaz will send you right out the door.”

As Hartwell's confident sentences filled the room, what had been clear became cloudy. I tried to remember the words Levi had used. Because Hartwell was right—Mr. Diaz, the police—they would want to know Levi's exact words. Had Levi ever used the word
sex?
Or was I the one who had said that word? Had I figured everything out from Levi's silences?

As Hartwell waited, I could feel his tension. When I said nothing, he exhaled loudly, and a look of triumph came to his face. “Here's why I know Levi didn't tell you anything—because there's nothing to tell. Levi and I went camping on New Year's Eve. Camping, that's all. I tutored him at my apartment. Tutoring, that's all. If he implied that I did anything wrong, then it was entirely in his imagination, or maybe in yours.”

“Levi didn't imagine things,” I said, my voice shaky, “and neither did I. You did things—I know you did. You can deny it all you want, but I'll never believe you.”

Hartwell tapped the top of his desk with his fingertips, and then he folded his hands in front of his face, scorn in his eyes. “Don't believe me, then. That's your choice. But keep your sick thoughts to yourself, because if you accuse me of anything, if you try to take away my name and my career, then I'll fight you with everything I've got, and I'll win.” He paused, and a little smile came to his lips. “You're sort of in a glass house, aren't you? You're not exactly in a position to throw stones. Or hadn't you thought about that?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, baffled. “What glass house?”

“I'm talking about chemistry, Jonas. I'm talking about your scholarship to Monitor College. I was there right before you downloaded Butler's files and e-mailed them to yourself, remember? I know the date, the computer, everything. If I were to tell the school district's tech guys, they'd have your e-mail tracked in ten minutes.”

“My chemistry class has nothing to do with Levi.”

“It has everything to do with you, though. If you go to Mr. Diaz with some crazy story that you
can't
prove, then you'll force me to tell him a real story that I
can
prove. Your B in chemistry will become an F, and your scholarship to Monitor College will evaporate. You'll brand yourself as a cheater, and you'll wear that label for the rest of your life. That's what you'll do to yourself. And what you'll do to Levi is even worse. Right now he's a hero. You start telling sex stories about him, and that's gone. Levi's father—you know what he's like. He'd hate the memory of his only son. Would you really do that to him, Jonas? And for what? This is America. A person is innocent until they're proven guilty, and you have no proof against me because nothing happened.”

Hartwell let me sit for a while before he spoke again. “I've got a class to teach. Stay here and think this over. You'll see my way is best for everyone—you, me, and Levi.”

He left, and I sat in that stupid plastic chair, staring at the basketball team photo on the wall behind Hartwell's desk. In the photo, Levi was standing next to me in the center. On one side was Mr. Knecht; on the other was Hartwell. Cash, Nick, DeShawn, Brindle—they were mixed in with the other guys,
all of us shoulder to shoulder, all of us smiling.

T
HERE WAS A MEMORIAL SERVICE
in the school cafeteria the next night. Flowers covered tables up front, and on the walls were pictures of Levi. In every corner was a table with butcher paper and markers where kids could write whatever messages they wanted.

Levi's father spoke next, Levi's mother at his side. He said that God had a plan for all of us and that sometimes that plan was a mystery, and this is where faith came in. He stepped aside then, and others came to the podium to describe what Levi had meant to them.

Rachel spoke next. She described how much Levi had loved the mountains and how it was fitting that his life would end there. “My brother's soul is with God now,” she said, and as she left the podium, her father hugged her. It was the first time I'd ever seen him hug any of his children.

After Rachel, a stream of students took the microphone to describe things Levi had done or said. Some of them were kids who never spoke in class and barely said a word in the halls. Invisible kids—not athletes, not great students, not anything. But they knew Levi. They weren't invisible to him.

Toward the end, I went up and said something about him being my friend, and how the word
friend
was the only word I could think of, but that it wasn't a big-enough word. Hartwell spoke last, describing what a great teammate Levi had been, but how he was even a greater person. If I could have blocked out his words, I would have.

My parents also came to the memorial. On the drive back to Tangletown, they discussed how moving the service had been. I agreed, but upstairs in my room with the door closed, I felt sick.

Everything people said had been true, but it hadn't been the whole truth. Nobody had said anything about Levi being called Dumb-Dumb or about how he was a kid who others teased—but that was also part of who he was, who he had been. He was getting whittled down, somehow. Death was doing that to him.

At school the next day, the hallways were hushed in the morning, but during each passing period, the volume grew. By lunchtime kids were laughing and talking loudly. And the next day, the hallways weren't quiet at all—not in the morning, not in the afternoon. Midterms were coming up, and after that came spring break and pretty soon graduation. People hadn't forgotten about Levi, but they were beginning to forget. All that time, I kept going over everything that had happened. All that time, I asked myself the same question:
What should I have done differently?

I received a letter from Coach Richter giving details about orientation at Monitor College in late August. For two days, only freshman would be on campus. I'd get a feel for the school, see the athletic facilities, and meet some of my teammates. Richter wrote that there was no designated athletic dorm, but most of the guys lived at Hawthorne Hall, and he recommended I sign up for that. It was obvious he hadn't heard about Levi's death. Why would he? New Hampshire was three thousand miles away.

I showed Richter's letter to my mother, and she told me that I shouldn't feel guilty about moving on. “Levi would want you to go to Monitor College and do well. You know he would.”

 

Friday before chemistry class, Celia told me that her volleyball coach had passed out free tickets to see the UW Husky women's basketball team play. “If you want, we could go together.” I knew that it was a charity date, but I agreed.

My parents were happy when I told them why I wanted the car for Saturday night. “You need to get your own life going again,” my dad said.

I sat next to Celia during the basketball game, but she spent most of the time talking to Cassie Holt, a girl I sort of knew from English class. Every so often my mind would drift and I'd think about Levi. I'd come out of it, talk about the game with Celia for a little bit, and then my mind would drift again. When the games ended, a handful of us went to Miro on Ballard Avenue, where we drank Italian sodas and listened to two guys playing Spanish guitars.

I took Celia home a little after midnight. “That was fun,” she said, after I'd walked her to her front door. Instead of going inside, she stood looking at me. Maybe she was waiting for me to kiss her, I'm not sure. The moment passed. Then she had her key in the door, and after that I was walking back to my car.

I got up late Sunday morning. When I went downstairs, my dad shoved the sports page of the
Seattle Times
at me. “Look at page four,” he said, before he headed out the door for work.

I took the newspaper to the kitchen table, put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, and then glanced at the page. The headline jumped out at me:

 

RYAN HARTWELL NAMED HOOPS COACH OF THE YEAR

 

The article described Knecht's accident and the title run, and at the end it briefly mentioned Levi's death. My mom came into the kitchen as I finished reading. “Your father showed me,” she said, nodding toward the newspaper. “I'm glad for Coach Hartwell. He deserved it. A young man facing all that's happened. He's handled it really well.”

B
EFORE SCHOOL ON MONDAY, A
bunch of kids surrounded Hartwell, congratulating him on his award. He'd high-five one person, then bump knuckles with the next, while all the time the crowd grew larger. I slipped away before anyone could see me.

During lunch I didn't want to run into any of the guys on the team, so I ate outside on the steps by the parking lot. In six months I'd be three thousand miles from Seattle, taking classes at Monitor College, and all this would be in the past.

When the wind came up and rain started to fall, I headed back into the building, figuring the library would be a good place to kill the ten minutes before my next class.

I pushed through the turnstile and looked for an empty area. I walked past the fiction shelves to the rear wall and turned a corner. All alone at a small table sat Brandon, the sophomore on the team who'd almost never played. He gave me a wave and a smile, and I smiled back. I'd always liked Brandon—maybe because he reminded me of Levi. They were both on the shy side, and neither one of them ever had a mean word for anyone.

I was about to sit down across from him when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and found myself face-to-face with Ryan Hartwell. I looked at him and then looked to Brandon, and the world seemed to shrink to that one small spot.

“Is he tutoring you?” I asked Brandon.

Brandon nodded, his face down. “Yeah, in geometry. I suck at math.”

I turned back to Hartwell. Our eyes locked exactly as they had after Hartwell had knocked Knecht to the ground. Something had passed between us then. I knew what it was—I'd always known—but until that moment, I'd never admitted it to myself. That had been no accident, any more than Levi's death had been an accident. Hartwell had seen Knecht step onto the basketball court, and he had smashed him to the ground. He'd knocked the old man down so that he could take over the team. Hartwell did whatever he wanted. My eyes returned to Brandon. He was gazing at both of us, his face open and trusting just like Levi's had been.