Crash (4 page)

I stood there. Then I went after her. I tapped again. “You sure?”

She turned, smiled the same smile, said, “I’m sure,” and kept walking.

The bell rang. The door opened. The cattle stampeded. Behind me Mike was choking on laugh balls.

I spent the rest of the day checking out the girl. So did a hundred other guys.

She was right, she isn’t Michelle Pratt. Her name is Jane Forbes. She moved here from Wilmington. She’s in seventh grade.

I ate lunch with Mike. We spotted her in the salad line. She still seemed by herself.

“Think she’ll go out for cheerleading?” Mike asked me.

In the morning the principal had announced sign-ups for football and cheerleading and other stuff.

“If she don’t go out,” I said, “they’ll come after her.”

“You’re lucky,” he said, “you’re a running back. I’m a grunt. She ain’t gonna notice me.”

Mike is a lineman. I’m a fullback. While he’s buried in a pile of bodies, I’m crossing the goal line. Last year they made me sit on the bench with the other sixth graders. This year nothing is keeping me off the first string. Or out of the headlines.

“Better believe it,” I said. “She’s gonna go”—I made my voice high like a girl’s—“‘Oooo, there’s that Crash Coogan scoring another touchdown. I do believe I’m falling in love with that boy. He’s so good and so handsome. Not like that ugly nipplenose, Mike Deluca.’”

Mike took the banana from his tray and smacked me with it.

I took the hot dog out of his roll and wiener-whipped him.

He grabbed my hot dog and boinked me on the head.

Around us kids were laughing.

I brought my fist down and mashed his hot dog roll.

He karate-chopped-my roll.

I turned his chocolate pudding upside down on his tray.

He did the same to mine.

By now the whole place was in an uproar. Mike and I had started out laughing. We weren’t anymore. There was no way I was going to stop. I’ve never been No. 2 in my life. I can’t stand to lose. More than that, I just won’t. Like one of my T-shirts says: REFOOZE TO LOOZE.

Problem was, Deluca is like that, too.

I picked up a chunk of potato salad and flicked it in his face.

He dipped his straw into his milk, capped the top of the straw with his finger, pulled out the straw, reached it over my head, and released his finger. I got a milk shower.

The place went bonkers.

I blinked. I smiled. I nodded. I pulled my straw from my milk. I took a swig from the carton. I spit it into his face.

Double bonkers!

I scooped up some chocolate pudding with my spoon. I was cocking it back to flip it when I felt a hand squeeze my shoulder. Some dumb kid, I figured, so I dumped my load of pudding on the hand. That’s when I noticed it was awful big for a kid’s hand. I looked up. It was a teacher.

The vice-principal smiled. That was a good sign.

“Don’t even bother to sit, gentlemen,” he said. “You’re not going to be here that long. In fact”—he leaned back in his swivel chair and clamped his hands behind his head—“I don’t even want to know why you’re here.”

He looked at me. “I’m not surprised you’re the first one to show up here this year, Coogan. I hear you’re a loose cannon.” He leaned forward, his hand smacked the desk, we flinched, he smiled. “But hey, first day, right? So I’m cutting you slack. I’m also reminding you I’m a big football fan. You guys look like you can kick some tail. So what I’m saying is, save it for the football field.” His eyes went from me to Mike and back again. “Okay?”

We nodded. “Okay.”

He nodded. “Okay. Get outta here.”

On our way out, he called: “Gentlemen.” We turned. “Cross me, and I’ll have your butts for breakfast.”

In the hallway I gave Mike a forearm. “Hey, man, hear that? I’m a loose cannon.”

After school we met at my locker and headed for the gym. We picked up other football kids along the way. We were all itchy for action. We starting thumping each other, juking, throwing body blocks.

And then the quarterback, Brill, showed up with a football, and you know we had to get a scrimmage going right there in the hallway. Down to the water fountain and cut to science lab. Passes, tackles, pileups. Even down the stairway. Others were heading for the gym. Hockey players, cheerleaders.

Even Webb.

I nudged Mike. “You believe it? He played Midget Football one year. He couldn’t tell his chin strap from his jockstrap. What’s he think he’s doing here?”

Mike grinned. “Maybe he’s going out for fullback.”

Football, field hockey, cheerleading—everybody was milling around the gym, high-fiving, kicking the football. Mr. Tagleiber, the athletic director, blew a whistle and yelled, “All right, listen up. Football here, field hockey there, cheerleading there. Do it!”

Mike and I climbed into the bleachers with the rest of the footballers. The field hockey girls took the bleachers on the other side of the gym. At the end under the scoreboard were the cheerleaders.

Mr. Lattner, the head football coach, came out. Us footballers all jumped up and pumped our fists and went, “Ouu! Ouu!” The coach grinned and pumped us one back and we went wild.

Then he started talking to us, the usual stuff about parents’ permission and physical exams and all. All of a sudden Deluca jabs me hard with his elbow.

“Hey,” I growled. I was ready to crack him.

“Look,” he whispered. His voice was straining, squeaky. He was pointing to the end of the gym, under the scoreboard.

I looked. I figured I knew what he was talking about: Jane Forbes. Sure enough, there she was, a beauty among beauties. And then I knew she wasn’t the one he was pointing to, after all. It was somebody who wasn’t even pretty but who stood out ten times more than the new girl from Wilmington.

Penn Webb was out for cheerleading.

Abby was in the backyard, crawling, pushing a twelve-inch ruler end over end ahead of her.

“What’s she doing?” said Mike as we walked up the driveway.

“Whatever it is,” I said, “it’s looney.”

I dropped my football laundry bag inside and headed straight for the phone. I dialed Pizza Mia: “One pizza to go. Large. Pepperoni. Four thirty-eight Waverly Way.” I hung up. “Thirty-five minutes.”

Mike groaned. “We’ll starve before it gets here.”

I opened the freezer. “Think again, chief.” I tossed him a half-gallon of Sealtest heavenly hash. Then I got a jar of red cherries and some Cool Whip and chocolate syrup. We made sundaes in real sundae dishes.

“Schultz says you stink,” said Mike.

“Schultz ain’t worth two snots,” I said.

Eric Schultz is a defensive back. Eighth grader. Thinks he’s tough. He thinks I’m supposed to be afraid of him just because I’m in seventh grade.

Mike shoveled a glob of Cool Whip into his mouth. “He
says he can’t wait for the first practice. He’s gonna send you home crying, he says.”

I smirked. “Him and who else? When I get done with him, he’ll be running over to join Webb and the cheerleaders.” I stood up. I batted my eyelashes and twirled around and made fists with my thumbs out, the way girls do. “Rah, rah, sis boom”—I jumped with both feet and threw back my arms—
“bah!”

We laughed.

“You think he’s serious?” said Mike. “Is he really going out?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve seen that kid do some weird stuff.”

“But is he allowed?”

“I guess. There’s boy cheerleaders in college.”

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s right. They’re always picking up the girls and holding them up with one arm.”

We both pictured the Webbed One trying that. We cracked up again.

The pizza came. It was gone in five minutes. As usual we talked and talked. About football mostly. And about the new shopping mall that’s coming.

You never know who’s going to get home first. Tonight it was my mom.

Before she even closed the front door, she kicked her shoes across the living room floor. She flopped onto an easy chair and melted into it, legs straight out, heels on the rug, toes up, head back, eyes closed. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah,” I said, “pizza. Mike was here.”

She didn’t move. She looked dead.

Abby came bursting in. “Mommy!” She threw the ruler she’d been using on the sofa and jumped onto the lap of the body.

My mother grunted. “Hey, you’re not three anymore. When are you going to stop being so perky?” Her eyes were still closed.

Abby bounced on the lap. “I have to be perky, Mom, ’cause you’re so tired all the time. I gotta make up for you.”

My mother’s right eye opened for a second, then closed again. “You’d be tired, too, if you hadn’t sold a house since the Pilgrims came over.”

My mother sells real estate.

Abby made a face and pounded the arm of the chair. “Oh no! Not again!” She pulled my mother’s head onto her shoulder and hugged her, like
she
was the mother. “Why don’t you sell me a house, Mom? I’ll buy one from you.” She reached into my mother’s armpit and tickled.

My mother screamed and shot upright and snatched Abby’s hand away. “Why can’t you just go away and let me be miserable?” she said, but she was chuckling and hugging Abby as she said it. Her eyes swung to me. “How was your first day?”

I shrugged. “Okay. Penn Webb is out for cheerleading.”

Her eyes widened. “Penn Webb? The
boy?
”

“If you want to call him that.”

“He’s nice,” Abby butted in. “I like him.”

For some reason it bugs me, how alike Webb and my sister are. Especially with nature stuff. They go walking his turtle together. It shows you how immature he is, hanging out with a fifth grader. And they’re both perky.

My father walked in. If it was possible, he looked even draggier than my mother.

Abby ran to him. “Daddy! Daddy! I love you, Daddy!” She put her arms around his waist and snuggled into his shirt.

My father looked sideways at my mother. “What does she want?”

My mother pushed herself up from the chair and shuffled off. “She’s just being perky. Hungry?”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, letting Abby pull his briefcase away. “I’ll get something.”

My mother flapped her hand as she went into the kitchen. “Well, I’m here now.”

Abby held the briefcase with both hands; on her, it looked like a suitcase. “Daddy, I do want something. I want to know how many square feet in an acre.”

My mother’s voice sailed in from the kitchen: “Forty-three thousand five hundred and sixty.”

The three of us gawked at the kitchen doorway. My mother’s face appeared—“Real estate school”—and disappeared.

Abby opened my dad’s briefcase and got out his calculator. She punched some buttons on it and let out a yelp of joy. “Yes!”

My father took back the calculator. “What was that for?”

Abby clenched her fists. There were secrets in her eyes. “Surprise … surprise.”

I went up to my room. Pretty soon I could smell frying onions. I went back down.

The three of them were in the kitchen. My mother was making cheese steaks. It’s about the only thing she makes good. She scowled at me. “You don’t really want
more
to eat, do you?”

I didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. She knew the answer. She put on another steak.

I stuck a printed form in front of my dad. “You gotta sign this. Permission to play football.”

He read it. “What if I don’t give you permission?”

“I’ll play anyway.”

He pushed the paper away. “I’ll think about it.”

We’ve gone through this little joke every year since Midget Football.

“Eric Schultz says he’s gonna send me home crying,” I said.

My father nodded. “Scared?”

“Terrified.”

My mother served the steaks.

“Penn Webb’s going out for cheerleading,” I said.

My dad is usually pretty cool, but this time his head jerked up like he got caught by an uppercut. “What?
Who?
”

“Penn Webb wants to be a cheerleader.”

He bit off the end of his sandwich. He shook his head, chewed, chuckled, and spoke all at once: “Now,
that
is terrifying.”