Crash (6 page)

“No what?” I said.

She was still looking and pointing down. “You know what. All last year you kept leaving that smelly thing here. It’s not going to happen this year. Not even once. Pick it up, get it out of here.”

I guess I didn’t move fast enough.

“Now.”

“All
right.
” I snatched it up.

“Thank you,” she said and dragged herself off.

I followed my dad into his office. It’s a little room in the back. Sometimes he goes right on working there half the night. “Remember that kid, Schultz?” I said. “I told you about? Said he was going to bust me?”

He took stuff from his briefcase. “Did he?”

I sneered. “Hah. We had a fight before practice even started. They had to pull us apart.”

“And?”

“And I got him good later. We ran some drills, and twice I plowed him into the ground. I was awesome!”

He looked up. He laughed. He reached out and mussed my hair. “That’s my Crash.”

I kind of felt like sticking around, but I figured I better not press my luck. I backed on out. “Can’t wait for that first game,” I said. “October eighth.”

“Go get ’em, Crasher,” he said. He was rooting in his desk.

I lugged my football bag upstairs. Our upper hallway is different from most people’s. It’s like an art gallery. My mother used to be a painter. Some of her paintings are hanging on the walls between the bedrooms.

One of the paintings is me. You’d never know it because I was less than a year old when she did it. I’m lying on my stomach with a diaper on, looking up with this toothless grin, probably already thinking what I’m going to do when I get my first football helmet.

It’s a stupid picture, actually. Something like that should be kept private. Everybody who sees it laughs. I usually don’t even look at it. This time I did. On the glass that covered it, some mysterious unknown person had crayoned a mustache right above my toothless grin. I put spit on my finger and rubbed it off.

O
CTOBER 8

We creamed Hillside East 45—13. I scored six touchdowns.

The first one was the best. It was the very first play of the game. Brill, the quarterback, called, “I Twenty-two Right.” That means he hands off to me and I run over right tackle. Which was fine with me, because right tackle is where Mike Deluca plays on offense. Coming out of the huddle, Mike bumps me and says, “Let’s do it.”

Usually a simple, safe play like this is supposed to get the team’s feet wet, maybe gain a couple yards. That’s probably all Brill had in mind. He doesn’t know me and Mike.

I took the handoff, slanted right, kept my head up, watching for the hole—there it was. Mike was shoving the Hillside tackle halfway to China. I blasted through, and there was the Hillside linebacker. Somebody was supposed to pick him up, but nobody did. I stiff-armed him. The stiff-arm almost always works early in a game. Players don’t expect it. Most runners never use it. I hit him smack in the face mask with the heel of my hand. His eyes went gaga, his head snapped back.

I was clear for a second. Somebody had hold of my free
hand, the one without the ball. I started swinging around, spinning with my arm out, trying to shake the kid. He was whirling around like a carnival ride. On the third spin he went flying off into two of his teammates.

Now there was nothing between me and the goal line but the safety. I love safeties. They’re usually small and fast and shifty. They expect you to try to outrun or outjuke them. I swear, I almost burst out laughing right there when I saw the safety’s face as he realized I wasn’t going left, I wasn’t going right, I was coming straight at him, like there was a bull’s-eye on his nose. I plowed him under and streaked the last forty yards to paydirt.

My own teammates almost killed me in the end zone, mobbing me, burying me under a pile of bodies, like they never saw a touchdown before. They carried me off the field on their shoulders. The ride was bumpy, but the view was great.

The cheerleaders were going crazy, including Webb. That’s right—the Happy Little Surprise made it. He’s a cheerleader. Same sweater and shoes as the girls. At least he didn’t have a skirt on. It was one of the eeriest and uncomfortablest feelings I ever had, watching a boy lead cheers for me.

Of course the stands were going wild, too. I looked for my father—or even my mother, what the heck. Couldn’t see either of them. Well, after all, the game just started, maybe they’re on their way. Or maybe I missed them in the crowd.

As I waded through all the pad-slapping and high-fiving, I took another look at the stands. Still didn’t see them. But I did
see somebody else, about halfway up, a white-haired guy and a semi-old lady, smiling, clapping with the rest of them: Webb’s prehistoric parents.

My second touchdown was a fifty-two-yarder on a pitchout from Brill. This time there wasn’t anybody in the way to run over. I just left them all in the dust.

The place went wild again. This time I made them let me leave the field on my own feet. Webb’s parents were still smiling and clapping. Mine weren’t there. Okay, I figured, they’re late, give them time, they’re coming. All you gotta do is keep scoring.

So that’s what I did. I either scored or made a long gain every time I touched the ball. I had to. Suppose they came just when I got stopped for no gain. I couldn’t stand it. And since I didn’t know exactly when they would show up, I had to be great every second. I kept telling Brill: “Give me the ball.”

I scored my fifth TD just before the first half ended. They still weren’t there. They’re probably coming for the second half, I figured.

They didn’t.

TD number six came early in the third quarter. As I trotted to the sideline I kept staring at the stands, not for my parents anymore, but at Webb’s. They were still there, grinning and clapping themselves silly. I wanted to charge up there and strangle them. I wanted to shake their skinny vegetarian necks and scream into their Quaker faces: Stop cheering for me! I don’t need your cheers! I’m not doing this for you, so stop acting so damn grateful!

When we went on offense again, I raced back onto the field. As I was leaning into the huddle, I felt a tap. I turned. It was my backup. “I’m in for you,” he said.

“That’s what you think,” I said. I shoved him. He stumbled backward onto his second-string butt.

I heard Coach Lattner scream from the sideline. The quarterback called to the referee: “Time out.” For the first time I noticed it wasn’t Brill, it was the second-string quarterback.

The coach was calling me. He was waving for me to come out. I pretended I didn’t see or hear. Then he came stomping across the field. He pulled me away from the other players.

“I’m not going to drag you off,” he whispered. “You’re going to trot off along with me. Understand?”

I glanced at the stands. “You can’t take me out. I’m just getting warmed up.”

“I’m here to
beat
Hillside,” he said, “not destroy them. You’re the only first-stringer left on the field, and you’re already benched for the first quarter of our next game.” He leaned sideways into my face. “Want to try for the second quarter?”

He started trotting for the sideline. I went with him. The kids in the stands jumped up and gave me a standing ovation. Everybody was cheering. My name came hooting down: “
Coo
-gan!
Coo
-gan!” Except one cheerleader—Jane Forbes. She just stood there behind the bench, hands on hips, glaring at me.

After the game Mike had to go straight home, so I walked alone. When I came to my house, I walked past it. I went around the block. Slow. Twice.

Somebody was cooking somewhere. Whenever I smell cooking like that, it makes me want to go right into that house and eat along with them. But I can never tell which house it’s coming from. Only one thing for sure: it’s not coming from my house.

That’s why I was so shocked when I finally opened the front door: the smell
was
coming from my house. And that made no sense at all. My mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and Abby isn’t allowed to use the stove.

I shut the door real quiet. I got a good grip on my football bag. I tiptoed through the living room, the dining room. A suitcase sat on the floor. Something was sizzling in a pan, and it was smelling awful good. Somebody was whistling a tune. He was facing the stove. He must have heard me. He turned, a spatula in his hand.

I screeched. “Scooter!”

I don’t really have a great-great-grandfather, like I told Webb years ago. I don’t even have a great-grandfather. But I really do have a grandfather, and his name really is Scooter. He used to be a cook in the U.S. Navy.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

He waved the spatula. “What’s it look like, swabbie? Making octopus stew.”

I stuck my finger down my throat and pretended to gag. “Aaaaach!” Then I rushed into him.

“Hey, swabbie,” he said, “you’re squeezing too hard. I’m not one of your girlfriends.” He looked around. “So where is everybody?”

“Mom and Dad are working. I don’t know where Abby is.” I remembered the suitcase. “You’re staying, right?”

“If you haven’t sold my old bed.”

“How long?” Usually he stays a night or two.

“Oh”—he turned back to the stove—“maybe for good.”

“Yeah, don’t I wish.” I knew he was kidding, but I hugged him from behind anyway, just thinking about it. I squeezed his
arms and turned him around. “Scooter, you shoulda seen me today! Our first game. I scored six TDs! Six! They said it’s the record for a single game.”

His eyes popped. “Six? Am I hearing right?”

“Yeah. And they took me out in the third quarter. I was awesome!”

He gave a low-key smile. His eyes went back to normal size and got real soft. He patted me twice on the cheek. “You didn’t have to score all those touchdowns for me to know that.”

The front door opened. I thought it was Abby, but it wasn’t. It was my parents. I looked at the clock. It was only twenty minutes after five.

In the kitchen they hugged Scooter and did the “Aaaaach!” routine when he told them it was octopus stew. It’s a family joke we do when Scooter visits and cooks for us. It’s never really octopus, but that’s the only thing we know for sure. He makes it up mostly from whatever he finds in the kitchen, so it’s always different. And always great.

My father said, “Finally we’ll be getting some good food around here.”

My mom punched him, but she laughed, too. She hates to cook. But I was stuck on my dad’s words, the way he said them:
we’ll be getting
…

“Scooter’s just coming for a day or two, right?” I said. “Like usual?”

Silence. Stares bouncing around the kitchen. Slow-growing grins.

“Don’t you listen, swabbie? I told you once.”

…
maybe for good.

I must have looked pretty funny, because everybody took one peek at me and burst out laughing.

I cheered. “All
right!
”

Abby phoned and said she was at a friend’s and would be home soon.

Scooter said, “Not soon enough, the eight-arm stew is ready. Everybody sit.”

My mother pinched her nose and pointed. “Not till you get that out of here.”

I ran my football bag upstairs.

The eight-arm stew didn’t look too good, but taste was something else. “This is scrumptious,” my mother said with her mouth full. “What’s in it?”

“Chef’s secret,” said Scooter. He never tells what’s in it till we’ve eaten.

I wasn’t interested in what was in the stew. I looked at everyone. “So Scooter’s moving in. He’s not gonna leave. Ever. Is that it?”

My dad nodded. “That’s it. If he can stand you two.”

My mom turned to Scooter. “I waited till we got you here to tell you this: dear Abby is now a vegetarian.”

Scooter winced and blessed himself. He’s not a Catholic, but he does it when he feels unsafe. “Since when?” he said, as if he were saying, “When did she die?”

“Been going on several weeks now.”

“Does she count fish as meat?”

“She counts anything that has a face.”

Scooter nodded slowly. “I guess that includes mice, then.”

My mother stared at him. He was grinning and looking at her plate of stew. Her eyes bulged. She squawked. She jerked around to look into the kitchen. The trap was still there, a little glop of peanut butter as bait.

Scooter chewed yummily on a forkful of stew. “I always like to make use of the local livestock.”

My mother wagged her fork at him. “I wouldn’t put it past you. I really would not.”

We all laughed.

“Anyway,” my mom said, “it would take more than eating a mouse to spoil this day for me.”

“How’s that?” I said.

She sipped her coffee. “Well, you know about the new mall that’s coming. And you know my company is the real estate agent for it. But what you don’t know—and what I didn’t know until this afternoon—is that yours truly, the least senior member of the team, will be getting a piece of the action. I am going to handle three of the small stores.”

She smiled from ear to ear. I couldn’t remember seeing her look so proud. We all clapped. She took a shy bow.

“Does this mean we’ll be rich?” I said.

She gave a grinny little snort. “Only thing it means for sure is that I’ll have more work.”

I kept staring at her. She looked away. The silence got longer.

“I was awesome today,” I said.

My dad smacked the table. “I forgot. Your game. How’d it go? Who won? How’d you do?”

Suddenly I didn’t feel like telling-them. I chewed some stew. I shrugged. “Scored six TDs.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw my father’s jaw drop. I looked at the ceiling. I had never noticed how pure white was the fluorescent light.

“A school record,” said Scooter.

My mother’s voice came cracking and low. “Crash, that’s wonderful. I’m really proud.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted to leave.

Abby came in. She screamed when she saw Scooter and ran to him. It was complicated hugging him, because she carried a big white cardboard sign tacked onto a three-foot stick.

“What’s this?” said Scooter, drawing back and almost getting clobbered.