Dairy Queen (20 page)

Other kids arrived, a couple freshmen with their moms, who were going to stay on those hot bleachers for hours watching practice because I guess they didn't have anything better to do, and some other kids like Justin Hunsberger, whose eye I blackened back in fourth grade and who now played lineman, and who'd be about as happy to see me as he would a large stinking pile of dog poop. And if you're wondering, I feel the same way about him.

Just then there was a huge BANG and I jumped about four feet in the air, and Kari Jorgensen jumped up next to my window, laughing hysterically because she'd snuck up on me and kicked the truck.

"You're here!" she said, like it was Christmas or something. "You're doing it!"

"Yeah," I said, trying to look like she hadn't just scared the pants off me.

"I was all worried you weren't going to be here because I'm not doing it without you. Hey, she's here!" she called to her brother.

Kyle studied me. "You're really going out for football?"

"I had to tell him," Kari explained. "He wouldn't believe me doing cheerleading."

Looking at Kari, though, it was hard to believe she ever did anything else. She was always really keyed up during basketball, but right now, all tan from the summer with her hair in this big ponytail and her shorts and everything, she looked great. She also looked like she'd had about eleven cups of coffee. I guess she was a little excited.

"Yeah," I said, "I'm going to try."

So because I couldn't put if off any longer, I got my duffel and my water bottles and everything and headed to the field. And let me tell you, it sure was nice walking with Kyle instead of by myself, and Kari jumping along next to us, telling us how cool we were.

"Nice haircut," Kyle offered. Which was nice of him.

Being captain and all, Kyle started stretching, and I stayed off to the side stretching too, glad to be doing something beyond stewing, and Kari found the cheerleaders and I guess she filled them in because a couple minutes later right across the field came this huge cheer: "Let's go, D.J., let's go!" So that the three or four guys who hadn't seen me before now did.

Right at that minute Jeff Peterson showed up and told everyone to run a couple laps.

Every time I passed the cheerleaders Kari would start up again, which was about the most embarrassing thing I've ever had happen to me in my life, in public, anyway, and it didn't help that Jeff gave me a look like it was my fault she was doing it.

So we all got back to the middle of the field and Kyle led everyone in warm-ups, and I was pleased to see how many guys could barely manage even fifteen pushups, because I guess when you're flipping burgers or shelving groceries you can waste the whole summer not training if that's the kind of person you are. And for once I was glad I was the other kind of person, the Schwenk kind who trained. Because I could tell it was really bugging a lot of guys how well I was keeping up, how I was keeping up better than some of them.

Then they got a lot madder during sprints, because on the first one I came in eighth, but by the tenth one I was fourth because, well, that's what I'd done all summer. One kid even threw up, which I thought was a little early considering we had all day of practice yet.

All this time no one said a word to me. A couple times guys would say things under their breath to each other; I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I figured they were talking about me. For all I know they could have been talking about socks. But I do know that no one was saying anything under his breath to me.

Some of the freshmen looked a little scared, to tell you the truth.

Then Jeff split up everyone by position and I headed on over to join the running backs and receivers. When I got there, Beaner Halstaad was sprawled out on the grass, grinning at me. "What the heck are you doing, woman?"

I shrugged. "Didn't have anything else to do this morning."

He laughed. I like Beaner, as much as I like Kyle. He's in my class, and the fastest kid in Red Bend. He's called Beaner because even when he was a baby he was as skinny as a beanpole. I run track with him and, well, he's fast. He's a receiver.

"They going to let you play?" he asked.

"Dunno. I've got to make the team first."

Then we started drills, Kyle and the other QBs passing while we took turns receiving. I was about fifth in line so I got a real chance to study Kyle's arm. It's not like I hadn't spent an awful lot of time watching him play, and when I came up he kind of gave me a look and went long, and I ran for it and got it and you could tell, just from the way everyone turned away and went to the next play, that I'd done okay.

And we did that for a while, me catching the ball every time, just loving that feeling so much, and then we went to running plays, and then Jeff had me cover Beaner during some passing drills, which wasn't what I was expecting but it was fun too because I'd had so much practice over the summer with Brian.

I'd hoped I'd be good at football, and it was turning out, compared to a lot of boys in Red Bend, anyway, that I was.

For lunch I went out with Beaner and Kari and Kyle, although we were all too beat and hot to eat much. When we got back, Jeff took us all into the gym, which was so nice and dark and cool that it might as well have been heaven, and he gave us each paper and a pencil and spread us out on the basketball bleachers to write our names and all.

"Well," he said finally, "I guess you all know D.J. Schwenk is trying out for the team."

Everyone looked at me. Which was just superduper, I can tell you.

"I'm not going to force this team to do anything they don't want to do," Jeff continued, picking some mustache hair off his tongue. "We've got a tough season ahead of us. Real tough, and something like this, it could be real divisive if you want to make it that way. It could bring down the team." He paused right there and looked up at me.

"D.J.?" he asked. "You got anything you want to say?"

Everyone stared at me twice as hard. If this was a movie or something I'd give this awesome speech and everyone would cheer and it would be great. But it wasn't a movie—it was my life. And I don't have much to say even in the best of situations.

Everyone waited.

"I guess—" My voice cracked. "If a guy wanted to go out for girls' basketball, I'd pretty much want to kill him."

A couple guys laughed like what I'd said was stupid.

But Jeff didn't look like what I'd said was stupid. He looked a little pleased, if you want to know the truth. "So I want you all to write the answer to this question: should D.J. Schwenk play on the Red Bend football team?"

Everyone stopped staring at me long enough to write. And I was supposed to write too! Jeez. Jeff should have warned me before putting me through the wringer like this.

Jeff stroked down his mustache. "Now I want you all to answer this: why?"

Underneath "Yes" I wrote, "Because she knows the game and has a good attitude." I thought "she" instead of "I" made it more official. Then I wanted to change it, and I guess some guys wanted to change what they said too because I could hear scribbling sounds everywhere, and I wondered if Jeff chose pencils without erasers on purpose. But I still liked that business about good attitude. That counts a lot. Ask my brothers. And I do have a good attitude if you forget about me wanting to kill any boy who plays girls' basketball.

So Jeff and his assistant gathered up all our papers and we all went back outside while Justin Hunsberger complained to everyone about how stupid that was, and then we scrimmaged. After a while Jeff told me to play defense and I ended up racing a lot against Beaner, who of course is superfast and who I could almost never catch, but when I did I always brought him down because, well, I know a lot about tackling and because he weighs pretty much nothing. Once Justin Hunsberger tackled me even though he was playing defense too, and Kyle called him a name and it got kind of ugly for a minute. Then, finally, we were done.

I walked out to the parking lot with Kyle and Beaner and a couple other guys, and Beaner was just going on and on about what a great linebacker I would be.

"I don't think so," I said. I didn't want to be a linebacker. I wanted to catch the ball like a baby. That's what I'd trained for.

"Oh, come on. You're better than Bill!"

Which made us all laugh because it so clearly was not true.

"You should do it," he said. "You're one heck of a tackler."

"I like running back." I grinned, so happy to hear this. "I like playing offense."

"Uh-oh," Kyle murmured.

I heard this really snotty voice say, "So how was practice, girls?" And standing right there in the middle of our parking lot were a bunch of guys in Hawley jackets. I'd forgotten about this part of preseason.

"Screw you," Kyle said like he was telling them to grow up.

"Jesus Christ," the Hawley guy said, "that's a girl! You've got a girl on your team!" The Hawley guys started cracking up.

"This isn't just a girl." Beaner stepped in front of me. "This is Bill Schwenk's sister. So you tell your wimp of a QB that he better watch his back because she is going to take him down." Which was about the bravest thing I'd ever seen, because Beaner is about half the size of those guys. He sure sounded tough, though.

By this time the Hawley guys were roaring with laughter. "You hear that, Nelson?" the first Hawley guy asked. "You're playing against a girl." And just then this guy who'd been talking to someone turned around, and I was looking right at Brian.

"Yeah," said Beaner. "She's playing linebacker."

Brian stared right into my face. I stopped breathing.

Beaner threw his bony arm around my shoulder. "She's been training all summer too. So you better start saying your prayers." And with his arm around my shoulders he walked me to the pickup. Which was good because my legs weren't working too good.

The look on Brian's face—I'll never forget it. It's carved into my brain forever. He looked like he'd been slapped. Like I'd slapped him.

When I got home it was almost milking time. Dad was at the kitchen window, and just from the way he was standing I could tell he was angry. Probably he was going to light into me about taking the pickup. So instead I went right into the barn in my stinky football clothes and everything to start milking.

I was halfway finished when Dad came in, using the cane just a bit because his hip was doing so well now. I was setting up Don Voss, a Wisconsin All-American back in the fifties who blew out his knee before he could go pro. Dad stood there for a minute and watched me in that way that always gets me nervous so I screw up even though I've done it a million times.

"I got a call just now from Randy Jorgensen," he said. Randy is Kari and Kyle's dad. "He told me you're going out for football."

Oh, I'd been dreading this moment. I didn't say anything, my head pressed against Don, feeling her warmth through my cheek. I couldn't even look at Dad.

"So are you?" he asked.

I nodded. I didn't know what to say.

There was this long silence. I could feel my heart beating, waiting for Dad to make fun of me, bring up all the reasons I couldn't do it. Tell me what a mistake it was.

But it was even worse than I'd ever imagined. Instead he just poked at the manure gutter. "When's the last time you cleaned this out?"

"Yesterday."

"You better get on it, then. It's getting pretty ripe." And he walked out, not even really using his cane. Not bothering to even try to talk to me.

I stayed frozen there against Don Voss. I couldn't begin to tell you what I was thinking, my brain was so completely scrambled. I'll tell you one thing, though. A lot of things happened to me this summer. Really bad things, some of them. But that bit with Dad, well, that's what got to me the most. It just destroyed me.

I rested my head against Don Voss's soft flank and I sobbed like a little tiny baby.

Dad stopped speaking to me. You know about The Fight, how Dad hasn't talked to Win and Bill since Christmas? Well, now I was in their club. Yippee. On the other hand, I wouldn't have had much to say if Dad did talk to me, because I was so mad at him that the thought of trying to engage in some heart-to-heart Oprah Winfrey conversation was about number 34,679 on my list of priorities. So I guess to be fair, I should say that it wasn't so much that Dad wasn't speaking to me as we weren't speaking to each other. Which wasn't as awful as it sounds, because I was barely home, and when I was home I was either writing in my room or asleep.

The good news, I guess, is that Dad's hip was getting so much better that he could milk in the afternoons at least. Not that he told me or anything. He just started one day before I got home so I could just go on inside and ignore him back.

Brian also stopped speaking to me. But just like Dad—even though before this I'd never thought of the two of them having much in common—he also never told me.

Monday night I tried his cell phone and just got a recording. I'm not too good at leaving messages, so I hung up fast before it got to the beep part. Tuesday morning I got the recording again, which was frustrating. I couldn't stop thinking about that slapped look he had when he saw me, and how bad Beaner must have sounded, saying I was playing linebacker and that I'd take him down. I wasn't going to do either one of those things, but it's hard to explain that into an answering machine.

Besides, you know, I missed just talking to him. I'd notice something like the trim on the barn windows and I'd remember when we painted that and what we'd talked about, and then I'd wish we just could get together to joke about how much preseason sucked and just shoot the breeze the way we used to.

Finally, because I was getting a little nervous and everything, because I just wanted to talk to him, Wednesday night I called his house.

"Hello?" a woman answered.

"Um, hello," I said, sounding like the brain surgeon I always do on the phone. "Is, um, Brian there?" Then I added, remembering my manners finally, "It's D.J. Schwenk."

"Oh. D.J.," said the woman in this voice that I couldn't figure out at all. "Just a minute." She was gone for a while—long enough for me to start feeling sick—and came back on and said, "I'm sorry, but it looks like he left."