Leverage (13 page)

“Kurt, it goes without saying that Coach Stein and I have been very pleased with your progress so far and your contribution to our team. Your work ethic is outstanding. Hell, Frank here won't stop talking about how you're the first one in and the last one out of the weight room every day. He doesn't need to brag to me, though, because I see it with my own eyes.”

I glance from Coach Brigs to Coach Stein and realize I'm still standing. Maybe they aren't about to punish me. I slowly walk over to the couch and sit down next to Coach Stein, feel his grin beaming at me, warming the side of my cheek.

“Shoot, if every player on the team worked half as hard as this boy here, there'd be no question we'd be walking all over our opponents on our way to a state championship,” Coach Stein says, and slaps my knee. “Kurt, we all know you're dedicated with a capital
D
.”

“You hear that, Kurt? You hear the way Coach Stein brags about you? He'll talk the same way when the scouts come calling, asking about promising players.”

Are scouts already asking about me?
I wonder.

“Now, I don't want to get your head so swollen that you get it stuck in the doorway when you leave,” Coach Brigs continues, “but I do want you to understand just how much we value you. We recognize that great players are a rare commodity, that they come few and far between, and the greatest don't just happen, they're built. They're built through raw talent, dedication, determination, and a willingness to lead a team by example, show others they're willing to do whatever it takes to win.”

All the compliments start to make me feel uncomfortable because I'm not sure where this is going. Getting smacked around sucks, but at least when it's happening, it makes sense, not like this, getting compliments for no reason.

“Kurt.” Coach Brigs is still smiling at me. “Does that describe you? Are you a leader ready to do whatever it takes to win?”

I rub my hands on the knees of my jeans while I nod at Coach Brigs that, yes, I am ready to do whatever it takes to win. Coach Stein claps his hands together and it rings like a firecracker in the small office.

“I told you,” Coach Stein says, like he and Coach Brigs had a bet on how I'd answer. “I told you this boy was on the same page and ready to step it up. Take it to the next level.”

Coach Brigs and Coach Stein glance at each other, grins getting even wider, if that's possible.

“It warms my heart to hear this, Kurt. It really does,” Coach Brigs says. “Because Coach Stein and I have plans for you. We think you can be our team's next great player. We're talking about building an offensive scheme completely around you and your skills and making you a star—not just on our team but in the whole state. We think you can be the engine that gets us all the way to state and wins us a championship. Whaddya think about that?” Coach Brigs asks, painting a real sweet picture for me while he slowly pulls open a side drawer on his desk.

I nod at him that I like the idea a lot.

“Good boy, Kurt. Good boy,” Coach says. I don't mind how it makes me feel when he says this. Way better than getting a belt across the mouth. “Frank and I knew you wouldn't hesitate to step into the role of lead warrior. My hunch about you has been right as rain since the day we first scouted you.”

I glance at Coach Stein, still beaming at me, nodding along to Coach's words. He keeps regripping the baseball between his first two fingers and thumb, like he's readying to whip a forkball through Coach's trophy case.

“Now, to get you to the next level, Kurtis,” Coach Brigs says, “takes a new level of dedication.” Coach Brigs reaches into the open drawer and pulls out a dark blue pill bottle with one of those childproof caps. He sets the bottle on the desk between us, closer to me than him.

“Coach Stein's got a guaranteed system for getting you even bigger and stronger than you already are.”

“That's right, Kurt.” Coach Stein nods. “This stuff is safer than aspirin when taken on my schedule. Put another fifteen pounds of rock on you in a couple weeks the way you train.”

“Kurt, Frank and I wouldn't be approaching you if we didn't see the way you train, didn't see the hunger in your eyes already. That thing burning in you is a rare jewel. It marks you, makes you special, separates you from all the coddled kiddies I see nowadays who cry if their mama's not around to wipe their behinds. But you, boy . . .” Coach begins drumming his fingers on the desk near the bottle of pills as his voice drifts off like he's daydreaming about my training. The three of us sit for a moment, listening to his fingers.

“Kurt,” Coach begins again. “That hunger you got can't be taught or coached or trained. I know you want to get bigger. Hell, I can sense it just sitting across from you right now. You feel it, too, don't you, Frank?”

“Sure do,” Coach Stein agrees.

“Son,” Coach Brigs continues, “I see an absolute warrior, an absolute monster, buried inside you just itching to claw his way out, just waiting to be unleashed on the field of battle, show this world how great a man he is. Are you ready to be that man?”

I think of Crud Bucket, think of all the things I could do to him if I got even bigger.

“Kurt, Coach Stein and myself, we want to do our part to help you realize your full potential.”

“Nothing will get you there faster and safer with minimal side effects than D-bol,” Coach Stein jumps in. “That's Dianabol.”

I nod my head as Coach slides the pills closer across the desk to me.

“I'll give you a full schedule . . .” Coach Stein continues, but I've stopped listening. I'm imagining me, but even bigger, even stronger, imagining no one being able to hurt me ever again. Before I know it, I've pocketed the pills and both Coach Brigs and Coach Stein are slapping me on the back, offering me a path, offering me almost a guaranteed way out. Where I come from, that's bigger than Jesus Himself.

 

Walking under a halo, imagining a future mapped in the gold of Coach's promises, the bottle of D-bol pills cha-chacha-ing like Tic Tacs in my sweatshirt pocket, I almost don't notice the clapping until I'm past the gym door. Curious, I peek my head in. It's a gymnastics meet and it's pathetic. I mean, more gymnasts than fans? Really? Come on. It's funny enough, especially in my good mood, that I almost start laughing. Then something goes
boom
and a kid's flying off a springboard and over a vault like he's been shot out of a cannon. His body tumbles and twists through the air and then his feet pound the thick mat. First thing I think is how great that would be to do over a defensive line into an end zone. Another gymnast signals some judge I can't see from my spot in the doorway and he barrels down the length of the gym and hits the springboard like the first guy.
Boom!
This guy goes even higher and twists more than his buddy. He hits feetfirst but over-rotates and goes sprawling in a body skid across the mat. Everyone goes “
oooohhh
” but he bounces up like he did it on purpose, like it's a cartoon and he can't get hurt. He turns and offers a small head bow to the judge and jogs back to his team with a shoulder shrug.

I want to see more.

Trying to quietly climb the nearly empty bleachers is impossible; they groan under my weight with each step but I've got my pick of good spots. For the next hour I watch these monkeys throwing the craziest tricks, sometimes landing them and sometimes wiping out in ways that have
got
to hurt, even with mats. But the monkeys just smile or clap their hands together, same as how I do after taking a hit, never showing anyone's got the best of me. These guys are small, but fearless. Lamar would've fit right in with them. Makes me miss him while I watch the little guy from my math class—the tiny dude who's always nodding off and getting razzed by Mr. Klech—bounce and flip along the square of wrestling mats. His teammate—the Chinese guy ready to duke it out with Jankowski that day in the lockers even though he's half his size—gets up in the rings and owns them. He's holding poses on the rings—dangling in midair with arms sticking straight out from his body like a crucifix while his legs shoot forward—that would crush me or anyone on our team trying it. Then he's swinging in giant loops that turn into a blur of body twists as he flicks the rings away. When he sticks the landing, I suddenly wonder if maybe he
could
handle Jankowski.

Nothing beats the trick I watch my tiny math class buddy throw on the high bar, though. Dude is whipping around the bar like he's got rockets attached to his ankles. He keeps letting go and regrabbing the bar in different positions as if on a dare. Makes me nervous just watching. I'm not the only one, either. His coach stands under the bar the whole time, arms spread out, as if expecting the kid to burst into flame and he'll have to catch the pieces. Then the kid lets go, heading straight up, flipping above the bar and he's dead. I mean he's going to come straight down on the bar and snap his back. I open my mouth but can't yell. He's still flipping, still dead, as his body arcs over the bar and he's got no choice but to pile-drive his head into the floor from a drop of fifteen feet
.
His coach, arms raised, eyes wide, ain't about to break
that
fall. Then, like magic, the dude's hands reach out from this blur and snag the bar. A chalk cloud puffs and next thing I realize, the kid is back to whipping around the bar, unhurt. When he lets go a last time and lands without a crash, I finally let out my breath.

His routine ends the meet. I'm clapping mostly out of relief that he's not dead, but it's also pretty amazing. I should congratulate him, I think, him and his other monkey-mates. Then I spot that goth girl, Tina, the one from the lunchroom who claims she knows me. She's two empty bleacher sections over but heading my way. How long's she been here? Was she watching the meet the whole time? No way am I letting her bring me down with her shitty memories of Meadow's House. Screw that. I grip the pill bottle in my sweatshirt pocket and hop down the creaky bleachers, scrambling through the gym doors for a clean getaway.

Once outside the school building, I relax, pretty sure I've escaped. Crossing the student parking lot, partly blinded by a low-hanging sun, I sense someone approaching from behind a small herd of parked cars.

It's her, again. Tina. Even with the heat rippling off the warm asphalt, she's got on her black leather jacket and combat boots. Before she can open her mouth, I put a hand up.

“Juh-juh-just leave me alone.”

“I was there, too,” she says. “I remember you and Lamar and I remember Mr. Sanborn—”

I move on her real fast. So fast it surprises me. Surprises me how quickly my own anger can flash.
I don't want to talk about it!
My right hand reaches out and clamps her wrist, twisting it so she has to kneel down on the oily blacktop or risk breaking a bone. My other hand grabs her neck before she can scream.

“
Don't . . .
don't you ever muh-muh-mention his nuh-nuh-name. Understand? Nuh-nuh-not
ever
!”

Her eyes bulge as my hand tightens around her throat. All those little muscles and tendons between my thumb and fingers feel so, so ... delicate ... so easy to crush in one jerk. Such a simple way to silence her, keep everything a secret. Something boils up in me at the thought, something wicked. Something Crud Bucket would do ...
Ever breathe a word of this and I'll cut you into pieces. Put you in trash bags. No one'll even notice you're missing. No one ever misses garbage.
His threat reaches me even now, even after all these years, from the time I caught him bent over Lamar, pants down. Lamar, who never backed down or gave in, crying in a way that told me Crud Bucket had finally found a way to break him.

Little goth girl struggles in my grip, eyes dancing wildly in search of mercy while shame, slick as Vaseline, coats my outside and insides—same as it does every day—with the failure and weakness that buried Lamar.

“Sh-sh-
shit
!” I let go of her neck before I accidentally squeeze it limp. She falls backward against the door of an old, rusty Subaru, clutching her throat, heaving for air.

“What's up your ass, anyway?” she snaps, hacking up some lung and spitting so it lands next to my feet. “I mean, Jesus, I'm only trying to be friendly and you're, like, a dick.”

“Suh-suh-sorry.”

“You oughta be,” she says, rubbing at her neck. “That first day, in the lunchroom, I couldn't believe it was you, how big you got,” she goes on, acting like she didn't just call me a dick. “I mean, I knew it was you 'cause of your sca . . . anyway, you want to be left alone, fine!”

“I duh-duh-don't ruh-ruh-remember you at all,” I say, though she looks maybe a little familiar beyond the piercings and eyeliner and dyed hair and black nails.

“Everyone here comes from such cush families and it's like I can't even tell people how I grew up 'cause they look at me like I'm a freak.”

A puff of air escapes my lips while I let my eyes wander up and down her real slow. “Muh-muh-might be your costume,” I suggest.

“I
am
a freak. I know. But now you're here and I thought,
finally
, someone in this place that'll know me. I mean,
could
really know me. Who gets it.” Tina watches me as she says this last part like I'll suddenly open my arms and give her a big hug. I do nothing but roll my eyes. Of course she mistakes this as a signal to keep talking. “I was in the girls' quarters only for about six months, thank God, before they placed me . . . actually the first family sucked, but the family after that was okay and the one I'm with now is all right. They let me do my own thing.... Anyway, I remember you and some of the other boys at . . . the place. None of you talked much. We'd heard rumors about what Mr.—” I stop her with a warning finger. I'm not kidding about her speaking his name again or teaching her a lesson if she does. “About what ... what's-his-name was doing to the boys over in your unit.”