Leverage (14 page)

“They wuh-wuh-weren't rumors,” I say, and I wobble for a second, trying to knock back the ugly taste rising up in my mouth. Tina's talking again but I'm no longer paying attention, finding it hard enough just to maintain my balance as I turn away.

“. . . because I know what happened, I mean I was living the same situation—”

“No.” I try cutting off the voice behind me since she won't take any type of hint. “No you wuh-wuh-weren't.”

“Okay, but I'm here, now, to talk to ... if you want. I don't mind. Really.”

When I turn back around, Tina's sitting on the hood of the Subaru, rocking on her butt while clasping her knees up by her chest. She's gazing across the parking lot, toward the football fields. Her offer sounds stiff, like she's been practicing it since the day I left her in the lunchroom and nothing, not even the truth, is going to get in her way. The truth is that living at Meadow's House will never be something I want to talk about, even though Lamar and Crud Bucket sit on either of my shoulders all day, every day. The truth is that I have plans for Crud Bucket soon as I find him unguarded by the state. The truth is that since the day Lamar suffocated in that plastic storage bin, stuffed in there by Crud Bucket as punishment, my insides feel like concrete. The truth is that when they first blamed me for killing Lamar, they were partly right. I was sealed up in that plastic storage bin right beside him and the truth is that it's
me
who should've died, not Lamar. The truth is I keep waking from the same nightmare, throwing off damp sheets and calling for him, but there's no escape and no rescue coming. Never is.

So I go on, waiting for a sign that Lamar forgives me while I plan out ways I'll make Crud Bucket pay. Hard hits on the football field are sometimes the best because they feel deserved and relieve some of my guilt for a second. Explaining any of this—even if I wanted to—leaves me tired. And I never want to explain it: not to the detectives; not to the reporters; not to the teachers; not to the counselors; not to Patti; and especially not to the pathetic, powder-white goth girl rocking on the Subaru. That first wave of shame and anger evaporates over the warm asphalt but little currents remain, leaving me weak.

“Wuh-wuh-why were you in the gym?”

Tina sighs. “Kinda a long, dull story but I run the AVT club—Audio Visual Technology. Lame name, I know, and I was downloading some music for my friend Indira. When I finished up, it was late and I was walking by the gym and saw the gymnastics meet. There's this kid on the team who almost got wedgied to death today but Indira and I saved him. Well, mostly me—and I got three days' detention for it, too, fascists! Anyway, I saw him and I guess I was curious. Then I saw you and wondered why you were there and wanted to, you know, say ... what I said earlier ... before you almost crushed my larynx. Asshole!”

She hops off the Subaru and takes a feisty step toward me. “You fucking almost ripped off my head. Got anything to say?”

My anger is gone now. “Suh-suh-sorry,” I offer again, meaning it.

“Better be,” she huffs, and steps forward, then punches me semi-hard in the stomach. I flex so she hits stone. “Ouch!” She grabs the wrist of her punching hand. “Big ape!”

Watching her do this, for some reason I think of the time I'm riding in Sergeant Schmidt's cruiser, heading back from a full day of trial testimony about what Crud Bucket did to us. It's winter and nightfall comes early and Sergeant Schmidt pulls his cruiser over on a lonely stretch of road without streetlights. He makes me get out of the car, wind whipping and cold making me pull the hood of my coat over my head. He points up to the sky, tells me no matter what happens down on earth, the stars won't change for millions and millions of years. That I'm safe as long as I can look up and see starlight overhead. We get back in his cruiser and he takes me to my new boys' home. I'm wishing for night right now in the school parking lot so I can look up into the sky. . . .

“You deaf, too?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you how you're getting home.” Tina says.

“Buh-buh-bus.”

“The late-activity buses left an hour ago.”

“City buh-buh-bus. The suh-suh-stop is by muh-muh-McDonald's.”

“That's, like, a mile away. Who actually takes city buses?”

“Me,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Suh-suh-suhsometimes I have a kuh-kuh-car.”

“I'll give you a ride.”

“It's okay.” I turn and walk toward the sun hovering just above the houses across the parking lot, squinting against the light, feeling my stomach rumble with hunger as I leave Tina behind.

“Come on,” she calls out. I don't answer, just shake my head no and keep walking. Coach's money sits in my pocket ready to burn on three Big Macs, maybe four. I'll chow them while waiting at the bus stop. I'm taking the first D-bol tonight. Any doubts I have about the pills fade, pushed out by thoughts of Lamar and how I should've saved him, how I'll get justice for him yet.

R
onnie pisses them off but at least it's an accident. Bruce and Fisher have no excuse. Then, again, maybe it's all Coach Nelson's fault for dragging us out to tumble at the stupid homecoming pep rally in the first place.

“Come on, guys.” Coach Nelson blows into his hands while our team tries to jump-start in the unseasonably chilly morning with some push-ups and jogging in place. Late fall expired sometime last night and now the threat of winter hangs in the air plain as the white vapor coming out our mouths. Despite the calisthenics, I'm still shivering in my dingy gray sweats.

“This is your chance to show off in front of the whole school,” Coach says, “advertise a little for next season. It's your moment to shine.”

“Advertising's for soulless corporate hacks,” Fisher says, hopping up and down with his hands tucked under his armpits. His nose is red and running from the cold and he stopped wiping at it with his sleeve, so his upper lip is glossy with snot. Coach arches his eyebrows at Fisher.

“Your choice,” Coach counters. “Complain now or complain next year when they cancel the season because no new recruits came out for the team.” Coach holds up three fingers on his left hand. “We lose Bruce, Gradley, and Jason next year. I'd like the team to at least stay in the double digits.”

It's ten A.M. and the home field side of the football bleachers is packed with the entire student body, ecstatic to escape class for the morning even if it is only to attend a pep rally. They get to witness our illustrious homecoming king, queen, princes, and princesses (i.e., jocks and cheerleaders) parade past them on the track circle, paired up in the backs of alumni convertibles. Coach has got us playing court jesters, far as I'm concerned, filler entertainment for the official crowning of the king and queen and the yayrah-rah for the football team—like they need more of it.

“Okay, we're up,” Coach shouts above the marching band, which is in the process of forming the letter
K
on the fifty-yard line. I brace against a strong gust of wind that makes my eyes water, messes up my hair, and cuts through the cotton of my sweatpants.

“I've got severe ball shrinkage over here,” Fisher yaps, opening up his waistband and looking down in his pants. “And I do mean
severe
!”

“Sure, Fish, blame it on the cold, buddy,” Gradley says.

“I'd hate to get wet on a day like today,” Bruce says to Fisher more than the rest of us. “Might catch a cold and die,” he says, and the two of them chuckle, sharing some private joke.

“Bruce,” Coach calls out. “Lead the way.”

Without any of us actually getting warm or stretching properly, my teammates and I do about fifty back handsprings on the uneven turf of the football field sidelines for our fellow students' entertainment. My wrists and ankles are not happy. The wind is swirling, and if anyone is clapping for us up in the bleachers, I sure don't hear it—especially over the brass horn blurts and snare drum snaps coming from the marching band. What I
do
hear is Scott Miller and Mike Studblatz taunting us nonstop as we set up the mini-trampoline right next to where all of the homecoming court jerks sit on the field.

“Hey, Munchkins, the yellow brick road's that way.”

“These fairies are short enough to give a dude head standing up.”

“Bet they get lots of practice doing that.”

“You think dogs piss on 'em thinking they're fire hydrants?”

Most of my teammates do the right thing. They ignore them. Some of us use it as motivation. Menderson—our vault specialist—launches off the mini-trampoline, soaring over Scott and Mike's heads like a ghost before tucking into a simple front flip and touching down on the mat, easy as if he were stepping over a sidewalk crack. When he lands, I finally hear some applause from the stands. About time.

“Hey, dickweed.” Studblatz curses Menderson. “Better watch where you're landing. You touch me and I swear I will pull your fucking arms off.”

“Come that close again,” Scott adds, “and I'll shove your scrotum up your ass.”

Bruce sprints hard and hits the mini-tramp like he wants to bust through it. He flies over the royals while spinning seemingly out of control. He lands on the mat fine but close enough to Chrissy, the homecoming queen, that she jumps out of her seat with her arms folded over her tiara-wrapped head. Laughter and applause reach us from the stands.

“Try that again, little shit. Try it!” Miller threatens, pulling Chrissy into a protective hug.

“Relax.” Bruce chuckles as he jogs away.

I go next. Not wanting any trouble, I do a nice clean layout twist, making sure I land as far from Scott, Mike, and the rest of the royals as possible while still hitting the mat.

“When did they let junior high kids on the team?” Scott asks me.

Fisher jogs real slow down the grass lane and clown-bounces off the mini-tramp. He performs a very simple straddle split leap, his bright smile facing the stands and his ass aimed at the king and queen. In mid-flight, he peels off a fart strong enough to rip open his underwear and add a second to his hang time. Scott grabs the crown on his head as if checking that it didn't get blown off. After he lands, Fisher slaps his knee in a fit of laughter while pointing at the homecoming court.

“How's my ass smell?” Fisher asks them.

“Hey, shit stain,” Studblatz yells. “Go crawl back to your sewer.”

“I can't,” Fisher says. “Your mom's there, sucking off guys for spare change. She ain't bad. I gave her a quarter last night.”

“Laugh now, funny guy.” Studblatz chomps. The other royals are actually snickering, though. Fisher steps off the mat to let Leeson fly through the air. Leeson almost lands in Scott Miller's lap. Scott gives Leeson a shove.

“You're, like, a disgusting turd,” Chrissy tells Fisher, which, judging by his widening grin, he takes as a compliment.

“Weak.” Leeson critiques Chrissy's dig after righting himself from Scott's shove.

Fisher's in a zone, possibly amped up on a six-pack of Red Bull, and has no fear. He points at Scott. “Hey, king-man,” he says, “last night, after I blew my load on your mom's face, she told me to remind you to take your steroids today. You, too, Mike.” Every mouth in the royal court drops open as Fisher speaks the unspoken. With the wind and the band noise, our skirmish is too far away from the stands for anyone else to hear what Fisher just said. Still tittering, like even he can't believe what's come out of his mouth, Fisher takes a step backward, ready to cheetah his ass to safety as both Scott and Mike stand up like hungry lions, needing to kill. This is when fate turns on Ronnie Gunderson, who has the misfortune and bad timing to be the next gymnast up for a trick. He hits the mini-tramp just as Studblatz crosses the landing mat to chase Fisher. Seeing the big football player in his path, Ronnie, already sprung upward, yelps as his legs and arms spindle, clawing air in a vain attempt to stop his forward momentum. He lands in Studblatz's chest and arms in a full-on love hug. The crowd in the stands breaks out with laughter as little Ronnie momentarily clings to Studblatz like a scared kitten hanging from the mouth of a beast.

“Yaaagh!” Studblatz shouts, spinning once with Ronnie glued to him before hurling him onto the mat. I hear the crowd loud and clear now. They're cheering with full throats. Ronnie bounces off the mat and gets up on his feet as snarky whistles and claps sail out from the stands like unspooling rolls of toilet paper.

“You little shit!” Studblatz hisses at Ronnie. He must think our little freshman—like crazy Fisher—planned to land on him and make him look like a fool. Studblatz advances on Ronnie, ready to pummel him. Ronnie's eyes bug out and he scampers toward Coach Nelson, who's busy scratching his head over on the sidelines. Coach can't hear us but he knows something's up. Fisher's now jogging backward, halfway to Coach if he needs to run for safety, and flapping his arms up and down, encouraging the crowd to stay noisy, keep cheering and laughing. Scott, one hand holding his crown in place, takes a few steps toward Fisher but then stops. He must figure he'll look pretty stupid running after Fisher while wearing a cape.

“Numbnuts!” Scott shouts at Fisher instead.

“Jackass!” Fisher shouts back, then pivots so the stands of students and teachers can't see him grab his crotch at Scott and Mike and the rest of the royals. That's it for me. I'm out. So are my teammates. We flee to the sidelines and the safety of Coach Nelson. When we arrive, Ronnie's face is white as the clouds overhead and tears stream down his cheeks. He's shaking but I don't think it's from the cold. More like he just glimpsed the jaws of death waiting to clamp down and rip out his bones. Part of me wants to tell him to man up, that everything is over now, so relax. Part of me recoils from his naked fear and hurt, afraid his crying is broadcasting our team as “easy prey” to the rest of the student body.