Leverage (39 page)

As I'm mulling this over, the phone buzzes with another incoming text. I guess I don't have much to lose.

So I listen to Tina. My phone keeps beeping with new messages as she talks. In the end I'm not sure if the text threats convince me or Tina does, but eventually I agree to help her help me and Kurt.

“One more thing,” Tina says. “Give me Vance Fisher's number.”

After hanging up, I stir my soupy cereal some more. I glance at my phone. Twelve new texts in the last hour.

 

SPIT OR SWALLOW?
SNICH GOING DOWN
U CANT HIDE
DED MAN WALKING
U R DED MEET

 

I stop reading after five and delete the rest. I'm feeling more and more anxious, and it hits me, again, how scared and lost Ronnie must've been during his last days. He asked me for so little—just to tell the truth, tell him what I saw—and I turned away from him. God! I wish I could have that last phone call with him back, wish I could do it all over again.

“I'm so sorry,”
I whisper over the table, acting as if Ronnie is sitting across from me now.
“So, so sorry. I'll make it right. I swear
.
”

The texts keep coming.

 

HOME ALONE?
DADDY CANT SAVE U & MOMMYS DED!
TIMES UP
NOK NOK
HERE WE CUM!

 

The hungry growl of a big engine rolling into my driveway makes me bolt for the front of the house. I lock the doors and shut off all the inside lamps and TV. It's night out and a supercharged Camaro sits in my driveway, its headlights blasting our house. I peek out from behind curtains drawn across our front-yard picture window. I call my dad's cell but it goes to voice mail. Figures. The Camaro reverses at an angle, tires rolling across our lawn, so the headlights hit the picture window. Then it stops.

Without thinking I dial Coach's number, which he gave us after Ronnie died. The Camaro's high beams flash on, pentetrating our house's lace curtains like X-rays. Coach's phone is ringing ... and ringing....
Come on, come on, pick up!

Outside I hear the Camaro engine rev like it's getting ready to drive right through our house. I chance another peek around the curtains, see the passenger door open and Tom Jankowski step out.

Shit!

“Hello?” Coach Nelson's voice answers over the phone.

“Coach! They're trying to kill me!” I pant. “Right now!”

“Huh? Danny? Is that you? What's wrong? Where are you?”

Tom's throwing something. I hear it thud against our garage door. He throws again and again and more thuds pelt the side of our house. One slams against the picture window I'm standing next to, hits a foot from my head, and cracks the glass. I see the outlines of a smashed egg, lit from behind by the car's headlights, running down the pane of glass. The car's driver's side door opens and Scott steps out. Then Mike Studblatz gets out. They're both holding baseball bats, walking straight toward the window.

“Coach, they're—” Fear catches my throat as I realize they're about to shatter the thin glass and come grab me.

“Danny, tell me what's wrong, kiddo. Talk to me.”

Our neighbor's outside house lights come on across the street and their dog, Judo, starts barking. Mike, Tom, and Scott freeze, spin around, then jump into the car. The Camaro backs out, wheels spinning on our lawn, leaving a single black track of torn-up grass. As it flees the crime scene, the Camaro's back tires flame our street with a smoky screech loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, alerting everyone to the fact that my world is totally exploding.

“Danny?” Coach is still on the line.

“Uh . . . sorry, Coach,” I exhale. “I, uh . . . I'm having a nightmare. I'm sleepwalking. Must've dialed your number by mistake. I'm awake now.”

“Sleepdialing?!” Coach scoffs over the phone. “You on something right now?”

Yeah,
I think.
Fear!

“Maybe you want to talk for a while?” he tries. “You sound pretty scared. Where's your dad?”

“I think ... I think I'm okay.” Now that the Camaro has left, I start feeling foolish for panicking and calling Coach. “My dad's doing late rounds at the hospital.”

“I think I should speak with him when he gets back. Have him call me this week. Tell him anytime.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, knowing I'll never pass on the message.

C
hugging back toward the huddle, I scan the fence line for Danny but find no sign of him in the sea of fans. I glance up at the enclosed control booth at the top of the stadium, wonder if Tina's watching me right now. Oregrove supporters are out in force tonight for the last home game before a string of away games to finish out the regular season. Scott shouts to be heard over the crowd noise. To stay warm, fans of all ages hug themselves, hop up and down, break out into chants while clapping gloved hands, wave big foam #1 fingers, and hold up homemade signs with player names markered on them. They call out to us as if we'll answer their personal requests for more defense or to fire up.

I take it all in, pretty sure this will be the last time I'll ever have fans pulling for me. Come Monday, after Tom's dad makes good on his threat and after my three captains see to it everyone misunderstands my past, the only crowds waving at me will be ones carrying pitchforks and torches, trying to run me out of town.

Terrence slaps me in the belly to get my attention, then points up to the Jumbotron. “You paying them or something ?” he asks me. In big flashing letters the Jumbotron reads: BRODSKY EXPRESS! COMING AT YA!!!

“Who you blowing up in the booth to get all the attention?” Terrence asks.

“Tina,” I tell him without a single stutter.

“No shit? That little Dracula girl runs that thing?”

GO GET 'EM! the Jumbotron flashes.

“Hey, Brodsky,” Scott barks at me. “You want to join us here or you going to paint a picture?”

“Wake the fuck up, Brodsky,” Tom growls.

In the huddle, I can't bring myself to even glance at those two, so I focus on the tops of my shoelaces while scuffing the turf with my cleats. The Columbus Bears are decent but we're still leading by two touchdowns with only a minute left before halftime. If we win tonight, our record will be good enough to give us home field advantage in the play-offs. The sellout crowd knows this, makes noise, in fact, like tonight's game is the state championship.

“Okay, play action reverse on three,” Scott tells us. “Terrence, stay sharp 'cause their nickel package is weak on the left flank and you can bust for some yardage. Pullman, hold your lane. Tommy, drive that cocksucker, sixty-seven, into the ground for me. He's been up in my grille all night.”

“Got it.”

“On three, on three,” Scott repeats. We all clap our chapped hands once—part ritual, part signal we understand the play—then break huddle. I glance up at the Jumbotron again like I got a tick. A cartoon chorus line of dancing hot dogs wearing top hats and twirling canes tells us they're ready to be eaten in four-packs at the concession stand. I try to refocus on the game but it's hard. As we set up and Scott shouts his cadence, my eyes wander off number 79, my blocking assignment, and begin searching the crush of fans along the fence one more time, hoping he hasn't backed down, hoping he won't leave me hanging.

Where are you?
I wonder.

“HUT!” Scott grunts. I drive forward into the line, smashing into oncoming shoulders, helmets, and arms, feeling the wall of bodies in front of me slowly give, slowly shift left. Terrence squirts past with the ball, gaining six yards before the Bears' secondary drags him into the grass. The play's barely been whistled dead but Terrence already has his head cocked toward the Jumbotron, ready to watch himself in slow-mo instant replay. The crowd stomps and claps its approval.

“Damn, I
do
move beautifully.” Terrence sighs in appreciation.

As we huddle up, Sweeney, a wide receiver, comes sprinting onto the field, relaying Coach's next play to Scott. Scott's helmet swivels side to side in an exaggerated no and spit flies out past his face mask. He walks into the huddle with Sweeney trailing.

“Okay, fullback sweep left on two,” Scott tells us. “Brodsky must be giving Coach hand jobs again to get these plays,” he tells the rest of the huddle while his eyes skip past mine. I reach down and pull up my socks, then adjust my knee pads, notice none of the guys laughing for Scott. “I don't know why he hasn't given up on you yet.”

“This is bullshit!” Tom slaps his thigh pads then spits at my feet.

“Shut the fuck up, Jankowski,” Terrence snaps. “Start blocking for a change and maybe Kurt'll get some yardage.”

“Mind your own business, Terrence, or I'll give my guy a free pass at you.”

“Tell that to Coach”—Terrence jabs a finger almost into Tom's face mask—“and I'll be laughing when he benches your fat ass.”

“Enough, ladies,” Scott speaks. “Fullback sweep left on two, on two,” he repeats. We clap and break huddle, then set up into position. My rushing's sucked all night because Scott's purposely holding on to the ball a fraction too long when handing off to me, messing up my timing, and Jankowski's throwing powder-puff blocks whenever the ball's coming to me. To be honest, I don't much care anymore. One way or the other, it's over for me. All I want to do is smash something.

“Ready!” Scott barks, lining up under center. I cast one more glance at the fences, come up empty in my search for him. I crouch down, fire up the ignition, feel the power thrumming across my thighs, big turbines winding up, approaching takeoff.

“Set . . .” Scott calls out, his voice fading in a gust of wind and crowd roar. I chance a last look downfield, past the wall of scrimmage, think I see him now. He's there, waiting. He's so small ...

“Hut.”

. . . like Lamar . . .

“HUT!”

Launch!

Going supernova slows everything around me, expands my vision until I'm watching the field from all angles. Scott steps back from center and baits me with the ball. My arms clamp around it like a bear trap, ripping it from his hands, allowing no chance for mischief. I spot Tom slipping to the ground, untouched, letting his man—54—leap over him into my path. Like my last three carries, Tom's unblocked defender will lock me up in the backfield for a loss of yards. I prepare for the inevitable ...

Terrence—lined up in the backfield with me—cuts off 54, buying me a half second. It's enough. I stop dead and break right, against the traffic of bodies sweeping left. The wall clears and a field of almost pure green waits for me to dance over it. I plant my foot for the sprint downfield, already seeing the end zone as I cross it, when something cracks my kneecap, pushing it backward. Feels like a jagged icicle stabbing me there, shattering against the bone. I collapse across the lone body below me—Jankowski. Son of a bitch has leg-whipped my knee under cover of the scrum.

While the game clock ticks down I lie there in the grass clutching my knee. Cold sweat trickles along my neck as I sit up and try to slowly bend the leg, testing it. I yank off my helmet in frustration and slam it into the turf.

“Give him room. Give him room,” Scott shouts, then squats so close his face mask jabs my cheek. Wincing as I keep trying to bend and flex my leg, it takes me a second to realize Jankowski's on my other side. The two of them block out all the others.

“It's only gonna get worse.”
Scott speaks just loud enough for me to hear.
“You done crossed the wrong bulls and now you need to learn your place
.
”

“You're fucking finished, retard,”
Tom hisses.
“Finished !”
He's smiling at me through his face mask. They both stand up and back away, letting the trainers and Coach get to me.

“Son, where's it hurt?” Coach asks. He's pulled off his baseball cap and his face creases with worry. Not sure if it's for me or for how he'll replace me, but I don't much care. I'm grateful for his presence. The pain in my knee eases a little. The wind whips past my sweat-dampened hair, chilling it, as anger and fear swirl within me. Our plan starts to feel as worthless as my knee. It isn't enough, I realize. Doesn't matter what we come up with. Scott, Tom, and Mike won't stop. They'll keep coming.

The trainer gets my arm around his neck to help me stand up. I just want one good lick on them. One lick, let them know how it feels to really hurt, for once. Then I'll go into hiding. The crowd claps and hoots as the trainer and Rondo ease me up to my feet. With my arms draped over their necks, I limp off the field.

By the time Rondo and the trainer help me to the sidelines, the rest of the team's jogging toward the school building for halftime. I'm able to walk by myself now. My knee feels loose, like it's been stretched out the wrong way. I worry it might decide to go the wrong way again and snap in half. I glance up at the Jumbotron but there's only cartwheeling potato chips and a blizzard of popcorn kernels telling everyone the concession stand is offering a family pack for $15.99.

At the fence exit leaving the playing field where we're supposed to meet, there's no sign of Danny.
I did see him,
I tell myself.
Or I think I saw him
. Maybe it was only Lamar, again, in my head. I limp on toward the school, deciding to go through with it even if he bails on me. My doubt, my fear, dissolves under the realization of what's been done to me again and again, over and over. Right now I don't care about being trapped in the back of Officer Jankowski's squad car, I don't care about Scott's threats, don't care if the world thinks I'm a murderer. I'm doing it. Fury burns off the rest of my worry. I'm going to give it to them.