Leverage (42 page)

Damn!
I think. He
is
smart; smarter than me or Tina or Danny. Even smarter than Coach. He's smarter and he's going to get away with all of it.

“But—” Danny starts and stops, unable to come up with anything else to say. I pull him back to me. I know when a fight's finished. I learned that one a long time ago. There's but one thing to do if you can't beat them and you sure as hell can't join them. You walk away.

“Coach.” I speak up. “I can't puh-puh-play alongside them. I'm done,” I say. Then I look over at Scott through my face mask. I take a big breath and let it out, see his eyes, still spoiling for a fight. I got to give it to him. He's wicked, but he's a wicked genius.

“You win,” I tell him. “It's over. You all wuh-wuh-win. I wuh-won't saying nothing. But I ain't puh-playing alongside you no more. It's over. Danny wuh-wuh-won't talk no more, either.” Studblatz crosses his arms, glaring at me but keeping quiet. “Tuh-tuh-tell your dad not to huh-handcuff me nuh-nuh-no more,” I say to Tom. “Tell him I don't wuh-wuh-want no more trouble.”

My stutter's coming back hard in defeat.

“Better not,” Tom says, growing courageous again now that he knows Scott's engineered their escape. “'Cause he told me he can make you go away forever if he wants.”

I squeeze my eyes shut as I tug gently on Danny's shoulder to retreat with me. He doesn't resist. It's over and I want to get out of here, never see this place again, maybe drop out of school. I can't go here no more.

“Kurt . . .” Coach Brigs calls, and with my eyes still shut, his voice sounds brittle and old, and for a second, it makes me think he's cried in his life at some point. “Son, we need you . . .” he starts to say, but I don't hear the rest because Danny and me are out the locker room and down the hallway. The only sound as we walk is my plastic cleats crackling against the concrete. My knee stops pinching, I realize, as Lamar settles back down on my shoulder for a moment, fanning my neck in warm wingbeats.

It's okay,
he whispers, then lifts off again, setting the both of us free.

I am moving through the school doors, cutting across the outer lawn spilling over with crowds of fans, hoping to slip past the field where I'll never play again. I had a feeling it was going to end badly like this. Flushing my supply of D-bol down the toilet before the game seemed not only right, it seemed like fate. Why take that crap when it only helps me help the people that don't care about me? Enough!

“Kurt, hold up,” Danny calls. “Wait!” But I'm still going, don't even realize how quiet it is out in the stadium and along the grassy hill or near the concession stand. That the band's not playing, that there's no music coming out of the new speakers. That no one's cheering or even talking. That everyone's silent.

The Jumbotron screen is so big that even from this distance I can see it clearly, see that it's broadcasting a view of itself as if someone's pointing a camera at it.

Someone is.

Me.

The view on it is coming from my helmet cam.

“Whoa!” I whisper, except it doesn't come out as a whisper. My voice rolls across the entire field, the concession stands, the grassy knoll, and the stadium, like a gust of wind.

“Whoa!” I repeat, loud, amazed.

This time, my voice is a hurricane.

T
hanks a lot, Tina!

Thanks for convincing me to risk my life for the most completely ridiculous, totally stupid plan of all time! How did I imagine any good would actually come from confronting pure evil? And in its own locker room?! God, was I high when I said yes to this?

Kurt, bad knee and all, is leaving me in the dust soon as we step out of the school.

“Wait up!” I shout. That's when I realize I don't need to shout. The outside is quiet. People are standing around same as before but no one's goofing around or even talking. It's spooky weird, like everyone turned into a zombie at halftime. I'm about to ask Kurt if he notices anything when I hear his voice whispering over the stadium sound system. It's coming at me from all angles. Then a second time, even louder.

“Whoa!”

Kurt stops and turns to face me as I catch up. Beneath his helmet I can see his eyes widening in surprise.

“That sounded like you—” I start to say, except I hear my voice coming over the speakers, echoing across the field. “What's going on?” I ask him, but my voice, amplified, asks the entire stadium the same question. Both of us stare at each other, frozen, not saying a single word more, wondering how long his helmet's been on. Then I hear the footfalls coming up on us. Kurt's eyes shift off me, look over my shoulder as I turn to see Coach Brigs and Coach Stein, tight-lipped, ignoring us as they hurry past, late for their own game. Scott, Tom, and Mike are ten yards behind their coaches, jogging loosely with their heads held high, triumphant, as if they've already won the state title game. When the three of them reach us, Scott, barely slowing, points his fingers at Kurt like a gun. Victory makes his smile large.

“Remember, shitbags, our little secret,” Scott says, ego so huge that the words coming from his own mouth block out the sound of them rolling across the stadium through Kurt's helmet mic.

None of them makes it far into the surrounding zombie crowd before the first bags of popcorn dump down on them like snow. Then the first full cups of soda get flipped over on them, dousing them in freezing slush. The two coaches and three captains get corralled together by the mob and raise their arms, trying to shield the onslaught of Family Packs of nacho chips drizzled in melted cheese and cups of ice. Large pretzels sail toward them like Frisbees. As the mob builds, their path is blocked and they get stuck before even reaching the entrance gates to the stadium field.

The Jumbotron stops broadcasting Kurt's helmet cam. Instead, one single word fills its entire screen.

BOO!!!

The crowd responds. They boo. And boo. And boo. Anything the crowd can get their hands on sails down out of the stadium bleachers—mostly soda cups and more cardboard Family Pack trays but occasional hats and scarves and rolled-up paper programs flying out like snowballs.

The Jumbotron works the crowd, flashing a new message.

GET OUT! GET OUT!

And the crowd takes up the chant. Coach Brigs, Coach Stein, Scott, Tom, and Mike are surrounded, shoved, pushed, and jeered until they get steered back toward the school. Angry adults—men and women—try to get at them, shouting in their faces, reaching out as if they want to rip off parts of their bodies.

Kurt pulls off his helmet and dangles it at his side. We look at each other, smiling, amazed, guessing what's happening, hoping it's true.

“Let's guh-guh-get outta huh-huh-here.”

“Wait,” I say. “Let's enjoy it for a moment.” I breathe deep. “Whatever's going on, it's a beautiful thing.”

Kurt nods and turns to take in the sight while I start jogging backward around him in circles, delivering a series of shadow punches at the air. “We won!” I shout, jabbing right, left, right. “We beat them. Suckers!” I jab out with two more lefts and a right cross before repeating the offer I made the day I was raking leaves and he came to warn me.

“Kurt, you can join our team, now,” I suggest again. “Screw football. You'll be the biggest gymnast in all of recorded history. I'll teach you.”

“Muh-maybe,” Kurt says, not making any promises. I'm ready to pester him more, certain my idea is great, when something catches my eye. The football team. More precisely, the entire Knights football team charging toward the two of us, trampling through the slowly parting crowd like rampaging wildebeests, ready to avenge the downfall of their captains and coaches.

“Ohhhhhh, crap!” My voice rises as I ready to scamper out of there. Kurt grips his helmet by the face mask and hefts it, ready to swing it against the first wave of the attack. He spreads his feet wide, planting himself.

“Kurt, come on!” I squeak. “Can't fight them all.”

“No one's puh-puh-pushing me around nuh-nuh-no more,” he says. “You guh-go.”

“No!” I say.
Wait! What did I just say?
“If you're not going,” I tell Kurt, “then I'm staying.” Kurt nods but doesn't look my way because they're almost here. Kurt crouches, battle helmet ready for the slaying, his free hand braced on his knee as he waits. I imitate him, then scrunch my eyes as they come at us, moving fast, Terrence, their running back, leading the charge.

As my maiming rapidly approaches, the sound of hoof-beats fills my ears.

K
urt!” Terrence barks. “Let's go!”

Terrence, leading the entire football team, pulls up short before steamrolling over Danny and me. As the rest of the team arrives, they surround us, closing in, the white steam from all their panting filling the cold night air. I feel Danny's foot set in the turf next to mine. He's covering my blind side.

“Refs said we got three minutes to get on the field or we forfeit the game,” Terrence explains. “We didn't work our asses off all season so we can quit the last home game and risk not clinching the top play-off slot. So let's go. Now.”

“Yeah!” Rondo woofs.

“Let's go!” Pullman shouts.

“Game ain't over, Brodsky. Come on!” DuWayne grunts.

“Buh-buh-but . . .” I start, then Terrence cuts me off.

“Kurt, those three have been pricks since our Pony League days,” Terrence says. “If even half of what we heard is true—and I don't doubt for a second it is—they don't deserve to wear this uniform. If they go after you, they go after all of us. If you can't trust your teammates no more, if they don't got your back, you ain't a team.”

“Yeah,”
I hear Danny whisper beside me.

“Clock's ticking, guys,” Warner says. “Down to two minutes to get a team on that field. Kurt, we need you to bring it home.”

“We're asking nicely,” Rondo says. “Now, come
on
!”

“They're right,” Danny says quietly to me. “Finish the game.” I glance down at him, see he's serious. I heft my helmet up over my head, then pull it down and lock the chin strap in place.

“Good man!”

“Knew you'd come through!”

Terrence raises his own helmet to the night sky like a torch. “Who are we?” he asks.

“Knights!” my teammates answer back.

“Who do we fear?” Terrence asks us.

“No one!” we answer.

“Whose house is this?” Terrence shouts the question.

“Our house!” we tell him.

“What's our name?” Terrence asks.

“KNIGHTS!” we answer back.

C
oach Gayle, the wrestling coach, has been plucked out of the stands to substitute for Coach Brigs on the sidelines and make the game official in the nick of time. The Oregrove Knights take the field under an umbrella of chants from the crowd led by the Jumbotron—KNIGHTS! KNIGHTS! KNIGHTS!

I can't help myself. I start chanting as well, cheering for my school, cheering for my team, and most of all, cheering for Kurt. I'm hollering so loud I almost don't hear the phone chirping in my pocket. I recognize the number, answer it.

“You pulled it off!” I shout into the phone above the chanting.

“I told you girls are way craftier than boys,” Tina says back.

“Why didn't you tell us the whole plan?” I ask.

“And take a chance you two would screw it up somehow? Or you'd think about it too much and chicken out?” she asks me. Through the phone, I can hear her giggling. “I've found with boys, the less said, the better. The only guy conniving enough to trust is Fisher.”

“Fisher?” I ask “Are you kidding me?”

“How do you think I was able to run Kurt's helmet cam live the whole halftime?”

“So the crowd saw everything?!”

“Everything!” she confirms. “This stadium heard every word and saw everything going on in that locker room. No way I'd be able to broadcast the whole thing live without old man Walt out of the booth. So Fisher came in at halftime, told him his car was on fire, and then locked the door when he left. It's only me and Fish in here at the moment and now Walt's pounding on the door to get back in. He'll have to wait. Fish's helping me run the sound-board now.”

“You are
amazing
!!!” I whoop.

“I know,” she says. “Watch this!”

The Jumbotron starts flashing.

WE ♥ KURT!!!

“Okay, that's a little much,” I tell her.

“Danny!” a voice shouts, and I turn to find Coach Nelson and Bruce walking toward me.

“Gotta go,” I tell Tina, and hang up.

Coach Nelson's face hasn't changed since I escaped him earlier. He looks angry. Bruce looks tired.

“I'm not too pleased, you running off on me,” Coach starts, “but I guess you had more important matters to attend to.”

I glance from Coach to Bruce, trying to read either of them, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say.

“Why didn't you boys ... I wish you'd told me, told
somebody
sooner. There's no excuse for what they did, you hear me?” Coach Nelson says. Bruce hangs his head like this is his second scolding. “No excuse. They're going to be in a world of hurt. And so is that dipshit dad of Tom's. I'll make sure of that. Of course, I'll have to get in line, judging from the looks of things.”