Leverage (6 page)

I'd hoped to go unnoticed by sitting at the empty end of a table mostly populated by goths dressed all in black with pierced faces and skin the color of vampire flesh. Thanks to Scott, they spot my approach and stare at me like
I'm
the freak. One of the goths, a girl with spiky black hair and shaved eyebrows, wrinkles her nose so harshly I automatically tuck my own nose into my shoulder for a quick armpit whiff.

“What?” Scott asks real loud. “You gonna sit next to Count Dykeula, instead?”

I stand there, deciding, feeling all eyes on me.

“Brodsky, I ain't asking again,” Scott shouts even louder, pretending to cry. The whole lunchroom—his personal audience—snickers. “You're going to hurt my feelings.” He'll go on, I can tell, unless I come to him. Surrendering, I change course toward my quarterback's table. Scott jabs the redheaded girl, the one leaning against his arm, with a sharp elbow to her side that makes both her and me wince.

“Cindy, make some room for our fullback,” Scott commands. Cindy slides over a space while Scott pats the empty bench next to him. “Sit down, man. Sit!”

Cindy's eyes do a little dance while taking in my scars. I squeeze my legs between the bench and table while she gets her fill. After I sit, Scott drapes an arm over my shoulders and leans close, talking with a mouth full of french fries.

“Oh, yeah, man,” he says, “make some room. Let this boy eat. Stuff it down your throat. We want you nice and big. I hear Ashville's got a defensive linebacker—Tommy, what's his name?”

“Chandre,” Tom Jankowski answers. “Chandre Jackson.”

“Yeah, Chandre Jackson. What kinda ghetto-ass name is Chandre? Anyway, I hear Chandre chomps down on fullbacks for breakfast, puts a little skull on his helmet for every fullback or tailback or receiver he knocks out during a game. Ashville's coach gives him a little bone as a reward. You believe that? I mean, sheeyit! That's hard core, yeah?” Scott asks, now chewing up his burger. A fleck of meat or bun sprays my ear.

“But you put a lick on ol' Chandre Jackson like you did Studblatz here,” Scott continues, “and we got nothing to worry about. In fact, I'd be willing to bet money that maybe you could lay superbad Chandre out cold. Maybe punch a little hole in his chest, pile-drive him into the turf, and make everyone's life a little easier. Whaddya think, Brodsky? You think you're man enough to put a lick on Chandre? Send him bawling back to his baby mama?” Scott asks.

Jankowski snorts at Scott's cartoonish accent. A piece of potato shoots out of his nose. I glance over at Studblatz, still ignoring me because of that hit I put on him my first day of practice. He chews his food so hard, jaw muscles pop from either side of his face like two fists clenching.

“Coach Brigs said you might need some tutoring,” Cindy speaks up, her soft voice teasing me with what I can't have. My cheeks warm and the long scar itches.

“Awwwww. . . . Look, he's blushing!” Scott laughs out a chunk of burger. “How cute! Our widdow fowbak is shy awound gwirls.”

“Shut up, Scott.” Cindy reaches behind me to slap him. My skin tingles where her arm brushes against my back.

“Hey, man, I'm just kidding. It's cool, you know?” Scott slaps my shoulder. “Cindy, help him with his home-work . . . and anything else he may need. She's great at biology
and anatomy
.”

“Shut
up
!” Cindy reaches around me again; this time it feels like she lets her arm stay there for a moment.

“I'm fuh-fuh-fuh-fine,” I say, addressing the mystery meat on my plate. “I guh-guh-guh . . .” I try saying
I get good grades
but that's never going to come out now. “I'm not su-su-su . . .”

“What?” Jankowski asks. “What's that?” A smile creeps across his mouth. Studblatz no longer has a problem looking at me. Or probing me for weaknesses. Sweat trickles behind my left ear. My fingers tighten and crack the plastic spork sitting in my fist.

“. . . su-su-su-su-su . . .” The more I push, the more I insist, the more it shoves back. “. . . su-su-su-su-su . . .”

I'M NOT STUPID!
my brain screams. My mouth won't obey.

“Speak up!” Studblatz snickers.

“That's not funny,” Cindy says, coming to my defense, which makes it worse.

“Easy, chief,” Scott says. “A touch sensitive, huh?”

“I duh-duh-duh-duh . . .”
I DON'T NEED ANY HELP!!! I DON'T NEED ANY TUTORING. I DON'T NEED ANYTHING.

“Duh-duh-duh-duh-do you think you can sell seashells by the seashore?” Tom asks. He and Studblatz both crack up with laughter.

“Shut up!” Cindy yips, then protectively lays a fragile hand over mine, her fingers perching like a hummingbird on top of my knuckles. I'm ready to swing, though it's my own mouth I want to punch out. Reach into it and rip out my tongue for messing everything up like it always does.

“Enough, guys,” Scott says. “Big deal, Kurt. So you stutter. Who cares? Bet you're still smarter than these two meatheads combined.” Scott jabs a thumb at Tom and Mike. “That doesn't take a lot, though. Relax, man. You're my fullback. You're family now.”

As Scott claims me, Tom and Mike go back to stuffing their mouths. Cindy strokes my hand in a way that makes me want to curl up beside her if she'd let me.

“Studblatz doesn't even believe in reading, do you, Mike?” Scott asks.

“What's reading gonna do for me?” Studblatz asks back. “They don't ask you how many books you bench-press in the NFL draft.”

I take a hard look at Studblatz and think he's kidding himself if he really expects to reach the NFL; that there's a million guys around the country, just as big as him if not bigger, all saying the exact same thing. Maybe it's all those recruiting letters messing with his head.

“That's the spirit,” Scott adds, encouraging Studblatz. I chance a look at Cindy, notice her eyes are the color of tropical lagoons advertised on the sides of city buses in the winter. Her eyes meet mine, then tip toward my bad cheek. She says nothing but lifts her hand off mine and looks out across the lunchroom. The moment is over. I turn and watch Jankowski with his chin almost resting in his potato mush, shoveling it into his mouth. A thick trail of zits dots his neck like oozing pellet-gun scars.

Gross,
I think, knowing Cindy's thinking the same thing about my face.

“Hey, man, we're having a party at Studblatz's place this weekend,” Scott says. “We're hazing the JV players before the girls come over, so you gotta be there.”

“We should be hazing
him
,” Studblatz grunts, pointing the corner of his chocolate milk carton toward me. I take a bite of my mush and replay drilling him into the turf.

“We don't haze starters.” Scott shakes his head and then claps his hand on my shoulder. “Especially star starters.”

“He's new to the team,” Studblatz counters. A bit of gristle tips off his lower lip and back onto his plate. Red boils, big as snails, fester from his hairline down into the collar of his jersey shirt. “He should be initiated.” Studblatz stabs at his plate of food with his spork to make the point.

“He's only new because they stuck him in that zoo at Lincoln before Coach Brigs rescued him. It's not like he's new to football. He isn't getting hazed and he doesn't have to get initiated if he doesn't want,” Scott says. “But he
does
have to come to the party. No excuses.”

Tom Jankowski and Mike Studblatz don't look too convinced. But they go back to shoveling food.

“Hey, Tommy, you find that thing I wanted you to get?” Scott asks, changing subjects. “The critter?”

Tom Jankowski stops eating and stares dully until his brain kicks in behind his eyes. “Yeah, I got it,” he answers. “Caught it yesterday. Kept it out in the sun so it's starting to get nice and ripe.”

“Good boy,” Scott says.

“What are you talking about?” Cindy asks.

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over, darling.” Scott winks at her. Wish I even thought to wink at her—not that I would because she'd probably slap me—but just to even attempt it puts Scott way beyond the rest of us.

“That means they're up to no good,” Cindy tells me. “Boys, boys, boys,” she tsks.

Scott stands up, retrieving his long legs out from under the table. Studblatz, Jankowski, Cindy, and the other girl I never met all follow him.

“You coming?” Scott asks, waiting for me to get up.

I shake my head no, pointing to my plate still full of food. Scott shrugs. “Okay, see you at practice.”

They move as a group, and Scott taps fists with a couple of JV and low-rung varsity grunts at different tables before leading his entourage out of the lunchroom. Watching them exit takes my eyes past the goth group again, all studying me like I just crawled out of a hole, which for them might actually be a bonus in my favor. Mohawk girl's mouth moves, talking to one of the others, but her eyes stay on me. Safety-pin-in-her-cheek girl nods back while observing me like she really wishes she had binoculars because the beast is eating his kill and that's a rare sight during safari. The two guys with them, dressed in long black coats even though it's about eighty-five degrees in the lunchroom, twist around to watch me, see I'm looking at them, and turn away. I dig into my food, wrapping an arm protectively around my tray, letting hair fall over my face, trying my best to create a curtain.

About a minute later, one of the goth girls sits down across from me holding a bag of chips and an armful of books. Her skin is baby-powder white like her friends', and her cheeks are flawless and I wonder if she understands the gift she's been handed. Heavy mascara and black eyeliner circle pale blue eyes. She dyes her hair jet-black but the blond roots are showing. For a second, I think she looks familiar, but I get distracted by her ears, each of which has about fifty-seven piercings. As she speaks, a glint of metal piercing her tongue causes a slight lisp. Makes me wonder how she eats. Or kisses.

“Kurt?” she asks, using my name like she knows me. Those blue eyes lock on mine, never drifting to my scars, not even for a moment. I nod at the question and duck my head. “Kurt.” She repeats my name. “You don't remember me.” She reaches up and pulls her hair back as if that somehow will explain everything.

“It's Christina,” she says. “Tina. I was at Meadow's House when you were there. Well, only for a few months, thank God, before they transferred me. On the girls' side. Well ... duh, of course on the girls' side. I mean, why would I've been . . .”

Meadow's House
.

The name reaches out and clutches my throat and I can't breathe. It trips off her tongue—metal piercing clacking against her teeth as she pronounces it—and makes me ill. I push my plate away. Kids came and went from Meadow's House. The lucky ones were adopted. Others, like me and Lamar, just got stuck. Crud Bucket ran the boys' wing. He owned it and he owned every boy that passed through it. When the men in coats and ties asked me to tell them exactly what happened, I started from the beginning and didn't leave out a single thing Crud Bucket did to me and Lamar. I couldn't forget if I tried.

But no one at Oregrove is supposed to know about Meadow's House. No one. They told me that. No one will know about my past. They promised!

“I duh-duh-don't know you.” I push the words out.

“I was there,” she says, her mouth rising at the corners. “I remember you, Kurtis. I remember your friend,” she says. “I couldn't believe what they said happened on the boys' side—”

“Nuh-nuh-nuh-nothing happened,” I say, unable to meet her eyes. “Go buh-buh-buh-back to your friends,” I tell her. “We duh-duh-don't know each other. I duh-duh-duh-don't know yuh-yuh-you.” I press down on the table to get my legs out from under the bench. I rise up, getting bigger, towering over the little goth girl pouting up at me with confusion on her milky face. She's scrawny. Almost as scrawny as me and Lamar back then. Bad thoughts surface like swamp gas and I need to escape, to hustle to the weight room and start stacking plates and heave some pig iron until my memory fails—or my body does. Staring down at this girl, I want to grow even bigger, reassure myself that no one will ever hurt me like that again.

F
irst thing hits all of us is the smell.

A sickly sweet odor creeps up our nostrils; the type you whiff when driving past a crushed dog or pulpy raccoon on the side of the road, flies buzzing all over the bloated fur and gore. The larger locker-room area usually smells bad but not
this
bad. We have it all to ourselves since our team works longer and harder than any of the other sports and by the time we finish, everyone else has gone home. Coach Nelson made the right call, leaving through the front of the gym and sparing himself the whiff of death. As we head toward our team locker room, built off from the main room locker room, the stench only gets stronger.

“Damn, Paul.” Fisher coughs. “You wanna start using deodorant or showering or something? You're killing me here.”

“Whatever it is, Fish,” Paul answers, “it must've crawled out your ass.”

“It's worse than that practice when Fisher ate only CornNuts for breakfast and lunch,” Gradley says, waving his hand in front of his face. “Fisher, you been eating CornNuts again?”

Ronnie Gunderson, unlucky enough to reach our team locker room first, flicks the light switch and squeals—yeah, squeals—as he reels backward out of the room.

“Yuck!”

Ronnie—not to overstate things—is a tad sensitive, being a youth-camp Christian and all. One more reason I'm not jazzed about being mistaken for him, which happens a lot. I mean, besides being even smaller than me, Ronnie is, like, fragile—almost dainty. He never swears, either, which I don't trust. None of it would bug me that much if people didn't accidentally call me by his name and vice versa. Then, again, he bugs Fisher way more than he does me and no one confuses them.