Losers Take All (10 page)

I knew only a few of the other kids who had signed up, and they weren't exactly imposing physical specimens. There was a flabby guy named Pierre, who had moved to our town a year ago from France and was a talented tuba player in the band. His father ran a bakery and Pierre looked like he enjoyed a few too many croissants for breakfast every day. Surprisingly there was Chloe Shin, our school's ace record keeper, who updated the stats on the sports Web site for all the Fremont teams. She was barely four feet tall, wore thick glasses, and didn't seem likely to set any records herself. And there was a nutcase with curly black hair named Xander Zirco whom everyone called Quirko because he talked to himself.

I looked around at them and wondered where we were going with this bunch of misfits and oddballs.

Pretty much everyone was wearing their normal clothes. I had changed into shorts and a ratty tee and had put on some old cleats I'd found in a closet at home. Percy had on lime-green sweatpants and a brown-and-red-checked sweater that looked like it had been through World War II, and his lecture on soccer was still going strong. “In 1848 the Cambridge Rules ushered in the era of modern soccer,” he droned on, “by prohibiting tripping, kicking, and carrying the ball. At that point soccer branched off from rugby, and became a popular school and college sport in England, and quickly began to spread throughout the world.”

I was pretty sure Muhldinger wouldn't consider this history lesson a proper practice. He had approved us on a provisional basis—he could cancel our right to exist at any time if we didn't prove ourselves. Were we going to try to win at least a few games and get better the way most sports teams try to improve? Or was this a bunch dedicated to the fine art of losing?

If we made a joke out of what our school cared about, Muhldinger would shut us down fast. And when Percy was done with the history lesson, what were we going to spend our time doing in practices? I have to admit that while I had gotten my teeth busted and wanted to rebel, I was still a Logan, and there was a part of me that thought if we were going to have a Dumpster soccer team it should at least be a half-decent Dumpster soccer team.

Percy wrapped up his lecture on soccer history and moved on to our coming season. He set a whiteboard up on a stand and passed out copies of a schedule. “We're looking at a six-game season,” he said. “Marion Day Junior High School in Aurora has agreed to a game next week—”

Frank cut in. “We're going to be playing a junior high school?”

“Yes, that will be our opening match.” Percy nodded. “Their coach is from Birmingham—that's England, not Alabama. We had a nice chat. And after that there are five high schools that have freshman teams that have agreed to play us. Does anyone have any questions?”

“Blue house,” Xander Zirco said.

Percy looked at him. “Excuse me?”

Zirco was gazing off into the distance, as if he could see something in the treetops and the low-hanging clouds that no one else could. “I want to live in a blue house,” he said, and snapped his fingers so loudly that it sounded like a firecracker going off.

It was pretty clear that he was off in his own fruitcake world. “Blue houses are indeed nice,” Percy said. “I grew up in one myself. Anyone else?”

Meg raised her hand. “My cousin goes to Marion Day. It's a girls' school.”

“Yes, but I wouldn't take them lightly. They were undefeated last year,” Percy said. “It should be a good first test for us. Now, I believe it's time to actually kick the ball, so here it is.” He unzipped a duffel bag and gingerly took out a soccer ball as if it might explode if he touched it the wrong way. “Let's go over the basic rules,” he said, turning back to the whiteboard, “and then let's hitch up our shorts and give this ball a few kicks. The most important thing to know about soccer is—”

He'd made it all the way to his favorite saying about hitching up shorts, but he never got any further. That was when the Lions pounced. Charging football players seemed to come from all directions at once at high speed, trampling the grass and the bushes, upsetting the whiteboard and its stand and knocking over several of our players. They were shouting, their red-and-gold helmets gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, and one of them kicked Percy's soccer ball into a cluster of trees fifty feet away.

There were screams of surprise and fear from my soccer teammates, and my first instinct was to step toward tiny Chloe, who was right behind me, to shield her. As I did, one of the charging Lions almost knocked me down and we grabbed each other by the shoulders. I recognized him—it was my childhood friend, Rob Powers. When he saw me, Rob looked a little guilty and veered off. Then someone else blindsided me from behind and knocked me flat onto my chest.

I put my arms out to break my fall, but for a moment I was back in Founders' Park, lying in the mud, tasting my own blood. By the time I shook the blow off and Becca helped me back up to my feet, the attack was over.

“What was that?” Percy demanded, as team members dusted themselves off and Shimsky climbed down from the tree branch where he had taken refuge. “I will lodge an official complaint with the highest authorities.”

“Don't bother,” I told him. “The highest authorities already know about it. That was our official welcome to Fremont sports.”

 

13

“Do you think Meg likes me?” Dylan surprised me by blurting out a few minutes before the soccer party was supposed to start.

We were setting out sodas and cups, and plates of chips and pretzels. His basement was large and carpeted and had a Ping-Pong table, a foosball table, and a flat screen TV. Dylan thought about girls all the time, and hinted that he'd gotten to know ones in other towns through his church group, but I doubted it. I had never seen him say two words to a girl, and this was the first time he'd admitted liking one at our school. I thought it was a step forward, and called for a little gentle teasing as encouragement. “Are you kidding? She's not that desperate.”

“Don't bust my chops,” he pleaded. “Maybe she'll be impressed when she sees my backhand slice.”

I feared that he was serious. “Dylan, in the whole history of the world I don't think a girl has ever liked a guy because of his Ping-Pong backhand. If you really like her, try saying something to her.”

“You could be right about that,” he admitted, and chewed nervously on his lower lip. “Like what?”

“Meg always gets the lead in the school play. Ask her what role she's going out for this fall.”

“I don't know anything about theater.”

“Then ask her what she had for breakfast. It doesn't really matter what you ask. The important thing is to show some interest.”

The doorbell rang, and it was Chloe, with Pierre a few steps behind her, holding a box of cookies from his dad's bakery. I didn't know how many people would show up for our soccer party, but I guess our team members didn't have busy social schedules, because the basement was soon noisy and full.

Frank and Pierre parked themselves on the couch in front of the flat screen. They kept most of the cookies, a giant bag of corn chips, and a bowl of salsa. It wasn't surprising that neither of them could run more than fifty feet without a time-out—their afternoon snack sounded like a swarm of locusts descending on a cornfield.

Zirco danced weirdly by himself in a corner.

At the Ping-Pong table, Dylan was hitting one killer backhand slice after another. He threw occasional glances at Meg, who was standing alone by the fish tank, looking bored. She kept dialing someone on her cell phone, and I figured it was Becca. I didn't want Meg to leave until Dylan tried to talk to her, so I went over and asked if she'd try a foosball game. “I've never played before,” she told me.

“Not an obstacle,” I said, pointing to Chloe and Shimsky, who were waiting for us on the other side of the table. “Those two don't exactly strike me as foosball pros.”

But there are some things in life you can't predict. Shimsky, dressed in his usual black, gave the impression that all he cared about in life was surviving high school, listening to his iPod, and eventually leading a revolution that would change the world order so that the thin, weak, and victimized would take over. But somewhere along the way he must've spent a lot of hours on a foosball table, because the moment the ball dropped through the hole his thin wrists started snapping, sending the foosball rocketing toward our goal.

Chloe had good coordination and a competitive side I didn't expect from a nerdy statistician. She defended against me furiously, and every time Shimsky scored a goal she slapped five with him and urged him to “Keep the pressure on.” Shimsky had finally found something he could be aggressive at, and each time he scored he repeated, “No mercy.”

Meg and I were soon toast. “Sorry,” I told her, leading her over to the drinks table. “I didn't know what we were up against.”

She had her cell phone in her hand and had already forgotten all about foosball. “Becca always texts back in five seconds. She's still not answering.”

“I talked to her an hour ago and she said she was heading over,” I told Meg. “Something must have come up.”

“Well if she doesn't get here soon, I'm leaving.”

The party was in full swing, and everyone else seemed to be having fun. I glanced at the Ping-Pong table, where Dylan was undefeated. I walked over to him and said, “Let other people play. It's time to have a drink and mingle with your guests.”

He glanced in the direction that I was trying to lead him, and saw that Meg was standing alone near the drinks table. “But I haven't been beaten yet,” he said. “I gotta keep playing till someone beats me. Rules of the house.”

I yanked the racket out of his hand and gave it to Zirco, who looked at it like he might try taking a bite out of it. “Come have a root beer,” I said to Dylan, grabbing his wrist.

I half dragged him over to where Meg was studying her cell phone and scowling. “It's like she dropped her phone in a lake.”

“I'm sure she's okay,” I told her. “Dylan was asking me about the school play. He's thinking about trying stage crew. What're you guys putting on?”

“Stage crew?” Dylan repeated, as if he wasn't even sure what that was.

“Hairspray,”
Meg told us. “Auditions are next week. It's gonna be great. I saw it on Broadway.” She gave Dylan an encouraging nod. “We need help with crew.”

He poured himself some root beer and looked down into the cup as if counting the ice cubes.

“What kind of help do you need most?” I asked. “Is it mostly set building?”

“Everything,” she said. “Carpentry, lighting, grips. Everyone wants to be in the spotlight and nobody wants to work behind the scenes.”

“I don't think Dylan minds being out of the spotlight,” I observed. My shy friend was so nervous that he couldn't even look up at her. “And Dylan's great at carpentry.”

“Not really,” he mumbled.

“He built that foosball table,” I said.

Meg glanced at the table where we had just been humiliated. “You built that?”

Dylan shrugged. “I just followed the instructions and put it together.”

“That's more than I could have done,” I said, and gave up. It was up to him now.

Shimsky walked by and touched my arm. “I'm out of here.”

“What about my chance for foosball revenge?” I asked.

“Forget about it, you'll never beat me.” And then in a lower voice, he said, “We should talk.” And he headed for the door.

I looked at Dylan and Meg. “Be right back, guys.”

The fact that I was about to leave prodded Dylan into action. He cleared his throat, and I could see him racking his brain for something to say to Meg. He must've come up empty, because when he finally spoke he asked her the question I had suggested, jokingly, earlier: “So, what did you have for breakfast this morning?”

She stared back at him. “What?”

There was no way out, so he repeated: “I was just curious what you ate for breakfast this morning.”

“Why do you possibly care?” Meg demanded.

He looked at me wildly for help.

I didn't have a clue what to say, so I took my best shot. “Dylan's parents make him eat giant breakfasts,” I told her, “so he's always asking other people if it's normal to eat three eggs and bacon and toast, and whatever else.”

“I usually just have a yogurt,” Meg said. “God, do they stuff you like that every morning?”

I walked away quickly. Dylan was really on his own now. Even if he failed miserably, at least he'd actually said something to her.

Shimsky was waiting on the front lawn. “So,” he said, “what are you going to do?”

“About what?” I asked.

“We were attacked yesterday,” he said.

“You mean at soccer practice? They were just sending us a message.”

“The message was that that was the first punch, before the second punch,” he said, as if he knew everything there was to know about being punched. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Why do I have to do anything?”

“You're the captain.”

I looked back at him. “So what? If you think we need to do something, let's take a team vote.”

Shimsky flashed me a little smile of disdain. “Those who vote decide nothing. Those who count the votes decide everything.”

“Who said that?” I asked him.

“Joseph Stalin. If you don't do something fast, it will just happen again, even worse.” Then he stomped off quickly in his black boots.

I watched him leave, and thought that in his loner way Shimsky might be a little bit dangerous. Then I turned back toward the house. My cell rang, and I saw that it was Becca. “Where are you?” I asked. “The party's almost over and Meg's been driving me crazy asking about you.”