One Shot Away (26 page)

Someone's knocking on his door. Whizzer barks. Trevor moves the edge of the curtain from the window. Diggy Masters. What the hell does he want? A chill crawls along his spine. Trevor whips his belt from his jeans and wraps it around his fist. There's another knock. He doesn't want Diggy seeing the motel room, the exact place where he lives.

Another knock, then, “Trevor?”

Trevor leaves the security chain on the door and opens it a few inches. Diggy's eye is still black and swollen. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat. “Can I talk to you?”

“About what?”

“About the team.” Diggy looks back at something or someone.

Trevor tightens the belt around his hand. He unhooks the chain and lets the door swing open.

Diggy steps in. “This your room?” He takes in the wrestling posters tacked to the walls and Trevor's medals hanging from a nail. Whizzer jumps up on Diggy. Trevor grabs the dog's collar and walks him into his mother's room, then shuts the door.

“Whizzer looks okay,” says Diggy.

“What are you doing here?” Trevor watches him closely, sort of not believing he's really in his room. And it's the same Diggy, chin raised in the same cocky way, like he's ready for a fight.

“You really gave me a few shots.” Diggy rubs his cheek. “I still can't open my mouth all the way.” He moves his jaw side to side.

Trevor knows the unyielding feel of his fist on Diggy's chin. He never wants to hit anyone that hard again.

“I wanted to say it was a mistake—”

Trevor cuts him off. “Really?”

“I saw him in the parking lot tied up,” says Diggy. “It was too cold for a puppy.”

“How many dogs have you saved in your life?” asks Trevor. “This the first one? Just happened to be my dog? By coincidence? You never expected me to take one-fifty-two. Admit it.”

“It wasn't just that.”

“Diggy, you sat next to me at lunch talking about finding him. Then my mother gets a call from a veterinarian?”

“I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. That's all I came here to say.”

“You've got a brother who went undefeated. But it wasn't enough.” Trevor steps in front of Diggy.

“Trevor, be cool.”

“I heard the way you talk to your father. Like he's nothing. I never spoke to my father like that.” Trevor inches closer. Diggy stumbles backward. Trevor wants Diggy to know it wasn't okay and it's never going to be. “So tell me again—why did you take my dog, Dig-gy? You think you're going to walk in here and make it all better?”

“My father comes to practices because he thinks it's his job. All he ever cared about was winning. That's all he ever wanted from me. My father's an asshole.”

Trevor forces a tight smile. “You've got it all wrong. You're the asshole. You took my dog.” Trevor pokes him hard in the chest.

Diggy turns toward the door. “I didn't plan it,” he says in a choked voice. “I saw him and took him. I never thought it would turn out like it did. It was a prank.”

“You think I'm some piece of garbage. I mean, look at this place, right? I'm a piece of garbage, right?”

“I don't think anything.”

“You do,” says Trevor. “Don't lie to me.”

“Could we shake hands, or something?” Diggy extends his hand.

Trevor remembers him yanking his hand when Trevor tried to shake it. “Get out of my face.”

Diggy opens the door and Jane is standing there.

“What's all the yelling about?” she asks. “Trevor, Diggy came to apologize.”

“Jane, Diggy could have given Whizzer back. He had him for a week while I was driving around tacking flyers on telephone poles looking for him!”

“Let's go.” Diggy pushes past Jane, then crosses the lot to his car.

Jane grabs Trevor's arm. “He's screwed up in the head,” she says. “Like everyone.” She trots to the car with her hands in the pockets of the varsity jacket.

T
REVOR WATCHES THE
M
USTANG SPRAY GRAVEL AND SURGE
into the road. Snowflakes swirl behind the car. “Dad, what the hell is this?” he yells. “You weren't supposed to let this happen!” He lifts the edge of his makeshift desk and topples his books, pens, and papers. He kicks his metal trash can into the old trunk. He smashes his heel on the lion-faced lock again and again, until it's in pieces on the floor. He's crying and he knows he has no right.

Trevor opens the connecting room door and scoops Whizzer into his arms. He stands in the middle of the mess with the puppy, shaking. Trevor touches the hard scab on Whizzer's back. The vet called it “road rash.” He said it would heal but leave a scar. Trevor holds him tightly, breathing into his soft coat. “I'm sorry,” he says. “Don't be scared.”

He gathers his calculus text and pieces of the lock. He drops them on the bed.

He forces the trunk's wooden lid open. The hinges creak. The smell of an old attic floats into the room. Whizzer backs away and sneezes.

The trunk's empty, except for a flat leather folder stuck into a crevice where the planks meet. He tugs it from the trunk and brings it to his desk. He peels back the tough leather flap, revealing a stack of photos. The top one is of a boy with long hair parted in the middle. He's shirtless and wears a shell necklace. On the back of the photo are the words “Joe Crow, age 9.” Trevor takes a deep breath. It's the first time he's ever seen his father as a boy.

He lays the photos on the desk. Some show men on horses, or men and women standing next to streams or lined up for group shots. The people are dark-skinned, with coal-black hair. He holds the photos up to the light, examines the faces, the woods, and the horses. He finds another one of his father. A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old Joe has his foot on the bumper of a truck. He's wearing cuffed dungarees and work boots. His hair is past his shoulders. He's smiling. Tears come to Trevor's eyes.

He turns the photos over, checking for dates, names, anything. One says “Quaddy.” He knows this is short for Passamaquoddy. He mouths the words “Micmac, Maliseet, Penobscot, Passamaquoddy, the Wabanaki Confederacy,” as if they are magic.

Trevor lifts his desk off the floor and sets it back on the sawhorses. He slides the family photo album from under his bed and sets it on the desk. He finds a picture of himself taken two years ago in their backyard at the old house. He positions his father's photo next to his. Trevor's eyes go back and forth between the two faces. The resemblance sends chills through his body.

D
IGGY'S THE FIRST ONE AT THE CLASSROOM DOOR AND INTO THE
hallway. Free period. Library or handball. He bangs open the band hall exit and hurries out. There's a chilling mist in the air. A lousy day for handball, but he has to get some fresh air and clear his head.

Little Gino smacks a pink ball against the handball court. He's wearing dark blue Levis, black Nikes, and a red T-shirt that says “Your Pain, My Gain, Wrestling.” His jacket hangs on the fence. “You finished your ‘I'm so sorry' speech?” he asks.

Diggy walks onto the court and slaps the ball. “And how come you don't have to apologize?”

“Because it wasn't my car, or my idea.” Gino hits the ball. “You yanked the dog into the car. Admit it.”

“Ah, so what,” says Diggy. “You're supposed to be my friend. You could have taken the rap with me.” He grabs the ball and serves it.

“My old man beat my ass anyway. I don't need the whole school giving me dirty looks. No thanks.” He smacks the ball.

Diggy delivers a killer, an inch off the pavement.

Gino serves.

Diggy hits the ball. “I don't know what I'm going to say today. I feel like saying I don't want to watch my weight anymore, or sweat my balls off in that gym.”

“Or get pinned in front of half the school.” Gino laughs. “Or maybe you just want to get pinned by Jane.”

“I'm trying to tell you something.” Diggy's throat tightens. “Do you have to act like a little douchebag twenty-four-seven?”

Gino grabs the ball and faces him. “Chill out, I'm listening.”

“My brother was the real deal. Right?” asks Diggy. “So what am I doing? What?”

Gino exhales loudly. “Don't you think I feel like quitting sometimes? I'm a senior and I weigh a hundred and seven pounds with my clothes on. But it's what we are. We're wrestlers.”

“I wrestled because my father made me, and the last thing I want to do is wrestle in college.”

Gino grabs his heart. “You're killing me.” He wobbles around faking a heart attack. “And don't worry, you'll never be good enough for college wrestling.”

Diggy snatches the ball and throws it at him. It whacks his thigh. Gino races after it, picks it up, and wings it back, stinging him in the neck. Diggy charges, fists swinging. He clips Gino on the side of the head. Gino strikes him with a rock-hard punch to the gut. Gasping, Diggy throws himself on Gino. They roll on the wet cement, grunting and pulling at their clothes, neither of them throwing any more punches.

“You thought you were so much better than everyone. Well, not anymore. No one wants to hang with you!” yells Gino.

Diggy pins him on his back and holds his fist a few inches from Gino's face.

“You're not your brother. You couldn't hold a candle to him.” Gino spits and misses Diggy's face.

It's true, he's not Nick. Diggy's name is never going to be on the Wall of Champions.

P
RACTICE HAS BEEN SUSPENDED.
T
HE WRESTLERS SLOUCH ON
the bleachers or lay on the wrestling mats. Half of them wear iPods. As usual, Bones plucks his unplugged bass, nodding his head to a silent beat. Diggy and Jane sit at the top row of the bleachers, their backs against the wall. He's sweating. The entire morning he felt feverish, hands icy, and now he's clammy, forehead practically dripping. The guys whisper and shake their heads.

Greco opens the gym doors and comes in, with Trevor following. Trevor wears a red bandana low over his eyes. The guys fall quiet. Greco claps his hands. “Let's go slugs! Huddle up!”

The wrestlers make their way to the center of the mat. Diggy climbs down the bleachers, wishing he could just leave the gym and keep walking. What could Greco do?

Someone's cell phone sounds with a rap song. “Shut it off,” snaps Greco. “Let's welcome Trevor back.” Greco starts clapping.

Everyone follows.

Diggy, hands in his pockets, notebook tucked under his arm, glances toward Trevor, whose eyes are fierce and dark. The clapping dies.

“By now you all know that I shut down our wrestling program for a week,” says Greco.

A few guys groan.

“Saturday's meet will be a forfeit.” Greco hooks his hands behind his neck. “So, where do we go from here?” He searches their faces. “We started the season as a team, and I want us to finish as a team. Changed, but still a team. I talk a lot about sportsmanship and teamwork. I do this because without it we will always be defeated. If not by other teams, then by ourselves.”

Why doesn't Greco just say it
, thinks Diggy.
I'm an instigator, a punk, a creep. I screwed the team, almost killed a dog, and put Trevor in the hospital. Say it and I'll walk. No need for an apology
.

“So everyone here knows what happened,” continues Greco, “and from this day on, I want it behind us. Next week, you all better come prepared to wrestle. If you learned nothing else this season, you learned that we all pay for each other's actions. This forfeit is a loss against our team. It could be the loss that keeps us from winning the division. So let's compensate with wins. If you guys have anything else to say or you want to talk about what happened, my door is going to be open for a week.” Greco scans the faces, daring someone to speak. “Your captain is going to say a few words—Jim?” Greco walks to the back of the group.

Jimmy stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I don't have much to say that the coach didn't already say.” He shrugs. “A few weeks ago, we were ready to start a new season. For a lot of us, this is our last season in this school. I want to come back here next year to visit and know I did my best. And, I want to see your names on the Wall.” Some guys turn to look at the names. Diggy doesn't have to look.

“I want us to come together,” says Jimmy. “That should be our team goal.”

Everyone claps. Diggy doesn't join in.

“Masters,” says Greco. “You're up.”

Diggy walks to the front of the wrestlers and faces them. He looks at his notebook. All of his notes and jottings are nonsense.

Greco puts his hands on his hips and bounces on the toes of his black shoes, waiting.
Why give me a second chance
, thinks Diggy.
Why don't you make an example of me and kick me off the team?