Over the End Line (18 page)

I sat up.

Bad idea.

Vomit forced its way up my throat again. I fought it down. I closed my eyes, but that made my head spin more, so I opened them again and waited for the room to settle as much as it would.

***

Time passed.

I didn't know how much. It was too much effort to even look at the clock on my nightstand. I felt like shit and knew a shower wasn't going to change that a damn bit. I managed to sit up, then put my feet to the floor and stand.

"
Ahhh!
"

Pain shot up my left leg.

I dropped to my knees and grabbed my ankle. It was swollen, black and blue, and hurt like hell. Was it broken? Was a ligament torn? I tried to remember when and what happened, but couldn't.

Something caught my eye—my uniform and a soccer ball sitting in the corner. I scored yesterday in the county championship game, right? I scored the game-winner, didn't I? The specifics of how I received the ball and the shot I took were muddled. It had been so surprising, so once-in-a-lifetime.

I limped over to the window, pushed open the curtains, and leaned my hands on the sill. It was a raw, blustery morning. No one was on our front lawn, and I didn't see anyone outside the Saint-Claires' house.

Then I heard something behind me.

I turned around, held my breath, and listened.

It sounded like whimpers.

A girl's.

My eyes darted around the room. In the closet. Behind the desk and dresser. Under my bed.

Nothing.

The whimpers grew louder. As they did, it became apparent to me that something more significant than a soccer game had occurred in the past twelve hours. On the floor, my jeans and sweatshirt were strewn about. They seemed damp and were smeared with dirt. A smell of pine and stale beer lingered. So did a sickening sensation. Last night began to piece itself together.

Walking with Kyle...

On the dirt path along South Pond...

Partying at the circle...

Laughing and joking with Solomon and Richie and other guys on the soccer team...

Drinking...

Hanging out with people in the crowd...

Drinking a boatload more...

Talking to Sloan Ruehl for a while—Sloan Ruehl for God's sake...

Pissing in the woods...

Lying face-down on the ground...

Did I pass out? Or fall?

And what happened after?

The whimpers, pained and desperate, crawled across the floor, climbed up my body and burrowed inside my mind. I couldn't stop them. Couldn't quiet them. I fell back against the wall and slid to the floor. I put my hands over my ears, but the whimpers scratched my eardrums.

Punishing me.

***

The bedroom was silent.

My eyes were dry and a searing headache pierced my temples. Twice more I booted whatever was left in my stomach into my wastebasket. I wiped my mouth. I was dizzy and shaking and cold. I shrank within myself, curling up in a ball on the floor, my insides feeling barren. It was late morning, but my room was still dark, and all I wanted to do was sleep for a long, long time.

***

I sat at the kitchen table, doing my best to swallow half a bagel. My mom seemed upset. She stood at the countertop spreading tuna fish on pita bread, and said nothing more to me than to ask if I wanted anything else. All I could think about was how the smell of her lunch was turning my stomach.

Eventually, she said, "You left the front door unlocked."

Unlocked?
I couldn't remember how I got home. Or how I made it up the stairs to my bedroom. It was just blind luck that I hadn't left the damn door wide open.

"Sorry," I said.

"You drank last night?"

"I was fine."

"That wasn't what I asked," she said. "Did you drink last night?"

"A little."

"Jonny, who do you think you're talking to?" she said. "I wasn't born yesterday. I have a pretty good idea of what goes on at parties..."

Not everything. Not last night.

"And I know it includes a lot of beer and liquor," my mom said. "Judging by how you look, I'm guessing you kept up pretty well with the others."

"I'm just tired, that's all."

My head started to throb again. I didn't want to hear any more. I got up from the table. But as I did, the washing machine in the laundry room changed cycles. My mom eyed me, suspiciously.

Our team photo's tomorrow," I said, though it wasn't true. "We're supposed to wear our home whites. I thought I'd clean mine. I threw in sheets and some clothes, too."

But my mom was unimpressed. She went back to making her sandwich. "I'm doing some grocery shopping later," she said. "If you want me to drop you off at the library, you need to let me know now."

"That's okay," I said.

The library was the last place I wanted to be. A few minutes in the quiet stacks and I'd be ready to pass out. Or, who knows, I might need to boot again.

As I went to leave the kitchen, my mom put up her hand. "I heard you stumble up the stairs when you came in," she said. "I don't want you getting that drunk ever again."

I didn't either.

Then she said, with a seriousness I hadn't heard in a long time, "It's about making the right decisions, Jonny. Every day. In school, at home, or out wherever. I can't always be there. And there's no one else. I have to trust you to do the right thing ... I don't know if you did last night."

"I did."

That was a lie. I don't think my mom believed me anyway. I would've been better off not saying a word. I walked out, fighting the pain in my ankle, and returned to my bedroom.

***

I dialed Annalisa's number. I'd lost track of how many times I had. She didn't pick up, yet again, so I left a message.

"Hey, it's me. Hope you had a good time last night. Didn't get to see you much. Sorry for letting Stephanie and Trinity pull you away ... Pretty crazy night. I got wasted. Not sure I remember most of what happened. Not sure I wanna. Anyway, I guess your parents are back from Philly. You're probably spending the day with them. Any news? If so, I hope it's good news. I guess we'll meet at the library another Sunday. I've got some stuff to sort out anyway. Call me when you get home."

I hung up.

When the dryer finished, I put the sheets back on my bed and folded my clothes, then spent much of the afternoon sitting in front of my bedroom window with a bag of ice on my ankle. The swelling had started to come down. I'd look over at the Saint-Claires' house. Kyle hadn't gone outside at all. Not for a run. Not for a drive. Not for anything.

Later, after my mom left, I hosed out my wastebasket and taped my ankle tightly, then took a walk to South Pond. I followed along the path, careful not to take an awkward step. As I approached the dock, I could see the circle through the pine trees. Without parked cars or people partying, it seemed so benign. I stopped near the rowboat and looked around. I wasn't sure what I expected to find. Empty beer bottles ... remnants of vomit ... pee-stained trees? But it all appeared untouched. Just a stretch of woods like any other stretch of woods.

I kneeled down, scooped dirt in my hand, and lifted it to my nose. The smell was familiar. It stirred uneasiness in my gut, while my mind started to churn.

What made a friendship? Being alike? Thinking alike? Hanging out together? Doing things? Talking about deep stuff? Did my friendship with Kyle answer "yes" to any of these questions?

Did it matter?

Maybe friendship was something more amorphous, with vague boundaries that changed over time, depending on comfort, jealousy, anger, affection, and every shade of emotion in between.

I'd always believed no person could "know" me. No matter how much we talked, no matter how much time we spent together, no matter how close it seemed we were. I had secrets. I had feelings and thoughts and dreams and fears that I'd never share, that no one would be able to uncover. Some were simple and innocuous; others were complicated and serious. A few were disturbing. And if I lived to be old, none of them might ever surface. Even with the minute chance that one did, it might never be witnessed by another person. So, in the end, people knew only what I wanted them to know. I coveted that secrecy. It was what made me, me.

In the hours that passed, as I watched the sunlight fade and dusk turn to night, I came to the conclusion that all that had been true for me was undoubtedly true for Kyle, too.

A thousand times I questioned if it could possibly have been someone else in the woods with Maako last night. I conceded that I had been insanely drunk. And I conceded that I couldn't have trusted my bleary eyes to see with certainty through the trees and darkness. And I conceded that in the deepest, most envious part of my mind, I had hoped to God that I would someday witness Kyle do something so wrong that he'd fall monumentally from the pedestal he had such a firm footing on.

Still, each of those thousand times, the answer was the same.

It had been Kyle.

I saw him.

He hurt that girl. And Maako did, too.

I opened the passenger door and stepped in. Kyle nodded. I did the same. Neither of us said a word. I noticed the car stereo wasn't on and Stephanie wasn't in the back seat, but I didn't ask about either.

We took off down Lake Road, the morning sun reflecting a harsh glare on the BMW's windshield. We passed the Short Hills Club entrance, then the ponds. A little farther, the car rumbled over Redemption Bridge.

"Gonna talk?" Kyle said.

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something."

"It's Monday morning, and I'm beat."

"And you're in a shitty mood," Kyle said. He gestured toward my leg. "Hurt yourself?"

"No, why?"

"Thought I saw you limp."

"My leg's fine," I said. "In fact, both are fine." I pointed to his forehead. "What's up with that?"

He touched the gash with his fingertips. "Didn't notice it."

"Doesn't look too good."

"It's nothing."

"How'd it happen?"

"What's the difference?" he said. "Probably happened during Saturday's game. Those assholes from Columbia were taking a lot of cheap shots. It was brutal out there."

"Yeah, I know," I said.

Kyle had a look on his face as if he suddenly realized I'd played as much of the game as he had.

"Maybe I got it on the way to the party," he said.

"I don't remember that."

Kyle was getting pissed off. "Okay, so it was on the way home. A low branch. Walked right into it."

"A branch?" I said.

"A branch," he answered.

Kyle wanted me to say something more. He wanted me to push him. And I wanted to challenge him. I wanted to get past any bullshit story he might offer. People at school thought Kyle could do no wrong. They were fortunate; they saw only that side of him. I needed to find out if Kyle would admit to me—his supposed best friend—the truth about what happened. If he didn't, then Kyle was a bold-faced liar and our friendship wasn't worth crap. If he did, then we faced even bigger issues.

"Maybe something else cut you," I said.

Kyle smacked the steering wheel with his fist. "What's up your ass, Jonny?"

"What?"

"You're acting as screwed up as my sister. Who knows what's wrong with her? Too sick to go to school—I doubt that very much. My parents wanted to know if I gave her anything to drink. You were there. After she showed up, I didn't see her the rest of the night." Kyle gave me a snide laugh. "If that isn't enough, now I gotta deal with you and your problems."

"I don't have any problems."

"Then why'd you leave the party early?"

"It was late," I said.

"Late?"

"Yeah."

"You left without saying a word."

"I was tired."

Kyle's jaw clenched. "Maybe you left early 'cause you got shit-faced. Your problem, not mine. Maybe you left early 'cause you didn't get enough attention. Again, your problem, not mine. Maybe you're pissed at me for bringing you—"

"You didn't
bring
me," I snapped.

"Yeah, Jonny, I
did.
"

There he was, baiting me. Kyle knew damn well everyone in our grade had his or her place. He was quick to remind me of mine.

"You wanna be the big man now?" Kyle said. "Fine, you're it for a couple of days. But that goal better not've gone to your head. It's real nice that you started one game and scored one goal, but don't get all crazy about it. I'm
not
gonna kiss your ass, if that's what you want."

"Yeah, that's what I want." I didn't hide my sarcasm.

We were quiet for the rest of the ride. I stared out the passenger window as we raced down Highland Avenue, passed under the trestle at the Short Hills train station, and made a left at St. Rose onto Millburn Avenue.

Kyle turned down the high school driveway and skidded the BMW into a parking space. We both got out.

"Jonny, do me a favor," Kyle said.

"What?"

"Find another ride from now on." He slammed his door and walked off.

***

I started toward the high school main entrance. At the front doors, I looked up at the stone facing.

ACADEMICS
•
ATHLETICS
•
INTEGRITY

I had never really noticed the words before. People passed by, but I didn't see them. They were talking, but I didn't hear them. Then someone patted me on the back.

"Great game, Jonny!"

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"Incredible goal!"

Someone tugged on my sleeve.

"Fehey, you're a soccer stud!"

"We're gonna start calling you 'Super Foot,'" another said.

People were looking at me. Seniors. Juniors. Sophomores. People I knew. Many I didn't. Saying they had been at the game. That they had read the article and saw the photo of me in yesterday's
Star-Ledger.
Offering congratulations. Another pat on the back. A friendly knock on the shoulder. Someone wanting a high-five. They didn't whisper behind me; no one looked indifferently toward me. They were crowding me ... pushing me along ... funneling me through the doors.