Over the End Line (20 page)

But those thoughts made me feel foolish. Nothing would be the same again. Not Annalisa. Not Kyle. Not me. Saturday night could not be done over or erased or ignored.

I waited hours for a light to go on in the house, but none did. It was cold and I was well past exhausted. So I walked back home and spent hours staring at my bedroom ceiling. At some point I fell asleep, but by then a seething anger had infected me. It filled my mind until I couldn't think of anything else.

Something had to be done.

And I knew I had to do it.

AP European History ended, but I was in no hurry to leave. It had been that way all day—waiting for one class to end and the next to begin. I sat at my desk, my mind wired, my body on edge. I stared out the window. In the distance, something caught my attention—Kyle crossing the football field toward our locker room, with Maako right behind him.

I bolted from the desk, grabbed my books, and sidestepped past the last few people at the door. I raced down the hallway to the stairwell, grabbed the handrail, and skipped down the stairs, hitting the first-floor landing hard. I pushed through the side exit that led to the athletic fields behind the school and sprinted along the fenced perimeter of the running track. As I came around the back of the football stadium stands, Kyle and Maako were facing each other.

"You've been talking," Maako said.

"Give it a rest," Kyle said.

Maako crashed his fist into Kyle's cheek, sending him to the pavement. I expected Kyle to jump to his feet and give Maako the fight of his life. Instead, he stayed down, wiping gravel off his face.

I tossed my books and ran as fast as I could.

Maako grabbed Kyle by his sweatshirt, lifted him to his feet, and then threw him against the stadium wall. "Shut. Your. Mouth." For a second time, his fist slammed into Kyle's jaw, dropping him to his knees. "No one knows," Maako said, standing above him. "Let's keep it that way." Then he took Kyle's head and smashed it against his knee. Kyle fell backwards.

"Hey, asshole!" I yelled.

Maako laughed. "Look, it's your girlfriend, Saint-Claire."

Kyle put his hand up. "Jonny, you don't need to be here," he said, spitting blood on the wall as he walked away. I went to follow him, but stopped. Kyle and I would face each other another time.

My business here wasn't finished. I turned and smiled my most enraged smile.

"Run along, Fehey," Maako said.

I shook my head and I started toward him.

What re you gonna do?" he questioned.

My hands curled into fists. "Give you a beating."

"Faggy Fehey, you lost your mind. Did you somehow morph into a tough guy when I wasn't looking? Take a chill pill before I teach you a lesson. Got it?"

I hit Maako with my shoulder and lifted him high in the air. He swung wildly with his right hand into my ribs. Then his left. Then his right again. I dropped him to the ground, but he managed to regain his balance. He lunged at me, throwing a punch at the same time that connected with my chin.

Flash—

This was familiar.

My consciousness started to dim, but not completely. I staggered back against the wall. For some reason, Maako didn't come after me. I blinked a few times to clear my head. I was going to make him regret that decision.

"Done?" Maako asked.

I threw an overhead right, grazing his jaw, then dove at his legs, knocking Maako to his back. Before he could turn, I sat on top of his chest and rained down punches—left, right, left, right, left, right. He covered up. Most hit his forearms, but a few smacked his face. The impact of my fist and the bounce of his head against the pavement were things of beauty.

"
Ahhhh!
" Maako yelled, throwing me off with his hips. I got to my feet. He got to his. His face was a mess. A cut above his eyebrow was pouring blood, both cheeks were raw, and there were two huge bruises on his forehead. My savagery surprised—and pleased—me.

The momentary letdown was a mistake. Maako bull-rushed me, knocking me against the wall. Using his arm like a club, he chopped down on my head, again and again. I threw an uppercut to his jaw, but Maako returned with a punch dead on. My nose exploded with blood and my eyes swelled with tears.

Maako reeled backwards and dropped to a knee. Then he simply sat down. He was finished. I was finished. We didn't need to throw any more punches—at least not today. We didn't need to hurt each other any more. I looked down at my shirt. It was torn and dirty. I could feel a dribble of blood on my chin.

It felt good.

Maako had a glazed look in his eyes. He was touching the welts on his forehead and wiping away gravel. He spat a wad of bloody phlegm on the ground. The knuckles on his hand were torn up.

Kids ran toward us. A couple of teachers, too. They were yelling something about us being insane. Before anyone got close enough to hear, I said to Maako, "Bet you had a good time Saturday night..." I coughed. "Near the dock..."

Maako pulled a tooth from his mouth and tossed it away. "You saw?"

"I did."

Everything? Maako said.

"Yeah."

"Then you know," he said, spitting again. "Say a word and Kyle's done. Fight me all you want, but it won't protect him."

I stood up straight. "You're such a loser."

Maako half laughed. "A loser?"

"I didn't do this for Kyle."

***

Pennyweather was shouting, really going berserk. Veins rose from his neck and spit flew from his mouth. I didn't think it was particularly funny, but I wasn't especially concerned, either, mostly because my thoughts weren't entirely coherent. Besides, I relished having beaten the snot out of Maako, and, in a perverse way, even having had the snot beaten out of me.

"What were you two thinking? No, don't bother answering that," Pennyweather said. "I told you a month ago to let go of this personal crap. You don't have to love each other. You don't have to like each other. You don't even have to acknowledge each other. But, for God's sake, you can't fight each other."

He grabbed some magazines and threw them at us. Pages tore and the covers came off a few. The outburst didn't faze me.

"Does this have anything to do with the missing trophy?" Pennyweather said. "Does it?"

I shrugged.

Maako just sat there.

"Fine, play dumb," Pennyweather said. "I want to keep you both out of the entire game tomorrow—yes, the whole goddamn game. But we can't afford that. And I'm not gonna punish the rest of the team for your stupidity. I'm gonna do the next best thing—both of you will sit the first half. If we get behind—I don't care what the score is—then so be it."

Pennyweather stood behind his desk, arms folded, his tie undone. His voice was a normal volume, but no less menacing. "If we lose..." He kind of laughed and shook his head. "If we lose, it's gonna be on your heads. I'm not taking the fall for this. There are consequences." He turned away from us and stared out the office window. "Now, get the hell outta here."

I left first.

Moments later, I heard Maako's steps behind me.

***

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman said.

"You can't put me through to her room?" I asked a second time.

"No, I can't."

"Why not?"

"Sir, please calm down."

"Can you at least tell me if she's a patient? Last name is spelled G-I-A-N-N-I."

"It's hospital policy not to give out that information," the woman said.

"Hospital policy? This person is really important to me. I need to know if she's a patient in your hospital, but you're telling me you can't because of some ridiculous policy?"

"Yes," the woman said. "That's what I'm telling you."

"So that's it?"

"I'm afraid so."

I hung up the phone and threw it into the pillows on my bed.

Pennyweather kept his word.

Maako and I sat at opposite ends of the bench for the first half of the state semifinals against Randolph. After scoring the game-winner last Saturday, I should've been hungry to get on the field and break the 1-all tie. I should've been chomping at the bit to prove my play against Columbia hadn't been a fluke. But I wasn't.

And while I did start the second half, I might as well have been at home on our couch. My head wasn't in the game, and I had no feel for the ball. Halfway through the third quarter, Solomon made a perfect chip pass over the Randolph back line that sprung me for the goal, but my shot sliced way off to the right. A few minutes later, I dribbled a breakaway out-of-bounds. The rest of the time, I was lost. Even with the cheers and clapping from the Millburn fans, my mind and body had betrayed me.

Pennyweather eventually pulled me from the game. "Wasn't your afternoon, Jonny," he said as I passed him on the way to the bench.

The team scored three goals in the fourth quarter, advancing to the finals with a 4-1 victory. Stuart was brilliant in net and Solomon had the defensive game of his life. Dennis put one in. Richie did, also. Kyle had the other two, including the game-winner. He was back on track.

Some things never change.

***

When the team bus returned to the high school, Pennyweather took me aside. "Great game the team played today," he said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I nodded.

"Look, Jonny, I'm not gonna sugarcoat this," Pennyweather said. "We're gonna try a different lineup for the finals..."

He went on about starting just two forwards because he thought our offensive zone was getting clogged with players. It was coaching bullshit. I knew what he was getting at. I had played myself out of today's game and he couldn't take a chance that I'd do the same tomorrow. He told me to be prepared to come in off the bench, but I knew he said it more out of obligation than really meaning it.

"Sure," I said. "I'll be ready."

Pennyweather looked at me. He seemed genuinely disappointed. Maybe he expected me to bitch and moan, or give him some song and dance to convince him otherwise.

"I know you've had something on your mind all week," he said. "If you wanna talk, my office door is always open."

I didn't say anything.

"Guess it wouldn't help if I told you to put it aside until after the championship game," Pennyweather said.

I shook my head. "I don't think so, Coach."

Saturday morning's game was going to be a coronation. That's what the
Star-Ledger
wrote. It was what the town expected. The game in which Kyle Saint-Claire would lead Millburn to the Group III state title and a top-five final ranking in New Jersey. He didn't disappoint.

On a frigid, damp field at Seton Hall University, Kyle scored on a second-quarter penalty kick to break a scoreless tie with Rahway, then a few minutes later delivered a crisp give-and-go pass that Brad buried into the net. In the final quarter, with storm clouds on the horizon, Kyle drilled a shot from twenty yards out that left the Rahway goalkeeper pounding the turf in frustration.

When the referee blew the final whistle, Millburn players and their families, classmates, and fans all stormed the field. At the center of the celebration, Kyle was hoisted onto Richie's and Solomon's shoulders. He raised his arms high.

I stood off to the side. People patted me on the back, offering congratulations. That I was now part of a state championship team didn't matter much. But I feigned a smile anyway.

I didn't take the team bus back to the high school. Instead, I walked off the field toward the university parking lot where my mom was waiting. I couldn't tell if she was happy that we had won, disappointed that I hadn't played much, or confused that I wasn't excited like everyone else.

"Do you want to stick around awhile?" she asked.

Looking back at the mob of people on the field, I saw Kyle take turns embracing Stuart, Brad, Gallo, and even Maako. For an instant, Kyle looked at me. His smile withered the smallest bit. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

"No," I said. "Let's go."

***

I stood outside our house.

I had no place to go and nothing in particular to do; I just didn't feel like sitting in my bedroom. So I wandered around the backyard, tossing pine cones, picking at tree bark ... and thinking. Lots of thinking. About Annalisa.

By the end of the week, people at school noticed she hadn't been to class. Rumors ran rampant. One had her tripping on the way home from the circle and messing up her face—now she was in post-op at Overlook Hospital. Another had her parents sending her to a rehab center in Manhattan. The most popular one claimed Mr. Gianni had been called back to Sicily because the feds were closing in. People were so glib. If they only knew the truth.

I had circled the house a few times. Eventually, I took a seat on the curb. Soccer season was finished. I wasn't sure that had sunk in yet. It had been the bond between Kyle and me. Training each August; playing on the school team each fall. It was what kept our friendship intact. Where did we go from here? I wondered.

I rummaged the pavement for a handful of pebbles. A few cars passed by, and the bells of Congregational Church rang at the top of the hour. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kyle walking toward me.

"Congratulations," he said.

I didn't bother looking up.

"To us."

"Us?" I said.

"The state championship is ours," he said.

"Yours more than mine."

"We win as a team," Kyle said. "And you and me are teammates."

"Does it matter?" I said. "The season's over."

I picked out a pebble and flicked it toward the gutter. It bounced through the metal grate. I flicked another, but that one careened away.

"Look," Kyle said, "I was an asshole last week. I'm sorry, okay?"

He sat down on the curb opposite me. We didn't say a word for a while. Kyle grabbed some pebbles. He tossed one at the sewer. It missed. He threw another. That missed, too.

"And thanks for taking shots at Maako," Kyle said.

Disgust and disillusionment roiled inside me. All toward the guy, twenty or so feet away, who had been my best friend most of my life. Finally, I couldn't hold back any longer. I stared Kyle straight in the eye.