Raiders Night (12 page)

That night, sitting in his room, trying to read a chapter in the global economy textbook and keep an eye on the Yankee game, he heard the family phone ring through the one-note wail of Junie's recorder. Junie better be playing songs soon, or Dad would break that plastic pipe. The phone kept ringing. Mom and Dad were out—more Homecoming meetings. She was helping decorate, he was supplying some of the food.

Why isn't Junie or the answering machine picking up? The ringing stopped.

I hardly get any calls anymore. Duh. You keep the cell off, except when you think Junie might call for a pickup. You don't want any calls.

Junie was knocking on the door.

“It's open.”

He held out the phone. “It's Sarah.”

Matt whispered, “Tell her I'm not home.”

“I can't lie to her,” said Junie. Loud. “She's my friend.”

Thanks. Matt took the phone. “Hi.”

“I'm calling to invite you to Homecoming.” Her words spilled out high and quick. “The chorus. Singing? We each get an extra free ticket.”

He liked that she sounded nervous. “Thanks. I'm going with somebody.”

“No problem. See you around.” Sarah hung up. Not so cool.

Junie said, “What's up, CyberPup?”

“Gotta do homework.” He handed Junie the phone. “Keep practicing.”

Junie nodded and shuffled away.

Matt closed his door and stared at the computer screen. IMs were popping in. Coaches, managers, Ramp. Mandy. Chris again.

Let's just get through the next game, win it, be 3–0, maybe then we can figure it all out. Get past Eastern Valley, get our championship season underway. Game after that against Hudson Catholic is nonconference, a breather. A chance to think this through. Not now.

He deleted all the team messages without reading them, reminders and pep talks, Ramp calling the usual players-only meeting before Homecoming. He deleted Mandy's two messages. They would be little love notes,
about as sincere as a song on an iPod. Probably copied off a song on an iPod. There was nothing real about Mandy. Used to like that because then I didn't really have to deal with her. Her going nuts over Sarah was the first real thing. Hurt her pride. He pushed Mandy and Sarah out of his mind, a mistake, because that left an opening and Chris came in again.

Better open it.

Can you smell sweat and fear in an IM?

The kid is getting squeezed. You know about that, Matt. Only Chris doesn't have the balls to suck it up and get past it. He wants to talk about it, like a girl. Whine about how he feels. Get everybody involved in his problems.

Maybe you should be involved. You're a captain. Raiders supposed to be able to talk to you.

I'm not really a captain. Got the job so I wouldn't play baseball.

And he's not really a Raider. Barely on the team after missing practices and two games.

That's not all his fault. Some of that's your fault.

Kid's in trouble. Maybe you're the only one who can help.

Help him do what? He's in no shape to play right now, so he can't help the team. Does he just want to talk
about it, or does he want someone to back up his story of what happened on Raider Pride Night? Wreck the team.

Maybe you could talk him out of telling what happened. That would help everybody. But doing that would be tricky. You'd almost have to admit something happened that you shouldn't talk about.

How would you handle that?

A man does what it takes.

What does that mean?

His head hurt.

Deal with it after Homecoming. Don't lose focus. Win the big game. Then go talk to him. Just a couple more days.

He deleted Chris.

Boda and Hagen blocked the locker room door, grinning as they waved off coaches, managers, and trainers. Players only. By the time Matt got inside, Ramp was already standing on a stool in the middle of the space between the lockers and showers they used for team meetings. Ramp's arms were folded across his black tank top, muscles flexed. He must have just lifted to get that pump. When he spotted Matt, he said, “You want to talk?”

“All yours.” Matt edged toward the showers so he could watch the meeting from the side. See how the guys react. He noticed that Tyrell, Brody, and Pete were not standing together. We always stood together. What happened to the Back Pack?

He didn't see Chris.

Ramp pointed to the clock, and Boda slammed the door shut and locked it.

“Listen up, Raiders!” Ramp's voice ricocheted off the stone and metal. “It's nut cuttin' time. Now's when we find out if Raiders are going all the way.”

“All the way,” yelled Hagen.

“Let's hear it,” yelled Ramp. “Where we going?”

“All the way,” the team shouted back.

“Better than that.”

“ALL THE WAY!”

“Fuckin-A, all the way. If we stay together, they can't stop us. Raiders Rule!” He held up his fists.

“Raiders Rule!” The players held up their fists. Matt didn't, and he noticed that Tyrell and Pete didn't. Brody held up his football.

“Better than that.”

“RAIDERS RULE!”

Ramp waited until the echoes slipped to the floor like little pools of shower water. He lowered his voice so the guys in the back had to push forward to hear him. “Lotsa shit been going 'round. People trying to bring us down. Hurt the team. People who don't want the Raiders to go all the way. We gotta stay tight. Gotta think team.” He scanned the faces in the crowd. He found Tyrell, nodded at him, then at Pete.

Matt watched Tyrell look down. Pete turned until he found Matt. Pete's face was twisted—he looked like he was in pain. He must have said something to somebody.

“What's it mean to think team? It means you don't
talk team business with anybody who isn't on the team. It means whatever happens inside the team stays inside the team. It means you can only trust a brother Raider, somebody on the team. Any questions?”

“I got a question.” A familiar voice roared out of the shower room behind Matt. “You want it in the face or the gut?”

Chris walked out of the shower room, dressed in his uniform. Must have been hiding in there. He held a small gray revolver in both hands, out in front of him.

Players scattered out of his way, leaving a wide path to Ramp, who turned his head slightly but didn't move his body. “Well, it's Missy Chrissie.”

“I'm going to kill you.”

“Oh, I thought this was how you were gonna get back on the team.” Ramp laughed through his nose.

“Told you I had a gun, remember?” Chris's voice rose. “Blow your fucking head off.”

“You don't have the balls.” Ramp's voice got deeper, stronger. Matt thought, Ramp has all the balls.

So quiet in the locker room, Matt could hear breathing, farting as guys let go out of fear.

“First in your gut, then in your face.”

“You're all talk, faggot.” Ramp stepped off the stool. He looked at Chris over his left shoulder, facing him sideways. Less of a target? “You couldn't make the team, you can't pull the trigger.”

Ramp's pushing it, thought Matt. I hope he knows what he's doing. Maybe I hope he doesn't. Some part of me wants to see Chris blow Ramp's head off. No, I don't. It wouldn't stop there. Wreck the season. Is that all I care about?

So do something, Cap'n Matt.

Yeah, like call the kid back when he needed you. Like yesterday.

“Chris.”

“Matt?” He glanced over.

“Let's talk about this,” said Matt.

“Talk when he puts the gun down,” said Ramp. “He could hurt somebody.”

“Guess who?” Chris tried to laugh, but it sounded more like gargling. The roar was long gone. “I want to see you on your knees.”

“That'll be the day,” said Ramp in his John Wayne voice.

Chris yelled, “On your knees.”

“Put it down,” said Matt. He took a step toward Chris, who glanced at him but kept the gun aimed at Ramp. His hands were trembling.

“Maybe I'll put it down when Ramp's on his knees,” said Chris.

The kid's losing it, Matt thought. Chris doesn't know what to do. He isn't going to kill anyone. Maybe I can talk that gun down.

“We'll listen to you, Chris,” said Matt, “when you put the gun down.”

“I changed my mind,” said Ramp. “We're not listening to this faggot. Hey, Chrissie, what's your dad in jail for, little boys?”

“Shut up,” screamed Chris.

“He probably likes it up the shit chute, too.”

The gun was shaking now.

“That's it, Ramp, I'm gonna—”

“How many bullets you got?” said Ramp. “One for every Raider?”

“Shut up, Ramp,” yelled Matt.

Ramp grinned and turned his body to face Chris. He raised his arms, flexed, and made fists. “How many of us you think you'll get before we shove that gun right up your ass?”

“I'm gonna kill you.” Chris was crying.

“Kill yourself, you little faggot,” boomed Ramp.

Chris cocked the hammer.

“Get it over with,” yelled Ramp. “Suck the gun.”

“Shut the fuck up,” yelled Matt.

“Do it, fag.”

Chris moaned and put the barrel of the gun in his mouth.

“No,” yelled Matt.

The world turned white and silent. He was in the zone. One long step, a hop, and he was launched, flying
toward Chris, his hands reaching for the gun as if it were a ball. He knocked the barrel out of Chris's mouth and tried to get a finger under the hammer before it came down.

The flash blinded him, the blast knocked him down.

He scrambled up. Chris was sprawled on the floor, legs twitching. Blood, bits of hair, everywhere.

Ramp swaggered over. “Dead?” Maybe he said that. Matt's ears were ringing.

He imagined smashing his fist into the potato head, but the zone was still up—he was thinking clearly. Break my hand on that face. Go for the gut.

Like Dad taught you. Plant your feet, turn on the left foot as you bring up the right hand. The power comes out of your legs and butt.

Ramp went down on his knees, puking. Matt felt sick to his stomach.

The cops talked to Matt and Ramp until their fathers showed up, then let them tell the story again. No one seemed to notice that Matt and Ramp never looked at each other.

“Kids are heroes,” said Dad, clapping Matt and Ramp on their shoulders. Mr. Rampolski, shorter than Ramp but wider, nodded and mopped his bald head. He couldn't stop sweating. Dad was hyper. “Could have been a massacre, Columbine, worse. Football captains, says it all.”

The police chief cleared his throat. “Still some more questions, Larry. We've got an investigation here.”

“Seems pretty clear-cut to me.”

They were in the principal's office and she kept walking in and out, talking on a cell phone and a walkie-talkie. Some kids had come back to school after hearing about the shooting. Matt could make out their heads in the
twilight outside the principal's window.

“Chief?” The principal beckoned him to a corner of her office. Matt couldn't hear what they were saying, even when the principal relayed it to someone else over her phone. Finally they nodded at each other and the chief said to everyone, “Okay, that's it for now. Probably want to talk more tomorrow. Be better if you don't talk to the media.”

“They'll be camping outside our houses,” said Dad. “You know how they are.” Matt could tell he wanted to be interviewed on TV.

“Doesn't mean you have to talk to them,” said the chief. “I can have them moved.”

Dad said, “Dr. Jaffe? What about Homecoming?”

The principal looked annoyed. “There will be school tomorrow, although the regular schedule will be suspended. I hardly think a dance is appropriate under the circumstances.”

“I agree,” said Dad. “I was referring to the game.”

“The football game?” She raised an eyebrow. “Look, Mr. Rydek, this is a very—”

“Of course, we all feel that way, but this is a community issue.” He was expressionless, as tough as she was. “The boys need to stay together after this trauma, to release. If they don't play, the terrorists win.”

“Terrorists?” She was getting mad. “This was a troubled boy—”

“Whom the school should have identified and done something about.”

“Tomorrow,” said the chief. “We'll talk tomorrow. Get some rest.” He started herding Matt, Ramp, and their dads out of the office. “C'mon, Larry. Everybody wants to do the right thing here.”

There were TV cameras on the lawn in front of the school among the Homecoming floats. Cops were keeping them behind yellow police tape. He noticed Paul Barry, the kid from the
Nearmont Eye
, talking to one of the TV reporters. Do I still have his card?

Dad said, “
Eyewitness News
here.”

“Chief said no interviews,” said Mr. Rampolski.

“Chief doesn't have a kid wants to go Division One,” said Dad.

“I'm not talking to them,” said Matt. He headed for the parking lot. Ramp and his father were right behind him. Dad paused, then shrugged and followed them.

Ramp caught up with Matt. “Your dad's right. We should play.” It was the first words they had spoken to each other since the shooting.

“I don't know.” He was exhausted, the way he felt at the end of a rough losing game.

“Nobody asked about Raiders Pride Night,” said Ramp. “Nobody wants to know.”

Matt stopped and turned to face him.

Ramp grinned. “No hard feelings.”

“For what?”

“That punch in the locker room. Now we're even.”

Matt walked quickly away before he could hit Ramp again.