Snitch (19 page)

She smiled. At least I’m sure she did even though I couldn’t see her. I knew her so well these
days
,
I could tell what she was doing, thinking
,
and even going to say. She drew me to her without trying, and I knew I wanted her to. When I wasn’t with her I spent all my time thinking about her, so truthfully it wa
s easier and much more pleasant
if I spent every moment with her I could. When I really thought about it, it kind of scared me. During clearer moments when the guys were around and Liz’s eyes and hair and body
weren’t
right in front of me, I almost felt like I was the lead actor in one of those chick flicks Mom makes Dad watch once in a
while. I would promise myself to spend more time with Johnny or Ben or Sizzle, but all it took was for Liz to walk by and I would forget all of that. And if she smiled at me…heck, I was a goner.

Liz lifted her mouth to my ear and whispered my name
,
sending her special brand of
Liz-
tricity
zipping through me.

“Andy, I need to tell you something. We’ve been spending a ton of time on the play, and I haven’t seen much of Kate
so I’m going with her to her grandmother’s house next weekend. I’ll be gone the whole time. Please don’t be mad.”

“We have a movie date,” I said, maybe a little sharply.

“I know but with the play in two weeks, I’ll see lots of you. And with spring break after that
—
well, we’ll have lots of time together. Andy, I really haven’t been paying any attention to Kate. I was thinking
I could spend time with Kate and you could spend time with Johnny. It could be good.”

I didn’t like the feeling in my stomach, a rolling, upset, and unsure place of sick darkness where just a moment before had been the sweetest contentment I had ever known.

“Everything’s okay, isn’t it?” I had to ask the question I could barely get my mouth to utter.

Liz smiled, this time for sure, because I was looking at her squarely in the face
.

“Everything’s fine. I promise I’ll let you know if it isn’t.”

And then she kissed me for a long time until I knew everything
was
really fine and there was nothing left to do but maneuver
our feet over
the wooden slats over the trestle in the moonlight and bike home thinking of nothing but each other.

Later that night as I lay in bed staring at the black ceiling of my room
,
one thought rolled over and over and over in my totally helpless mind: I was in
love with Liz.

The weekend rolled around before I knew it
,
because when a play is about to happen every waking moment is spent rehearsing for it or getting nervous about it.
Ms.
Miller was running around like a crazy woman trying to find anyone who could loan us an old
-
fashioned cash register for the restaurant scene and having fits because someone had misplaced a few of the props a few days ago. On top of that
,
the flu was making its annual appearance around our school for real, and M
s.
Miller was sure all of us would get it in time for opening night.

“Are you sharing that soda? Stop sharing food and drinks! You’re spreading germs!” was her new mantra any time during any rehearsal
—
when she wasn’t begging for anyone to bring her a cash
register, that
was
.

After rehearsal on Friday, I kissed Liz goodbye and waved to her as she got in her dad’s car. Even though I would miss her, I was pretty excited to spend time with Johnny. Wes, who had spent most of his childhood popping squirrels off fence posts, had rented a slot at a paintball place just outside of town. Following his directions, I spent Saturday morning trying to find anything I could wear that resembled
camouflage and I could trash. I ended up in a pair of faded green pants and one of Dad’s old camouflage shirts I never even knew he owned. It was as close to Rambo as I could get.

Wes picked me up in his “POS
,
” which is what we called his truck these days
,
and I shared the backseat with a familiar crate of greasy parts.

“Fix this thing yet today?” I asked him.

“Nope,” he said looking over his shoulder and backing out of my driveway.

I smiled, not sure if that was good or bad.

The Combat Zone wasn’t at all what I expected. The front building where we registered and rented equipment was clean and organized. Paint guns of all sizes and prices lined the walls, the cartridges that powered them encased behind glass counters with paint pellets in every color. Wes had me buy five
hundred green ones. I wasn’t sure what to do, this being my first time and all, but after we paid our rental fees
,
Wes took me out back and got me outfitted.

“Take this marker,” he said handing me a gun. Then he gave me a CO2 cartridge like the ones in the store
.
“And this tank.
I’ll show you how to load the hopper and use it in a minute. You’ll have to wear goggles. They suck, but if you take them off, the
refs’ll
make you put them back on,
and if they see you with them off again they’ll kick you out. Also, never take your gun into the lobby. The refs hate that.”

“There are refs?”

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “To make sure nobody messes with the rules.”

“There are rules?”

“Yeah.
Regular stuff like protective gear, staying dead when you get hit, and no body contact.
Stuff like that.”

Wes checked to make sure no one was liste
ning. “At least, the refs
have
to
catch you making body contact. Otherwise, you’re good.”

I smiled and nodded.
Great.
Full body contact.
I wondered what being hit by Wes would feel like. We
had
always
been
on the same side up to now.

“Before the game we’ll show you the boundaries. The main thing is
,
find some good places to hide; if you stand out in the open
,
they’ll pick you off. Once you’re hit, you have to call yourself out and put this orange barrel sleeve back on your gun. Then you have to sit out until we capture their flag or they get ours.
Sitting out sucks.”

“Where are our vests? Don’t we get vests or something?” Johnny and Wes looked at me as if they didn’t understand. “I mean for when we get hit.”

Wes laughed
.
“Don’t get hit.” His phone rang and he took the call.

I grabbed Johnny. “I’ve never done this. Doesn’t it hurt? When you get shot?”

I felt wimpy asking, but I knew I would be getting shot, probably plenty of times. Then something that should have registered in my stupid pea brain a long time ago finally made the electrical connection. “Wait a minute…
Wes
said ‘they’ll pick you off.’
Who
is
go
ing to
pick me off?”

“The other team,” Johnny said, messing with my gun. “Don’t worry. If a paintball hits you, you won’t feel it. You’ll be running on adrenalin.
It pings
unless Nick pops you. He might have his gun set a little above 315. He says it makes it more realistic.”

“Nick’s going to be here? Wes, your brother’s going to be here?”

Wes strode over to us handing Johnny his goggles and a gun.

“Sure. That was him on the phone. There’re two more cars coming. We can’t play alone. I’m going to meet them in the parking lot.”

Johnny and Wes put down their guns and jogged though the lobby door leaving me alone to ponder that.

I waited for a while feeling stupid because I didn’t even know how to work the gun, so I snuck into the lobby intending to ask the guy behind the desk when Seth, Charlie, and Sizzle rolled in, followed by Nick and
several of his friends who could
defin
i
tely
each bench press my hundred
–
and
-
seventy pound body without even trying. A mountain of Jameson’s best jostled their way into the lobby like a tornado, threw fees at the owner, and blew out the back door before I had time to ask a question.

“Got your team?” Nick asked, not even worried enough to size us up.

“We’re ready,” Wes said, throwing goggles and guns to Seth, Charlie, and Sizzle who all looked like they knew what they were doing.

“Good. I need somet
hing to whomp. I’ve still got to
pay you back for that little one A.M. rescue call last weekend.”

He emptied the duffle bag he was carrying, slammed on his goggles and clipped his CO2 tube to a well
-
used gun.

“You owe me.” A few minutes later, team Nick was headed for the Greenfield.

Wes glared at his brother.

“Grab your markers, boys. Remember, stay low and keep your dead
-
man talk to a whisper. Work as a team; cover each other.”

I had no idea how to do any of that except maybe the staying low part.

Combat Zone’s outdoor Greenfield was in direct contrast to the slick counters and clean glass display cases inside. They should have named it
Dirtfield
. Even though it was ringed with trees, it was mostly dirt. Trails made of dirt, dugouts made of dirt, hiding spots dug in dirt. Rough plywood structures awash in
every
pellet color
stood
like helpless sacrifices against the woods surrounding the arena. Random splashes of color smeared trees, rocks, and huge, old wooden cable spools or tires thrown here and there I assumed I would be diving into or behind. Someone had even gotten inventive with some old metal cylinders and cut doorways and peepholes in them. And Wes knew every dirty nook and cranny.

A tired old guy with
“
Russ
”
scrawled
in black marker
on his orange vest gave us instructions. We were playing
C
apture the
F
lag, and when one team won
,
an air horn would sound ending the game. We were to leave the playing field and gather at
a place called the
staging area
that
consisted of three old picnic tables protected by netting. No exceptions. If we got hit and had a mark quarter
-
sized or larger we were to go sit in the staging area. If we went outside the boundaries
that
were marked with neon orange stakes and flags
,
we would have to go sit in the staging area. We were NOT to target the refs or we would have to go sit in the staging area. There were no loaded guns allowed in the building, and did he mention how serious he was about not targeting the refs?

Everyone grunted and left the netted picnic tables. Russ pulled his air horn from his pocket and blasted it, sending adrenalin throughout my body. A pellet whizzed by my nose and would have knocked it off if Johnny hadn’t pulled me back.

“Get low!” he screamed. “The game’s on!”

I ducked inside a plywood fort and did just that for about the next ten minutes. While paint balls splatted and banged around me, I used the time to take a good look at my gun now loaded and ready to fire. I shot a few pellets out the door, surprised how much fun it was to feel the kick of the gun and watch my pellet explode into its own green signature. Not only did I look like Rambo, I was starting to feel like him, too.

“Andy!” Johnny‘s raspy voice came through a back window. “Are
you
still
in there?”

“Yeah.
I’ve been practicing.” I hunkered down in the front corner because if I could shoot out, someone could see me and shoot in. “How do I get out of here without getting shot, and where do I go once I’m out?”

“I’ll cover you. Drew is behind a big tree to your left that you’ll see as soon as you get out the door. Watch out for him. Come around the back and we’ll work together.”

I snatched a breath hoping Johnny was as good of a shot as he was a point guard and charged the front door, where I was met with something that did a little more than sting my left arm. Either a really big, really pissed off hornet had just stung me, or I had taken my first shot. I stood in the doorway, frozen like a fool, watching red paint drip down my sleeve. The next shot that stung my thigh woke me up and the following one that slammed my chest got me moving. My body’s pain center took over and moved me out of there.

“I’M DEAD!” I shouted, following Russ’s directions, holding up both my hands. A red blur flew by my face.