Stand-Off (26 page)

Who keeps a fucking blowtorch in their kitchen? Murderers, probably.

The Abernathy, without being asked, got up from Super Mario Land in his soccer jammies and socks, and shut our window. Then he padded across the floor and swung the door ajar.

Whatever. At least I wasn't getting hit by occasional windblown hailstones.

This was going to be my life until June.

“You've been really quiet tonight, Ryan Dean.”

“I don't want to talk.”

“What did you think of Mrs. Dvorak?” the Abernathy asked.

I thought about it.

“She was really nice. And I think she's kinda hot.”

“You
do
?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Totally hot, dude.”

“Well, do you mind if I make some popcorn?”

The kid never ran out of microwave popcorn.

“Knock yourself out.”

“It's cheese flavored. Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

After the popcorn finished popping, Sam poured some out for me.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome, Ryan Dean!” The Abernathy climbed back on top of his bed. “Oh! I forgot to tell you. Spotted John showed me. You know. He showed me why all the guys call him Spotted John. It was . . . well . . . really gross.”

“Spotted John is totally gross, Sam. I should have warned you. Sorry, I forgot.”

“It's okay. He's a nice guy, but that's a really weird thing to show off to someone.”

I said, “I know. What can I say? He's from Denmark.”

“Oh. Do lots of guys have birthmarks on their wieners in Denmark?”

“Sam? I don't ever want to talk about wieners with you while we're in bed, okay? Well, anytime, to be honest. But especially not now.”

The Abernathy laughed. “You are so funny, Ryan Dean!”

Whatever.

I ate some popcorn.

And the Abernathy went on, “I will never talk to you about wieners again.”

“You're doing it now. Stop talking to me.”

“Okay. Well. I wanted to ask you one thing, Ryan Dean, and I hope it doesn't make you mad at me.”

“Is it about wieners? Because if it's about wieners, I'll be pretty mad, Sam.”

“Ha ha! No! It's not about wieners.”

And Sam Abernathy laugh-choked for a good fifteen seconds.

Hilarious.

It had almost gotten to the point where, in my mind, I began running through the steps for applying the Heimlich maneuver to a seventy-two-pound twelve-year-old who was choking from laughing so hard about wieners while eating popcorn. But then Sam Abernathy regained his composure and said, “That JP Tureau really hates you, doesn't he?”

“Yeah. He does.”

“That's not good. Why would anyone hate you, Ryan Dean?”

“It's a long story. Sometimes, that kind of stuff happens between boys, you know.”

“I hope it never happens to me. I was scared for you in the locker room.”

“God knows, JP probably would have punched me in the wiener. That would not have been good.”

Sam choked again for at least half a minute.

“Ryan Dean, you are not supposed to talk about wieners!”

“Yes. Mrs. Blyleven would get mad at us for calling them wieners.”

“I would hate it if I ever got in trouble for talking about wieners and then PM called my parents and told them,” the Abernathy said.

“Okay. Stop talking to me now.”

“Yeah. But why? Why did JP want to start a fight with you?”

I rolled over in bed so I could look across the room to where Sam was sitting. “We got into a few fights last year. It wasn't good. I made him look bad, I guess, and he won't let go of it.”

“What was the fight about?”

“Annie. JP likes Annie too. He was trying to get her away from me.”

The Abernathy said, “Oh.” It sounded like something you'd say when seeing your hero receive a medal or something. And that made me feel weird.

“Sam?”

“What?”

“That was really cool, what you did in the locker room.”

“What? Looking at Spotted John's wiener?”

“Stop talking to me.”

I threw my pillow across the room. It splattered into the kid.

And I'll admit it: Sam Abernathy was a lot smarter than I wanted to believe.

GAME DAY CAME AT LAST.

I almost had myself convinced that after my one little chat about goal setting with Mrs. Dvorak, my night troubles wouldn't come back. Easy fix, right? Well, I was wrong again.

Anyway, I never could sleep soundly the night before a game, so I guess I kind of set myself up for it. Because just when I was starting to think I was maybe in the clear, I woke up at three in the morning on Thursday with that smothering weight on my chest.

It really sucked.

Shaking and dizzy, terrified, I lay there, frozen in place, staring up at the ceiling. The night seemed endless, and as scared as I was that I was actually going to die, I willed myself to stay put and not make a sound. I didn't want the Abernathy to know what was happening to me. So I stayed there, shivering and scared all night, waiting for morning, and waiting for the next terrible thing that was bound to happen.

I knew exactly what those three days in the well must have felt like to Sam Abernathy.

I think I started to calm down just as the light from our window spilled oyster gray into the room. I was a sweaty wreck. The Abernathy climbed out of his bed. I could feel him looking at me from his side of the room.

“Are you okay, Ryan Dean?”

“Yes.”

“Excited for the game today?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I'm going to take a shower and get dressed.”

“Oh.”

I started to sit up in bed, so I could leave, and the Abernathy said, “It's okay, Ryan Dean. You look tired. You don't have to leave. Just promise not to look at me.”

“Whatever.”

I lay back down as Sam Abernathy rearranged his claustrophobic escape routes from our room by opening the window and shutting the front door. To be honest, the cold outside air felt good, like I'd been dug up from a sixty-foot hole in the ground.

The water came on in the shower.

Maybe the kid was getting better. Maybe Headmaster Dude-whose-last-name-nobody-knows was right about me being able to help Sam Abernathy. Maybe I was a sponge for his neuroses, soaking them all up.

The morning was dreadful, and the morning was wonderful.

I am supposed to be Joey today. Coach is going to make me wear Joey's jersey. I don't know if I can do this. I can't let myself look bad in front of Coach M and the team, or in front of Annie or Nico or Sam Abernathy and especially not in front of that asshole JP Tureau.

I am supposed to be Joey today.

“Done.”

I didn't realize I hadn't moved at all. And when I looked at him, there was the Abernathy all Pine-Mountained up in his tie, creased slacks, and school sweater, looking like a
you-can-have-one-of-these-too!
lawn ornament for a fertility clinic.

“Are you sure you feel okay, Ryan Dean?”

“Yeah. I'm fine. Stop talking to me.”

I dragged myself out of bed and went into the bathroom—no, shower room.

That day, I wore the shirt and tie I'd taken from Joey's old room in O-Hall. It was a weird thing to do, but I somehow hoped that Joey's spirit might be lingering on it, that he might calm me down and help me get through the game without totally blowing it. And I could almost hear him scolding me like he used to do—telling me that I worried about things too much, and that I'd put all this work into getting here, so there was no way I'd let myself down by not trying my hardest.

It made me kind of sad to think about Joey telling me off, which was something he was always really good at.

And all day long, I kept looking around distractedly, trying to see if Nico Cosentino would just magically appear, like he said he would. Spotted John never said he'd called back (and Spotted John wouldn't lie to me about things), so I had to believe Nico would keep his word and show up sometime before kickoff.

It was all I could do to slog through the day. Annie understood. She knew I always got quiet and nervous on game days. What rugger doesn't? It would be better afterward, when all the bashing back and forth was done and we could sit down to dinner with the boys from the other team while we stretched the boundaries of acceptable Pine Mountain content and attempted to out-sing each other.

In the locker room before the game, it was the Abernathy's job to pass out the jerseys while Coach read his roster for the first fifteen and the subs. Not everyone would get to play, but that's how things are in real life, too. Right?

Coach skipped from nine, Seanie, to eleven, Mike Bagnuolo. He was saving my number for last, and I was dreading having to say something as captain to the guys about playing the game. Here's how our numbers worked out for the first fifteen:

And, in case you've never seen rugby, this is how the positions line up on the pitch:

At the end, even after the subs' jerseys had been given out, it was finally my turn, and all those eyes turned toward me.

Coach McAuliffe said, “Number ten. Our stand-off and team captain, Ryan Dean West.”

The guys clapped and slapped my shoulders, which stung because I had to endure standing there shirtless through the entire jersey-passing-out routine. Also, it made me kind of embarrassed because I never thought the guys on my team would clap for me.

It was nice.

So the Abernathy handed Joey's old jersey to me. I unfolded it. There was still a grass stain on the shoulder, and it smelled like Joey. I pulled it on over my head. I knew what was next, and I was feeling pretty sick about it.

Coach M said, “Do you have something to say to the boys, captain?”

I really, really did not want to say something to the boys.

I looked down at a spot on the concrete locker room floor between the toes of my cleats. I shut my eyes and swallowed.

My voice cracked.

I am such a loser.

“Last year, after we lost Kevin, and then Joey, we kind of lost a sense of who we were as a team, and it felt like we didn't want to play anymore. I can't blame anyone for it—it's the way things just happened to work out. Our hearts weren't in it. And you can't play rugby without your heart, because the game is so much more than just a contest
about where the numbers end up when that last whistle blows.”