Thirteen Days to Midnight

by Patrick Carman

  “Later on, loser.”

  That’s what Ethan said to me after school when he was done destroying me in front of a good number of people, jogging off the court to catch up with Marissa.

  This is the part where I should have just smiled and walked away. A lot of what came after could have been avoided if I’d just kept my mouth shut. But I was feeling invincible, the idea of being indestructible taking hold in a way I didn’t even understand at the time. It was making me say stupid things at stupid times.

  “You know what your problem is?” I yelled. Ethan stopped on a dime, his wide shoulders turned, and he glared as if to dare me to open my trap again.

  I hesitated and Ethan started walking toward me, tossing his racquet to Marissa for safekeeping.

  “You gonna tell me my problem, or am I supposed to guess?”

  “You’re a total jerk, Ethan, simple as that.”

  Ethan kept coming toward me, smiling and shaking his head like I was some sort of brainless idiot.

  “You feeling sorry for yourself because you got whipped?”

  He was right up in my grill, breathing his lunch breath all over me.

  “Or because that fake daddy of yours is gone?”

  He had the swagger of an over-confident prize athlete without the knowledge of his first big injury.

  “Take that back,” I said.

  “Nope, not gonna do it,” said Ethan, his nose practically touching mine.

  If it was true his punches couldn’t hurt me, what was stopping me from rearranging the school bully’s face right then and there?

  “I’m telling you, Ethan, you better take that back. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  That did it. Ethan let out an attention-grabbing laugh and shoved me hard enough with both hands that I tripped and fell on the pavement.

  A crowd started to gather to watch the blood start pouring.

  “You really shouldn’t have done that,” said Milo. He knew the truth, knew that nothing Ethan could throw at me would help him now.

  “How about you go fix your mascara and stay out of this?” Ethan said, glaring at Milo.

  “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  In the past I would have starting running for the hills, steering clear of the smell of danger, but I couldn’t let it go. Something had changed inside me. I started moving toward him, fists clenched, and Ethan punched me about half speed in the gut, expecting me to buckle over and puke on my own shoes.

  But I didn’t feel a thing. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  And so he did, putting everything he had into a sucker punch so wild it’s amazing he didn’t miss my head altogether. He caught me in the ear hard enough to throw me off balance.

  Two seconds later I was standing in front of him again, my own face moving fast into his grill. I grabbed him by the shoulders and cranked my forehead into his, our heads making a terrible sound like a watermelon dropped on the sidewalk. Ethan reeled back, shocked and confused, and the girls standing around gasped.

  “Told you so,” Milo chortled.

  I watched the fragile rage build in Ethan’s eyes. He glanced at the faces around him and saw he wasn’t getting any support.

  “Something’s not right about this. You should be on your ass right now.”

  “Maybe so, or maybe you don’t hit as hard as you thought.”

  “Forget about it.” Ethan shrugged, trying to save face as he moved into a group of girls including Marissa. Normally they would have taken him in, if for no other reason than because he was popular. But this time everyone moved away, leaving Ethan standing alone four feet from where he’d been when he punched me.

  Something about the unexpected circumstances must have set him to running his mouth off about things he’d obviously been saving for a more opportune time.

  “You guys know this place is doomed, right? Father Tim is out of his mind. Holy Cross was already finished, but that sermon in class definitely takes the prize for stupid moves. It’s like he wants the place to shut down. I’m just glad I’m jumping ship before the whole thing goes under.”

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “We’re all ending up at South Ridge anyway. Holy Cross is broke. No money, no school. Where else does a plumber teach history? Are you kidding me?”

  He shook his head and glanced at all the faces around him. Me, Milo, Nick, Phil, Oh, even Marissa and a couple other girls had gathered around to listen.

  “Whatever.” Ethan shrugged. “You guys wanna hang around this rat hole until it folds, that’s your problem. I’m done.”

  He put an arm around Marissa’s shoulder and she shook him off violently, shouting into his face, “Just go, then!”

  She threw Ethan’s tennis racquet into the parking lot. No one would look him in the eye as Marissa ran off with her two friends. There was no doubt about it now, the last great athlete at Holy Cross had been shamed in public by a jury of his peers. He was as good as gone.

  “Surrounded by losers,” said Ethan, shaking his head and laughing despite the fact that we all knew he’d been royally crushed. “I’ll be sure and let everyone at South Ridge know only the gay dudes are left.” He hurled a few more insults over his shoulder as he retreated for the parking lot in search of his one-hundred-twenty-dollar tennis racquet.

  “Who knew he was such a devout Catholic?” Phil remarked. “I’m surprised he even listened to Father Tim in class today.”

  “His parents are loaded and totally Catholic,” answered Nick. “If they pull the plug, Holy Cross might really be finished.”

  “You should have wiped the court with his face,” Milo told me without a hint of sarcasm. “You’re not going to get another chance.”

  “Neither are you,” I reminded him. “And Oh’s right. He’s trouble. If we ever do end up at South Ridge, he’ll have a price on our heads and it won’t be cheap.”

  “Calm down,” said Milo. “We’re not going anywhere. And good riddance to that guy.”

  “Remember grade school?” Nick piped up as we all began walking back from the courts. “Ethan sucked at everything. We called him Gangler, remember that? Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a basketball, slow, clumsy—the guy was terrible. Remember?”

  “That explains a lot,” Oh said as we arrived at the midpoint between the gym and the parking lot. “You guys are so dense. He’s a fighter, and just about the time he’s mastered the game, everyone’s moved on to something else. You gave him a target to shoot for: being a great athlete. Well, news flash, he’s arrived. The only thing is, the target moved. Winning means everything to Ethan and nothing to you.”

  “He’ll be better off with people who think the way he does,” said Milo. “I’m glad he’s leaving.”

  A breeze kicked up dead leaves at our feet.

  “We’re doomed if this place closes,” said Phil. More than likely he was thinking about a group of giant, cocky athletes led by Ethan, finding him alone in the locker room.

  A half hour later we were at the batting cages—Milo’s idea. We’d decided on several more tests that would escalate in danger as long as everything kept working. Oh had written down notes in a little notebook with a pink diamond-patterned cover on it.

  “What do you think of argyle?” she asked us, flipping the cover back on its cheap metal spiral. Milo looked at her like she was nuts—(a) for being so random, and (b) because the thought of Milo in an argyle sweater was hilarious.

  “Do I look like a preppy to you?” he asked, staring down at his black shirt, black jeans, black shoes.

  “It doesn’t mean what you think it does,” said Oh with an expression that was fast becoming one of my favorites: Her nose widened with a smile, and her blond bangs fell over narrowed eyes. It was a mysterious look made for a smoke-filled room in a classic detective movie.

  “Do we have to talk about this right now?” asked Milo. “Let’s at least hit some balls.”

  Milo picked up a baseball bat
and inserted four quarters into a slot. He pushed a speed button—slow—and walked to the plate, ready to take some swings.

  “Okay, Oh, enlighten us already,” said Milo, the first ball thwoooping out of the machine and the sound of his bat cracking against it.

  “It’s a diamond mine, a famous one,” said Oh.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Argyle. It’s why argyle sweaters are always made with a diamond pattern. That’s what makes it an argyle.”

  Thwooop… crack!

  “And here I thought it was the color schemes,” said Milo. “I’m sure there’s a reason you’re telling us this….”

  “The toughest material on earth is a diamond. The only way to cut one is by using another diamond.”

  “So does the pink have some secret meaning, too? Or is that just to match your cast?”

  “It’s the rarest color of diamond. The Argyle mine produces most of the pink diamonds on the planet. Plus, I like pink.”

  Oh turned the first page on her notepad toward us, where she’d penciled in the shape of a diamond and scribbled it full with pencil lead.

  “It’s a good symbol,” she said.

  “A good symbol for what?” asked Milo, stepping back from the plate and missing a ball as it clanged against the backstop.

  I chimed in, half laughing despite the fact that obviously Oh was serious. “It’s like a Batman symbol.”

  “More like a Joker card,” said Milo, shaking his head and stepping back into the batters’ box.

  “Come on Milo, it’s cool,” said Oh. “This way we can talk in code, like ‘pass me the diamond’ or ‘who has the diamond?’ We need to be thinking about stuff like this, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “She’s got a point,” I added, glad to be on Oh’s side even if I did think the idea was basically ridiculous. I was anything but a superhero wearing a diamond on his chest.

  Milo piped in. “As long as I don’t have to wear pink argyle sweaters to be in your little club, I’m all good. Are we ready to do this thing or what? I’ve already wasted a buck. I’m not made of money.”

  “This will only take a second,” said Oh. “Okay, here’s what I have so far.”

  She held out her pad and revealed a penciled list. Each item in the list had a tiny diamond in front of it, like a bullet point. Her handwriting was a little on the round and swirly side, but thank God there were no hearts for dots or smiley faces. Oh’s list:

  Jacob has the , which seems to make him invincible

  Don’t know where it came from—

  Think it has something to do w/ Mr. Fielding

  Very little known about Mr. Fielding’s past

  appears to move when Jacob says YOU ARE inDESTRUCTiBLE

  This seems to be how Mr. F. gave to J

  J can pass to someone else if he looks at them & says the words

  When J gives away, he no longer has the power. It has moved.

  “Okay, I’m starting to like the diamond thing,” said Milo. “It sort of weirdly works, you know what I mean? Like passing the diamond to someone else is giving away something really valuable.”

  “And when Jacob takes it back, he’s taking something valuable. He might be taking your life.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said. “No pressure or anything.”

  Oh smiled sweetly and flipped the page.

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “As long as you don’t make me wear a pink cape, I’m all good.”

  “What’s this other list?” asked Milo, leaning in toward Oh more than I was comfortable with.

  “This is all the stuff we don’t know,” she said. Milo glanced sideways at it.

  “Long list. Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

  Where did the come from & why did it choose J?

  Once J has given it to someone else, can they give it to another person?

  Should we keep it secret?

  Are we all in the same dream and just don’t realize it?

  How much power do you have if you’re holding the ?

  Is there anything that could kill you, or is it all powerful?

  Fire does nothing, but what about water? Could you still drown?

  Is there a Kryptonite?

  Can more than one person have the power at once, or is it really like one , you either have it or you don’t?

  Does the person have to be present in order for J to hand off the and to get it back?

  What is J not telling us?

  “That last one is a real zinger,” said Milo.

  “I know,” said Oh, looking at me and sniffling in the damp air. “But there has to be more you’re not telling us. Didn’t Mr. Fielding say anything? Weren’t there any clues at all?”

  A group of younger kids had ridden up and dropped their bikes loudly on the pavement. They ran to the opposite end of the cages and disappeared behind green mesh dividing each batter, arguing over who would go first.

  I didn’t know what to say. Sure, there was stuff I wasn’t telling, but it was complicated.

  “How about if we answer some of the other questions first,” I said.

  “Man of mystery,” said Milo. “I can’t compete with that.”

  She scanned the list and placed a thumb with clear nail polish against the fifth item on her list.

  “Why did I know you were going to pick that one?” I asked.

  “Because it’s the most fun.”

  She had me there.

  “I’ve got six quarters and three ones,” I said after digging through my front pockets.

  “Hand ’em over.” Milo took all my money and pumped the dispenser full of coins, then pushed the “pro” button on the selector. I whistled. Pro meant ninety-mile-an-hour fastballs. There was a warning under the buttons that required hitters to use a helmet and removed any liability from the owners.

  “Me first,” said Oh.

  “Dream on, sister,” said Milo, standing next to home plate.

  I pointed to the diamond-shaped home plate. “Did you plan this out?”

  “Nope,” she said. “It’s fate.”

  Thwoop! The first of twenty balls flew by and practically blew Milo’s hair back. If that’s really how they pitched in the pros, batters were crazy to stand anywhere near home plate.

  “You sure you want to do this?” I asked. Milo looked as stunned as I was and just stared at the machine, waiting for it to erupt and blast another scorcher past his face.

  “Holy mother of God!” he screamed, plus a few other choice pronouncements I’d rather not repeat. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time, because we all knew the reason we’d come here, and it wasn’t to watch baseballs hit the backstop.

  I saw Oh out of the corner of my eye as she crept quietly closer to me. She spoke in a slow half-whisper.

  “Give it to me.”

  I knew what she meant of course, but the words and the look connected in my brain in a wholly inappropriate way, and I blushed like a seven-year-old who’d peed his pants on the playground.

  Oh took my hand and stared at me, and without another word, licked her lips, and—

  Thwoop!

  “Damn that’s fast!” screamed Milo.

  I started to laugh and Oh squeezed my hand, drawing my gaze back to her. She leaned in, closed her eyes, and almost kissed me. I’d come within a hair of puckering up, which would have been über-embarassing. When she pulled back, her eyes opened slowly and I said the words. How could I deny a beautiful girl at a time like this? It was impossible.

  “You are indestructible.”

  The pitching machine kept on pitching and she kissed me on the cheek, smiling as her lips pressed against my skin.

  “This officially ends the competition for your affections,” said Milo, who had turned to look at us. “It’s my foul mouth, isn’t it? That and the fact that I’m dead broke.”

  “You know I love you, Milo,” said Oh affectionately. “And for the record, we’re all broke. Now get out of th
e way.”

  She was gorgeous and fearless and I was in awe. She pulled her hair into a ponytail as the machine spit three more fastballs and Milo stepped out of her path.

  “Test it first, before you go in there,” I said.

  “Punch me,” she commanded Milo, but he wouldn’t do it. Instead he kicked her in the shin hard enough to have hurt at least a little.

  “Nothing.”

  “Are we really letting her do this?” asked Milo. “I mean, seriously, we’re two guys and she’s going in there?”

  Before he could turn around, the sound of the pitching machine came again. Except this time, instead of ending with the clang of the backstop, we heard a sickening thump.

  Oh had moved onto the diamond and taken the ball in the chest. The impact knocked her off her feet.

  “Oh!” I yelled, starting toward her before I realized what I was doing. None of us were wearing helmets and only Oh was protected.

  “Stay back!” she said, sitting up. “I’m totally fine! Didn’t even fe—”

  Her words were cut in half as another ball came hurling toward her. She was sitting up, and this time the blistering pitch smacked her in the forehead with a monstrous crack like the sound of a home-run swing.

  Oh was lifted off the ground and landed like a rag doll against the backstop.

  A quick shake of her head and she was smiling as the next pitch curved wide and missed her by a few inches.

  “Get out of there, Oh! That’s enough!” I screamed. But Oh was nothing if not thorough, and she positioned herself for another hit. Before the pitch could come, I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to safety.