by Sean Rodman
“So how does the Plunger fit into all this?” Alex says.
“When I met him, I did not know him as the Plunger. He was just Yuri. I met him online. I was bragging about what I had done, and he was so impressed. I thought he wanted to be my friend. He lived in Jersey, and I did not know anybody else.”
I feel a little sorry for Markus, so desperate for a friend that he fell into a mess like this.
Markus continues. “Yuri gave me money to play with. In return, I would make more money for him. Each time I could improve my code a little bit. I did not care about the money, but Yuri did. One day he brought me a gym bag full of cash. He told me to make a bank account and put the money into it. Use it for betting online. It was too much. When I told him this, he said I could not say no.”
“He made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?” says Alex. “Just like the movie! That’s awesome.”
“No. Less than awesome. This is when I found out that Yuri is part of a Russian gangster family.” Markus shakes his head sadly. “Yuri told me my parents would have an accident with the Hudson River if I did not work with him.”
“That would have been a good time to call the cops or the FBI or something,” says Emily.
“Yes,” says Markus, nodding. “But then I thought about what would happen. Maybe I was an accidental criminal, but still…I had used mobster money to gamble. My father was only in America on a temporary visa. He would lose his job. We would be sent back to Estonia.”
“So you took Yuri’s bag of money,” I say.
“Yes, but I did not put it in the bank. I wrote Yuri an email saying I would give back the money if my parents were not hurt. I kept the money as insurance and ran away to where he would not find me. I found the smallest town in the middle of a very big nowhere.”
This did not sound like a good plan at all. But I didn’t say that out loud.
“You mean here? Marathon?” says Alex. “Watch what you say about my town.”
“It’s a harsh yet accurate description, sweetie,” says Emily. “But Markus, aren’t your parents looking for you?”
He squirms. “I never lie to them, but this was for their safety, no? I told them I was going on a cultural-exchange trip for a few weeks. I changed the school computers to make this happen.” He smiles and flashes his braces at her. “I’m very good with computers.”
“Well, you apparently didn’t run far enough. Whoever was driving that Lexus wanted to make a point. It was no accident.” I stand up and stretch, my arm throbbing a little less than before. “I’ll drive you home.”
Markus waits for me on the porch as kids drift away from the party. The music is off, and the cleanup crew is working to hide all the evidence. I’m about to leave when Alex grabs my shoulder. He leans in and whispers.
“That story of his, it sounds totally like a movie. Like, I don’t know if I believe it.”
“I know.” I lift up my arm with its new purple bruise. “But someone definitely wants to hurt him.”
Chapter Ten
In my dream I am running from a big black car chasing me. The sound of my feet gets louder and louder. Like a drumbeat inside my head.
Then I wake up and realize someone is pounding on my bedroom door.
“Ryan!” shouts my mom’s muffled voice. “You have ten minutes to get yourself dressed, brushed and otherwise cleaned up. Mr. Howards is going to be here in less than half an hour!”
I stare at the ceiling, heart still racing from the dream. Mr. Howards. The recruiter from Ryeburn College. Visiting me today. Mom and Dad must be losing their minds with excitement. Me, I’ve got that queasy feeling that I get before a big game. Riding the vomit comet, as Alex would say.
When I make it downstairs, Mom and Dad are buzzing around the living room. The place looks spotless. All the clutter that marks our everyday life has been removed and replaced with staged family photos and sparkling polished trophies. There are football magazines arranged neatly on the coffee table.
Amber wanders in and sprawls across the couch, tapping at her phone. Dad growls at her, but before it can erupt into a proper disaster, the doorbell chimes. Amber looks startled and swivels around to sit properly. Mom rushes to the door.
“Mr. Howards!” I hear her say. “So wonderful to finally meet you!”
She leads him into the living room. He’s a short little guy, coming only up to my nose. He’s wearing a brown suit and a bow tie. He smiles at me from under his bushy mustache.
“You must be Ryan,” he says, offering his hand. “We are so excited to talk to you.” It takes a couple of minutes to get coffee served, with Mom and Dad almost stumbling over each other to offer milk and sugar to Mr. Howards. Finally, Mom, Dad and Amber arrange themselves in a line on the couch. Mr. Howards and I each sit in an armchair, facing each other on opposite sides of the coffee table.
“Now I want to make clear that this is still not an official visit. We’ll need to get you up to the Ryeburn campus to see our facilities. You need to meet the coaching staff, all of that sort of thing. Today is just the first step in a, well, a journey that we hope you will undertake with Ryeburn College.”
“Go, Ryeburn Rattlers!” says Dad. Mr. Howards smiles like he’s heard that a few times before. Dad tries to recover. “The fields and the gym at Ryeburn look first-rate,” he says. “The pictures online are terrific. Did you use drones to take that footage?”
“Thank you. I don’t know about any drones.” Mr. Howards focuses on me. He pulls out a little notebook and pen. “Ryan, the point of this visit is to get to know you a little better, you know, off the field. So why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself. What’s a quality that you’re most proud of?”
“Dedication to his team,” says Mom. “He’s always there for everyone else. Always thinking about other players. He really puts the team first.”
“Ryan knows that there is no I in team,” adds Dad.
“That’s because he learned to s-p-e-l-l a long time ago,” mutters Amber. Dad narrows his eyes at her.
“All right then, Ryan,” says Mr. Howards. “Tell me, what do you love about the game?”
“Scoring a touchdown—” starts Dad.
“Ryan…” Mr. Howards holds up a hand and looks at me. “I need to hear from you, Ryan. What do you love about the game?”
My stomach is way past butterflies—now it’s grinding up gravel. I barely got any sleep last night. Mom and Dad are acting crazy. All of this feels like one bad dream that keeps going on.
“Honestly, Mr. Howards?” I find myself saying. “I like football. I’m good at football. But I don’t love the game.”
You know that look in horror movies when someone finally sees the creature? That reaction shot as the poor victim is about to scream in full-on terror at the monster in front of them? That is pretty much the expression on Mom and Dad’s faces.
Mr. Howards just tips his head to one side. “You don’t? So why do you play football then?”
“Like I said, I’m good at it. And I love being on a team. I love being able to score a touchdown, because it makes so many people happy. But I don’t actually like football. It makes me want to puke. Literally.”
“Huh,” says Mr. Howards. “Well, Ryan, I appreciate your honesty. Never heard that one before.” He scribbles in his little notebook.
“Well, what Ryan means to say—” says Mom.
“No, Mom. I said what I mean.”
She winces. For a moment I think she might cry. But it’s too late. I can’t stop.
“To be honest, sir, I don’t know if I want to play football for the rest of my life. Or even in college. There’s a lot of options out there. I’m only eighteen.”
Dad looks lost. He opens and closes his mouth without making any sound.
Mr. Howards fills the silence. “What kind of other things are you interested in? Maybe there’s a program at Ryeburn that you’d like, something in addition to football.” He looks at me, pen poised over his notebook.
; “Film. Making movies. I think that’s what I want to do more than anything. More than football.”
“Ah. Unfortunately, we don’t have a film program,” says Mr. Howards. He’s smiling at me, but it’s a sad smile. “There are a lot of young men your age who do love the game and really, truly want to win a scholarship to Ryeburn. I’ve seen you play on the field. You have great potential. Unofficially, I’d even say that you’re good enough to receive a full ride. But we’re not going to give it to you unless you really want it.”
Mr. Howards flips the notebook closed and stands up. “It was very nice to meet you, Ryan. I hope you will think hard about what you want to do and then get back to me.” He sticks out a hand for me to shake, smiling under his bushy mustache.
Needless to say, Mom and Dad lose their minds after Mr. Howards leaves. It’s like the nuclear version of family arguments, no survivors left standing. I fire off some heavy-duty ammunition.
I only ever played football to make them happy and I hated every minute of it. Boom.
Dad just wants to use me to relive his glory days of college football. Because basically he’s a has-been. Boom.
If either one of them actually cared about me, they’d have listened to me sometime over the past decade. Boom.
In return, they drop a couple of their own bombshells. I’m a selfish, lazy son who can’t be bothered to use the gifts he’s been given. How could I throw away my chance at a scholarship when our family doesn’t have the money to send me to college? Why would I destroy my life to make stupid little movies that will never amount to anything?
That last one sends me out of the living room like I’ve been fired from a cannon. I grab my backpack with the camera in it, slam out the front door and take off down the street. The anger inside me is like a humming engine, driving me along faster and faster. Soon I find myself running, block after block, not caring where I end up.
Chapter Eleven
I’m staring through the glass storefront at a display television, an expensive wide-screen digital one. It’s showing a repeat of Saturday Night Football, a game between Texas A&M and Florida State. I don’t want to go home, but my legs ache from running. At least there’s a game to watch.
Suddenly I notice the ghost of a black car in the window. The reflection of a black Lexus behind me, across the street. I can’t see the driver, but I’m sure he’s staring at me. I casually turn away from the storefront and start walking down the sidewalk. I hear the rumble of the engine as the car starts up. Reaching an intersection, I fake a right turn, then spin left and run down the side street. The soreness in my legs is forgotten as I tear along. There’s a screech as the Lexus accelerates to catch up. I pour it on even more, sprinting down the sidewalk, dodging a woman with a stroller, a dog walker, a homeless guy. The Lexus keeps pace with me. Then I see my opportunity—a back alley that’s too narrow for a car. I slip into it, and the Lexus disappears from sight. Breathing heavily, I sneak a look back on the street. It’s gone.
Then I see a black Lexus creeping down the street. Just as I start to panic, I realize that it’s being driven by an old lady with gray hair. Her golden retriever is riding shotgun beside her. Probably not a Russian mobster. I ease out of the alley, head swiveling back and forth. Another black Lexus. No, just something similar. A bunch of little kids in the back, dad up front. I rub my eyes. Get a grip. I’m jumping at shadows. Maybe I wasn’t being followed at all. I’ve been acting insane all day. Screwing up my future. The crazy is rubbing off on me. I really need to talk to Markus.
As part of the “cultural exchange” he arranged, Markus is staying with a host family across town. I climb up the creaky steps to their covered porch and bang on the screen door. Markus appears.
“Replay? I thought you could not protect me today, because you had the meeting with the football person, right?” He looks at me through the screen door, puzzled.
“Yeah, that.” I slowly shrug. “It didn’t go so well. I think I just blew up my future.”
“You will need to explain more.” Markus still looks confused. “But I have been inside hiding all day. If you are here, I would like to be outside. The park is across the street.” He dips out of sight, then pops back up with an old football. “You can protect me and show me how to throw the skinny pig.” He steps outside to join me.
“Pigskin.” I smile. I drop my backpack to the wooden floor of the porch and hold my hands out. “Pass.”
While I’m trying to teach Markus a spiral, I tell him about the recruiter. My parents. How my future plans have unraveled.
“It sounds like”—Markus heaves the ball, which tumbles end over end—“you have decided that you do not want to play football. You must make your movies instead.”
“You think?” I say sarcastically, retrieving the ball. “Except that’s not going to happen. I spent the whole day thinking about it. I can’t let my parents down like that. I don’t even have the hundred and fifty bucks to apply to film school. It’s a stupid idea.” I underhand-pass to Markus. “I’ve got to apologize to Mr. Howards, make it right.”
Dressed in black jeans and a loose T-shirt, Markus looks like a scarecrow out on the green big green field. He actually catches it this time and smiles broadly. Then he wraps his hand around the ball again, spreading his finger along the seam like I taught him. He reaches back to throw, then pauses. “But that is not what you really want. I think you must be like…who is the boss of the football team?”
“The quarterback?” I say.
Markus throws. The ball dribbles away into the grass. He sighs and turns to face me.
“The quarterback. I know these words, but together they make no sense. Anyway, yes. This is the one who decides on the plan for the team, yes?” He raises his eyebrows. “You must decide on your plan. Your parents are not the quarterbackers. You are.”
“Markus, I’m not sure I should be coming to you for advice. You hang out with gangsters, steal their money and lie to your parents.”
“This is true,” Markus says. “It was sort of an accident?”
“That Lexus was no accident,” I say, scooping up the ball. “I don’t think you planned to do the wrong thing. You just kind of wandered into it.”
Markus takes his glasses off and polishes them on his shirt. “This is also true. But now my plan is a good one. To run away from the Plunger.”
“Except that he’s already found you.” I pick up the ball and toss it from hand to hand. “You going to keep running forever? Never go home again?”
A flash of anger passes over Markus’s face, then fades. “Maybe I need a better plan,” he says.
I throw the ball, which Markus fumbles. “Is it all right if I take tomorrow morning off from being a bodyguard? I think I need to sort things out at home.”
Markus nods. He doesn’t look like a scarecrow anymore. Just a lost little kid, standing in the empty field.
When I eventually get home, there is a plate of food waiting for me on the kitchen table. No angry voices. No annoyed note. Just room-temperature macaroni and a silent house. Somehow that’s worse.
Chapter Twelve
Dad hands me a list of chores without saying a word. Mom still isn’t speaking to me either. Amber is, for once, keeping quiet and lying low. I think everybody is afraid that any conversation might end up with a full-on disaster like we had yesterday. So we all just keep our mouths shut.
Halfway through the day I realize that the backpack with my camera in it is missing. I must have left it on the porch at Markus’s place.
I text him. No response. An hour later I text him again. Then I try and call him. Again no response. Weird. It’s like he’s giving me the silent treatment as well.
When I finally finish my chores, it’s already early afternoon. I ask to borrow the car and Dad narrows his eyes but hands me the keys. I drive back to Markus’s and knock on the screen door. His host mother answers and tells me that Markus isn’t home.
“He left around lunchtime with his bro
ther. Seemed such a nice surprise for him, to see his brother again.”
“His brother?”
“Yes, a nice young man with an accent too. He seemed so happy to catch up with Markus. They were going to spend the day together, maybe have dinner.” She sees my face and looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“Sure, just sorry to have missed him. Thanks.” I turn away but then remember why I came over. “Oh, I think I left my backpack here on the porch yesterday.” We both look around, but it’s nowhere to be found. While the woman goes to look for it inside, I start pacing around the porch, my thoughts racing. I try to put together the pieces. Why did Markus never mention having a brother? I feel the muscles in my neck start to tense, like when I see a play going wrong on the field.
The woman returns with my backpack. “Success! Markus is a lovely boy, but his bedroom is a mess. I found it under a pile of clothes.” She shakes her head and hands the backpack to me. I realize it’s heavier than before—I only had my little video camera in it, but now it feels like it has a couple bricks inside.
Back in the car, I tug open the backpack. There’s my camera, resting on top of…what? Not bricks but something the same size and shape. I reach inside and feel dense bundles of paper. Cash. I pull a wad out, amazed. This backpack has more bills than I’ve ever seen before in one place.
I text Markus right away.
WTF? Where are you? What’s with the cash?
No answer. I squint at the little glowing screen like I can somehow force Markus to call me. Nothing. I turn the keys in the ignition and chuck the phone to the passenger seat in disgust. I crank on the radio, turning it too loud in frustration, and rev the motor. Which means I almost miss the buzz of the phone as it rings. I kill the engine and scramble for the phone.
“Markus! What the hell is going on?”
The voice at the other end of the line is deep and resonant. And not Markus’s.
“No need to worry. He is safe with me.”
