by David Klass
Kris climbed down off the bleachers and intercepted me on the sideline. “Hey, J, I told you your team would get much better.”
“Yeah, well, thanks,” was all I could manage.
She looked at me. “Want to walk home? I’ll wait. Maybe we should talk.”
“Another time,” I mumbled. “Don’t bother waiting. I gotta help the guys take down the nets.”
12
“Talk to me, Mouseman,” I said. “I’ve been here for half an hour and you haven’t looked up from that computer.”
The Mouse was in his super-large bedroom, hunched over on the very edge of a swivel chair, so that his face was a few inches from his computer’s screen, and images from the game he was playing flashed across his cheeks and forehead. It was a violent, first-person shooter game, and each time he reached a new level he got to select a new weapon. He had gone from a submachine gun to a plasma gun to a grenade launcher, and now he was firing tank shells. When the shells “exploded” on-screen, blowing flashing targets to smithereens, his state-of-the-art surround-sound speakers rendered realistic KA-BLAMS that seemed to shake the room. “I’m almost to level five,” he mumbled.
“Who cares. That’s just a stupid game. My troubles are in the real world, Mouse.”
“Last night I made it to level six.” He was so intent on the game his eyes never seemed to blink. His right hand jerked the joystick back and forth to aim, while his fingers pressed different buttons to duck and fire.
“You’ve been playing this at night, too? When do you sleep?”
“I didn’t last night. Wasn’t tired.”
“Not at all? That’s not healthy. How many levels are there?”
The Mouse jerked the joystick, but too late. There was a particularly loud explosion. “AAAHHH,” he screamed. “GOT ME!” He finally looked away from the screen and said almost angrily, “Couldn’t you see I needed to concentrate?”
“Yeah, I could see that. But I’ve been pouring my guts out for half an hour and you haven’t listened to anything I’ve been saying.”
The Mouse turned away from the computer screen. “Sure I have,” he said. “So, is he really that good, or did you just have an off day?”
“He’s really that good,” I admitted. “He’s arrogant, and he’s a jerk, and he brought his father to practice, but when it comes to playing soccer … I can’t touch him. I don’t think there’s a high school player in the state who can. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s unbelievable.”
“What’s unbelievable is that Jewel Healy came to our practice,” Mouse said.
“Yeah. With Kris. What do you make of that?”
“You should have asked Kris out long ago,” the Mouse told me. “Didn’t I always tell you that?”
“You never told me that.” And he never had. Kris, Mouse, and I had done lots of things together over the years, from snowball fights to going to movies, so he had seen how close Kris and I were. There had never been a need to discuss it directly. Until now. “So what do you think I should do?”
“There’s nothing you can do,” the Mouse said, and maybe it was sleeplessness, but there seemed to be a new note that rang sharply in his voice every now and then—an angry note, almost a mean note. “You blew it. He’s great-looking and he’s a soccer star and he’s got the best car in the school. You lost your chance. You’re history.”
“Thanks,” I said, getting up from my chair. “I’ll be going now. I appreciate all the comfort and support.”
“You wanted the truth, right?” the Mouse said. “Who said life is fair? It’s not fair. It sucks. It’s twisted. It kicks you in the balls. But you have to face facts.”
“And your way of facing facts is to stay home from school and play this stupid video game all day and all night?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I just needed a time-out. I’m going to school tomorrow.”
“So you’re going to accept being marked? Good decision. It’s just for five days and then it’ll be over.”
“I’m not going to accept anything,” the Mouse snapped, and again I heard that sharp note in his voice.
“You mean you’re going to go in and tell the Guidance Department and the principal about what happened on the golf course, and about being marked?”
“No, that would be suicidal. I’m not that dumb.”
“So what are you going to do? There’s no other choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” the Mouse said. “I’m not going to bow to anyone. And no one’s going to hurt me, either.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because I’m not going to act like a victim anymore. See, I’ve been reading this stuff on the Internet, on self-defense and personal empowerment. And everyone agrees that victims make themselves victims. They act weak. And that’s the way I was acting. That’s why I got dunked in the lake. And all the other stuff that’s been going on for years. But that’s not going to happen anymore.”
“But what if it does?”
“It won’t. Because people will realize that I refuse to be a victim, and that if they pick on me there will be consequences they won’t like. Don’t ask me any more stupid questions.” He swiveled around and clicked the game back onto his screen.
“Mouse, you’re my best friend and I don’t think you’ve thought this through—”
“Yeah, well, you can think whatever you want. And you can deal with your Kris problems however you want. I’ve made my decisions for myself. And now I’m going to get to level six, if I can have a little peace and quiet,” the Mouse said, and the joystick was back in his right hand.
So I left him there, hunched over his computer screen, and I headed down the long hill. The windy afternoon had given way to a drizzly, blustery evening. I didn’t have an umbrella or a raincoat, and I didn’t care.
I came down the hill and turned onto Main Street. Windshield wipers slapped back and forth on the passing cars, and their lights cut twin tunnels through the rainy darkness. I could still taste the soccer field from when I had gone down, face first, after being nutmegged. It was the kind of bad taste that might linger for weeks, or even months. I had replayed the moment in my mind a hundred times.
What could I have done differently? He was just a much better soccer player than I was. He was too quick for me. If I could get him on a wrestling mat, I could slow him down. I could put him in a cross-face and apply more and more pressure till he screamed for mercy. Maybe I should have forgotten about soccer and given him an elbow in the ribs. Or maybe I should have popped him in the nose. That’s the best place to hit someone. I’ve seen dozens of fights, and I’ve been in more than a few myself over the years, and no matter who it is, no matter how fast or how tough or how mean, if you smash someone right in the nose, he goes down. And he doesn’t get up. BANG, he bleeds, it’s over.
I didn’t realize I was throwing punches till a car honked and flashed its lights. I had been throwing imaginary lefts and rights at raindrops, trying to break the nose of a windstorm. I lowered my fists, feeling a little embarrassed, and went to see who had caught me acting like an idiot. It was a bright red foreign compact sports car that I knew I had seen before. But I see hundreds of cars down at the wash, and I can’t always put a name or a face to a hood and a fender.
The driver-side window rolled down, and a very pretty blond woman smiled at me. “I thought it was you,” Dianne Hutchings said. “Is the fight over?”
“Between rounds.”
“Want a lift?” she asked. “I’m going your way.”
“No thanks.”
“It’s warm and dry in here.”
“I like it wet and cold.”
“Please,” she said.
So I got in. It smelled good in the car. Dianne Hutchings must have used some kind of shampoo or conditioner in her long blond hair that wasn’t as strong or sweet as perfume but had a nice clean smell. Now that I was sitting next to her, I could see how pretty she was. How could someone with such beefy, brawny
brothers look like her? And then she smiled at me, that peculiar smile on one side of her face, and I saw that she was a Hutchings after all.
“So,” she said, “thanks for drying my car the other day. You work there a lot?”
“When my dad needs me.”
“It’s nice that you and he get to work together. My father runs an auto detailing business, and my brothers work for him sometimes. You probably know some of them—you guys must all be in school together.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Jack is the same year as me. I know Ray—we wrestle on the same team. Lou is three years behind. And I know your cousin Slade, too.”
“Poor Jack,” she said. “It was terrible that he got his knee busted up.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a nurse, and I got him in to see a specialist at our hospital. He may have to miss the whole rest of the season.”
“Yeah, that’s tough,” I muttered. And then to change the subject, “Is that a good job, being a nurse?”
“I like it,” she said. And then, mischievously, “So what’s your father like?”
“Is that why you picked me up? To pump me for information?”
“That’s exactly why,” Dianne Hutchings said.
“He’s how he seems,” I told her. “What you see is what you get.”
She drove in silence for a few seconds, thinking this over. We were nearing my block, and she seemed to be slowing down, as if she wanted the chance to talk more. Then she came right out with “What happened to your mother?”
“She took off when I was young,” I told her, watching the raindrops bounce off the windshield.
“Took off where?”
“Europe. France.”
“So she doesn’t come back to visit every so often?”
“You don’t have to worry about her,” I said.
“I’m not worried about her.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
Dianne Hutchings slowed and then stopped. “Are you pissed off about something?” she asked.
“What makes you think that?”
“I really like your father a lot. I’d like to be friends with you.”
Rain drummed on the top of the car. I looked back at her. “You really want some advice from me about my father?”
“Yes. He doesn’t talk much about himself.”
“Okay, here’s some advice. Don’t like him so much.”
“Because? Come on. Because?”
“Because he hates women,” I told her.
Dianne Hutchings looked back at me, and then unexpectedly laughed, and it was the kind of amused, fearless, devil-may-care laugh that was kind of hard not to like. “He sure doesn’t act like he hates women,” she said.
“I guess not.”
“So it’s because of your mom leaving? That’s why he hates women? That’s what you’re saying?”
“That might be one good reason. I don’t really want to talk about this anymore. You asked for advice. I gave you advice.”
“Okay,” she said. “Thanks for the warning.” And she drove the rest of the way to my house in silence and pulled into my empty driveway. “Looks like your father isn’t home yet.”
“I can let you in.”
So we ran through the rain, and onto the front porch, and I unlocked our door and let her in. I brought her a towel to dry off with. “I’m gonna go upstairs,” I told her. “Make yourself at home. My dad will probably be here any minute.”
“Okay, thanks,” she said, drying her face. And then, in a soft, friendly voice, she said, “Joe, I’m sorry if I hit a raw nerve. I mean, that’s really sad about your mom leaving. Sometimes I ask too many questions.”
I already had one foot on the stairs. “You didn’t hit a raw nerve.”
“But I can understand about your father. It sounds like he got his heart broken. That’s a good reason to have a lot of anger, even years later. Do you understand that?”
“No. Not really.”
“That’s because you’ve never had your heart broken,” she said with a smile.
I looked back at her, and through the window behind where she was standing, I could see the lights of Kristine’s house. “No doubt.”
Her voice dropped a tiny bit. “I’ve been through something like that. So I can understand a little bit. But to keep anger for too long … is like a trap. I believe that people can break out of those traps. People can break patterns of bad behavior, if they try hard enough. Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t know,” I told her. “My dad’s patterns are pretty well fixed. For example, he comes to my wrestling matches and shouts himself hoarse, but he considers soccer a wimpy sport, so he’s never come to even one of my soccer games, in all the years I’ve been playing. I’ve let him know that I would like it if he came, but he never has and he never will, and that’s just the way he is. What you see is what you get. I gotta go upstairs now and do some homework.”
“Maybe one day he’ll surprise you and show up at a soccer game,” Dianne said. “I know things can change for the better. Look at me and your dad going out. I mean, that’s breaking a pattern. Given the history between our two families.”
I was on the third step of the stairs, but I turned back. “What history?”
“Well, your father and mine were in school together. On the same football team. That was the year they won the state championship.”
“Yeah, I knew that. I’ve seen pictures.”
“They were the two toughest kids in the school. And they hated each other. Senior year they went out to the War Zone, and they had a fight that people still talk about.”
“You mean a fistfight? The two of them?”
“I’m surprised your father never told you.”
As if on cue, car headlights sailed up the street and turned into our driveway. My father was home. I heard a car door slam.
“Who won the fight?” I asked.
“I’m not sure anyone won,” Dianne Hutchings said. “But I know they damn near killed each other.”
13
Kris was waiting for me the next morning, sitting on the front steps of her house, looking across the street at mine. When I came out the front door with my bookbag over my shoulder, she stood up with a smile. I hadn’t been expecting to see her there, but I managed to smile back, and I walked to meet her in the middle of the street.
“Hey, J,” she said, her usual greeting.
I tried to banter casually. “Hey, K. Did you hack that frog apart without me?”
“Yeah, I shredded him,” she said. “It wasn’t pretty”
I noticed that Kris seemed to be dressed up more than usual. She was wearing a powder blue tube top and a matching blue cardigan, and little silver earrings. I believe I smelled perfume. This was the girl I had known for so long, yet she seemed completely different.
We started off toward school together. “So what did the police want?” Kris asked.
“They were looking into some fight on the golf course,” I told her. “They wanted to know if I knew anything about it.”
“Did you?”
“Nothing I wanted to talk about.”
Kris got the message and didn’t press further. We walked in silence, side by side, our feet rising and falling in unison. We had walked to school together, exactly this way, for more than ten years. Don’t ask me why, but we always walked on the east side of the street. Don’t ask me why, but we never stepped on the cracks in the sidewalk—we shortened or lengthened our strides to skip right over them. So on one level it felt very familiar to be walking next to Kris, matching step for step the way we always had, and on another level, everything felt different. We walked for two whole blocks without saying a word.
“So,” she finally said.
“Yeah?”
“I guess we should talk. I mean, don’t you think?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s talk.”
“I hate having you mad at me, Joe.”
“I’m not mad at you,”
I said.
“I thought you’d be grateful to get a good soccer player on your team. I mean, you care about that team so much. And you’re so good. And the team was always so bad—”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” I cut her off.
“What do you want to talk about?”
I gathered my courage. “Friday night.”
“What about Friday night?”
“There’s a new movie opening at the Empress.” I felt my heart thumping in my chest. “I thought maybe we could go.”
Kris looked surprised and confused. She opened her mouth to answer, and no words came out. She closed it and looked back at me. “Sure, it would be great to go to a movie,” she finally said. “Friday’s not good, but maybe Saturday, or the Sunday matinee. I can ask Anne to come, and maybe Ed will want to come, too—”
“No,” I said. “I don’t want to go with a crowd. I want to go with you. On Friday. Just the two of us.”
She looked down at her feet. “Joe …” she began, and stopped. The way she couldn’t look at me when she spoke my name told me more than anything she might have said. “Joe, I have plans for Friday night. I’m sorry.”
“Plans with Antonio?”
We had stopped walking and stood beneath an old maple tree whose low-hanging branches we had climbed and swung on since we were six years old. Kris raised her eyes and looked at me. “Yes,” she said. “We’re going into the city, to a concert. He’s already bought the tickets. I—”
“Kris, don’t do it.”
“Don’t go to New York?”
The words came out low and hard. “He’s no good, Kris.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know anything about a lot of things,” I told her. “I don’t know anything at all about girls, that’s for sure. Sometimes I think I must be the dumbest guy in the whole world when it comes to that.”
“No, Joe,” she said, “you’re not—”
I talked right through her. “But I can judge guys. I’ve played on enough teams and been captain and team leader, and had a lot of friends, and … I just know what makes guys tick.” Her hazel eyes begged me not to go on, but I said it anyway. “He may be smooth and look great and have a fancy car and all the moves, but down deep he’s a bastard.”
