"Who?" someone else asked.
"The kid living in the haunted house. He pushed Barney Peters down the stairs."
"I didn't push him!" Chip exclaimed, trying to quell the panic rising in his voice. "He fell. It was an accident. I swear, the guy just fell."
"Barney saw you do it, dude," Charlie said menacingly. "I heard him say so."
"I saw him do it, too," came a voice out of the crowd.
Chip angrily shot his head in the direction of the voice to spot the liar. He caught a brief glance of someone wearing a hood.
The bell rang shrilly, echoing up and down the staircase.
But still nobody moved.
Then the crowd suddenly parted as a teacher appeared. "What happened?" asked the big, barrel-chested man. He was wearing a tight brown suit.
"He fell," Chip told the teacher.
"He was pushed," someone countered.
"Did anyone call 911?" the teacher asked.
"I think someone did already, Mr. Kuzak," came a voice from the back.
"All right, everyone," Mr. Kuzak barked. "Get to your classes. Now! Show time is over."
The crowd broke up slowly, muttering, grumbling.
In the distance, Chip heard the wail of a siren.
* * *
After his last class, Chip walked over to the football field with mixed feelings. Tryouts didn't seem so important to him anymore. Barney had been hurt, and everyone thought he was responsible.
His first day of school, and already everyone thought he had viciously pushed a kid down the stairs. Even worse, when the students found out where he lived — in Weird Evan Walker's house on Elm Street — they just shrugged as if to say, "Well, what can you expect from someone who would live there?"
Chip felt everyone's eyes on him in the hallway after school. Everywhere he looked, someone had an accusing glance or a curious stare. The after-school crowd had parted as if he was radioactive or something and they didn't want to be contaminated.
And it wasn't any different as he jogged across the field. Most of the Springwood Owls were spread out on the field doing muscle-stretching exercises and chatting, but the jabbering came to an abrupt halt when they spotted him. Chip felt their eyes on him as he loped across the field with his equipment bag slung over his shoulder.
Chip spotted Boomer in his wheelchair near the sideline. He had a clipboard in one hand and was jotting something down, TEAM MANAGER was printed in big block letters on his gray sweatshirt.
Standing next to Boomer was an older man in a baseball cap with a large owl on the front. A gray and green sweatshirt stretched over his fat gut and a shiny whistle dangled from around his neck. Chip guessed the man must be Coach Cuttler.
Cuttler was yelling at someone wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Must be Al, Chip figured. Leave it to his brother to piss off the coach the first time they met. Chip caught snatches of the conversation as he approached them.
"Look, Parker, I told you before," Cuttler said. "We don't play a wishbone offense at Springwood. Our quarterbacks pass, they don't run."
"I'm only asking for a chance," Al protested.
"I've got you penciled in at free safety," Cuttler said in a firm voice.
"So you're not even going to give me a chance?" Al griped.
"Yeah, I'll give you a chance." Cuttler said. "When I'm out of quarterbacks."
Cuttler beamed when he saw Chip. "Now here's a kid who can play quarterback." Cuttler slapped Chip on the back. "That was a hell of a game you played against us last year. Too bad your defense couldn't hold the lead."
"Thank you, sir," Chip said gratefully. It was the first nice thing anyone had said to him all day. He just wished he hadn't said it in front of Al. Chip glanced at Al, who was looking back at him darkly.
A breeze gusted up and blew back the blanket that covered Boomer's legs. When they had first met at his locker, Chip thought Boomer had no legs. Now Chip saw that Boomer did have legs, but what was left of them resembled two shriveled french fries. It was as if they had been crushed flat and useless.
Coach Cuttler gestured to Boomer. "This is my team manager, Boomer Harrison."
Chip nodded. "We've met."
"Like I said, you played well against us last year," Coach Cuttler said. "I just hope you do as well in the tryout. We need some fresh meat on this team. Especially since Martin dropped out of school." The coach got a faraway look in his eyes. "Best damn quarterback I ever had…"
"Coach?" Al interrupted. "I just wanted to remind you that Middleton beat you guys two years ago when I played quarterback for them."
"I remember," Cuttler said frowning. "We had one of the worst teams I ever coached that year. That was the year before Martin became the starter."
"I just wanted to remind you that quarterback is my number-one position," Al said.
Cuttler let out an exasperated breath. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind," he muttered, jotting something down on his clipboard.
"I'm just asking for a fair chance," Al whined.
"Look, Parker, I only have room on my roster for two quarterbacks," Cuttler said. "A starter and a backup. And I've got two of them. So if you don't beat out one of them…"
"Peters is hurt, Coach," Boomer said, erasing something on his clipboard.
"What?" Cuttler asked, his jaw dropping.
"Fell down some stairs or something," Boomer said, glancing at Chip. Was Boomer accusing him? Like everyone else?
A look of disgust creased Cuttler's face. He slammed his clipboard to the ground. "What next?" he muttered loudly. Cuttler said nothing for a few moments, just shook his head in dismay. Then he shot a glance at Chip and Al. "You two, get your pads on." He nodded in the direction of the stadium locker room entrance, which was right across the cinder track.
"You can use any empty locker for now," Boomer added.
"And hustle," Cuttler said, brushing some grass off his clipboard.
Chip picked up his gear, then he and Al jogged to the locker room. They found two empty lockers and quickly changed into cleats and pads.
"What happened to Peters?" Al asked.
"He fell down some stairs," Chip said, tight lipped. "But he thinks someone pushed him."
"No kidding," Al said. Chip thought he saw Al briefly smirk. "So, um, who pushed him? Did he say?"
"Yeah," Chip muttered, trying not to recall the bloody mess that had once been Barney Peters' face. "He thinks I did it."
Al laughed out loud.
Chip glared at him. "Why are you laughing?"
Al shrugged. "I don't know. I just think it's funny he would accuse you." Al laced up his cleats. "So, did you do it?"
Chip stared at his brother in disbelief. "What? Push Peters down the stairs?"
"Yeah," Al said calmly.
"Of course not. Why would I do that?"
"Maybe being near to Daddy's spirit is getting to you," Al said with a devilish grin.
Chip knew Al was playing mind games with him, trying to distract him from the tryout so he would win the quarterback position.
Al slipped a thick forearm pad on and wrapped tape around it to hold it in place. Then he slammed his forearm into the metal locker door with such force the whole row shook.
A big dent was left in the locker where Al had just smashed it. Chip had a flashback of his first dream the night he moved into the house on Elm Street, when someone in a hood had smashed him in the face just like that. He had thought it was Al… in the dream… But Al wouldn't hurt him like that. Even during their worst fights, Al held back. At least he always had in the past, before they moved into the house on Elm Street.
"That should do," Al said with a pleased expression, inspecting the dent in the locker door. His gaze shifted to Chip. His pale blue eyes seemed paler than ever. "Should do just fine," he said ominously, slipping on the other forearm pad and taping it into place.
Chapter 27
Al slipped his black mouthpiece in and grinned luridly at Chip. Al wore a black mouthpiece instead o
f a white one to intimidate his opponents. Al's pale blue eyes were glowing fervently now, which spelled trouble for someone.
Probably that freshman quarterback Roger the Dodger. Roger had better live up to his name, Chip thought. Al would kill to play quarterback.
Chip was still lacing up his cleats when Al left the locker room. He didn't wait for Chip. Not that Chip cared much one way or the other. Chip smoothed back his tousled brown hair as best he could, slipped on his helmet, and followed Al out to the playing field.
Cuttler was running the team through drills. Fortunately it was a warm afternoon, and Chip felt his arm loosen up as he started to toss the ball back and forth with Al. Chip looked up when he saw Boomer wheeling toward him.
"Cuttler wants to take a look at you," Boomer told Chip. "The receivers are going to run some simple slant patterns so he can check out your timing."
Chip nodded.
To Al, Boomer said, "Take the free safety position."
"What about the quarterback position?" Al asked, scowling.
"What about it?" Boomer asked. He had overheard Al arguing with Coach Cuttler.
"Am I going to get a shot at it or what?"
"Take it up with Cuttler, not me," Boomer said, wheeling away.
"Legless gimp," Chip heard Al mutter.
The whistle blew shrilly. "Let's go, Parkers," Coach Cuttler shouted over to them, waving them in.
Al snapped his chin strap on as the brothers jogged out onto the field. "Keep your head up out there," Al snarled at Chip, "if you want to keep it at all."
"Keep it clean, bro'," Chip warned as Al joined the defensive huddle. Like it's my fault the coach won't let him play quarterback, Chip thought.
Chip joined the offensive huddle. His heart was racing, but he knew once he started to play, all the distractions would just fade away. That was the way it always was when he played football.
"Hey, man. We know why you messed Barney up!" one of the guys in the huddle suddenly snarled at Chip as he was calling the play in the huddle.
"Tell him, Sam," someone else said.
Uh-oh, Chip thought to himself. This wasn't a good start.
"What happened to Barney was an accident," Chip said sharply. He looked each player in the eyes, a challenging look. "I've got a job to do now. So why don't you just do yours? If anyone has a problem with what happened to Barney, meet me after practice. We'll settle it then."
Chip clapped his hands and broke the huddle before the players could respond. The entire team would probably kick his butt after practice. But what else could he do? His job as quarterback was to run the team, and he wouldn't be able to do that if he didn't establish his leadership.
On the line of scrimmage, Chip checked out the defense. He made brief eye contact with his receiver, barked out the call, and the ball was hiked.
Suddenly twenty-two football players sprang into action. Chip took three quick steps back, patted the ball with his free hand to tighten his grip, and picked up his man as he made his cut near the sideline.
His receiver was too close to the sideline, Chip realized. He shouldn't be over that far. He was throwing the timing completely off. A second later it became irrelevant as Al came over to double up on the receiver, colliding with him, sending the receiver out of bounds and making him ineligible.
Al must have overheard Boomer telling him to run a slant pattern and anticipated it, effectively screwing up the entire play.
But his receiver shouldn't have been that close to the sideline, anyway, Chip thought angrily. He automatically looked for his secondary receiver. He had to scramble as his pocket collapsed on him. His offensive lineman appeared to be making only a halfhearted effort to keep out the rampaging defensive players.
Chip quickly scanned the field, but all of his remaining receivers were covered, and they didn't seem to be trying very hard to get open.
As Chip debated what to do in the split second, a body came flying over the top of his protection, momentarily blotting out the sun. Chip caught a glimpse of the forearm that smashed him in the face, propelling him violently to the hard turf, smashing his head into the ground. Tiny stars danced around inside his brain. Then the stars faded and Chip tried to open his eyes. It took a lot of effort and he found himself staring up at a round golden sun in a clear blue sky.
He tried to struggle to his feet, but wooziness forced him back down. Groggy and disoriented, Chip felt as if his brain had become dislodged inside his head.
Then he looked up as a black form blotted out the sun again.
It was the hooded figure from his dream.
Chip blinked his eyes, trying to blink away the menacing figure. When his eyes refocused he saw Al, standing over him, unsnapping his chin strap, a big smirk on his face.
Then everything went black.
* * *
Chip smelled curry powder. The sharp aroma filled his nostrils. He opened his eyes and sat up with a painful groan. His body pushed into the soft cushions of the living room couch. He was home, though he couldn't remember how he had gotten there. His head was pounding, his vision was still blurry, and his cheek felt as if it had swollen up.
He vaguely remembered getting hurt on the football field. He hoped his cheekbone wasn't broken. He wondered if he had been taken to the hospital. He was having trouble thinking straight, remembering what had happened. The room swam briefly before his eyes. He saw a hazy figure standing in the kitchen archway.
Wearing a hood.
Holding a knife.
Chip gasped.
The hooded figure was rapidly crossing the room now, coming for him. It had on a cape.
A cape?
Chip couldn't make sense of what was happening. He struggled to his feet, but as he rose from the couch dizziness sent him crashing back down again. The deep cushions seemed to swallow him up. If I don't move, I'll die, Chip thought as a rush of adrenaline gave him new strength. Panic-stricken, he flailed his hands as he attempted to rise again.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?"
At the sound of his mother's voice, Chip stopped flailing. His vision cleared and he saw his mother. She was wearing a loose flowery dress. She held a long wooden spoon in one hand, which Chip had thought was a knife.
Chip laughed with relief.
His cheerful, pretty, eternally optimistic mother smiled brightly at him. "What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing," Chip said, trying to smile. But his smile quickly turned into a taut expression of pain and anguish as his head began to throb.
"What happened?" his mother asked. Her bright expression was replaced with one of worry and she sat down next to him on the couch. "There's a big welt on your cheek."
Through the whirring in his head Chip heard someone grunt in the basement.
Al. Pumping iron.
Then he remembered.
Al had put his lights out.
Chip struggled to sit up. "I think Al hit me…" Chip started to say before the room tilted at an odd angle and he had to lie back down again.
When his head cleared he saw his mother at the top of the basement stairs. "Al — get up here!" she shouted down the stairs in a stern voice.
"No, Mom…" Chip heard one last, loud grunt and then the clunk of heavy metal striking the basement floor. Then he saw his mother step back as a sweating, hooded Al trudged up the last few steps.
Al stood before their mother, easily dwarfing her, and stared down at her with a blank, almost laconic expression on his face.
"How many times have I told you not to fight with your brother!" his mother immediately began to shout.
"Fight?" Al asked, glancing malevolently at Chip.
"It wasn't like that, Mom!" Chip yelled from the couch. More throbbing, more pain in his head. "It was in a game."
His mother glanced over at him. "A football game?"
"Yeah."
"He got his bell rung in the tryout and Coach Cuttler told me to take him home," Al told his mother in a surly voice. "We weren't figh
ting."
Al leaned against the kitchen wall and wiped sweat from his face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He looked over at Chip. "We've got another tryout tomorrow if you think you can handle it — wimp." He shook his head in disgust. "One play and you get yourself knocked out. And I've got to take you home. Nice going, jerk. You played like a pansy out there. Maybe you should give up football and help your mother make doughnuts…"
"You knocked your brother out?" Mrs. Parker asked incredulously.
"Who says I did it?" Al asked, his face growing dark with anger.
Mrs. Parker glanced at Chip. "Did he do it?"
Chip was hesitant. "I thought you did it," he said to Al. "Did you?"
Mrs. Parker broke in before Al could answer. "How many times have you brought him home looking like this?" she asked, glaring at Al. "Banged up and bruised, cut and bleeding. How many times?" His mother's voice had become shrill, rising with her anger.
Al didn't reply. He just looked past his mother with a thousand-mile stare.
"How many times have you brought your brother back looking like this? I'm asking you a question, young man. I want an answer," she persisted.
"Am I supposed to keep count or something?" Al asked flippantly. "It's not my fault he's a wimp. And he's not my brother."
Al brushed past his mother and went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a jug of orange juice. He uncapped the jug and took a big swig. Some of the juice slopped down his chin. Al didn't bother to wipe it away.
"And how many times have I told you not to do that?" his mother yelled at Al.
"Do what?" Al asked in an exasperated tone, taking another big drink, gulping noisily.
"Drink from the jug. Leaving your germs everywhere. What if someone else wants some orange juice?"
"Then I guess Chippy-pooh will just have to get my germs," Al said. He took another big gulp, his eyes fixed on his mother in a bored expression.
Mrs. Parker glowered at Al, but Al just gulped down more juice.
"You know something, Al," Mrs. Parker said. "I'm fed up with your attitude."
"Mom…" Chip gave his mother an imploring look. He hated it when his mother and Al fought, which they did more than ever since his dad had died. "C'mon — forget it. It's no big deal. It's football."
Fatal Games Page 8
