by Tim Green
It was all like a dream to Cory, too much to take in.
“Hey, hey!” Coach McMahan raised his voice and his beer. “It’s the Touchdown Kid!”
Cory felt his face warm. “Hi, Coach.”
Mrs. Muiller jumped to her feet, and the grownups introduced themselves.
Cory shook hands with the grownups and said hello. Coach McMahan and Mr. and Mrs. Muiller all wore soft cotton polo shirts in bright colors, like the crayons that jump out at you from an open box. Even Mr. Muiller’s pants were the color of a strawberry popsicle. Fat diamonds sparkled on Mrs. Muiller’s fingers and wrists and from the bottoms of her ears. Cory glanced at his mom’s purse and felt ashamed.
Mrs. Muiller turned to her son. “Jimbo, why don’t you take Cory to the basement to see his room?”
“The basement?” Cory’s mom scowled.
“Oh, not a basement like you’re thinking,” Mrs. Muiller said, pouring Cory’s mom a drink from a beaded glass pitcher on the table.
“We have a walkout lower level with a rec room and bunk rooms for the kids and their friends, and then a wing for overnight guests. We love to entertain. Everyone is welcome here. It’s busy all the time, especially during football season. Howard loves that grill, and the boys are always hungry.”
“Come on.” Jimbo nudged Cory in the ribs. He looked eager. “I’ll show you.”
Cory looked at his mom. She smiled uncomfortably but nodded for him to go. He followed Jimbo back into the house and down some carpeted stairs with thick wooden railings. Like everything else in the house, the rec room was enormous—practically a playground with flat-screen TVs; low, soft couches; beanbag chairs; Xbox machines; a pool table; and a Ping-Pong table as well. Along one wall stood half a dozen old-time arcade games, pinball and such. Cory stopped for a moment, amazed. Jimbo kept on walking down a wide, carpeted hall whose walls were lined with autographed jerseys of famous sports stars. Cory tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help but notice that the collection included LeBron James, Peyton Manning, and Derek Jeter.
Halfway down the hall, Jimbo swung open a door and made a sweeping gesture. “Welcome to your new home.”
Cory paused. He couldn’t help thinking about the wire metal trap they used at home to keep the squirrels from nesting in their attic. They’d put peanut butter in there and the squirrels went for it every time.
Just a few steps in and whap, you had them.
16
The curtains were Vegas gold, patterned with the New Orleans Saints emblem. On the wall were life-size Fathead photos of Mark Ingram Jr. and Drew Brees. The lampshade, headboard, and bedspread all bore Saints emblems, and the rug was black. It was fantastic, if you were a crazed Saints fan, like Liam.
“Wow.” Cory did his best to muster enthusiasm, even though he preferred the Atlanta Falcons. “Nice.”
“That ball’s signed by their Super Bowl team.” Jimbo pointed to a glass case on the dresser.
“Nice.”
Jimbo shrugged. “And, you got your own bathroom.”
Since Jimbo turned the light on in there, Cory felt obligated to look, even though it sort of embarrassed him.
“Yuck!” Jimbo said at the smell. He lifted the cover off the toilet bowl. “Someone left you a present.”
Cory looked—he couldn’t help but look—and before he knew what was happening, he was bent over the sink, gagging.
Jimbo nearly doubled over with laughter before righting himself and saying, “Dude, whoever did that is disgusting. Must have been one of the guys yesterday.”
Cory closed his eyes, but the disgusting pile that had been waiting for him wouldn’t leave his mind, and now he actually smelled it. He gagged again. Part of Cory wanted to grab Jimbo by the neck and punch his face in. Another part of him felt like crying because it seemed to have ruined everything. The sparkle of getting a scholarship, being called the Touchdown Kid, and living with a rich host family was gone.
“Aw, don’t look like such a wimp.” Jimbo sniffed and dried his eyes on his sleeve. “You gotta have a sense of humor. You Westside guys are supposed to be tough. A little poop never hurt anyone. Even a big poop.”
Cory forced a smile. “Yeah, you got me pretty good. I never saw a mess like that before.”
“Hey, man, not me!” Jimbo glanced into the bowl with a quizzical look before flushing it. “This looks like the work of Mike Chester. Definitely gross, but —c’mon—you gotta admit it’s pretty funny, like . . . welcome home. Not. But you’re probably gonna see worse than that. HBS guys are a little crazy.”
Cory’s stomach rolled at the thought of seeing something like that again. He’d never heard of anything like it and wondered if all rich kids had this sort of sick humor.
“Come on, let’s go eat.” Jimbo chuckled. “If you can.”
They passed through the game room to go out some glass doors to the pool level. The smallest of the pool’s three circles was a steaming hot tub. The middle looked like a shallow area with a volleyball net and a basketball hoop. The biggest part was a deeper shade of blue and had a diving board. Thickly padded lounge chairs circled the area in groups of two or four with low tables and umbrellas in between. Jimbo took it all for granted, leading Cory up an outside staircase that brought them to the terrace where the grown-ups were.
“Well,” Jimbo said to everyone, “he loved it. Didn’t you?”
“Uh, yes. It’s amazing.” Cory looked to see if his mom was having fun, but her smile seemed to be pasted on. “Really.”
“Did you show him his own bathroom?” Jimbo’s mom touched Cory’s mom on the shoulder and leaned close, dropping her voice. “I think boys should have their own bathrooms, don’t you?”
Cory’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t believe Mrs. Muiller was in on the toilet joke. That just couldn’t be. Still, he studied her face for a secret sign of glee.
“I think if you can afford it, yes,” Cory’s mom said sweetly.
“Oh, of course,” said Jimbo’s mom, patting Cory’s mom’s arm. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Ashley. Sometimes my mouth just gets out in front of me. No offense intended.”
“None taken.” Cory’s mom sipped her drink and studied his face.
Cory looked away because he didn’t want her tanking this whole thing just because he wasn’t entirely comfortable. If he had to put up with some crude humor, that was a price worth paying along the road to the NFL. Jimbo was right about one thing: Cory needed to be tougher.
“Okay, everyone,” Mr. Muiller said as he unloaded the grill and carried the huge platter of meat to the table. “Time to eat!” A heavy woman in a gray dress and white apron brought several other dishes out from the kitchen. After a toast to Cory, his mom, and HBS football, they began to eat. Cory worried that his mom would grow bored with all the football talk, but it wasn’t to be helped. Even Mrs. Muiller had an opinion on the upcoming HBS season and Coach McMahan’s new spread offense.
“Ground and pound and a vicious defense.” Mrs. Muiller shook a half-eaten ear of corn. “That’s how you won the last state championship for HBS.”
Coach McMahan smiled gently. “The game is changing, Deb.”
“Then why isn’t Cory a receiver? If Jimbo is gonna be an all-state quarterback in a spread offense, why not a young Odell Beckham Jr.?” Mrs. Muiller turned to Cory’s mother. “No offense intended.”
“None taken,” Cory’s mom said automatically, but Cory could see she was annoyed.
Coach McMahan pointed a chewed-over rib bone at Cory. “When this young man doesn’t run by people, he runs through them, or over them. You still need a potent runner in the spread, someone versatile.”
His words relaxed Cory.
The woman who helped with the food—her name was Helga—brought out a tray of ice-cream sundaes in cone-shaped dishes. There were six in all, which puzzled Cory until he heard a voice shout from inside the house.
“I’m home!”
Jimbo put his face in one hand. “There goes the n
eighborhood.”
Everyone looked, and what Cory saw made him forget about everything else.
17
Perfect wasn’t the right word. Perfect was too lifeless. Perfect wasn’t real, or interesting.
The girl marching toward the table in a crimson-and-silver soccer uniform was nearly as tall as the boys, but slender, like a willow branch. Her hair was a wild blond mane, thick and long, New Orleans Saints gold. She had round red cheeks and big blue eyes.
Mrs. Muiller introduced Cheyenne as Jimbo’s older sister in a funny voice, and Cory wondered if she’d had too much to drink.
“Had them ten months apart,” Mrs. Muiller said in a loud whisper, leaning close to Cory’s mom. “You believe that?”
Cheyenne’s deep blue eyes locked on Cory, and he forgot to breathe.
“Forsooth, the Touchdown Kid!” She passed by Cory, lightly mussing his hair. “Forsooth, brother. Forsooth.”
A chill scampered down the middle of Cory’s back. She scooped up a sundae along with one of the long silver spoons and plopped down beside him as if they were old friends before crossing her bare, tan legs and digging in.
“She thinks she’s Shakespeare.” By the tone of Jimbo’s voice and the way he pointed his long spoon, Cory could tell the two weren’t friends. “She’s obsessed.”
“Methinks thou art but a knave.” Cheyenne picked the cherry off the top of the sundae and dangled it over her mouth before dropping it in.
Cory now liked her as well as loved her.
“You think you’re so smart?” Jimbo flashed a mean smile. “Then how come you’re reading Friends with Boys?”
Cheyenne sighed and looked directly at her mother. “Deb, thy son needeth a lobotomy.”
Cory tried to cover up his burst of laughter with a cough. Cory grinned at his mom but saw that she disapproved of Jimbo’s sister.
Now Jimbo looked pointedly at Cory. “Maybe she’s reading it because she’s hot for Mike Chester, right? Maybe she’s planning something.”
Cory’s mouth fell open because Cheyenne was blushing now and he had no idea how to react. He tried to take a bite from the sundae in front of him, but choked and spurted whipped cream onto his plate.
“It’s enough to make you sick, right?” Jimbo smirked at Cory, nodding his head.
“No, that’s okay,” Cory sputtered in a lame attempt to come to Cheyenne’s defense.
“Mike Chester happens to be an extremely interesting person.” Cheyenne now glared at Cory, as if he were on the other side.
“He’s a creeper,” Jimbo sneered.
“‘A rose by any other name is still a rose.’” She held her brother steady now in her gaze.
Suddenly, Mrs. Muiller hiccupped and burst into tears. “Oh, that poor boy, Coach McMahan. That poor Liam. He had a smile that could light up a room. Everyone said he was just perfect for the offense, and now he’s got a ruined knee and he’s stuck in that . . . that place.”
“Deb!” Mr. Muiller glared at his wife and angled his head toward Cory’s mom.
Mrs. Muiller turned to Cory’s mom. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. No offense. The Westside has some lovely homes, I’m sure. It’s just that Liam was such a sweet boy with that sparkling smile. Do you know him at all?”
“We know Liam very well.” Cory’s mom squeezed her lips tight and used a napkin to wipe her mouth before turning to Coach McMahan. “Maybe this just wasn’t meant to be.”
She stood up. “Thank you for dinner. Come on, Cory. It’s time to go.”
18
“But, Mom—” Cory said, glancing back at Cheyenne.
“No buts, Cory.” Cory’s mom had him by the arm, and she moved him through the house fast, out the front door, down the steps, and into their car before the upset look on the faces of the Muiller family could fully register. Coach McMahan burst out the front door after them, yelling, “Please, wait,” and hailing Cory’s mom and blocking their escape until Cory’s mom rolled down her window.
“What?” she asked.
Coach McMahan left his spot in front of the car and leaned down to her eye level. “Deb didn’t mean anything.”
“Right, ‘no offense intended.’”
Coach McMahan forced a chuckle. “She feels bad for Liam. We all do. Football is an unforgiving game.”
“Coach McMahan, I appreciate the opportunity you’re offering Cory, I really do, but that’s too much.” She angled her head toward the house and the people in it. “This whole thing is just too . . . much.”
“I understand. But they’re good people, really. And Cory would be very comfortable,” Coach McMahan said. “I promise. But you think about it, will you? Don’t say no right now. Sleep on it and we can talk tomorrow.”
Coach McMahan waited until Cory’s mom sighed and said, “All right, Coach. We can talk tomorrow, but I don’t think it’ll do any good.”
“Okay, but we’ll talk.” Coach McMahan forced a smile and pointed at Cory. “I hope we get you, Cory. You’d have one heck of a career.”
Coach McMahan straightened and thumped the roof of the car, as if sending them into battle. Cory’s mom didn’t say anything else, and they rode back to their neighborhood in silence. Cory kept thinking mostly about Cheyenne and wishing they could live under the same roof. It was during that thirty-minute car ride that Cory felt maybe he was changing. He didn’t know if it was a good or a bad change, but it was surely a change.
He felt like he wasn’t a momma’s boy anymore, and he had to admit to himself that he’d been just that up until now. He’d never wanted to be anywhere that wasn’t close to his mother. He’d needed the comfort of her presence, her strength, and her advice. Now, though, it seemed like he could get along okay without her. Now, it seemed like if he was near Cheyenne, that would do just fine.
He looked over at his mom as they pulled into the driveway and felt a little guilty about his thoughts, but the guilt only made him that much more certain about what he wanted. It wasn’t wrong to take Liam’s place. Someone was going to, and he expected Liam would rather it be him than some kid from across town. He had his own dreams and he certainly wanted to chase them down. And, there was Cheyenne.
“What are you so starry-eyed about?” His mother had turned off the engine and was staring hard at him.
“What? Oh, nothing.” He looked away at a car parked down the street from their house. It was even junkier than theirs, some rusted orange compact with one side caved in and a tiny red-rimmed spare tire for the rear wheel. He thought about saying he was thinking about that car and the accident it had been in, but stayed silent instead.
“Something,” she said.
He blurted out the truth. “I want to play there, Mom. I want to go to HBS.”
“That woman . . .” His mother flicked her hand. “Did you hear the girl call her ‘Deb’? So disrespectful. And after that polite hello the boy didn’t seem like anything to write home about either.”
“I thought Cheyenne was nice.” Cory looked through the windshield at their crumbing home.
“Men, you’re all the same.” His mom sounded like she’d swallowed rotten milk.
“What’s that mean?” Cory looked at his mom and fought back a smile because he liked being thrown in with “men.”
“A pretty blonde and you lose your senses.”
Cory felt a blush in his cheeks and he shrugged. “I thought you liked smart people.”
“Smart? She was a smart aleck; I don’t know about smart.”
“She quoted Shakespeare.”
“How would you know?”
“It sounded like it. I saw something on the History Channel once.”
“Fancy talk can’t make up for manners,” his mom said.
Cory knew when to quit, so he got out and headed for the front door, glad for the streetlight. He had just reached the steps when he heard a sharp whistle.
“Hey!” From the shadows between houses emerged two shapes, one short, the other tall a
nd round. Cory knew his mom was right behind him, but still, the sudden appearance of the older boys loosened his insides so much that he had to pee.
“Hey, what?” Cory’s mom was beside him now, completely unafraid as she faced off with Dirty and Hoagie, who were now on their porch.
“Hey, we don’t like rats.” Dirty scowled at Cory’s mom and thrust his chin out at her.
“Yeah,” Hoagie said, sounding as big and as dumb as he looked. “Rats.”
“I’ll give you a rat.” Cory’s mom shifted into a fighting stance, placing one foot forward and throwing back her shoulders. “Get off our property.”
“Ain’t your property,” Dirty sneered. “You’re renters, just like the rest of us, so don’t you get high and mighty, rat momma. No one likes a rat who snitches to the police.”
“I didn’t.” Cory shook his head.
“Oh yeah? Well, someone did, ’cuz I got picked up today and so did Finn, and everyone saw you in the cop car, squealing.”
Cory was so flustered that he couldn’t speak.
The snick sound of a knife blade opening sliced into the heavy silence between them.
The sharp metal edge glowed in the streetlight.
Without thinking, Cory stepped between the blade and his mom.
19
Slowly, Dirty raised the blade.
Everything else was frozen.
“Rats get cut, you know.” Dirty’s words were little more than a whisper.
Cory felt its point prick his cheek and he flinched, so he missed his mother’s movement—cat quick—as she stepped around him and swung. She slapped Dirty’s face so hard he dropped the knife. The sound seemed to echo like thunder.
Dirty staggered back, holding his face, black eyes glistening with tears left by the sudden impact.
