by Tim Green
A patrol car rounded the corner, heading down the street.
“Get out of here.” Cory’s mom snarled deep in her throat. “I see you again, or you touch my son, I’ll pound you into taco meat.
“Go!” Cory’s mom lunged, and both the boys melted into the darkness.
Moments later, the orange clunker fired up and took off with screeching tires. Cory made a mental note to keep watch for that car.
His mom snatched up the knife and closed the blade. “Are you okay?”
Cory nodded, but he felt like he’d been turned inside out. His mom took his arm and led him inside, where she turned on the lights to look at his cheek. “I thought he cut you, but there’s no mark.”
“I felt it,” Cory said, running his trembling fingers over the spot, “but then you smacked him so quick. Mom, that was crazy.”
“I didn’t even think,” she said. “I couldn’t believe you stepped in front of me. Cory, don’t do that.”
Cory swelled with pride. “I had to.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No.”
She hugged him hard, then let go and was all business about getting ready for bed because it was late and she had work in the morning. Cory was in bed wearing boxers and a T-shirt with the light on so he could read when his mom appeared with a sleeping bag and a pillow. She laid them out on the scrap of orange shag rug next to his bed. “I’ll sleep better in here.”
Cory was secretly glad for her company because he’d already imagined Dirty sneaking in through his window sometime during the night with a new knife clenched in his teeth like a pirate.
“But,” she said, “you won’t be able to read because I’ll need you to shut off the light so I can get to sleep.”
Cory nodded and put his book down. His mom kissed his cheek and lay down on the floor. She turned on her side and sighed heavily. “I love you, Cory.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” He clicked off the light and lay back.
Soon, the sound of her light snoring lulled him to sleep.
When Cory’s mom woke him the next morning, she was sitting on the edge of the bed and her voice was muffled. There was enough light from the street for him to make out her form, but not her face.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” He sat straight up. “Why are you crying?”
Sobbing, she said, “Because we live in a place like this . . . and I’m sorry, Cory. I am so sorry that I didn’t do better for you. Criminals with knives and boarded-up windows. You’re all I have and I should’ve done better for you.”
She groaned in pain.
Cory hugged her and held her tight. “Shh, don’t say that, Mom. I love you. We’re fine.”
“No.” She shook her head violently and her hair flew about her head like dark birds in the thin light. “No, we are not fine, but I’m not going to hold you back, Cory. I’m not.”
“What . . . what do you mean?” he asked.
“This opportunity—at HBS. It’s one you can’t pass up, no matter how I feel. When Coach McMahan calls,” she said, “I’m letting you go.”
20
Cory stayed on at home for the final week of summer.
In the city, kids played youth-league football until high school, unlike in the suburbs and private schools, which fielded middle school teams whose seasons began with the start of school. When Coach McMahan spoke to Cory’s mom and she accepted the HBS scholarship, he told her he preferred that Cory not practice and play with the Glenwood Cougars during his final week on the Westside.
“But he didn’t say that I couldn’t, right?” Cory asked after his mom had hung up the phone and told him what was said.
“No, he only said he preferred that you didn’t because he didn’t want you to get hurt.”
That made Cory think of Liam, but freak accidents were like lightning—not apt to strike in the same place twice.
“I won’t get hurt,” he told his mom. “I want to play. It’ll be my last game as a Cougar and I’ll be the starter!”
Not only did Cory relish the thought of being treated like football royalty by his teammates and coaches—as he surely would with an HBS scholarship in hand—he simply loved being out on the gridiron. It was as he expected, too. At Tuesday night’s practice, Cory got to line up with the first-team offense, kids deferred to him at the water hose, and it seemed like everyone enjoyed calling him by his new nickname. Coach Mellon, who suddenly treated Cory as well as he’d treated Liam, told the entire team—beaming with pride—that he’d personally heard Coach McMahan call Cory the Touchdown Kid on Sunday.
It was funny to Cory that Coach Mellon acted like they were old friends, and he took note of how quickly things changed now that he was a star on the field.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about Liam. Liam remained in the hospital and, despite the way Finn had treated them the first time, Cory’s mom agreed that they should visit his best friend now that he’d recovered from surgery a bit more. On Thursday, his mom got off work a little early and they headed to the hospital.
Cory was relieved to see only Liam’s mom by his bedside. She looked tired and sad, like some haggard storybook witch who’d lost her powers. Her dress was gray and wrinkled, and bluish-green veins stood out on her pale, thin legs.
Liam had the TV on above his bed. His leg still hung in the air, and the cast was open at the knee, exposing a horror show of red and purple flesh. A tube sucked yellow fluid from the wound into a machine that pumped vigorously from its own stand at the far side of the bed.
When he saw Cory walk into the room, Liam’s face lit up and he snapped the TV off. “Cory! Thanks for coming. Wait, can I call you Cory?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Coach Mellon came by.” Liam grinned. “He said something about the ‘Touchdown Kid’?”
Cory laughed. “Oh, that. Well, I had a good day Sunday.”
“Yeah, after they turned my leg into dog food, right?”
Cory glanced at Liam’s mom. She stared at the floor and her lips moved without sound. Then he looked at his own mom for help.
“It won’t keep you down, Liam,” Cory’s mom said.
“No, ma’am,” Liam said. “I’ll be back, and then my buddy’s gonna be my backup again.”
They all laughed.
“Give me a little time to enjoy it, will ya?” Cory said.
Liam’s face got suddenly serious and he nodded at the open wound. “They said a year and a half . . .”
Then he brightened again. “But you know me, I’ll heal faster than that and I’ll have two seasons with the Cougars A team to knock Coach McMahan’s socks off, get that scholarship, and rain all over your parade, my friend, so you keep my seat warm, will ya?”
“I’ll be a little busy, Touchdown Kid and all,” Cory said. “But I will make sure someone keeps a seat nice and warm for you on the bench.”
“Hey, you’re lucky they got me tied down here.” Liam raised his arm, which was attached to an IV line.
“I am lucky,” he said in a whisper. Suddenly, Cory felt incredibly sad. Tears welled up in his eyes and he choked back a sob.
The room got quiet except for the whir of the pump.
“Oh, we brought you something.” Cory’s mom produced a hefty bag of candy corn from her purse.
“Hey, my favorite.” Liam took the bag and opened it, popping a few in his mouth before offering some to his mom. “They brought my favorite, Ma.”
His mother just shook her head and sniffed. “Finn’ll be here soon.”
Cory and Liam stared at each other until Cory softly said, “I didn’t tell.”
“I know.” Liam laid his head back and sighed. “Finn knows too. They let him go.”
“They can’t prove nothin’.” Liam’s mom looked up with an unexpected burst of fire in her eyes.
“Well,” Cory’s mom said, “we better let you rest.”
Liam nodded and closed his eyes for a moment. “Yeah. I get tired with these painkillers, but thanks for coming b
y. And Cory?”
“Yeah?”
Liam looked at him with moist eyes. “I’m glad it’s you taking my place . . .”
“Yeah? Really?”
Liam nodded.
“Thanks, Liam.” Cory and his mom turned to go.
“Cory?”
Cory stopped and looked back. “Yeah?”
Liam had his eyes closed and he yawned. “Tell Cheyenne I said hi, will you?”
“Sure, Liam.”
“Tell her I’m still gonna wear crimson and silver. It’s just gonna take me a little longer.”
Cory and his mom stayed quiet as they rode the elevator and left the hospital. When they reached her car, his mom sighed. “That poor, poor boy.”
“Why, Mom?” Cory said. “He’ll be back.”
Cory’s mom hesitated, staring at him across the roof of her battered car. “Cory, your friend will be lucky if he can even walk.”
Cory swallowed.
“I hate this sport,” she said. “I hate it and I’m asking myself why I’d even allow it.”
Cory felt a chill.
“I’m serious, Cory,” she said. “I know what I said about opportunity, but . . . something is telling me to pull the plug on this whole thing.”
21
Cory’s mom was upset and silent during the car ride home, but she got over her concerns by the time they reached their house.
After practice on Saturday morning, Cory’s mom took him shopping. It seemed like she spent a lot of her savings on clothes she called “decent enough” for him to wear at a private school that required collars and didn’t allow shorts or jeans. They bought two pairs of khaki pants and five Walmart-brand collared shirts from the sale rack. A brown pair of boat shoes from the thrift store finished the look.
“This’ll get you started,” she said. “Coach McMahan said you can’t go to school without a collared shirt.”
As a going-away present of sorts, Cory’s mom splurged for them to see the new Marvel superhero movie at the mall. Cory had been to very few movies at the theater, and he loved the high-backed stadium seats. It made him nervous when an usher went by because he and his mom had stashed candy and two cans of soda inside her purse.
When the usher was out of sight, Cory’s mom leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry. He doesn’t care. I bet he wouldn’t pay seven dollars for a box of Milk Duds either.”
The movie was grand, and after dinner, Cory’s mom slept on his floor again because she said she’d miss him.
“I won’t be far,” he told her.
The next morning, they woke to a downpour. The Cougars game was away at a field north of the city in Central Square. A wooded hill flooded the field that already looked worn-out. Puddles of mud scattered across the soupy grass promised a sloppy day. As Cory chugged through the mud, gripping the ball tight in both hands, slipping after another two-yard gain, he began to wish he’d listened to Coach McMahan’s advice and stayed home.
Football in a wet, muddy mess was fun so long as you didn’t have your sights set on dazzling people with your brilliant running ability. Cory was able to score the game’s only touchdown on an eleven-yard off-tackle play, but that was it. The game ended with Glenwood winning 6–0 and the entire team brown with mud and wet to the bone.
The good-bye with his teammates and coaches was a hurried affair in the downpour. No one really seemed to care, even Cory. His mom covered the passenger seat with two old bath towels. Even though the temperature was in the mid-sixties, Cory shivered and turned on the heat. He couldn’t wait to get home.
“HBS doesn’t play on sloppy fields like that,” Cory said as they zipped down the highway. “You can bet on that.”
“Hmm.” Cory’s mom seemed to have her mind on something else as she peered between slaps of the windshield wipers.
At home, Cory wiggled and wriggled out of his sopping uniform and equipment. He’d never thought about a shower as a wonderful thing before, but that’s how it felt as he stepped out, clean and warm.
“Well, no picnic today.” Cory’s mom pointed at the kitchen window. She had prepared a picnic lunch with the plan being for the two of them to head out to Green Lakes State Park.
They ate at the kitchen table instead and watched old DVDs all afternoon. Cory was exhausted from the game and nerves. Tomorrow was Labor Day.
It was his last night on Hope Avenue.
22
The rain continued on through the night, and Cory woke the next morning to more gray skies.
His mom was already up, and her sleeping bag lay on his floor, an empty nest. He smelled French toast on his way down the stairs.
“I heard you in the bathroom so I started cooking.” His mom wore a thin, worn-out purple robe, and she raised her spatula for him to see. “I know it’s your favorite.”
After they ate, his mom removed a TracFone from her purse and handed it to him.
“Mom.” His tone scolded her for spending money on him. “You already spent too much on all those clothes . . . and the movie.”
“It wasn’t much, and there’s only ninety minutes on it,” she said. “But if you need me, you use it. I don’t care when or where, Cory. I’m not abandoning you. I can always come and get you.”
“Who said you’re abandoning me?” He squeezed the small phone and thought about the HBS football program, those crimson and silver colors, the players like knights from a storybook. “I need to go, Mom. I want this. It’s my chance, an opportunity.”
“I know. I’ll just . . . I’m going to miss you is all.”
The rain never let up, and they spent their last day together shut in, watching more DVDs from the library, some old favorites. It was like his mom had known they’d be alone together stuck in the house, even though the weatherman hadn’t forecasted the rain.
Each movie seemed to bring them back to a specific time in their lives, each one special. There was Rudy from when Cory first started playing football at age nine. Babe reminded them both of when he started school, and The Lion King was when they’d talked about how his dad was never coming back. Neither of them talked about how the movies made them feel, but Cory knew they shared the exact same memories.
Finally, Coach McMahan’s big white SUV pulled into the driveway at 6:30 p.m. just as the rain stopped. School at HBS began the next morning, and with it, practice for the sixth-grade football team. The coach took Cory’s lone, battered suitcase and put it in the back before shaking hands with Cory’s mom, assuring her he’d be fine, and climbing back into the truck.
Cory turned to his mom.
“The head coach himself coming for you,” she said, tweaking his ear. “You must be pretty special, I’d say.”
“I’ll see you Saturday after practice?”
“Sure will,” she said, “and I’ll get another good movie for Saturday night, even if I have to pay for one. We could even go to the theater.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mom.”
She bit her lip and her eyes filled up to their brims. “I’ll be saving a lot of money on groceries. Those Muillers have no idea what they’re in for.”
She forced a laugh and then looked past him at the coach. “You better go. He’s waiting. You got your phone?”
“Yes.” Cory hugged her.
After a moment, she pushed him away and sniffed, her face twisted with pain. “You go.”
Cory turned and went. He climbed into the passenger side and waved to her as they backed out of the narrow driveway. As they pulled away, she stopped waving, covered her mouth, and turned toward the broken house.
“Yeah,” Coach McMahan said, turning the corner, “it’s always tough that first time, but it has to happen, and you’re getting a heck of an opportunity, Cory.”
The sun was setting, but it was suddenly naked and bright and it glinted off the wet road, causing Coach McMahan to put on sunglasses.
“I know.” Cory tried to sound excited, but he just couldn’t. It was all he could do to keep from f
linging open the door and jumping out at the next stop sign and running back home. He felt ashamed that he’d thought being around Cheyenne could make him forget his mom.
“Yeah, always a little glum.” The coach shucked a piece of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum and offered one to Cory. “That’s why now I come ready to these pickups. I got a surprise.” The coach glanced at him. “Wanna bet it cheers you up?”
“Okay,” Cory said. “Sure.”
“Okay. I bet you ten push-ups.” Coach McMahan pulled up to a red light and reached behind Cory’s seat. “Take a look at this.”
23
At first Cory thought it was a blanket, then some kind of flag, before Coach McMahan shook it out, and then he could see it was a crimson-and-silver HBS football jersey, glimmering in the late-day light.
“Take it,” the coach said, “it’s yours. Look at the name. You like 28?”
“I . . .” Cory was speechless. “How did you know?”
“Adrian Peterson, right?” Coach McMahan nodded his head as the light turned green and he began to drive again. “I asked your mom who your favorite player was. I’d have hesitated giving you a number like that if I hadn’t seen you run with my own eyes.”
The crimson and silver made it kind of look like an Adrian Peterson jersey from when he was at Oklahoma, only stitched onto the back was: MARCO.
Cory felt flushed. “This is what the sixth-grade team wears?”
“That’s the game jersey, yeah. Nice, huh? Try it on.”
“Super nice.” Cory pulled the jersey over his head. It slipped on, silky soft and smelling all new. He tugged it out in front of him and looked down at the number, beaming with pride.
“We like to do things right at HBS, Cory. I really think you’ll love it.”
Coach McMahan drove for a few minutes before he spoke again. “Look, you’re not going to see me much after this. I’m busy with the varsity, but bringing in our scholarship guys is a big deal. We only have two scholarship sixth-graders and then two ninth-graders. It’s an honor. You know that a lot of time and money will be invested in you, so it’s important that everything you do reflects well on the program. You understand?”
