by Tim Green
Jimbo followed his dad up the stairs, turning to give Cory a wink. “See ya.”
Cory took a deep breath and wound his way through the house, down the stairs, and into his bedroom. He set down his suitcase and headed straight for the bathroom, wanting to get it over with.
The toilet lid was up. He reached for the handle, trying not to see or smell, but realized that the bowl was empty.
“Oh.” The sound of his own voice in the empty bathroom made him chuckle and shake his head.
He went back out into the bedroom to unpack his things and cried out when he saw Cheyenne sitting on the big chair in the corner.
27
“Did I scare you?” Cheyenne crossed one of her long, tan legs over the other. White shorts crept toward her waist and a turquoise T-shirt set her eyes ablaze. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, exposing the length of her neck.
Cory lost his breath.
“Cat got your tongue?” Her teeth sparkled.
“What’s that mean?” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
Her laughter danced on little puffs of air. “Just that you were speechless—but now you’re not. ‘Be checked for silence, but never taxed for speech.’”
Warnings from both Mike Chester and Jimbo swam through his mind briefly before sinking to the bottom of his brain. “What are you doing here?”
Her smile crept higher yet. Slowly, with a single crimson fingernail, she traced the line of her earlobe. “Welcoming you.”
She might as well have punched his stomach full force.
“Do you know why?” she asked in a soft, scratchy voice.
Cory shook his head.
“You’re cute, that’s why. And I like you. You’re nice.”
His heart pounded inside his ribs, desperate to be free. He needed to think. She just sat there, grinning at him. Cory had no idea what to do. The thought of kissing her came and went, ushered out the door by complete terror.
Then, she stood up and spoke in a normal voice. “Don’t act so excited.”
“What do you mean?” He wondered if he had insulted her somehow.
“I mean, act like you don’t care about any of this.” She spoke in a friendly way and waved her hands around, suggesting the entire house. “Act like you don’t care about state championships or the number 28. Don’t be so eager to please everyone. That’s how you’ll get along. Liam had that, not a care in the world. He’d have done really well at HBS. You, I’m not so sure of. You care too much.”
She stepped closer to him and touched the end of his nose, speaking softly again. “But I’m here to help. That’s what big sisters are for . . .”
She briefly puckered her lips, kissing the air between them, and dropped one last little jangle of laughter before disappearing through the door.
Cory’s nose tingled long into the night.
Her words circled his thoughts as he asked himself what she was really up to. Two things he knew: a poor night’s sleep and acting like he didn’t care to his new football coaches would not help him win the starting job at running back. Was that her game? Getting him sidetracked so Mike Chester would outshine him? Could she be that devious?
Cory picked the TracFone his mother had given him up off the night table. He turned it on and dialed his mother’s number, pausing his thumb above the Send button. She’d said any time, any place, and that he wasn’t alone. Then why did he feel so totally alone? So completely abandoned?
He set the phone down and rolled over. HBS was where he needed to be. Dreams didn’t just grow on trees. They had to be forged from sweat and blood and sacrifice.
Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing.
Maybe tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, it would all make sense.
Maybe it would all be good.
28
Cory was lying next to Liam in his hospital bed, also with his leg strung up to the ceiling and casted in white plaster from hip to toe. They were talking without words, and Cory knew Liam was upset with him. “It’s not my fault. I had to take it. You couldn’t, and like you said to me, maybe in ninth grade we’ll be together.” All this he willed Liam to understand until a slick, slithery snake on the pillow began to wiggle its way into Cory’s ear.
In terror, Cory jumped up from the bed, torn from sleep and the very weird dream.
Jimbo was laughing and wiggling a slobbery wet finger at Cory. “Hahaha. Wake up, sleepyhead! Wet willy wakeup!”
“Oh . . . aw . . . oh . . .” Jimbo caught his breath. “You came out of that bed like your pants were on fire. Hahaha.”
“Funny.” Cory swiped the sheet from the bed and rammed it into his ear, worming it in deep to soak up Jimbo’s spit.
“Liam would’ve loved that.” Jimbo sniffed and sighed. “’Course, Liam probably wouldn’t have overslept.”
“I’m not Liam.” Cory stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.
Jimbo called, “I’m telling you, you gotta be able to take a joke. They’ll make mincemeat out of you in the locker room if you can’t take a joke. C’mon, breakfast is ready, and the train leaves in twenty minutes.”
Cory brushed his teeth and got ready. He threw on some new tan khaki pants with a collared navy shirt and his boat shoes. He slipped the tiny TracFone into his pants before hurrying upstairs. Helga was busy in the kitchen. Mr. Muiller was gone, his empty place marked by a crust of toast and smears of yellow yoke on a plate at the head of the table. Mrs. Muiller peered out at the world over a steaming mug of coffee she held in both hands. Jimbo and Cheyenne were just finishing.
“Breakfast is at seven sharp, Cory.” Mrs. Muiller wore a fresh dose of makeup, but she sounded as tired as she looked. “There’s an alarm clock right next to the bed. Not sure how they do things in your neck of the woods, but around here, you need to get a good breakfast.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” Cory set his backpack beside the chair with a plate of toast and eggs in front of it and took his place opposite Jimbo.
“No sorrys needed,” Mrs. Muiller chirped pleasantly. “We aren’t big with sorrys here, are we, kids? Life’s too doggone short.”
Cory stayed focused on his food, inhaling it as quickly as he could and wondering if the Muillers had some kind of family rule about eating in silence.
“Seven twenty,” Mrs. Muiller sang. She set her coffee mug down and both her kids scrambled up from their places. They slung backpacks over their shoulders and marched toward the garage with Cory in tow. Cory sat in back of the black Range Rover with Cheyenne, the seat between them seeming as big as a continent.
The day was bright and warm, but Cory felt like an alien from another planet as they drove twenty minutes and pulled up to the gray stone school. The two enormous wings on either side of the main entrance reminded Cory of some old prison out of a movie.
“You just go with Jimbo,” Mrs. Muiller said, hurrying him to get out because her Range Rover was holding up a long line of cars and SUVs. “You’ll get your schedule in homeroom and figure things out. Sink or swim, right? No offense. Now shut that door.”
Cory nodded and shut the door, grateful to see Jimbo waiting for him, even if he wore a frown. Cheyenne was already jogging up the stone steps, plaid skirt skipping up off her bare legs. Cory fell in alongside Jimbo and remembered to try and look like he didn’t care.
29
The next couple of hours were a whirlwind for Cory. His first three classes were with Jimbo, and then he had science with Gant.
He grabbed a seat next to his new friend and tried to get his bearings.
“Hey, Cory. How’s it going so far?”
“Uh, okay, I guess. There’s a lot going on.”
“Oh, sure,” Gant replied as he jammed his fist into his pocket. “See?” Gant opened his palm and two beans jiggled there.
“What happened to the other one?” Cory asked.
Gant furrowed his brow. “It quit on me, so I left it home to rest up.”
“Did you ever think about let
ting them out?” Cory asked.
“What? Who?”
“Whatever it is that’s inside those things.”
Gant poked one of them. “No idea how I’d do that. They’re just beans.”
“Something’s inside them or they wouldn’t jump like that,” Cory said. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s trapped.”
The teacher began her lesson, so they got quiet. After science, the two of them went to lunch, and Cory realized he didn’t have a lunch and he didn’t have any money. In all the excitement he’d forgotten to ask.
“Uh, hey, Gant.” Cory nudged him.
“Yeah?”
“Can I borrow a dollar or two? I’ll pay you back.”
Gant scowled. “What for?”
“Lunch.”
“Lunch? You don’t need money for lunch.” Gant’s face relaxed. He took a tray and handed one to Cory. “We’re scholarship kids. We eat for free. It’s part of the package.”
“Really? How do they know who’s who?” Cory asked.
“Look around.” Gant lowered his voice.
“Yeah, so?” Cory just saw a bunch of kids.
“See their shirts with the little alligators on them, or the polo horses?”
“I guess so.”
“Yeah, our shirts don’t have that.” Gant tugged at his very large, red collared shirt and then looked down at his bearlike frame. “Plus, I kinda stick out.”
“Oh.” Cory had noticed kids staring at him. Like a chump, he’d assumed it was because they knew he was the star running back, come to usher HBS to a future state championship, not because he was a scholarship kid. He looked down and brushed a stray piece of fuzz from his shirt.
The discomfort didn’t keep Cory from loading up his tray and thanking the lady at the cash register when she smiled at him and quietly said, “Go ahead. You’re all set.”
Cory had only taken two steps before another lunch lady called, “Hey, you. Wait!”
He felt his ears burn and knew it had been too good to be true. He had no money, and now he’d have to put all the food back. He looked from the crowded line of other middle school students to the lunch lady.
30
“You didn’t get ice cream,” she said, pointing at a freezer case. “Kids should eat ice cream.”
Gant nodded at Cory. He had two ice-cream sandwiches on his own tray.
“Sure,” Cory said, taking just one. “Thanks.”
He followed Gant to the end of a long table and sat down across from his big friend before leaning toward him and lowering his voice. “Man, this place is great. All this stuff for free?”
Gant filled his mouth with half a taco, then spoke through the mess. “Well, not really free. You’ll earn it. Believe me.”
“Doing what?” Cory asked as he began to eat.
Gant shrugged. “Playing football. It’s like a job, bro.”
“It’s just football, Gant,” Cory said. “I love football.”
“Well, maybe when you’re not in the trenches, it’s more like a beach party,” Gant said, “but for us hogs it’s a grind.”
The two of them did little talking after that, mostly because Gant was an eating machine.
Cory had just finished his last bite of ice-cream sandwich and was licking his fingers when Cheyenne appeared out of nowhere. “Hey, little brother. Hey, Gant, you taking care of this cute guy?”
Cory sat, frozen. Over and over, quickly, he repeated the words “no big deal no big deal no big deal” in his mind.
He looked up at Cheyenne, trying not to let his eyes glitter. “Hey.”
“What ho? He speaketh. Not shy is he.” She grinned at him.
Cory wanted to say that she was the one who hadn’t said a word at breakfast or during the ride to school, but instead he told himself, “Nobigdealnobigdealnobigdeal.” When he glanced around and saw no sign of Mike, he decided to be bold.
He looked into those big blue eyes and said, “‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’”
Cheyenne raised an eyebrow. “Thou speaketh the language of the true bard?”
Cory thought the true bard might be Shakespeare, but he wasn’t certain, so he shrugged like it was no big deal either way.
Her face glowed. “Ah, ‘brevity is the soul of wit.’ He’s doing good hanging out with you, Gant. I know he didn’t get it from my brother. That boy’s dumb as a rock. See you at dinner, Pollywog.”
She mussed Cory’s hair and disappeared.
“That girl is a nuclear bomb.” Gant followed her with his eyes.
“Eh.” Cory spit out the sound and shrugged, inspired now to act completely cool.
“Eh? Eh? Are you crazy?” Gant leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “She was in my first-period class and the guys were all talking about her. She already got asked by a high school kid to the freshman dance. And I’d guess there isn’t a guy in this middle school who wouldn’t walk through fire to hold her hand, and you say, ‘Eh’?”
“She called me a pollywog, Gant. You think I’m gonna make a statue of her?”
“She noticed you, bro. You’re on her radar. She called you cute.” Gant huffed. “Then you quoted . . . who? The whole thing was like a scene on the Disney Channel.”
“I’m here to play football,” Cory said. “Not that stuff.”
“Oh.” Gant raised his eyebrows. “Mike scare you off? He’s pretty tough, but nothing for a guy from the Westside, right?”
“I’m not worried about him, or her,” Cory said.
“Well . . .” Gant seemed deeply disappointed, but then he brightened. “I get the football part, though. Today’s the day, huh? You ready?”
“Yeah.” Cory did his best to sound bored. “I’m all about the games, though.”
“Well, perfect practice makes perfect. That’s what my Liverpool coach used to say anyway.”
The bell rang and they got up to go, parting ways in the hall outside Cory’s math class. They wouldn’t see each other again until study hall before practice, so Gant gave him a fist bump. “See you out there, bro. Man, I can’t wait to see you with your dancing shoes on.”
“Dancing shoes?”
“Your cleats, Cor. I heard you got the moves. You’re the Touchdown Kid.”
Gant’s words haunted Cory for the rest of the day because he’d spent that last three years hearing about how he’d never be a football player. Then, against the Falcons, after Liam got hurt, he’d exploded. All he had thought about was getting to HBS after Coach McMahan had cast a spell on his mom. What he hadn’t really thought about was if he could actually do what he’d done in that game more than once. How long would people be calling him Touchdown Kid if he didn’t keep scoring touchdowns? He knew the answer: not long.
Those were the thoughts troubling his mind when he walked into the locker room before practice and bumped smack-dab into a much bigger problem.
31
The sour smell of dried pee and sweat hung low in the warm air.
Mike Chester puffed up his chest and stepped across the tile floor toward Cory, blocking his path. “Nobody told you?”
“Told me what?” Cory tried to sound tough and uncaring at the same time.
“Newbies don’t get to use the main entrance to the locker room.” Mike wore a wicked grin. “Newbies gotta come in through the bathroom, cuz newbies all smell like poop. And you’re our newbie, aren’t you?”
Cory looked around. The rest of the kids had all stopped picking out their lockers to stare at the confrontation. Jimbo was nowhere in sight, but when Cory caught Gant’s eye, his big new friend stepped forward.
“Okay, Mike, you made your point. He’s a newbie.” Gant reached for Cory’s arm to pull him along, but quick as a blink Mike flicked a hand, chopping Gant’s arm down and away.
“Don’t look at me like that, Gant.” Mike raised his hands in a karate stance. “I’ll strike you five times in the face before you can even think about taking a swing.”
Cory’s chest floode
d with adrenaline and joy at the butt kicking that was about to rain down on Mike Chester, but to his surprise, Gant dropped his hands.
In that same moment, Mike made his move.
32
Mike used the flat of his hand and gave Cory what looked like a shove but felt like a punch. Cory heard the wind leave his body in a powerful gust.
“Huh!”
He stumbled backward with pinwheeling arms and rubbery legs. He glanced off the corner of some lockers and lurched sideways. His foot hit something slick and flew out from under him. In a desperate attempt to stay off the floor, he planted one leg at an awkward angle, twisting his foot. He didn’t fall, but a stab of pain lit up his ankle.
Before anything else could happen, a whistle blasted from the other end of the locker room. A butterball of a man with thinning red hair marched in. His coaching gear and visor were in school colors.
“All right! All right!” The coach marched into their midst, white socks pulled up to his knees, oblivious to any trouble. “You cupcakes should all have your lockers picked out by now. If not, find one, take a lock and get it on. Five minutes and I want everyone in the gym for his equipment. We’ll get geared up and get to business. Business, boys, that’s why we’re here.”
The coach stopped in front of Cory and the whistle dropped from his mouth as he set a basket of padlocks down on the nearest bench. “Cory Marco, Touchdown Kid? Not here, you’re not. Here, you’re the newbie. I’m Coach Phipps. Good to have you.”
Coach Phipps squinted and eyed Cory from head to toe. “Not much to look at, but Coach McMahan says you’re a thoroughbred running back, and if Coach McMahan says it, it’s gospel.”
Cory shook the coach’s hand, surprised at how small it was. Mike had melted into the crowd. Cory stiffened his leg to keep from moving the ankle, telling himself he just needed to walk it off.
He took a padlock like everyone else, found an empty locker next to Gant, and memorized the combination. As he followed the crowd into the gym, he couldn’t keep from hobbling. The sharp pain in his ankle wasn’t going away. Cory thought of the Westside and Jo-Lonn Dunbar. People said he’d played football one time with a big toe swollen to the size of a hard-boiled egg. Cory needed to be tough, so he bit the inside of his mouth and did his best not to limp.
