by Tim Green
He limped to the window.
Through the leafy bushes, shadows flickered out by the pool. Another splash, then more laughing. He left his room and limped down the hall, crossing the game room before silently opening the glass door. The shrieks intensified, laughter swirling with delight like some new flavored ice cream. It drew him out.
Three piles of soccer cleats and uniforms lay on a lounge chair.
He watched Cheyenne and two friends from behind the bushes. They had stripped to their underwear and sports bras and were jumping in and out of the pool, pushing and shoving and laughing. The moment he realized what they were wearing—or what they weren’t wearing—Cory leaped for the door. His ankle buckled and he crashed sideways into a glass-topped table and chairs. The table went over. Glass exploded.
Cory lay in stunned silence until the face of a girl he thought he’d seen in math class appeared. She was tall and pretty, with blond hair that was lighter and straighter than Cheyenne’s. A thick towel covered everything but her face and skinny legs. He thought her name was Tiffanae.
“Oh my God!” she shrieked. “Creeper!”
Cheyenne appeared, also thickly wrapped. “Cory?”
“I’m outta here, Cheyenne,” Tiffanae said.
The third girl appeared and said, “You think he saw us? Wait till Mike finds out.”
Cheyenne stood frozen.
A small sliver of glass poked up from Cory’s palm like an icicle. A crimson bead of blood swelled, broke, and ran down his wrist. He thought of Liam, still lying in the hospital with a knee destroyed nearly as completely as his dreams, and Cory knew why everything was against him. This wasn’t his path. Liam was supposed to be living in this house, hanging around with Gant and Jimbo, playing for HBS, and taking Mike Chester’s position.
Cory plucked the shard of glass from his palm and looked up at Cheyenne’s face, knowing that the charade—it was a charade, a silent, bumbling make-believe—was over.
42
“Don’t be stupid,” Cheyenne snapped.
Cory could tell by the looks on the girls’ faces that they—like him—weren’t sure who Cheyenne was talking to.
Then she turned to the first girl. “Cory lives here. He’s not a creeper. Don’t even start with that, Tiffanae.”
“He saw our underwear.” Tiffanae poked out her lower lip.
“Big deal. It’s like a bathing suit,” Cheyenne said. “Get over it. The poor kid is bleeding.”
“Yeah,” said the third girl.
“See?” Cheyenne said. “Tami gets it.”
“Okay.” Tiffanae shrugged pleasantly, and just like that, Cory was off the hook.
He picked himself up off the ground, dusting glass off himself.
“Be careful. Come on, let me get you a bandage.” Cheyenne reached for his hand, drawing him from the mess. “No, don’t touch that glass. Leave it. Helga will get it. What happened?”
“I needed to talk to you.” Cory’s insides began to unravel. There was so much to say, and he knew she was reading his face with those blue eyes.
“You guys wait for me.” She spoke to her friends with the tone of a kind and concerned adult. “I’ll be back.”
Tiffanae and Tami obeyed without a word, shuffling off to the lounge chairs. Cheyenne brought him back inside the game room. She grabbed a wad of Kleenex and pressed it against his palm. Sitting on the leather couch, her hair damp as seaweed, she asked, “What’s going on?”
Cory took a deep breath and told her everything. The only part he left out was where he threatened Chester with Liam’s brother and his friends.
When he finished, she nodded to herself, making up her mind. “First, you’ve got to get better. My dad knows the trainer at SU. You need the best. You can’t believe what they did when I sprained my ankle in lacrosse—cold compression boots and electric stim. I was back in a week. Injuries happen.”
“Not in the locker room.” Cory hung his head. He couldn’t help sounding glum.
“It is what it is. And, oh, I’ll fix Michael Chester.” She spoke bitterly.
He looked up. “I thought . . . well, you like him, right?”
“I liked him because he was the underdog, Cory, not the bully.” Her eyes flashed angrily, then her face and voice softened together. “I always root for the underdog, Cory. Now—apparently—that’s you.”
43
Cory was no stranger to being the underdog, so it didn’t bother him when Cheyenne pleaded his case to Mr. Muiller at the dinner table.
“That coach is off his rocker.” Cheyenne thumped the table and her silverware danced as she turned to her father. “Treating Cory like dirt when he’s got a sprained ankle? You wouldn’t stand for that if he did it to Jimbo.”
Jimbo drank his milk, then glared at her across the table with a white mustache on his lip. Cory knew he wasn’t happy about the way things had gone. Jimbo had expected a superstar for a houseguest, and he’d been sulking since he sat down.
“Wait a minute, what?” Mr. Muiller sputtered and used one of the fancy cloth napkins to wipe some food from his face. “Coach Phipps put Mike Chester in as the starting halfback? And he didn’t send you to Kayla Rice?”
“Who’s Kayla?” Cory asked.
“The varsity trainer.” Mr. Muiller rose from his seat and turned to Mrs. Muiller. “Did we get a call from Phipps?”
Mrs. Muiller gulped the rest of her wine and started pouring more. “I didn’t. Howard, sit down and finish your dinner.”
“Not until I have a word with Phipps.” Mr. Muiller threw his napkin on the table and grabbed his cell phone from the counter between the dining area and kitchen.
“Dad . . .” Jimbo whined. “It’s football. Coaches are supposed to be tough.”
“Tough, not stupid.” Mr. Muiller tapped away at his phone.
“‘Come not between the dragon and his wrath.’” Cheyenne flashed a fake smile at her brother.
“You can take that Shakespeare and stick it in your ear!” Jimbo burst up out of his seat and pointed at Cory. “He wouldn’t even sing!”
“Wait, what?” Mr. Muiller stopped dialing. “What do you mean? Everyone sings, right? I sang when I was your age. It’s HBS tradition.”
Jimbo recounted his version of the story in the locker room after practice. Cory sank down in his seat and pressed on the Band-Aid covering his palm because the cut had begun to ache.
“And then he threatened Mike Chester with some gangster criminal from the Westside who carries a knife.” Jimbo looked with great satisfaction at the mask of horror on his mother’s face.
“He was being bullied!” Cheyenne’s chair screeched across the floor as she jumped to her feet. “Everyone was ganging up on him. What was he supposed to do? And what about the swirly? You didn’t say that!”
“Swirly?” Mrs. Muiller took another sip of her wine.
“They stick your head in the toilet,” Cheyenne said, “then flush it.”
“That’s disgusting.” Mrs. Muiller stopped the wineglass halfway to her lips and winced.
“That’s why he said that about the kid with the knife, and he should have.” Cheyenne jutted her chin out at her brother.
“How would you know? You weren’t there,” Jimbo said.
“Because Cory told me. That’s how I know.”
“You’re the one who likes Mike Chester,” Jimbo replied.
“In any fight, I like the underdog.”
“Well you got the underdog with him.” Jimbo nodded toward Cory. “He looked like a wet dish towel out there.”
“All right, stop!” Mr. Muiller slammed his palm flat on the table, and everyone did stop. “That’s better. Now, Cory, singing isn’t a bad thing. It’s a tradition. Every fifth-grader does it, and when kids join HBS after that, they’re expected to sing. It’s harmless.”
“Yeah, but I can’t sing.” Dinner grew suddenly heavy in Cory’s stomach. “I’m tone-deaf.”
“Tone . . . what?”
Cheyenne sp
oke right up. “Tone-deaf, Dad. He can’t hear the notes. It’s ugly when somebody tone-deaf tries to sing.”
“Who cares about ugly?” Mr. Muiller scrubbed his blond beard with a free hand. “It’s a locker room.”
“Please . . .” The rest of what Cory wanted to say got jammed up.
“He’s our guest,” Cheyenne argued.
“Oh, fine. I’ll talk to Phipps.” The father held up his phone as proof.
“And he’s not a dish towel.” Cheyenne glared at her brother.
“That’s right,” Mr. Muiller said. “He’s Coach McMahan’s recruit, so we already know he’s a player. Right, Cory?”
Cory hesitated.
“Of course he’s a player.” Cheyenne’s arms flew about her head. “Coach McMahan said he was the Touchdown Kid.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone absorbed the import of Coach McMahan’s endorsement. Just the thought of the upright coach made Cory sit a bit straighter. In the back of his mind, he made a note to thank Gant and tell him what a genius he was for telling him to involve Cheyenne.
“I did what I did.” Cory spoke hesitantly at first, but then picked up steam. “When Coach McMahan saw me, I ran four touchdowns and two hundred and thirty seven yards! And that was just in the second half.”
Mr. Muiller cleared his throat and shot Jimbo a look. “Injuries are part of the game. Jimbo had a bad elbow last season and missed two games. Remember, Jimbo?”
Jimbo bit his lip and looked at his plate, cheeks on fire.
“I’ll have a word with Phipps and we’ll get you in to see Zach Houlaires. The Syracuse University trainer. Works magic on people.” Mr. Muiller left the table with the phone already to his ear.
Cory’s hand began to throb. He looked around and knew he could really use some magic.
44
The rest of dinner was quiet, and Cory finished quickly and returned to the basement.
Alone, in the dark of his room, Cory needed some sympathy.
He sat staring at the wall for nearly an hour, willing Cheyenne to come slipping into his room. He wished she had sensed his need to talk, but nothing happened, and he sure wasn’t going to sneak around the enormous house looking for her.
He sighed out loud, then turned on the light and fished the TracFone out of his backpack. He stared at it for a moment and thought about dialing his mom. That was too weak, though. He couldn’t cry to his momma. She’d probably freak out and demand he come back home.
Instead, he dialed information and got the number for the hospital.
It took him several minutes, but finally he was patched through to Liam’s room. When it began to ring, Cory fought the urge to hang up. It was ten o’clock, probably too late. He readied his finger over the End button, planning to hang up quickly at the sound of Liam’s mom’s voice.
“Hello?”
“Liam?”
“Hey, Cory! What’s up, bud?”
“I was afraid I’d wake you.”
“Ha! I sleep all day in this joint,” Liam said. “Except for physical therapy. I can barely move this thing, but it still wears me out and they have to pump up my painkillers and I zonk out half the day. I was watching Criminal Minds. Reminds me of my brother. Haha.”
“How is your brother?”
Liam lowered his voice. “Looks like he beat the Shamrock rap. Everyone knows now that you didn’t talk, so . . . that’s a good thing.”
“Of course I didn’t talk. I know better than that,” Cory said. “Hey, you’re not the only one needing rehab anymore.”
“You’re hurt?” Liam’s voice was filled with real concern. “Is it bad?”
“It’s not that bad.” Cory wiggled his ankle and it hurt. “Sprained my ankle. Looks like I’m gonna be out for a week or so and it stinks. I don’t fit in here and I’m worried about not practicing, you know?”
“Hey, you’re a Westsider. You hold your head high!” Liam was all fired up. “Sprained ankle is nothing. Happens all the time. HBS is about football, bud. Football, that’s you and me. We are players. That’s why they come get us from the Westside. We’re tough as shoe leather. We rock.”
Cory laughed at his friend’s enthusiasm. “I like it, Liam. See? This is why I wanted to talk to you. You sound great. So, the knee is going good, huh?”
“Uhh, let’s talk about you.”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
Liam paused, then explained, “Well, I got a tube pumping puss out of this thing and I need morphine to keep me from screaming out loud, so, yeah, I’d say it’s all wrong.”
“Sorry.”
“No, that’s okay. I’m gonna be fine. I’m telling you, I’ll be at HBS in two short years and in the meantime, you set the tone, okay? Don’t take any bull from anyone. Act like you belong, cuz you do. You deserve to be there. Got it?”
“Yeah. I got it. Thanks, Liam.” Cory looked at the clock. “Hey, I gotta go, buddy. I only have so many minutes on this thing.”
They said good-bye. Cory turned out the light and lay back down.
It was still dark and he still felt alone, but now there was a spark in his mind that—even though it didn’t keep him warm—provided some comfort against the coming day.
45
Despite Liam’s words, Cory still couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t fit in at HBS. He was a round peg in a square hole. Even around his new friends—Gant, Parker, and Garrison, even Jimbo—he felt out of place. Mike Chester had either gotten the message from Cheyenne or lost interest now that he had his starting job back, because he left Cory alone. Coach P was focused on getting his guys ready for the opening game, and he ignored Cory since he wasn’t part of the drills.
“Just watch and try to learn as much as you can,” were the only words Coach P had for Cory. He felt useless standing off to the side of the action, watching and waiting for five thirty to roll around. That’s when everyone had agreed that Mr. Muiller would pick Cory up and take him to treatment up at the university.
The highlight of his week was when Cheyenne put her hand on his arm during their Wednesday car ride to school. She looked at him with those amazing blue eyes that burned in the frame of her blond mane, her red blouse open at the collar. “Don’t worry, you don’t ever have to sing. No one will bother you.”
Cory didn’t bother to tell her that singing had dropped way down on his list of concerns. All he wanted now was to get back into the action and become the Touchdown Kid once more.
The lowlight was Thursday morning when he saw Cheyenne talking to an eighth-grade boy in the hallway between classes. She stood leaning against the lockers, holding her books tight, her blue-painted toes wiggling in her sandals. When Cory walked by, she didn’t even look his way.
Otherwise, Cory slogged along, learning his school lessons, going to study hall, standing on the sideline watching practice, and heading up to SU to get treatments from Zach Houlaires before dinner with his new family. The cut on his hand healed quickly and he finished The Outsiders, a total bore, then rewarded himself with a John Grisham legal thriller from the school library about a boy trapped in an old hotel with his crazy father.
By the weekend, Cory’s ankle felt much better. Mr. Muiller took Cory to see the trainer before Saturday’s practice. Cory walked into the college facility with barely a limp. Zach came out of his office at the sight of Mr. Muiller. This time, the tables around the training room were filled with men, college players nursing bad elbows, knees, necks, shoulders, and ankles. Zach had a table set aside for Cory, though, and he connected a compression boot before slipping it on Cory’s lower leg.
The players around the room eyed Cory with curiosity, but Zach and Mr. Muiller ignored them. After the compression boot, some electric stimulation, and a session with the ultrasound wand, Zach sat at the end of the table on a stool and tested Cory’s ankle, probing with his fingers and then bending it around. It wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t hurt enough to make Cory flinch either.
Zach frown
ed in a way that made Cory nervous before he announced, “I’d keep him out of practice today and ice this tonight and tomorrow, but Monday, he’ll be good to go.”
“Zach, I appreciate this.” Mr. Muiller shook hands with the trainer. “You’re the best.”
“Let’s have him wear this brace.” Zach removed a black ankle brace from beneath the table and handed it to Cory. “Make sure it’s snug when you put it on.”
Cory took the brace and blinked. “I can practice?”
“Good to go on Monday.” Zach stood up and dusted his hands. “Yes.”
As much as Cory loved football, he had never been so excited to dive back into practice. He shook the trainer’s hand and grinned the whole ride to the school, thankful that this was one of the last times he’d have to stand there like a post. Cory listened to Mr. Muiller talk on his cell phone to a banker about an apartment complex that he intended to buy. The inside of the car was soft and smelled of new leather.
Cory wondered what it would be like, having important people like Zach do you favors and then buying and selling the homes where thousands of people lived with just a phone call. Maybe he’d buy apartment complexes too one day. If he made it to the NFL, he’d have to buy something with all that money. First, though, he’d get his mom a house, something like the Muillers’, with a pool and a maid like Helga and a Range Rover in the garage, maybe a white one so it wouldn’t be exactly like Mrs. Muiller’s.
Cory’s dream was interrupted by a poke in his shoulder. “Huh?”
“I said, ‘I bet you can’t wait till Monday, right?’”
“I can’t. I was just thinking that.” Cory beamed.
“That’ll put a stopper in some of these people.” Mr. Muiller frowned.
