A pat means you’re just friends, wanker. That’s what my best friend, JC, says. If she rubs your back when you hug her, well…that’s a different story. A pat equals total friend zone.
“Go, silly! Go get your award!” she says, laughing and tapping my shoulder again.
Right. My award. The tips of my fingers tingle where they touched her skin.
I walk up the stairs, my mouth still stretched into a way-too-wide grin, and only trip a little. I don’t think anyone notices. I shake hands with Mr. Lynch before accepting my trophy and certificate. I look back into the crowd and find Marnie again, clapping with her hands over her head.
Grandpa is standing up and clapping loudly. He has his version of a smile on his face, which can easily be mistaken for a sneer, but I can tell he’s proud. He’s nodding his head approvingly and clapping louder than anyone else in the ballroom. There are flashes in my face as the photographer takes my picture and the audience grows quieter.
I glance at the front row from the corner of my eye and see Grandpa still clapping for me. A few rows back, I see my whole table standing and clapping for me. Ace Quinn is clapping too, but really slowly. Clap, stop. Clap, stop. He’s staring at me with his jaw set and his eyes unblinking.
Sore loser. Screw him, this is all mine.
I catch Ace’s eye and start to smile. He looks toward Marnie for just a split second and then back at me.
“Fuck you,” he mouths.
“That concludes our program, folks. Please join us in the room next door for coffee and dancing,” Mr. Lynch announces into the microphone.
The guests start to file into the banquet hall lobby, and I see Mr. Quinn take Ace’s arm and pull him toward the door. He gestures toward the stage and shakes his head slowly. Ace says something to him, and Mr. Quinn stops in his tracks. He stares at Ace, juts his chin out, and puts his hands on his hips, leaning toward his son. Ace puts his head down and shoves his hands into his pockets. Mr. Quinn leaves the ballroom, shaking his head and pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. My mom motions to the lobby, and I wave at her to let her know I’ll see her out there. Mr. Lynch asks me to say a few words to the sports reporter and then asks for a few more pictures for the article.
I can’t find Mom in the lobby after the pictures are over, but I really have to use the bathroom. Tucking the large trophy under my arm, I swing the heavy wooden door open with my foot.
Ace stands at the sink with an athlete from another school. Both are washing their hands.
“Congrats, Sam,” the other guy says.
“Thanks, man,” I say to him on my way into a stall.
While I’m in there, I hear the heavy door open and close.
I finish what I’m doing and exit the stall.
Ace is leaning against the sink, arms folded.
“Congratulations, Samantha,” he says.
I set the trophy next to me on the sink ledge while I wash my hands.
“Thanks,” I say, fully expecting a verbal beatdown from Ace. I ready myself with my two favorite comebacks: shut up and fuck off.
“Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face,” he says, taking a step closer to me at the sink.
I don’t say anything. Something about this Ace feels off. I’m used to listening to his shit, but this feels like more. He’s breathing through his nose like a bull ready to charge.
“I’m talking to you, North,” he says, getting right up next to me. His eyes bounce across my face, and the muscles in his jaw flex as he grinds his teeth.
He grabs the award from the sink and turns it over in his hands. “I can’t fucking believe it was you,” he says. “Do you know what my dad said to me after you won? He said, ‘How could you let him beat you?’ Unfuckingbelievable.”
I have a flash of being twelve years old again, with Ace standing over me.
You’re not twelve years old anymore, Sam. You’re bigger. Stronger. Smarter than he is.
“Hey, give it back now,” I say, swallowing hard.
“How badly do you want it? You think you deserve it more than I do, pussy?”
“Give it back, Ace. I’m serious.” I approach him, but something in his eyes makes me afraid to get too close. His nostrils are flaring and his eyes are wild. Beads of sweat form along his hairline.
“Give it back, Ace. I’m serious,” he parrots back to me in a whiny lisp.
“Come on, man. Don’t do this.” My voice cracks a little bit.
“Or what? You’ll cry?” Ace laughs and backs away from me. “Or you’ll tell Grandpa on me? Is that it? I won your precious grampy his first state championship, didn’t I? Who is he going to believe? His star quarterback? Or his pussy, bench-warming QB2? You know who he likes better.” Ace holds the trophy high over his head, but he moves closer to me.
I try to grab for my award, but I’m not nearly close enough to get it from his hands. I stumble a little in my attempt and Ace laughs.
“I should have this. A real football player deserves it, don’t you think? You’re certainly not a real football player, and basketball is for pussies. Maybe I should just take it,” he says, bringing it down closer and running his finger over my name etched into the glass.
“Come on, Ace.” I swallow as much fear as will fit down my throat. I don’t like how wild his eyes look. “It has my name on it,” I say.
Ace only backs up a step or two, and his face turns even stormier. “It has your name on it? Well, then, by all means, you should have it back,” he says. His jaw flexing and his eyes shining, he holds it out to me.
I watch him for a minute, and the dread in my gut tightens. His eyes narrow as the award balances in the palm of his hand in the space between us.
I make a move to take it from him, and he suddenly raises his arm up over his head and slams the award down hard onto the marble floor. Thousands of tiny shards of glass scatter all over.
I watch the tiny pieces tumble across the floor without breathing. Ace kicks a few bigger chunks toward me with his toe.
“You’re so clumsy. I can’t believe you dropped it. They never should have given it to you,” he says, stepping around me and leaving the bathroom.
3
TODAY
2:32 p.m.
Pain radiates from every inch of my skin. Throbbing in my jaw. Searing in my forehead. A dull ache in my chest.
“How did a kid like you end up here?” the guy with the tie asks.
He drops a manila folder on the small table and sits down in the chair across from me with a sigh. He’s got deep wrinkles around his eyes and a sad puppy-dog mouth. He’s like a basset hound in a rumpled dress shirt.
I turn my head to look at him. The slight motion produces an ache so deep and black that I let out a little choking noise.
“I’m Michael. I work here. Can we talk about this?” he asks, his voice soft and measured.
I look down at my wrists. Miniscule specks of blood kiss my skin.
“If you talk to me, we will get this all cleared up. Your mom is waiting…”
I snap my head up and meet his eyes. Fresh throbs travel to my temple, and I immediately regret moving so quickly.
“That’s it. Hi,” Michael says again, a hint of a smile touching his cheeks.
“Who is with my mom?” I manage to croak.
“She’s…she’s alone, I think,” Michael says, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. “One thing at a time, though, Sam. Let’s talk about what happened today.”
She’s alone. She shouldn’t be alone. The muscles in my stomach pull taut, and the pain traveling across my ribs intensifies.
“She shouldn’t be alone,” I say.
“If we can talk about this, you’ll be able to go to her,” Michael says, his voice quiet but insistent.
My eyelids feel heavy. She’s alone out there, waiting for me. Is she pacing? Balling her fists? Curled up under a chair? Don’t they understand that she can’t be alone?
“Sam?” Michael leans forward on his
elbows, his voice barely above a whisper.
I look down at my hands again. A new stinging pain reaches up from the soles of my feet and grabs my throat.
“Don’t leave her alone,” I croak, the heavy feeling in my throat choking me.
I pull my eyebrows together and look right at him. When he swallows, his tie bobs around his throat like it’s tied too tight. I wonder if it hurts.
“What if I have someone check on her? Would that be okay?” Michael rises from his chair, not bothering to wait for an answer from me.
He pokes his head out the door and mumbles to someone I can’t see. When he comes back inside, he lowers his large frame back into the chair with a smile.
I look at him, expecting him to say something about Mom. Is she safe? Is she okay? How many times did you ask her if she’s okay? It takes at least three times before she admits that something’s not okay. If you only ask her twice, she’s not going to tell you the truth.
My mouth can’t form the words.
Michael flips a page in his notebook and nods at me. “It’s all good,” he says.
I try to imagine that she’s okay. That Grandpa is with her. That whatever is happening beyond the heavy door won’t be something that sends her into a tailspin.
I’m okay, Mom. Okay, okay, okay. I say the word in my head over and over. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough, she’ll feel it. She’ll know I’m okay, and she won’t fall apart.
“Can you tell me about your dad?” Michael asks, chewing on his pen cap.
I try to shift my feet, but I can’t move. I feel like I am covered in lead weights.
“How long has it been just you and your mom?” Michael says.
Fresh waves of pain travel up my back.
“Can I have some water?” I ask.
“We can do that,” he says, pouring from the pink plastic pitcher by his side into a Styrofoam cup.
He holds it to my lips, and I take a long sip.
The pounding in my forehead lessens.
“Okay?” he asks, putting the cup down beside me.
I nod.
He stares at me, his pen at the ready.
I want him to ask that question again. About me and my mom.
“You’ve got to talk to me, Sam,” he says.
The pounding starts again.
“Tell me about your grandpa. How long has he lived with you and your mom?”
“Almost a year,” I say.
All I want to do is close my eyes and make this room disappear.
“Do you and your grandpa…Are you close?”
Close? I don’t even know what the word means anymore.
“I don’t really know,” I say.
“Did you do things together? Is he someone you trust? Someone you’d go to if you needed help?”
No. “We did things together,” I say. Things he wanted to do, I don’t say.
“What kinds of things?”
I shrug. “He was my football coach,” I say to my lap.
“Anything else?”
I close my eyes and see him loading the black gun cases into the back of his truck every month. “The range,” I say.
“The range?”
“He took me to the gun range every month,” I say.
Michael loosens his tie. Dark green with tiny black dogs all over it.
4
JUNE
Eleven Months Before
School ended shortly after the Student Athlete Awards Ceremony. The next day, Ace and his father left for their annual boar-hunting trip. Ace never mentioned what happened in the bathroom that night. Not that I gave him a chance. Whenever I saw him coming, I’d quickly change course and walk down a different hallway.
I was operating under the assumption that Ace would go on his hunting trip and maybe forget whatever major problem he suddenly had with me. Or maybe he’d go away on his trip and fully satisfy whatever sick need he had for causing pain and suffering by killing a bunch of wild pigs. Maybe then he’d leave me the hell alone. Maybe if I could just stay out of his way, fly under the radar a little, I’d be out of the line of fire.
I never told anyone what really happened to my award that night either. I stuck with Ace’s story that I was clumsy and dropped it in the bathroom. Grandpa gave me an earful about being more responsible, and I just stood there and took it while Ace watched, a satisfied smirk on his face. The next day Grandpa made me email the Easthaven Daily Chronicle. I had to lie and say that I accidentally dropped my trophy and ask if it would be possible to get a replacement. I never heard back from editors at the paper. It’s probably one of those emails that is sent around for everyone to read and have a good chuckle. “Hey, did you hear about the kid that dropped his trophy and then asked for a new one?”
Part of me doesn’t care so much about the trophy. I can’t think back to that night without my thoughts immediately turning to Ace.
There was something about him that night, something I haven’t been able to shake. It was his face. The way his eyes narrowed on me like all he wanted was to destroy me. Sure, he had always been a grade A asshole. Sure, I had dealt with his finger in my back for years while he smiled and played nice for everyone watching, but this was so different.
I chalked it up to Ace being a sore loser at first. And don’t think I didn’t relish the fact that he couldn’t stand to see me win something. But his voice. The way his nostrils flared when he looked at me. It was enough to make me strategically plan my routes to classes to avoid him for the last few days of school.
When I saw his father’s SUV pull out of their driveway on the last day of school, loaded down with guns and gear, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I was convinced that as soon as Ace went on his little boar-killing spree, he’d go back to being just a normal asshole. I could handle a normal asshole.
* * *
My best friend, JC, and I work at the community-center sports camp together. We met there way back in third grade and have spent every summer there since.
When I get to work during the second full week of camp, there are bunches of brightly colored balloons tied everywhere. Some of them say “Good-bye” or “We Will Miss You” in glittery script.
“What’s going on?” I ask JC when I get to the staff room. I pull my basketball shoes from the top shelf of my locker and crumple the list of my campers’ names into my pocket.
“Tuck is leaving,” JC says, shoving his bag in his locker.
“The football guy? How come?” I ask, putting my whistle around my neck. Working the summer sports camps at the community center is a pretty sought-after job. Not many people leave if they’re lucky enough to be hired. Especially not after only two weeks of work.
“I think he’s moving out of state,” JC says. “I wasn’t really listening. The new football guy is supposed to be here late this afternoon. Wanna take bets on who it is?”
“No way I’m betting you anything. But what are you thinking?”
“Gotta be someone from Broadmeadow.”
“Why do you think that?” I ask as we leave the staff room together and head out to meet the camper buses.
He shrugs. “The community-college football team has already started their two-a-days. No one from there is going to give up a practice to come play football with little kids all day long. Gadsden and Whitlow High both have private summer sports programs for kids at their schools. And there aren’t many schmucks around here that would take a crappy day-camp football coach job for the summer. A Broadmeadow football player could at least put it on his college apps.”
“My grandpa didn’t say anything to me…so whoever it is didn’t use him as a reference to get the job,” I say to JC.
JC shrugs. “I’m telling you…I’d bet my entire paycheck that it’s someone from Broadmeadow.”
“As long as it’s not—”
“Don’t even say it. I know, I know, as long as it’s not Ace.” JC rolls his eyes at me.
I lower my head. JC doesn’t see it. No one does. And me
ntioning it makes me sound like a whiny pussy.
We walk away from the locker room and out the glass front doors to wait for the buses. “I don’t like the guy either, but I don’t, like, piss fire about it like you do. He’s a jackass. So what? Ignore that shit. Most of that part of the football crowd is jackasses. Why should I hate Ace more than I hate the others?”
He’s not waiting for an answer. And I’m not going to give him one.
“Have you seen Marnie since school ended?” he asks.
“Here and there,” I say, thankful for the change of subject. “Not a lot. Not enough.”
“You need to move on that, bro,” JC says, knocking his knuckles into my back.
“These things take time,” I say, laughing.
“If you don’t make a move soon, I’m gonna get the two of you alone in a room somewhere and tell her myself! You’ve been drooling over Marnie Keaton since the fifth grade, man. Shit or get off the pot.” JC laughs.
“It just never seems like the right time,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, grabbing both of my shoulders. “Make the time. Seriously.”
“Alright, alright. By the Fourth of July. Swear,” I say, holding my hands up.
“That’s like three weeks from now!”
I shrug. “What if she laughs at me or something? I don’t want to be humiliated.”
“Seriously, Sam. You never know what she’s going to say unless you ask.”
“Okay, okay! I will. I promise.”
“No chickening out,” JC says.
“Scout’s honor,” I tell him.
The buses start to pull up, and it’s JC’s and my job to make sure the kids get off the bus safely and move into the building without killing each other or running away. On the first day of camp, JC and I thought we got lucky when we were assigned to this morning duty. All we had to do was stand outside and make sure the kids made it fifteen feet from the bus door to the front door of the community center. Seriously? Beats slinging hash in the breakfast line or organizing and supervising the kids’ locker rooms.
Until I Break Page 2
