by Edward Bloor
He shook his head.
"Or this one: Did they ever tell you about the kid who climbed a tree with a sharp pair of clippers in his hand, and he fell out of the tree, and he stabbed himself? Did they ever tell you about either one of those kids? Did you ever meet either of them?"
"No."
"Well, I did. I met both of them."
He continued to back away. I shouted after him, "What about this one: Did you ever hear about this kid, this stupid kid who wouldn't listen to anybody, and he stared at a solar eclipse, and he went blind? Did you ever hear about him? Did you ever meet him?"
The poor kid pedaled away as fast as he could. I didn't watch him go. I bent over and looked down at my own murky reflection in the water. Like the final words of a ghost story, I muttered, "Well, you have now."
Thursday, November 30
Mom left the house at ten o'clock this morning. She was gone for most of the day. I was here alone.
At exactly twelve noon, I pulled out my blue suit from the closet, the suit that I had worn to Mike Costello's funeral. I put it on, without a shirt, shoes, or socks, and walked out through the patio doors, into the backyard. I must have looked like an idiot.
I walked straight out until I was facing the gray wall. I had no clear idea what I was going to do. I just knew that I had to do something. For a while I stood there staring at the ground, like an idiot. Then I bent forward and wedged both hands into the space between the wall and the sod. I pulled the sod up and toward me, so that the whole piece of it rolled back onto my feet with its roots sticking up. Beneath it was a rectangle of white sugar sand two feet long and three feet wide.
I got down on my knees, like an idiot, on that upside-down piece of sod, and started to scrape away the sugar sand. I scooped up big handfuls of it, piling them on either side of the rectangle, until I reached the dirt below. I stared at that dirt in fascination, thinking how odd it was that I had never seen it before. This was the dirt that we lived on. The dirt of the tangerine grove that we burned, and buried, and plowed under, and coated with sand, and landscaped over. Here it was.
The sweat started to drip off my forehead, fogging up my glasses. I yanked them off and threw them over to the side. I didn't even know where they landed. Then I bent over that hole in the dirt until my face was an inch above it. I thought about Luis Cruz, a man I barely knew. I thought about Luis Cruz being lowered into this ground, never to come back up. I felt the tears start to well up deep inside of me. Once they started to come, there was no stopping them. I wept, and sobbed, and poured tears into that hole in the ground. Like an idiot? No, I don't think so.
When I was finished I stood up, brushed the dirt from my knees and my elbows, and located my glasses. I pushed the sand back into place and rolled the sod back into position. Then I came back in here and threw my suit into the garbage.
It's remarkable. Strange and remarkable. I feel like Luis is a part of me now.
I feel like a different person.
Friday, December 1
It's nearly midnight on Friday. It's been a night to remember.
I just got off the phone with Joey. He called to find out if I'm all right. I think I am. In fact, I think I'm more than all right.
Joey said that everybody at his party was asking about me. I guess that would include Kerri, the date I never had. I told Joey everything that I knew about tonight, and he told me what he knew. Between us, I think we managed to piece together what happened at the Lake Windsor High School gym.
Let me start at the beginning. I took another bogus sick day today. Mom didn't care. She seems to be having problems of her own. She spent a couple of hours on the phone this morning, holding a yellow legal pad in her lap. I went walking through and I heard her talking to someone at the Sheriff's Department.
Anyway, both Mom and I managed to do what Dad asked—to be ready at six o'clock to go to the Senior Awards Night. I wore black pants that were too short for me and a white shirt that was too tight. Mom commented, "That's it, Paul. We have to get you some new clothes this weekend. Definitely."
The seniors had to be at the gym at six-thirty so they could learn where they were supposed to stand and what they were supposed to do. To Dad this meant that we had to arrive at six-thirty, too, even though Erik was riding with Arthur Bauer.
So there we were, standing outside the south entrance to the gym an hour beforehand. Some members of the football team were still carrying risers in and setting them up on the hardwood floor. The principal, Mr. Bridges, was pacing nervously and gesturing to Coach Warner. He finally settled down when a pickup truck arrived towing a boat trailer. It wasn't hauling a boat, though; it was hauling a tree—the laurel oak that would be planted in Mike Costello's name. The tree was a lot bigger than I had expected. It was about fifteen feet tall, and it was growing in an enormous plastic tub full of black dirt that was almost as wide as the trailer.
The driver of the truck swung around and backed up toward the gym door, following Mr. Bridges's hand signals. Mr.
Bridges called out to the coach, "All right, now what do we do? How do we get it from here to the basketball court?"
Coach Warner disappeared inside and came back with four of his biggest seniors, including Brian Baylor. They spread out around the trailer and started talking about how to move it. Mr. Bridges opened the double doors for them. As soon as he did I could see Joey and his parents standing inside.
On the count of three, Brian Baylor and the other guys hefted the trailer up and off of the truck hitch. They started walking the trailer into the gym like a huge wheelbarrow. Everything went fine until they got to the spot where they were supposed to set it down. When Brian Baylor let his end all the way down, the big tub tipped toward him, the tree branches crashed down onto his head, and a huge pile of black dirt came pouring onto the gym floor.
Coach Warner ducked into his office beneath the bleachers and came out with a board and a pair of cinder blocks. Brian hefted up the trailer again and the coach slid the board and the blocks underneath it, straightening out the tub.
Mr. Bridges clapped his hands together and called out, "All right. Now let's get this dirt cleaned up."
Brian Baylor and the other football guys drifted away. They had no intention of touching that dirt. I walked over and started to scoop some back into the tub. Joey joined me right away. In a few minutes we had it all cleaned up.
Joey said, "Fisher, are you being a hero again?" I looked at him, but I couldn't tell if he was being serious or sarcastic. Then he took one of his black-smudged hands and made like he was going to press it onto my white shirt. I backed off, and we both laughed. Mr. Costello led us into Coach Warner's office, where we used the bathroom sink to wash up. The only other thing that Joey said was, "Do you need a ride to my house tonight?
You and Kerri?" I said, "Yeah."
When we came out from under the bleachers, there was a lot more activity in the gym. Mom and Dad had staked out seats just above us, about six rows up and on the aisle. Mom leaned over and said to me, "Paul, get a program from that girl."
I looked over and saw a Student Council girl in a blazer standing on the basketball court, right next to the tree. She was holding a pile of programs. Joey and I went up to her. She turned to him and said, "You're Mike's brother, aren't you?"
He said, "Yeah."
She smiled and told him, "Mike was a really good guy."
Joey just nodded. Then he pointed at me and said, "And this is Erik's brother."
The girl showed some mild interest. "Erik Fisher?" I shuffled uncomfortably. She handed me a program and added, "Mr. Generosity?" I must have looked really confused. She laughed, said, "He sure is a great kicker," and turned to greet some new arrivals.
Mr. and Mrs. Costello started gesturing to Joey to come. They had joined Mr. Donnelly on a low riser near center court. I said to him, "I'll catch you later," and climbed up the steps to sit with Mom and Dad.
I could see that the low riser was going to be the foc
al point of the ceremonies. There were six chairs on it, a table covered with trophies, and a microphone stand. Behind it were three rows of risers; each one was six inches taller than the one before it. All of the bleacher sections on our side of the gym had been pulled out, and they were filling up quickly. On the far side of the gym, only the center sections on both sides of the exit had been pulled out. The marching band, the Seagirls, and the rest of the football team, the guys who weren't seniors, were sitting there.
I caught sight of Kerri and Cara. They were in the top row, about five sections to the right of us, near the east entrance. They were looking right at me. They smiled and waved, and I waved back. I saw a few other kids from Lake Windsor Middle School come in, Joey's friends. They all climbed up to that same section. That Adam kid was with them, but he didn't sit next to Kerri.
A high-pitched wail of feedback snapped my attention back to the front riser. Mr. Bridges was standing at the microphone, getting ready to begin. He said, "If everyone will take their places, we can get started."
Everything was arranged in descending steps. Across from us, against the far wall, the blue uniforms of the band members filled two sections from top to bottom. Then the white-and-blue robes of the chorus singers filled three risers, from high to low. On the front riser were Coach Warner, Mr. Bridges, Mr. Donnelly, and the Costellos. To their right, or my left, was the laurel oak tree. And in the space in between, at floor level, were the other honored guests of the evening—the senior football players.
The leader of the chorus raised her hand, and we all got quiet. The chorus and band performed a song called "Try to Remember."
After the song, Mr. Donnelly took over the microphone. He talked about sportsmanship, and about how Mike Costello was a role model. He read some lines from a poem called "To an Athlete Dying Young."
Mr. Donnelly then called on the president of the Student Council, a tall guy in a blazer, to come up and read a statement about the laurel oak tree. The statement was a lot longer than it needed to be. He read a long list of names of "people who helped make this possible." I found my attention drifting back to the right, about five rows up. But when I looked over there, my eyes never got past the east entrance. I bent forward and heard myself whisper, "Oh my God."
There they stood—Tino and Victor. It was like a mirage. It was impossible. They couldn't be there. And yet they were. They were standing together on the sideline staring straight ahead, hard-eyed, totally focused, like the wrath of God.
They continued to stare at the front, and I continued to stare at them, as the Student Council guy finished and Mr. Donnelly returned to the microphone. He began to introduce the senior football players, reading from the program listing: "Brett Andrews, Arthur Bauer, Brian Baylor..."
I looked back at Mr. Donnelly. He was relaxed, smiling, totally unaware of any problem. As he read each player's name, the player walked out and stood facing us, in front of the people on the riser. "...Terry Donnelly, John Drew, Erik Fisher..."
I looked back at Tino and Victor, and my blood turned cold. I became terrified. What had they come here to do?
I didn't have to wait to find out. Tino took off at a brisk walk down the sideline, Victor right behind him. They silently closed in on the front riser as Mr. Donnelly continued to read the names.
But then, suddenly, Mr. Donnelly became aware of their presence. He stopped reading, looked up at the two of them marching forward, and smiled. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Something like: Had he forgotten to introduce these youngsters so they could come up and read the poem they had written?
He soon had his answer. Mr. Donnelly, and the rest of us, watched in absolute silence as Tino crossed the hardwood floor and walked directly up to Erik.
Erik never saw it coming. Tino brought his right leg up and around in a vicious karate kick that doubled Erik over and filled the gym with a sickening Hoooh! sound from his emptying lungs. Then Tino stepped back, measured the distance, and brought his knee up into Erik's face. A sharp sound, like the snapping of a twig, echoed in the gym. Then Tino, his voice trembling with rage and choked with tears, shouted, "That's for Luis Cruz! I take care of his light work."
I could sense Dad standing up next to me. But that's all he did. He stood up and stared at Tino. Everyone on the floor, on the risers, and in the stands seemed frozen in place.
The first person to move was Arthur Bauer. He moved toward Erik, I suppose to protect him from further damage—but he never got there.
Victor took off at a full sprint. Arthur turned just as Victor's head drove into his midsection. Arthur went flying backward into Brian Baylor, who pushed him away.
Suddenly all of the people in the stands were released, and they went crazy—jumping up and screaming and yelling.
Victor jumped on Arthur and started pummeling him furiously, landing roundhouse blows to his head so fast that his arms were a blur, like the nylon strings on a Weed Whacker.
Coach Warner bellowed above the rest of the voices, "Grab them! Grab them!"
Some of the players obeyed. They jumped Victor from behind and pulled him off of Arthur Bauer. Coach Warner himself grabbed Tino, who was still standing over Erik's prostrate body.
But Victor could not be held. One of his captors slipped and fell on the blood that had spilled out of Erik's nose. Victor broke free and ran. The seniors chased him and trapped him, like a snarling wolf, up against the emergency exit door. They charged at him, hit him, and drove him into the red bar that says ALARM WILL SOUND. And that's exactly what happened. The alarm went off. The door flew open. Victor slipped their grasp and was off, running into the night.
Mr. Bridges took the microphone and started pleading for order, but Coach Warner was screaming over him, screaming at the players who'd let Victor get away. He twisted Tino's arm into a hammerlock and started walking him quickly toward the sideline, toward his office, toward me.
All I remember next is Mom shouting "Paul!" as I took off, flying through the air. I landed hard on Coach Warner's back and held on tight, riding his neck and shoulders. He lurched to one side, losing his grip on Tino. I felt one huge hand come around and grab my hair, yanking me forward, right over his head. I bounced off the floor just as Tino hit the exit door. He, too, was gone into the night.
I got pulled to my feet by a couple of football players who dragged me under the bleachers and into the coach's office. I thought they were going to beat me up, but then Dad burst into the room, along with Coach Warner. I was relieved for about two seconds. And then Dad himself was in my face, grabbing me by my shirt and screaming, "I oughta kill you for that! Are you crazy?"
Coach Warner seemed a little more in control. He pointed a big finger at me and demanded to know, "Who are they?"
I stared him down, which made Dad even madder. He screamed, "You heard the man! Who are they?"
I stared Dad down, too. He turned to Coach Warner and reported, "My wife thinks they're from his soccer team. The Tangerine Middle School soccer team."
The coach shook his head slowly and asked Dad the big question, the question that everybody in that gym had to be asking. "Why?"
Dad worked his jaw muscles, at a complete loss for words. At the same time, he loosened his grip on my shirt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that the coach had an emergency exit door of his own. I didn't hesitate. I hit that red bar at full speed and never looked back. I sprinted across the parking lot, around the football stadium, and out onto Route 89.
I ran for my life, at full speed, like I was sprinting down the sideline of an endless soccer field. I kept that pace up all the way to Lake Windsor Downs. I veered off onto the perimeter road and stumbled along over the packed dirt until I found myself at the wall behind our house. Then I stopped still, clutching my side, gasping for air, doubled over in pain.
When I was able to, I looked up at the wall. The paint had been cleaned off, but the words were still faintly visible in the moonlight: SEAGULLS SUCK. I stood studying that wall f
or many minutes. Then I felt headlights on me, too high up to be a car's headlights. I turned and watched the Land Cruiser pulling up slowly and unevenly in the rutted dirt.
Erik and Arthur stayed inside for a minute, invisible behind the tinted glass. Then a bolt of light shot into my eyes, snapping my head back. It was the Land Cruiser's center spotlight—huge, bright, and powerful, like a setting sun.
Erik and Arthur opened their doors and got out, leaving the motor running and the headlights on. They stepped around in front, so that the lights were on me while they remained in shadow. Still, I could see that their faces were swollen and bloody. And I could see that Erik was holding a metal baseball bat in one hand. I understood that I was supposed to be terrified by this spectacle—these two demonic creatures on this dark, lonely road. But for once in my life, I wasn't.
I stepped forward and faced them, just as I had seen Luis do. I held my hands out, as he had done, and said, "I'm not afraid of you, Erik. Come on."
Erik stood in his pose, not moving. But Arthur did move. He produced the blackjack and began to tap it into his hand. I thought to myself, Can you really be that stupid? Can you really still be carrying around the murder weapon?
When they finally spoke, it wasn't terrifying, it was lame. They started in on the same routine as always. Erik made his remarks, and Arthur repeated them, as if nothing in their pathetic lives had changed. As if they had not just been beaten up by a pair of seventh graders in front of the entire football team and five hundred other people. Erik posed and talked, and then Arthur repeated:
"You're going to pay for what happened tonight."
"Oh yeah. You're gonna pay."
"You're gonna wish tonight had never happened."
"Oh yeah."
I couldn't stand it. I took another step forward and challenged him, "Come on, Erik, let's see if you can do any better with me than you did with Tino."
