by Jeff Rud
“Yeah, he’s helped me out too,” Matt said, playfully pulling the Yankees cap Charlie was wearing down over his eyes. “And I didn’t even have to bake him anything.”
Charlie laughed. “Hill, I wouldn’t trust you to make toast.”
Charlie suddenly looked at his watch and rose quickly. “I’ve got to get going,” he said. “I’ve got a math test first thing this morning. Hargraves always gives brutal tests.”
Matt and Andrea waved to Charlie as he walked away, struggling to work up a fast pace because of the brace on his leg. Matt could tell Charlie was in a good mood. He liked it when his work was appreciated. Then again, who didn’t?
“So, you’re playing today. That’s great,” Matt said, turning to Andrea, who looked so much different in a softball uniform, with her long blond hair in a ponytail pulled through the back of her purple Stingers cap.
It was the first time he had talked to Andrea alone since the dance. He had wondered if things might be a little awkward between them, but they weren’t.
“Are you coming?” she asked.
“Sure, yeah,” Matt said. “Gotta show the old school spirit, right?”
Andrea smiled. But it didn’t last long. A look of concern came over her face, like she was remembering something negative.
“I’m glad you’re here early this morning,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but not around your friends.
“It’s about the dance. Remember when Jake and those guys and Marcia went outside? I couldn’t tell you about it then, but Marcia said Jake and his cousins were smoking a joint.”
Matt didn’t say anything.
“Whatever those guys do is up to them,” Andrea continued. “But it wasn’t cool with Marcia. I don’t think she’ll be hanging out with Jake anymore. He sort of ditched her too.”
Matt understood. He felt like he should defend Jake. But he also felt like Marcia was right. Jake had just taken off on her after arranging the whole dance thing with the four of them. And with Marcia’s dad being a drug and alcohol counselor, he was sure she would have felt pretty weird about seeing them smoke a joint.
“I sort of figured out what happened,” Matt said solemnly. “And Marcia’s not the only one who’s pissed about it.”
Matt wasn’t sure why, but he felt he could tell Andrea about the dilemma he was facing with Jake. He told her about the night at Long Lake and about the drugs in Jake’s jacket and about the mess he was now in with his mom and Officer Peters.
“I don’t know what to do about it,” he said, hoping she might have an idea.
“I think you have to talk to Jake,” Andrea said. “You guys have been friends for a long time. He probably doesn’t even know about the trouble he’s caused for you.”
The warning bell rang. That meant just five minutes before the first class of the morning. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Good luck in your game.”
Matt had trouble concentrating all day. Mostly he was thinking about Jake and how he should approach his friend. But he was also thinking about Andrea. Nothing in particular, just thinking about her.
When the final buzzer rang at 3:35, Matt dumped his books, grabbed his backpack and pedaled to the ball diamond. The South Side girls were just taking the field for infield practice. Andrea was playing shortstop. She was fielding grounders with a huge smile on her face.
Matt didn’t see Jake walking up behind him. But he felt the arms wrap around his head and twist his neck. “Full-on WWE submission hold,” Jake yelled. “Give up, dude. I’ve got you in the stultifying sleeper of death hold.”
Normally Matt would have joined right in with the clowning around. But he didn’t feel like joking with Jake right now. Jake could read his serious look and toned down the wrestling shtick. “I need to talk to you about something,” Matt said.
“What’s up, Mattster?” Jake said.
In a few seconds, Matt had told his friend everything—about the jacket in the equipment bag, Joker, Officer Peters and his mom. Jake looked stunned, taking it all in slowly.
“That sucks,” he said, shaking his head side to side. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Matt said, leaving Jake an opening to make a suggestion of his own.
Just then a car horn honked. Matt looked in the direction of the sound and saw the Piancatos’ long red station wagon in the parking lot. “I’ve gotta boogey,” he said. “I’ll talk to you about this later, okay? Just chill, man.”
Just chill? That was the best Jake could do? Matt was furious. Jake was easy-going, sure, but this was ridiculous. Matt was in huge trouble because of Jake and all he could say was “That sucks” and “Just chill.”
Normally on such a perfect spring afternoon, watching a softball game in the stands, Matt would have been in a terrific mood. But he couldn’t shake the worry over his situation. What was he going to do to make things right with his mom and without alienating Jake?
The South Side girls had a powerful team this season, and getting Andrea back in the lineup made the Stingers that much better. Churchill was no match for them. In her first game since returning from her injury, Andrea went two-for-four with a double and the Stingers won 10-0.
Matt was happy for Andrea as he walked home from South Side. But the situation with his mom and Jake was still troubling him. By the time he reached the front door, he could smell Mom’s chili cooking. That made him feel a bit better. He loved chili, and Mom always made garlic toast to go with it.
“Hey, Matt,” she called out as he came in the door. “Wash up. I’ve got supper ready. I’ve got to show a house to clients tonight so we’re eating early.”
Matt joined his mom at the table for dinner. The chili was awesome. The two chatted about their days and Matt was just about to help himself to a second bowl when his mom cleared her throat.
“Matt, I talked to Mr. Evans today,” she said. “He’s running a weekly group educational session for kids. It’s every Sunday for two months and it’s only for two hours. I’d like you to start going.”
Mr. Evans was Marcia’s dad and the school district’s drug and alcohol counselor.
“What for?” he said. “I don’t need to go to that. I told you, I’ve got nothing to do with drugs.”
“I know what you told me and I believe you,” Mom said. “But just the same, I want you to take this session. It won’t hurt, right? And there will probably be some kids there that you know.”
Matt doubted that. He was angry. It felt like his mom didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him. “No way,” he said. “I’m not going.”
“Then you’re not playing baseball either.”
Matt couldn’t believe the words had come out of his mother’s mouth. She was going to use baseball to make him do this. This was definitely unfair. He was furious.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, getting up from the table abruptly. “I’m outta here.”
“Come back and finish your...” Mom didn’t even get to finish her sentence. Matt was already in his room.
An hour later, there was a knock on the bedroom door. “I’m going to show that house now,” Mom said. “Make sure you do your homework.”
Matt grunted. “Okay. Bye.” He still didn’t want to talk to her.
By 9:00 PM, she wasn’t home yet, and Matt figured she was probably writing up an offer for clients. He decided to head to bed. He was tired, partly from getting up early and partly from the fight with his mother. Lying in bed, looking up at the patterns in the ceiling plaster, Matt couldn’t figure a way out of this one. He would certainly have to go to the group counseling sessions. At least that would probably fix things with him and Mom. As for Jake, Matt wasn’t sure what to do.
chapter fourteen
Matt sat at the front of the classroom, doodling on a piece of scrap paper. He was writing Stingers—5 wins, 0 losses and drawing a picture of a trophy beside the team name, oblivious to what Mr. Evans was saying at the front of the room.
“How about you, Matt?” Suddenly the eyes of fifteen other kids were fixed upon him.
Matt didn’t have a clue what Mr. Evans had asked him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. “I guess I missed the question.”
Mr. Evans was a tall, stocky man with long gray-white hair that almost touched his broad shoulders. He was dressed casually, in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. He looked like he played basketball at one time, Matt thought.
“I was just asking everybody here whether they had ever done something that later they regretted, and then didn’t know how to make things right,” Mr. Evans said. “How about you? Have you ever done something like that?”
“Sure, I guess,” Matt said. He could think of plenty of things. But the thing that came to mind first was what Jake had done. And now he was paying the price for it. On a beautiful sunny spring day, instead of playing hoops with Phil and Amar and Jake at Anderson Park, he was cooped up inside this stuffy classroom.
“What we’re trying to get through to you in this session is that everybody makes mistakes and that it’s okay to make them,” Mr. Evans said. “The most important thing is how you learn from them. Do you keep making the same mistakes until they lead to one that changes your life in a negative way? Or do you pick up enough smarts along the way that those mistakes add up to valuable experience rather than trouble?”
What Mr. Evans was saying made sense to Matt. He had made mistakes during his first year of middle school—they had almost got him thrown off the basketball team—but he had learned from them. Or at least he thought he had.
“We know kids are going to experiment,” Mr. Evans said, speaking to everybody in the room. “I did when I was a kid.”
That produced a few chuckles from the students in the classroom. None of them could picture Mr. Evans as a kid.
“Sometimes drugs and alcohol are part of that experimenting,” Mr. Evans continued. “And what we’re trying to do here is arm you with enough information so that you can make good choices.
“This is an open class, but nothing said here goes beyond the door. I’m not here to judge you or to tell your parents or teachers or the police what you’re up to. I’m here to help you—to provide you with information or advice or assistance if you need it.”
A hand went up in the back of the room. A skinny girl with spiky black hair and a silver tank top had a question.
“Does that mean you’re not going to narc on us if we tell you something?” she said.
More laughs. “No.” Mr. Evans grinned. “I’m not the narcing type.”
Despite the fact he didn’t want to be there, Matt couldn’t help but take a liking to Mr. Evans. He was funny and seemed pretty cool for somebody who was old. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he thought.
The rest of the afternoon session was devoted to learning about different types of drugs and alcohol and the dangers of doing something stupid if you were high or drunk. At the very end of the class, Mr. Evans pulled out a clear baggie, with a line of green stuff at the bottom that looked like the spices Mom kept in the kitchen.
“Most of you may know this already, but this is what marijuana looks like,” he said, holding up the bag.
“I know many of you think it’s harmless, and some adults would probably agree. But there are things you should be aware of.
“For starters, nobody knows what’s really in this bag. Whoever gives or sells it to you may not know what’s in it. He or she likely got it from somebody else, who could have got it from somebody else. It could be marijuana. It could be parsley. It could be poison. The point is, you don’t know.”
Mr. Evans sat on the edge of his desk and leaned forward.
“I have to tell you, there is a real risk here, even with marijuana,” he said. “The police tell me that these days, marijuana sometimes has something called crystal meth mixed into it. People are getting messed up and, without realizing it, are getting addicted to a drug that is far more dangerous. And when I said that nobody knows what is in marijuana, that goes double or triple for crystal meth. Crystal meth is a drug that people are mixing in their basements using battery chemicals, paint thinner and household cleaners. It is bad news. Believe me, you don’t want any part of it.
“That’s why more than ever—certainly more than when myself or your parents were in school—it is important to make good decisions. And if you make a bad one, it’s important to realize it quickly and learn from it.”
That was it. The session was over but Matt’s brain was turning this information over and over. He had heard of crystal meth before but only in news stories on television. It was pretty scary to think that some of that junk could end up in a joint, maybe even a joint like Jake had smoked with his cousins.
Attending the counseling session had certainly put a crimp in Matt’s Sunday schedule. Not only had he missed hoops, he was now severely squeezed for time to complete his social studies project. It was a pretty cool assignment—the students had been required to pick a country they knew nothing about and then develop a travel brochure for it. Matt had chosen Bolivia, a small South American country that he had learned produced much of the world’s cocoa beans, which were the essential ingredient in chocolate. His slogan was Bolivia, Your Chocolate Source. It had a nice ring to it.
Matt was printing off pictures of Bolivia from the Internet to use in his brochure when the phone rang. He heard Mom answer it. “Matt, it’s for you.”
He bounded down the stairs and grabbed the cordless phone. “It’s Jake,” Mom said. “I forgot to tell you he called earlier this afternoon too.”
“Hey, Jake,” Matt said. Although things hadn’t been the same between them, his anger had dissipated.
“Where were you today?” Jake asked. “I called about hoops. We had some killer threes at Anderson.”
“I couldn’t make it,” Matt said solemnly. “I had something else going. I’m not going to be out on Sundays for about two months.”
“You gone religious on me, son?” Jake joked. Matt didn’t think it was funny. He took the phone upstairs and closed the door to his room.
“Actually, I’m tied up on Sundays because of you,” he said, leaving the statement to hang in the air.
“What do you mean?” Jake asked. There was another long awkward pause.
Matt had been waiting for an opening, and here it was. He jumped at the chance. “My mom’s making me go to a drug and alcohol counseling program that Marcia’s dad runs. It’s because of Joker sniffing your jacket in my bag and freaking out in the dugout.’’
Again, silence on the other end.
“Matt, I’m sorry, man. I feel bad. I didn’t mean...”
“I know you didn’t mean it, but it happened,” Matt said. “Now I’ve gotta go to this thing for the next two months.”
“Sorry, bud,” Jake apologized again.
“Yeah, I know,” Matt replied. “I just thought you should know, that’s all. I’ve gotta go now. I’ve got this travel project to do for school.”
Jake hung up. Matt knew he felt bad about what had happened, but part of him was pleased with that. Until now, Matt had been taking the full brunt of Jake’s actions. It was only fair Jake shared in some of the discomfort.
Matt kept working on the project, cutting out pictures of Bolivian jungles and cocoa beans. A country full of chocolate. Not a bad place for a holiday at all.
chapter fifteen
Monday was a big day for Matt. Not only was his social studies project due, but the South Side Stingers had an important game that afternoon against the Middleton Marauders.
Middleton was on the north side of the city, so the South Side players had to put on their uniforms, hats and cleats right after school was out and quickly board a bus for the twenty-five-minute drive through city traffic. The Stingers carried a 5-0 record into this game and, with only three games left in the regular season, were looking like they would finish in first place in the league. Getting that top spot was crucial too, since only the best team in the r
egular season advanced to district playoffs. For the rest, baseball was over.
The Marauders were a strong team themselves. They were 4-1, with their only loss so far to the Churchill Bulldogs. This road game was critical for the Stingers.
Middleton was an aging neighborhood that at one time had been the heart of the city. But as the region’s population grew and the more affluent families settled in North Vale or South Side, Middleton had become neglected, a place where young families avoided moving, as long as they could afford to live somewhere else. As the bus neared the Middleton campus, Matt noticed that many of the buildings appeared run-down or even deserted. The same went for the school, a two-story red-brick building surrounded by pavement and partially covered with graffiti, some of which looked like the gang signs Matt had seen in movies.
Middleton’s ball diamond wasn’t much better. It was nothing like the facility at South Side, with its pristine white fences, electronic scoreboard and green grass. The Middleton field, in contrast, was surrounded by a chain-link fence that had holes in several places. The grass was scrubby, half-brown and dotted with weeds, and it looked like the score-board lights had long ago been rendered useless by vandalism.
It was quiet on the bus. Coach Stephens seemed to read what was going through his players’ minds. “Don’t let their diamond fool you guys,” he warned. “These kids are ball players.”
It was obvious from watching the Marauders’ infield warm-up that Coach was right. Middleton had a handful of tiny, quick fielders who could cover an amazing amount of ground and were capable of making acrobatic catches. They also had a terrific junk-ball pitcher in David Martinez, another smallish kid who wore a glove that seemed about two times too big for him.
Matt, Jake and Phil all knew Martinez well from Little League. Whenever their squad from Anderson Park made it a couple of rounds into a tournament, they had faced Martinez. The lefthander wasn’t fast, but he was nearly impossible to hit. For a kid his age, he had an unusually effective assortment of off-speed pitches—a wicked curve and a change-up—that left batters swinging at air more often than not.
