by D'Ann Burrow
“Gone.” Scarlett crossed the room and tugged a note I hadn’t noticed off the refrigerator door.
“She just got back this morning. Now she’s gone again?”
“What else is new?”
She scanned the page before tossing it into the trash without offering any more explanation.
“For how long?”
“Do you think I’m psychic?” Now she turned her annoyance on me.
“I figured she might have hinted in the note.”
She shook her head, wandering to the slow-cooker Loretta left on the countertop. “And she forgot to turn this thing on. Lovely.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Define a lot.”
I hated having to drag any tidbit of information out of Scarlett, but it seemed like that’s how we were playing the game tonight. “I mean, you seem like this is kind of normal for her. Do you regularly come home and find out she’s not here?”
“When an art show calls, she answers.”
“Like once a month? Twice a month?”
“What do you care? Scared of being here just with me?”
“No.” I picked up my bag, ready to leave the room. If Loretta being MIA was a normal thing, then why was I even here? If I had to be on my own somewhere, I’d much rather be at home.
19
Football Practice
Around 6:00 p.m.
* * *
The whistle blew, and Coach Espinoza waved in the direction of the school. We were finished, and it wasn’t even dark yet. At least I didn’t think it was dark. Kind of hard to tell behind all the rain clouds.
We must have either looked really good on the field today or really bad.
Maybe there was lightning somewhere. Yeah, that was probably it. Ever since a coach in some town I’d never heard of got hit by lightning, we stopped practice if someone took a picture with a flash during rain. Alex and his friends tested the theory our sophomore year. When Coach Dillon found out what they’d done, they earned the privilege of starting practice off with twenty extra laps every morning.
I was really hoping it was lightning. I couldn’t handle adding his often-threatened morning practices to my schedule. My time with Coach Mears was plenty.
Five hours of sleep a night wasn’t nearly enough, but it was all I could manage. If we started 6 a.m. practices like last year, I could kiss at least two more hours goodbye.
Yeah. That would make my time on the field really effective.
I walked to the bench to grab my water bottle, dodging the sophomore members of the third string. It’d be just my luck to accidentally get taken out at practice. Alex would love that. He might actually get to play a game.
“How’s that shoulder?” Derrick unfastened his helmet and tugged it off his head.
I didn’t know anyone could tell it was bothering me. Leave it to my running back to notice something was off.
“I saw you flinch.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “It’s still bothering you?”
“Not much.” I wasn’t lying. I didn’t think it was bothering me at all.
“Because if it is, Alex could play this weekend.”
Of course he could.
Now it made sense.
“What did he promise you to get you to ask me?” On the field, Alex was worse than hot gum sticking to the bottom of your shoe. The idea of him starting a game like this one wasn’t even worth a second thought. But with his dad on the school board, he’d always been just behind me.
“Nothing. Really.” Derrick held up his hands like I was holding a gun to him or something. “You just didn’t look super smooth out there.”
I noticed he waited until Coach Dillon got close to make that last comment.
“If it’s still hurting…this game doesn’t mean anything. It’s an easy win. They haven’t beaten anyone in two seasons.”
“And that’s exactly when we end up losing.” I hated players like Derrick. Assuming it’s a guaranteed win just because no one else had lost yet. “When guys like you get cocky.”
“Wait just a second—”
“Better listen to your quarterback.” Coach Dillon had been listening to our conversation all right. “No game’s an easy game. If our heads aren’t in it, but theirs are, then we lose.”
Derrick had a definite expression on his face that this conversation wasn’t going remotely as it had been intended. He’d been supposed to get me benched. That’s what the guys had been up to at the table at lunch today.
This town was divided into the haves and have-nots.
They were the haves.
I was a not.
And because of that, I was damn sure not supposed to be the starting quarterback. That belonged to one of them. Someone who’d been playing in the city rec league since he was old enough to hold a ball, switched to select ball by fifth grade and went to expensive camps put on by former pro players.
Someone like them.
But Coach Dillon picked me.
That didn’t mean they had to be happy about it. I should have guessed something was up. I saw it in their faces—the half-nods, sneers in my direction and hits that were just a little too hard for practice, especially when taking on the starting varsity quarterback.
I wasn’t complaining. I could take it. So could my arm. I was pretty sure that wasn’t part of their plan.
“Why don’t you go hit the showers, Gibson?” Dillon turned to me. “Hold up a second Shields.”
Derrick half-smiled and half-glared at the coach. Even without any kind of superpowers, I could read his mind. He thought he’d done his job. The next time he saw me, I was going to be benched.
Damn.
None of them needed to be a starter.
Whether or not they got picked up by a team, they’d be going to college. In less than a year, their parents’ cars would have those “My Money and My Son Goes to” window clings staring back at drivers behind them.
That wouldn’t happen for me.
No scholarship. No college.
“You worked hard today, Shields.” Coach meandered slowly toward the sidelines, letting me know I was supposed to follow him without saying a single word. “Why don’t we talk for a second?”
“Yes, sir.” I removed my helmet, holding it loose at my side. I tried to look casual. “Do you need something?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he waited until all the other guys were almost back at the building. I tried to fake looking unconcerned. It was on a day like this last year that I found out he was benching the quarterback because of a back injury. He didn’t care about college plans or not. Dillon still wanted us to be able to move when we were 30.
Coach Dillon pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and took a few quick jabs at his screen. His eyes scanned something I couldn’t see. I wasn’t sure why I had to be there watching him read his e-mail, but I figured this wasn’t the time to tick him off.
“Got an e-mail this afternoon.” I nodded, waiting for more information. “Thought you might like to know about it.”
“Um, sure?”
“How do you feel about South Carolina?”
“What?” No one sent my films to South Carolina. I’d seen the list Espinosa put together in August.
“They had a scout at the game when we were playing Lakeview, looking at one of their defensive ends. The guy liked what he saw.”
Lakeview was a good game. Their defense sucked.
“You had a chance to maybe run the ball in for a touchdown. But you threw it to Phillips instead.”
I remembered that play. I had a hole, but Phillips was wide open in the end zone.
“Their scout thought that took a lot of integrity. They’ve had trouble with their quarterback showboating. They’re looking for a team player.”
I still didn’t fully understand the conversation.
“They’re sending someone out here to look at you in two weeks.” Two weeks. I felt the annoyance on my face. “Yep. They’ll be here fo
r Marshall Heights.”
We hadn’t won against them for five years. And that’s the game the scout from USC picks? I was screwed.
“You know their head coach announced his retirement.”
“Last month. I read about it online.”
“Know anything about the new guy?”
“Do they have one?”
“Yep.” Coach Dillon just kept scrolling through his email, not even looking at me. He had to have learned the strategy from watching the kids in his class. “Announced it this morning. Haven’t you seen the story?”
No wonder he was reading his phone. He was looking at the announcement about the coach.
“No.”
“Not important enough for you?”
I swallowed. Hesitating. Hating what I was about to admit. “I don’t have internet on my phone.”
That surprised him. Even most of Christian’s friends at school had phones to surf the web. I didn’t. Mom kept us fed and clothed. My yard work kept gas in my car. That was about it. Everything else went into the fund that would take care of Addy someday.
Which is why I needed this scholarship. Why I needed to go to college in the first place.
We’d sent out my films to twenty schools, and it figured that the one that was interested just accidentally happened to watch me play.
“You need this scholarship.” Coach looked at me like he was meeting me for the first time, and it kind of made my skin crawl.
“I do.”
“You’d better be ready.”
“I will be.”
“Congrats, son. I don’t know anyone who deserves this more than you do, with all that your family’s been through.”
“Thanks, Coach.” I tried not to let the moment of pity color his words. I hated it when people felt sorry for me. I wasn’t a sob story. Neither was Addy.
My dad was a jerk. He just up and left one day after we got the diagnosis. But that didn’t mean we needed people to feel sorry for us.
Even when the counselor told me to play up the fact my little sister was autistic in my college applications, I refused. If I ended up anywhere, it was because I deserved to be there, not because someone thought I’d make a great sob story. I watched enough of those during the college games.
Human interest stories.
Spotlights.
I’d never taken a handout in my life because of Addy. I wasn’t starting now. If I got the scholarship, it was because I earned it. Not because someone somewhere thought my story would bring in money from the alumni.
Coach started walking away, so I figured the conversation was over. I waited a few more minutes, watching the first hint of sundown approaching. In the distance, guys yelled at each other from the parking lot.
Worked for me. The more of them that cleared out of the locker room, the better.
My conversation with Coach Dillon didn’t last long enough. I opened the doors, surprised to see Coach Santos standing with a group of my teammates huddled around him. Alex was closest to him, studying something on a clipboard. I hoped Santos drew pictures or used small words. Otherwise Alex wasn’t going to understand what the coach was explaining.
It didn’t really matter anyway. Alex wasn’t starting—I was.
Before the door swung closed behind me, it had started to sink in with them. I didn’t look angry or disappointed. Our coach hadn’t benched me, and that’s all they cared about. Their plan hadn’t worked. Even Santos let a flash of surprise fill his eyes. He’d been in on the plan. Figured. He and Alex’s dad had probably planned it over drinks at the bar.
I walked past them without a word, heading for the shower. Part of me wondered if Santos knew about the scouting visit. I couldn’t think of another reason he’d take a chance of Dillon finding out he’d deliberately injured one of his own players.
It didn’t change anything. I just had two teams I was playing against—my opponents and members of my own team.
Christian stole the last tater tot off Addy’s plate, and I tossed her a replacement before the inevitable storm started. I had enough homework tonight. I didn’t know when Mom was getting home, but I couldn’t waste an hour trying to get Addy to calm down over an idiot move from Christian.
I glared in his direction. My brother sat in his chair, pushed a little closer to Addy than normal, happily munching away. He shot me a mouth-half-closed grin. “What?”
“Why’d you do that? You want to set her off?” I picked up my plate and headed in the direction of the already partially full sink, pausing at the trash can to drop two corn dog sticks in the trash. I normally ate three— if practice was hard, I could eat four. Tonight that wasn’t an option.
Christian picked up his spoon and painstakingly licked every last morsel of applesauce from the bowl. “I was still hungry.”
“Join the club. She might have been too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
Even I had to admit that the tater tot I’d supplied still sat on her plate. Before I could reclaim it, he swiped that one too, popping it into his mouth with the sleight of hand that reminded me of a magician we once saw at the library. Thankfully, Addy didn’t notice he stole that one from her either.
Lights flashed through the picture window, filling most of the kitchen. Addy slid out of her chair and ran to chase the flickers on the wall. Mom’s car bumped up the dirt path toward the house.
I grabbed Addy’s plate off the table before Mom could come in and see how little she’d eaten tonight. She didn’t need anything else to worry about. And Addy had at least eaten all her applesauce. She always ate applesauce. I looked at the empty container in the trash, feeling guilty for serving myself any. Addy wouldn’t have any tomorrow night.
While I was staring at the trash can, Christian jumped out of his seat, escaping toward the living room. “Gotta do my homework.”
“Homework. Right.” In five minutes, I’d probably hear him on a Skype call playing some dumb video game with his friends. I turned on the kitchen faucet, waiting for the water to get warm before I started on the dishes. “At least bring me your plate.”
“I didn’t know it would be too much work for the Football God to walk across the room.” Christian spoke through gritted teeth. Even for him, his hostility level was turned up to high. He tossed the plate in the sink, trash and all, and the stream of water caught the plate, spraying me with mustardy-water.
“Be careful!” I fumbled for the faucet handle.
Instead of answering or apologizing, he just stared at me with the same venom Alex used when he heard I was still starting the game on Friday.
“Dude, since it’s technically your night to do the dishes, I wouldn’t push my luck.” Outside, a horn sounded, and I stopped mid-rant. The last time Mom came home and found us arguing, she threatened to cut back her hours at work. And we couldn’t afford her to make any less.
I fished the plate out of the sink, retrieving four soggy corn dog sticks.
“Mom. Mom. Mom.” Addy was stuck on repeat as she jumped and skipped toward the turning doorknob. Christian took the opportunity to slink out of the room before he had to answer any questions about his day or what he and the school counselor talked about during lunch.
“Yep. Mom’s home.” I dropped the plate into the sink. It might have been Christian’s job tonight, but I liked my dishes actually clean, not just wet. I’d be up until midnight doing my homework anyway. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt anything.
“Why hello, Miss Addy.” Mom tried to smile when she closed the door behind her. She peppered Addy with questions she knew would go unanswered. “Were you good for your big brother? Did you eat the dinner Tanner fixed?”
It was too late for any kind of reply. One of the wild kittens that lived under our porch snuck in with Mom, and Addy was off like a rocket, chasing it into the living room. It would serve Christian right if Addy and the cat ended up in his room before someone caught the cat and tossed it back outside.
“So. How was she?�
�� The lightness had left Mom’s voice. Now she just stared at Addy’s back.
“Not too bad. Pretty normal afternoon.”
“Did she bring home a note from school?”
“No idea.”
“Where’s her stuff?”
“On the counter.”
A withered expression came into Mom’s eyes as she reached into the purple backpack. Her lips pursed when she took hold of Addy’s folder. She flinched when a thick envelope fell into her hands. A note from school was never good. A note that thick was worse. And a thick note that Mom already seemed to know about tended to send her retreating to her bedroom for the night.
I gave her a second to skim the pages. “Everything okay?”
Mom folded the stapled pages and stuck them back in the envelope before tucking it into the pocket on the front of her scrubs, which were more wrinkled than normal. A stain covered her shoulder that wasn’t there this morning. At some point during the day, she’d pulled her hair into a ponytail. Must have been some kind of day at the nursing home. She didn’t need Addy-drama tonight.
“Bad news?”
“It’ll be fine.”
That was her typical response when she wanted to avoid answering questions. “It’ll be fine” covered a wide range of topics from Addy’s behavior at school to Christian’s meetings with the school counselor to whether or not we’d gotten a child support check that month.
“Mrs. Peters still wants to kick Addy out of her class?”
“I said it’ll be fine.” She sniffed sharply. I’d hit too close to a nerve. I guess the answer to that question was yes. “So. What’s for dinner?”
“Corn dogs and applesauce.”
“With tater tots, I see.” She peered through the oven door. “It’s very brown.”
“Addy ate it.”
“Not super nutritious. Your coaches would kill me.”
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” They’d also be upset that corn dogs and tater tots were the only thing in the freezer. Now that the applesauce was empty, the refrigerator held three eggs, an almost-empty half gallon of milk and bargain brand ketchup. “I’ll try to fix something better tomorrow.”
