If You're Reading This

by Trent Reedy

  I have so much more to tell you, Michael, and I wish I had more time, both in life with you, and for writing more letters like this.

  I love you very much.

  Love,

  Dad

  I rolled onto my back on my bed and looked up at the ceiling. My collection of scrapes and bruises proved that completing my first mission wasn’t easy, but this second one seemed just about impossible. Make a move with a girl? Ask someone to dance? Now Dad sounded like Ethan. I didn’t care what Dad or my grandfather said, there was no way I’d ever have more dates than I knew what to do with. Girls were not into me.

  About the only girl I ever talked to was Isma. Yeah, she was pretty and smart, but what was I supposed to do, go up to her in the library and tell her that I had to ask her out because this letter said so? Even if she said yes, then would I be going out with her because I wanted to, or because of this letter? And if I asked her to homecoming or something, and she said no, wouldn’t that completely mess up the way we worked well together on projects?

  I carefully folded my father’s letter and slipped it back in the envelope. I didn’t know the answers to any of my questions, but I was sure mission number two wouldn’t be easy to complete.

  On Friday morning, I hid my jersey from Mom and Mary in my backpack until I could slip it on over my shirt at school. When I went down the freshman and sophomore hallway toward my locker, some people looked surprised to see me in the red and white. Clint rolled his eyes. A couple girls in a group of freshmen smiled and waved. Between classes, a few people nodded and wished me luck.

  “I can’t get used to you wearing that,” Isma said as soon as we moved into groups in seventh-hour history.

  “Yeah, well …”

  She smiled. “I guess I’ll be cheering you on, then.”

  “Don’t make a special trip on my account. I’m not even going to play, since I started so late.”

  “I’m in the marching band, remember? I have to help paint the backdrop for the set of the musical after school, but then I’ll be at the game whether you play or not.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. I should have remembered she’d be playing her clarinet tonight.

  “So, this project is due in a week. Have you made any progress on the report?”

  “I’ve done some research, but not much else.” I sunk my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. I’ve been buried in football practice and everything. But I swear, I’ll get it done soon.”

  Isma sighed. “When? We need that report to make our presentation.”

  “I’ll write it tonight!”

  “The game is tonight.”

  “After the game,” I said.

  “You’re really going to work that late?”

  I often stayed up late, alone in my attic, reading. “It’s not like I’m playing anyway. I’ll have plenty of energy left for the paper. I’ll knock it out, no problem.”

  She folded her arms and stared at me.

  “I promise,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Stop looking at me like that.” I laughed a little, but Isma held her stare. “It’ll be done tomorrow morning.” I continued without thinking, “Come over to my house in the afternoon. The report will be finished and we can work on the speech.”

  “Really?”

  Wait, had I actually just invited her to my house? Was that all there was to Dad’s second challenge? No way. Dad had been talking about romance, and there was nothing romantic about this Civil War project. Anyway, if Isma came over, Mary would do everything she could to annoy us. Mom would ground me until forever if she found out, since she was ashamed of the condition of our house. I hadn’t had anyone over since sixth grade, and even Mary’s horde of giggling friends always met up somewhere else. But I couldn’t back out now, and Mom would be working anyway. “I haven’t had a Saturday off in forever,” I heard myself saying. “Derek keeps telling me I should take a weekend off. How about four o’clock?”

  Isma tipped her head to the side just a little. Her eyes kind of sparkled as she smiled. “That’s perfect.”

  “Great,” I said. “Sounds like a plan.”

  * * *

  After school I felt like an idiot because I couldn’t find the assignment sheet Coach Carter had given us for the history paper. His requirements were always very strict, and without those instructions, I would probably mess it all up. I hated to ask Isma for her copy because she already seemed to have her doubts about me, but it had to be better to suffer a little embarrassment up front than a lot after I’d screwed up the paper. I went down the hall to find Isma.

  Riverside High School was too small for an auditorium, so our stage was at one end of the lunchroom, which we called the cafetorium. From what I’d heard, the lights were ancient and there was hardly any room backstage, but our English teacher, Ms. Burke, had directed some great shows.

  When I entered the cafetorium, it didn’t look like anyone was directing anything. Two freshmen almost knocked me down when they ran past, laughing and chasing each other. A group sat talking on the edge of the stage while others worked with saws and electric screwdrivers, building fake walls. I recognized the end of “Come Sail Away” by Styx from listening to my dad’s old CDs, and watched as Denny Dinsler picked up the needle on an old record player to start the song over.

  “Can’t you guys find an iPod?” I asked Denny.

  “M-Ms. Burke won’t let us p-play music unless it’s on v-vinyl,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “No one knows.”

  “She’s not even here,” I said.

  Denny nodded. “She’s d-down the hall m-making copies, but the r-rule is vinyl or nothing.”

  “Are you in the musical?”

  “I have a s-small part, but it’s f-fun,” Denny said. “I’m working on saying my lines w-without my stutter.”

  “Cool, man.” In addition to his stutter, Denny was cursed with bad skin and asthma. People never gave him a break, but he had guts being in the musical.

  “Mike, I’m so glad you’re here.” Raelyn ran up to me and grabbed my arm. “You have to help us.”

  I didn’t know much about the musical, but I’d heard Raelyn had a big part. Ethan said she was taking it very seriously. “What’s up?”

  “We need a guy to play a random customer in the first act and a businessman in the second. There are just a few lines and a short song. Ms. Burke said I should try to find someone. Will you help us, please?”

  I laughed. Ethan wasn’t kidding. This girl looked like her whole life depended on this show. “I can’t. I have football practice and —”

  “We rehearse after sports p-practice, so it’s n-no problem,” Denny said.

  “Yeah, I have to work after football,” I said. Raelyn’s smile faded. “But Ethan doesn’t. I bet I could get him to join you.”

  She gasped. “Really? Do you think he would?”

  If Ethan’s total devotion to Raelyn this last summer hadn’t convinced her that he’d do anything for her, the guy was going to have to work a lot harder to prove that he cared. “I bet I could talk him into it,” I said.

  When I finally broke away from those two, I found Isma standing on a ladder, painting an urban-wasteland scene on a canvas large enough to dominate the entire wall at the back of the stage.

  “It’s looking good,” I said.

  She turned on the ladder to face me. She wore old jeans and an oversize white button-down shirt, both peppered with paint splotches. “Hey, what are you doing here?”

  My cheeks felt hot. “I lost the stupid assignment sheet for the paper. Can I borrow your copy?”

  “Not off to the best start.” She laughed, pointed to her black backpack with her brush, and went back to work on her canvas. “In my purple binder.”

  I quickly found the paper, then took the time to really look at her mural. “How do you know how to paint such a huge painting? Like, I could never do something like that.”

  “I’ve n
ever done anything like this,” she said. “Good thing Skid Row is supposed to look run-down.”

  “Well, you’re great at painting something that looks run-down.”

  She looked at me with an amused frown. “I’ll just assume that was a compliment.” I shrugged, and she laughed. “Will you get out of here and let me paint? Besides, don’t you have a game to get ready for?”

  “Hmm. I have time. Maybe I’ll stay here and bother you until then.”

  Isma dipped her brush in fresh paint and held it up, threatening to flick paint all over me. “You better watch it!” She grinned.

  I put my hands up. “Okay. Okay. I’m going.” I smiled as I headed for the door.

  “Good luck tonight,” Isma called after me.

  I went home to drop off my books and check the mail, then was back at the school in time to prep for the game. The cheerleaders, dressed in their short-skirted red-and-white uniforms, ran through their routine in the front lobby by the trophy case.

  “Good luck, Mike,” Sarah Carnahan said as she shook her pom-poms. Despite sitting behind me in English, she hadn’t talked to me at all so far this school year, and maybe only a couple times last year. Maria Vasquez tossed a lock of her black hair back and laughed before whispering something to Sarah.

  Nicky Dinsler, Denny’s sister and the only senior on the squad, elbowed Maria. “Yeah, good luck,” she said. Nicky had never spoken to me in my entire life. This football thing was changing everything. I smiled and nodded at the girls and moved on.

  In the gym, Clint, Rhodes, and Chris Moore were playing catch. Dozer burst through the doorway from the short hall that led to the locker room just as I reached for the handle. He stepped up in my face so close I could smell garlic on his breath. “Get. Ready. To. Kill.” He grabbed my shoulders and yanked me around, then stepped past me.

  I passed the training room off the little hall on the way to the locker room. Laura waved to me before returning to her work taping up Monty’s ankle. Kelsey worked with a screwdriver to fix something on a helmet. Monty held up his fist, and I answered the same way.

  The dusty-sweat smell hit me as soon as I entered the locker room. The guys were in various stages of suiting up, yelling at each other to be heard over the metal blasting from the stereo. I went to my locker to change.

  Coach Brown poked his head out from the coaches’ room. “Hamilton, get in here! I want to go over the read for that reverse Dysart likes to run.” Hamilton ran to see what Coach had to say.

  Cody Arnath shadowboxed and lightly punched the lockers. “I want to break something! Let’s do this right now!”

  “You’ll get your chance!” Eddie Bracken hit Cody hard in the shoulder pads. Cody shoved back. They both laughed.

  As I opened my locker, someone grabbed me from behind and pressed a rag or something to my face. The stench from the cloth was like a cross between burned fish and that ammonia stuff I sometimes used to clean the toilet. I struggled to break free, but the guy had me in a tight hold. The toxic gas filled my whole world.

  When my attacker released me, I gasped for air. The locker room smelled fresh and clean for once. I spun around to see Karn shake his T-shirt at me. “Yeah,” he sort of growled. “My game shirt. Worn in every game since I took over the quarterback position last year. Never washed. Breathe in that luck!” Then he slipped the filthy shirt on and went to his locker.

  I’d been assigned the locker next to Tony Sullivan’s. He was suited up in everything but his helmet, sitting on the bench in front of his locker, his eyes narrowed to slits and head rocking in time with the music. I dressed quickly and then took a seat next to him. I thought about saying something, but he didn’t seem interested in conversation. He breathed deeply, and tension, not quite a tremble, rippled all through his body. McKay moved around the room playing air guitar. Drew Hamilton had folded his hands and bowed his head, mumbling prayers. Ethan studied the playbook.

  I knew I could never explain it to Isma or anyone else, but the ritual of it, the energy coursing through everyone in the room, it charged me. I could face the nerves and anxiety about tonight’s game as long as I would be facing them with these guys.

  Eventually Coach Carter shut the music off and sent us out to the game field to run through our stretches. The sun hung low in the west and a few bugs circled the lights high above the field. The crowd began to fill the bleachers. I could hear the band warming up in the parking lot over by the school. After we stretched and did a walk-through of our offense, we returned to the locker room.

  “Men.” Coach spoke loudly as he walked the room. “Tonight is our first football game of the season. For some of you, it is your first varsity game. For the seniors, it is their last first game of their high school careers. Those ideas might make you excited. They might get you thinking about the time you have left to make a lasting difference to Riverside football.” He stopped pacing and put his hands on his hips. “But I’m telling you right now that all of those considerations should matter to none of you! The only thing that is important is this moment. All that should be on your mind is that first kickoff or kick return. When we’ve crushed the Dysart Trojans on that play, all you will focus on is the next play, the enemy player you must block or tackle, the moves you must make. Each of you men is a model of Hard Work, Integrity, and Team, and now it is time to go out there and put the HIT to Dysart! Let’s go!”

  With an intense war cry, the team rushed to the field, and soon enough we kicked off. The Trojans were tough to stop on their kick return, and they brought the ball up to their forty-yard line.

  “Okay!” Karn shouted from the sidelines. “Shake that off, and let’s go, defense!”

  But the defense couldn’t halt Dysart’s pass for a gain of nine yards. It also couldn’t stop a dive for six more yards and the first down. Finally, McKay shot through the line to sack Dysart’s quarterback, but on the next play, the Trojan fullback broke loose and ran the ball into the end zone. The point-after-touchdown kick set the score at seven to nothing.

  When our offense took over after receiving the kick, Sullivan had a couple gains for ten, then fourteen yards. Our crowd roared back to life, and the guys gained a new energy to get back into the fight. We were still in the game. I just wished I could do something to help. Then Karn threw to Clint out in the flat, but a Trojan picked off the pass.

  Dysart didn’t slow down, with three large gains and a quick pass to score again. Another kick set the score at fourteen to zero.

  Coach Carter called a time-out, pulling the kickoff-return team and the starting offense into a huddle. I couldn’t get close enough to hear him, but whatever he said couldn’t have worked too well. A near-frantic anger showed in just about all the guys. Dozer kicked at the ground.

  “Let’s go, guys! This is pathetic!” Rhodes yelled.

  The Roughriders tried to return the kick, but the Trojans blew through the blockers and leveled Clint, who was lucky just to hold on to the ball at Riverside’s twenty-five-yard line. I would never have admitted it to anyone, but a small part of me enjoyed watching that jerk stagger around a little after taking the hit.

  Our offense didn’t do much better than the return. A dive play was stopped at the line of scrimmage. Then, on second down, Karn took the snap, but before he could hand it off, one of Dysart’s outside linebackers pushed Rhodes’s block aside and throttled Karn. It was an ugly play. The whistle blew and the celebrating Trojan linebacker jogged back to his huddle.

  Rhodes ran up behind him and shoved him in the back, knocking him to the ground. “How do you like that cheap shot!” he shouted. The ref immediately threw the flag for unsportsmanlike conduct and moved us back fifteen yards.

  Coach Carter threw down his clipboard. “Wilson! Get in there for Rhodes, right now!”

  “Coach?” I’d only had three practices. There had to have been someone else. Maybe I’d heard him wrong.

  “Move it, Wilson!” he shouted, his face red. “Rhodes, get over here!”

&n
bsp; My heart thumped hard as I sprinted out onto the field to take my place in the huddle. Karn called for a pass play. “Let’s go, guys!” He looked at me. “Your first play. Try not to screw it up.”

  I ran out to the line, dropping into a three-point stance. The linebacker who had just sacked Karn looked at me and laughed. I bit down hard on my mouth guard and breathed heavy through my nose. McKay hiked the ball. I shot off the line, low and fast, straight for the linebacker. He came at me, but I ran lower, coming up hard into his numbers and running through him.

  The linebacker fell. Now what? I tried to find the ball. Karn had launched a pass toward Clint, but a cornerback was sweeping in. He’d intercept it before Clint could catch it. I ran for it and reached out until my fingertips brushed the football. It fell into my hands. I had it. I had the ball, and I bolted fast, ducking the cornerback’s outstretched arm and heading upfield.

  A safety closed in on me. He had a good angle, and I’d never get away. If I couldn’t lose him, at least I’d give him a good shot before he took me down. I lowered my upper body to ram him in the chest, but at the last second he moved just slightly so I speared his shoulder. He spun and fell, but reached out to snag my ankle, leaving me staggering for a few steps before I could run again. The other safety rocketed toward me. He was bigger than the first, and I’d never break his tackle.

  Then Sullivan flew through in a blur and slammed him aside. “Go! Go! Go!” he shouted at me. “Don’t turn around, idiot! Run!”

  I threw one foot down, then the other, as hard and fast as I could. My arm ached from clenching the ball so tightly. Ten yards to go. Five. Touchdown! That was it. I’d scored! I wasn’t even supposed to play tonight, wasn’t supposed to have the ball, and I’d put our first six on the board!

  Someone crashed into me from the side — Sullivan, who head-butted me with his face mask. “Yeah, baby! Touchdown! Awesome moves!”

  He let me go and for a moment I just sort of stood there. Our crowd clapped and stomped their feet in the bleachers. The guys on the team jumped up and down and shouted. I didn’t know what to do with the football.