Initiation
A Novel
By
Phil M. Williams
Copyright © 2016 by Phil M. Williams
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2016
Phil W Books
www.PhilWBooks.com
ISBN: 978-1-943894-15-4
Cover design and interior formatting by Tugboat Design
Contents
Chapter 1: The New Kid
Chapter 2: Three's a Crowd
Chapter 3: Two-a-Days
Chapter 4: Go for the Gold
Chapter 5: Domination
Chapter 6: Initiation
Chapter 7: One Lie Leads to Another
Chapter 8: The Unraveling
Chapter 9: Back in Black
Chapter 10: Sociology Sucks
Chapter 11: Forty Ounce to Freedom
Chapter 12: What's Done Is Done
Chapter 13: The Two Minute Drill
Chapter 14: Going to State?
Chapter 15: Porta Potty
Chapter 16: Blue Bunny Jammies
Chapter 17: Power Corrupts
Chapter 18: School's Out for Summer
Chapter 19: Good News
Chapter 20: Felonies and Misdemeanors
Chapter 21: Fresh Fish and Second Chances
Author's Note
Dear Reader,
If you’re interested in receiving my new book releases for free, go to the following link: www.PhilWBooks.com. You’re probably thinking, what’s the catch? There is no catch. I hope you enjoy the book!
Sincerely,
Phil M. Williams
– 1 –
The New Kid
Carter heaved a cardboard box from the back of the truck. His name was scrawled in black magic marker across the box. He walked down the metal plank to the sidewalk. Tiny treeless postage stamp lawns and faded vinyl siding shriveled in the heat. Most of the townhouses had bay windows and one-car garages. The end units could fit two, but most kept their cars outside.
He was average height, athletic, and chiseled. The brim of his dirty white baseball cap was pulled low. He waited on the lawn, the veins in his arms bursting out of his skin. He watched two scraggly-haired movers position an armoire through the front door frame of his new home. A couple, mid-forties, big smiles, marched on the sidewalk toward him. The woman carried a covered dish. A teen boy scurried behind.
“Hello… I’m Jill Wheeler,” the woman said, her right hand outstretched, her left still cradling the dish.
Jill Wheeler had the look of the prototypical mom. She was pretty enough, but not so pretty that she’d become the lewd fantasy of every neighborhood boy. She had an oval-shaped face, small blue eyes, and brown hair down to her shoulders.
Carter smiled and repositioned the box so that it sat between his left arm and hip. “I’m Carter,” he said, shaking her hand.
Jill stepped aside and motioned to the man and the teen behind her. “This is my husband, David, and our son, Ben.”
David Wheeler was thin and small, with dark, deep-set eyes. His chestnut hairline was receding, and his glistening forehead dominated his face. He wore round wire-frame glasses.
Mr. Wheeler grinned and stepped forward. “It’s very nice to meet you, Carter.” They shook hands. “We live just seven houses down that way.” He pointed down the street. “We wanted to welcome your family to the neighborhood. We’ve been living here for eight years now – I think we’ve been here longer than anyone. People are so transient around here. We’ve become kind of like the unofficial welcome wagon.”
“I doubt he cares,” Ben said.
Ben was small and thin like his dad, with the same dark, deep-set eyes. His nose was too large for his face, and his teeth were too large for his mouth. He had more overbite than he could hide.
Mr. Wheeler smiled at his son. “You’re probably right.” He looked at Carter. “Ben’s the voice of reason. He’s probably about your age – sixteen, just got his driver’s license and, well, I’m sure you can imagine that Mrs. Wheeler and I are still getting used to the idea of our son behind the wheel of a car.”
“Dad,” Ben said, frowning.
“I’m sixteen too. It’s nice to meet you,” Carter said to Ben.
“Isn’t that wonderful,” Mrs. Wheeler said to her son. “You have someone your age just a few houses down. I’m sure you guys can hang out and do whatever it is you guys do.”
“Mom,” Ben said, shaking his head.
“That sounds great, Mrs. Wheeler,” Carter said. “I don’t know anybody around here.”
“I’ll be busy getting ready for football season,” Ben said, “and once the season starts, you have no time, especially on varsity.”
“Our Ben here is quite the little quarterback,” Mrs. Wheeler said.
Ben exhaled. “It’s cornerback. I play defensive back, not quarterback.”
Mrs. Wheeler laughed. “Shows how much I know about football.”
“What the hell you doin’?” a booming voice said from the front door.
The Wheelers turned wide-eyed toward the sound. Carter stared into the sky, as if he were looking for answers written in the clouds. The hard-set jaw and scowl on the beefy bald man loosened at the sight of company. He smiled, showing a large gap in his upper teeth as he jogged down the front steps.
“How are you folks doin’?” he asked.
Mrs. Wheeler repeated the introductions.
“I’m First Sergeant Jim Arnold,” he said, “and I assume you met Carter.”
First Sergeant Jim Arnold was a mountain of a man, built like a linebacker. His skin was pale, his nose wide, and his ears stuck out from his domed head.
Mr. Wheeler smiled and snapped a salute.
The First Sergeant narrowed his eyes. “What branch did you serve in, sir?”
Mr. Wheeler’s smile flattened. “Oh, I didn’t. I was just kidding. I’m a computer programmer.”
The First Sergeant nodded, and crossed his bulging arms, his eyes still narrowed.
“This is for your family,” Mrs. Wheeler said, handing the casserole to the big bald man. “I know how hard it is to cook when your stuff’s still in boxes.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, taking the dish. “Come on in and meet my wife and daughter. You’ll have to excuse the mess of course.”
The adults disappeared into the house. Carter set the cardboard box down in the grass. Ben looked around as if he was expecting someone.
“So,” Carter began, “how good is the football team?”
Ben smirked. “Virginia triple A state champs last year.”
Carter shrugged. “Is it a big school?”
“Triple A has the biggest schools in the state. We have almost three thousand students.”
Carter nodded. “How many kids are on the football team?”
“Freshman, J.V., or varsity?”
“All of ’em.”
“The freshman team usually has fifty, J.V. forty, and varsity… maybe as many as a hundred this year. Everyone wants to get another ring.”
Carter smiled. “It’ll be a hundred and one then.”
Ben cracked his knuckles. “What position do you play?”
“Running back and free safety, plus special—”
“You can’t play both ways here. You have to pick one position to go out for.”
“Doesn’t the coach decide?”
Ben shook his head. “If you’re one of the good players, but if you’re brand new, they won’t care. You’ll just pick a positio
n group to go to. The head coach probably won’t even know your name for at least a year.”
Carter nodded. “I think he’ll know my name a whole lot quicker than that.”
Ben frowned. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You’ve got two seniors ahead of you at free safety. Noah Lambert was all-district at safety last year. Running back is even worse.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You should be. Where’d you play last year?”
“Panama.”
“Wow, Florida. There’s some pretty big football down there.”
Carter shook his head. “No, Panama, like in Central America. My dad was stationed down there. He just retired.”
Ben laughed. “They have football there? I can’t imagine it’s anything like here. I hope you’re ready for a rude awakening. We only have a month until camp.”
Carter grinned. “I think that Noah kid is in for a rude awakening. It’s gonna suck sitting on the bench his senior year.”
Ben smirked. “You must be good – or delusional. Did anybody ever tell you that you’re cocky?”
“If you don’t believe in yourself, who the hell will?”
Ben turned toward the ring of a bell. A red-headed teen girl pedaled her banana seat bike on the sidewalk toward them. She smiled and pressed the bell again on her curvy handlebars. She wore paisley printed shorts to mid-thigh, a gray T-shirt, and enormous specs with dark frames. She slammed on her brakes and skidded, stopping just shy of the boys.
“What’s up, douchebag?” she said, still smiling.
Her face was soft, her skin bright white. The sun seemed to radiate from her. Under her specs, her eyes were big and blue, surrounded by long lashes. Carter stared, his mouth partly open.
Ben smiled, trying to keep his teeth in check. “Hey, Sarah, are we still on for tonight?”
“Is your mom cooking?” she asked.
“Who else would?”
“As long as you’re okay with the knowledge that our friendship is purely based on your mother’s culinary talents.”
“Whatever.”
She grinned at Carter. “Who’s this hiding under that hat?” She grabbed his cap from his head, revealing blue eyes, a long thin nose, and a strong chin. She placed the dirty cap on her head and pulled the brim low, mimicking Carter.
He smiled at the thief. “I’m Carter—”
“He just moved here,” Ben said. “He thinks he’s going to take Noah Lambert’s starting position.”
“I hope he does,” Sarah said, handing back his cap. “Noah’s a total asshole.”
Carter curved the brim and pulled his hat low over his eyes.
“Since when do you care about football?” Ben asked.
“I don’t.” She turned to Carter. “I’m Sarah, by the way. I live on Crestleigh two streets back that way.” She pointed with a dimpled smile.
“That’s an interesting bike,” Carter said.
She pushed her bike toward him. “Take it for a spin.”
Carter hopped on the bike and blasted into the street.
“That didn’t go the way I thought it would,” Sarah said to Ben.
Carter drove in tight figures of eight with a plastered smile. The handlebar’s pink streamers flew in the wind.
“You look so gay,” Ben called out.
Sarah laughed in hysterics.
Carter popped a wheelie, driving the banana-seat bike on one wheel. He flipped the front wheel three hundred and sixty degrees before landing back on the asphalt. He hopped the curb and stopped next to Sarah.
He dismounted. “That was fun.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said with a grin. Sarah turned to Ben. “You should invite Carter tonight.”
Ben bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s probably too late. My mom bought food for one extra person, not two.”
Sarah cocked her head and frowned. “You and I both know—”
“It’s cool,” Carter said. “I have a lot of unpacking to do anyway. Maybe next time.”
“We should get going,” Ben said to Sarah.
“Why?” Sarah said.
“Carter probably needs to get back to work. Don’t you?” Ben eyed Carter.
“Yeah, I do,” Carter replied.
“I guess we’ll see you later then,” Ben said.
“I’m gonna get my weights unpacked tonight. Do you wanna come over and lift tomorrow afternoon?”
“I normally lift at school. One of the coaches opens the weight room every day, except Sunday.”
“I was gonna run in the late morning. There’s a steep hill I saw in that neighborhood with the big houses. It’d be good for hill sprints. Not much traffic either.”
“I don’t know. We had speed training yesterday.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes at Ben. He sighed.
“I guess I could do that. What time?”
* * *
The hill was at least a hundred meters long, and steep enough that most cyclists would dismount at the bottom. The asphalt sidewalk was swollen with the summer heat. Carter was bent over, touching his toes.
“The jog over here had to be a mile. Aren’t you warmed up yet?” Ben asked.
“Almost done,” Carter said. “Gotta take care of your body if you want it to take care of you.”
Ben exhaled. “That doesn’t make any sense. Your body and you are the same thing.”
Carter smiled and put one knee in the grass, pushing his pelvis forward. “I strained my hip flexor last year, and it was a pain in the ass. Not doing that again. Flexibility’s important.”
Ben shrugged.
Carter stood and shook his legs, one after the other. They looked up at the wide asphalt path rising up to the crest of the hill. An occasional luxury car passed by on the adjacent road.
“I’m gonna do ten sprints to the top of the hill,” Carter said, his eyes trained on the slope. “The recovery period is the walk back down. The intensity level should be ninety to a hundred percent. I’ll probably start at ninety percent for the first few until I’m really loose.”
“I don’t see the point of going all the way to the top. When do you ever run that far in a football game? That’s why we run forty-yard dashes, not hundred-yard dashes.”
“Then you can stop halfway.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Who says go?”
“I’ll go on you. When you move, I’ll move.”
Ben and Carter stood side by side at the bottom of the hill with one foot forward and one back, their knees bent. Ben pushed off and sprinted ahead. Carter exploded, his legs pumping up the hill as if he’d been shot from a cannon. He raced past Ben. Carter slowed and stopped past the crest of the hill. He put his hands on top of his head as he walked back down. His gray T-shirt stuck to his skin. Sweat accumulated in dark rings under his arms.
At the bottom of the hill Ben said, “I thought you weren’t going full speed on the first one.”
“I wasn’t.”
Carter hung his shirt on a nearby tree. He was tanned from the Panamanian sun. His torso was sinewy, with athletic shoulders and a thin waist. He looked like he was carved from granite. Ben tossed his shirt in the grass. His skin was white, except for the farmer’s tan on his arms and neck. He was lean, with narrow shoulders and thin arms.
“You all right?” Carter asked.
Ben’s eyes were red, his face flushed. “I’m good. I’m just sore from the speed training with the team.”
Carter continued to motor up the hill like it was a flat surface. Ben stopped midway. After eight sprints, Carter was dripping with sweat from head to toe. His brown hair looked black and slick. Ben’s face, no longer flushed, had turned pale green.
“I’m going to sit the last two out,” Ben said.
A topless Jeep honked.
“Faggots!” a gang of teen boys jeered, middle fingers extended, as they past.
Ben grabbed his shirt from the grass and put it on.
“Do you know those kids?” Carter asked.
Ben n
odded with a frown. “I should have kept my shirt on. It does look gay … us running together without shirts.”
“It’s a hundred degrees. My shirt just turns into a wet rag. Besides, who gives a shit what those kids think?”
“Everybody.”
Carter looked at Ben with a smirk.
“Seriously,” Ben said.
“I don’t.”
“You will. That’s Zach Goodman’s Jeep. He’s the only kid we have that plays both ways. He’s a lineman, six-foot-five, probably two-seventy-five or so – solid muscle. He’s a lock for a D-1 scholarship. He’ll probably play in the pros like his dad.”
“Big deal.”
Ben frowned. “Luke Brewer was in the passenger seat. He’s our quarterback. He’s really good too, but not as big a prospect as Zach. All the girls are in love with him. They both live in this neighborhood. Zach’s dad lets him have parties at his house. They have a pool and a movie theatre. Lots of girls go.”
“Have you ever been?”
“They don’t let the J.V. in. This year I’ll go.”
“What about the kid in back?”
“That was Noah Lambert. Remember the kid you’re going to have to beat out?”
Carter grinned. “Noah who?”
Ben shook his head. “He actually lives in our neighborhood, but he mostly hangs out over here.”
Carter looked beyond the hill to the neighborhood, seeing as if for the first time the McMansions, the swimming pools, and the checkerboard lawns.
“You can’t blame him for that,” Carter said.
Carter and Ben jogged back toward their neighborhood with their shirts on.
“Did you want to stop at 7-Eleven, get something to drink?” Ben asked, his breathing elevated.
“If you want to,” Carter replied.
They entered the convenience store, the air conditioning freezing in contrast to the sweltering heat. Ben made a beeline for the refrigerator. He opened the glass door and removed a bottle of orange Gatorade.
“Did you want one?” Ben asked Carter.
“I didn’t bring any money.”
Ben grabbed another one. “I got you.”
Outside Ben and Carter guzzled the orange electrolytes.
Initiation Page 1
