by Randy Ribay
“Sometimes people leave,” he says.
“Why?”
“To find something better, I suppose. Make some new history.”
My mind goes to The Grapes of Wrath, which I picked up after finishing Of Mice and Men. The Joad family left home for something better. Only they never found it. Like how Bunny’s been struggling to find his place at St. S. Say I transferred to help him out, would I find anything better?
Of course, then there’s people like Wallace who get left behind, who get forced out, who don’t have a choice and don’t have anywhere better to go.
“But just because you leave some place doesn’t mean you have to forget it,” my dad adds.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“How do you know what?” my dad asks.
“When it’s better to leave?”
My dad shrugs. “You just do.”
And that sounds like another lie adults tell kids.
33
Bunny
I’m in history class Thursday morning thinking about tonight’s game when the classroom phone starts ringing. My teacher stops lecturing to answer it. As she’s listening to the person on the other end, her eyes slide to me.
“Bunny,” she says, “you’re wanted in the headmaster’s office.”
I ignore everyone oohing like I’m in trouble and head out into the hallway. Soon as I’m out there, though, my heart starts thumping in my chest like I’m on the line at the end of the fourth quarter in a tied game. The headmaster is a sports fan and likes to call me down to chat about our games sometimes, so maybe he wants to wish me luck.
Hopefully.
I straighten my tie and make sure my shirt’s tucked in all the way around. I step inside the main office, and the secretary flashes me that secretary smile.
“Go on in,” he says.
I nod and make my way into the headmaster’s office.
Headmaster Stevens grins like he’s having trouble on the toilet. That’s pretty much his default face. “Good morning, Benedict. Come on in.”
He steps aside, and I see we’re not alone. Coach Baum and my sponsor, Dr. Dietrich, are sitting in front of his desk. I’m kind of thrown seeing Dr. Dietrich here, since I usually only see him at games.
“Have a seat, Benedict,” Headmaster Stevens says, and then everyone take turns shaking my hand. He tugs at his vest before taking his own chair. “So how are you doing? Classes going well?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, still trying to work out what this could be about.
“Good, good. That was an outstanding performance the other night,” the headmaster says. “Outstanding. What were your stats?”
Coach Baum answers for me. “Thirty-one points. Sixteen rebounds. Two assists.” Except he says it like he’s regretful for some reason.
Dr. Dietrich strokes his thick beard. I notice a crumb caught in it near the corner of his mouth. “We’re proud to support you, Benedict,” he says, echoing Coach’s strange tone. “To give you this opportunity.”
“Thanks,” I say. But everyone throwing around my full name makes me nervous as hell.
There’s a lull in the conversation. I know they didn’t all gather here in the middle of the day to congratulate me on a game that happened two days ago. A sense of dread grows in the pit of my stomach like I’m on a roller coaster clinking toward the top of a big drop.
Headmaster Stevens clears his throat. “Do you like it here at St. Sebastian’s, Benedict?”
There it is again. I try to ignore it. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he says. “We enjoy having you here. You add a lot to the school, and not only with basketball.”
“Thank you, sir?” I say—like a question, because I have no idea where this is going.
Headmaster Stevens sighs. He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “So I’ll be straight with you: why are you trying to sabotage this?”
I sit up and scrunch my face in confusion. I look to Coach, but he won’t meet my eyes. I turn back to the headmaster. “Sir, I don’t understand?”
He holds my gaze for a few moments and then says, “I received a call from the director of the New Jersey State Interscholastic Athletic Association this morning. She told me that late last night somebody forwarded her an email—written by you—in which you claim that St. Sebastian’s promised to pay you—beyond any grants or scholarships—in exchange for transferring.”
“That’s a lie,” I say immediately, because I know I’ve never ever written an email like that. Who even sends emails anymore? My hand goes to my pocket for my phone to check my Sent folder and prove it to them, but then I remember I don’t have it. It wasn’t in my gym locker this morning like I thought I would be.
“She forwarded me the email herself, Benedict.” He turns his computer screen around so I can see it.
I lean forward. Sure enough, the address in the original Sent line is mine. I scan the short paragraph that I supposedly wrote. It pretty much says exactly what the headmaster just said it did. “I lost my phone. Someone must have found it and sent that.” I shake my head, lean back, and laugh. “Someone’s messing with me.”
Nobody else laughs.
“Who forwarded it?” I ask.
Headmaster Stevens says, “There’s no way to know. The sender used a proxy service to access another site that allows people to send email anonymously.”
I point at the time stamp on the forwarded email, which shows it was sent late last night. “I didn’t write that email, sir. Like I said—I lost my phone. Or someone stole it.”
“Sure, sure. I believe you, Benedict—we all believe you—but even so . . .” He looks to Coach.
“What?” I ask.
“The state needs to do its due diligence.”
I sit up straighter and turn to Coach. “They’re going to investigate?”
Coach runs a hand through his hair as he nods. He clears his throat. “And until they make a judgment . . . you have to sit.”
My stomach drops, and I feel real lightheaded all of a sudden. “We’ve got a game tonight.”
Coach grimaces. “I know, Bunny. And I hate like hell that you won’t be able to play, but there’s no way around this. It’s a direct order from the state. If we put you in even for a second, the game’ll be a forfeit.”
“Even if we know that email’s fake?”
He nods.
My heart’s racing, my armpits feel all warm, and a cold sweat’s forming on my forehead. I wipe it away. What the hell’s going on?
Coach Baum says, “You have to understand, Bunny, when people see a talent like you—someone destined for greatness—they want to do everything in their power to bring you down. Heck, I don’t know why, but they do. It’s human nature. They don’t know you, but they hate you for no reason other than that they’ll never be able to touch your God-given talents.”
“I worked hard to get good,” I say, starting to feel numb all over.
“I know that,” Coach Baum says. “But people don’t want to believe that they’re unsuccessful because they’re lazy. So they have to believe it’s luck.”
But I know all this. I’ve been dealing with people hating on me for no real reason since I first stepped onto the court.
Coach Baum continues. “Normally the state doesn’t pay close attention to recruiting. They know we bend some of the rules. Heck, everyone in the country does. It’s always been understood that we’re simply trying to give players like you the best shot in life we can. So the state’s always looked the other way.”
Players like you. I know what that’s code for. I also know this whole arrangement isn’t as altruistic as he’s trying to make it sound.
“But not this time,” Headmaster Stevens says. “They’re coming after us.”
“Why?” I ask.
“The press,” Dr. Dietrich says, speaking for the first time in a while. “The bastard forwarded your email to the newspaper, as well. And the timing couldn’t be worse
. Expect to see an article on their site before you get out of school today.”
“It wasn’t my email,” I say.
Coach Baum says, “I’m sure you heard about that sophomore in Texas who was really twenty-two years old?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But I’m not twenty-two.”
“That’s not the issue,” Dr. Dietrich says. “The problem is that the paper’s running a whole series right now, investigating—as they put it—the ‘seedy underbelly of high school sports.’” He points out the window. “So it will make the NJSIAA look bad if this goes unexamined.”
My chest tightens. “How long will all this take? Any chance they’ll finish it before tonight?”
Headmaster Stevens says, “Given that we’re in the midst of playoffs—and the pressure our lawyer’s already putting on them to resolve this—the director said they’d rush it.” He sighs. “But she warned me that the earliest they’d have any answers for us would be tomorrow. And since the weekend’s coming up, Monday looks more likely.”
“But the championship is Sunday,” I say.
The headmaster glances at Coach, then back to me. “If no decision is made by then, then you’ll have to sit the championship—assuming we win tonight.” He clears his throat. “Do you have any idea who might have done this, Bunny? If we find the person and they confess, that might clear up all of this before it goes too much further.”
I’ve been thinking about this while he’s been talking. If someone found it in the locker room, then that means it might even be one of my teammates. “Clay, maybe.”
Headmaster Stevens and Coach Baum exchange a look, and then the headmaster asks, “Why would Clay do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I took his starting spot.”
The two exchange another look. “Any other possibilities?” Headmaster Stevens says.
It seems pretty obvious to me, but then it clicks.
I was in the shower when Nasir dropped by. Then I couldn’t find my phone when I went to text him. He must have taken it, which means he must have sent the email. But why?
I lean back, close my eyes, and put my hands over my face. I can’t believe this is happening, and I can tell from everyone else’s silence there’s more bad news coming. Sure enough, Headmaster Stevens opens his mouth again a few moments later. “Anyway, the state championship might be the least of our concerns, Benedict.”
“What do you mean?”
He takes a deep breath. “If they charge us with violating the recruiting regulations, we’ll have to forfeit every game you’ve played in this season. There’s even a chance we could be suspended from competition next year. And . . . you could lose your amateur status.”
“Which means, you won’t be able to play in the NCAA,” Coach clarifies, even though I don’t need him to.
“But there’s nothing to find,” I say. “The email’s fake.”
“An investigation could turn up something else.”
“Something else?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
Nobody answers, and nobody looks me in the eye.
“You mean like what I asked you to do for Nasir? Or is there something else?”
It feels like an eternity before Headmaster Stevens speaks again. “Our lawyer will sort this out, Benedict. In the meantime, do not talk to anyone—your friends, your teammates, your girlfriend, not even your family—about any of our arrangements. Any. Of course, this applies to electronic communications, as well. Email. Text. Facebook. Snapchat. Whatever you kids are using nowadays. None of it. Never say St. Sebastian’s is paying for this or Dr. Dietrich covered that. Do not discuss any promises that may or may not have been made to you or your family last summer or since then. Understood?”
I lean forward, rest my elbows on my knees, and hang my head. I always suspected that not everything going on here has been aboveboard. I don’t know exactly what we’re doing wrong besides the thing with Nasir, but I know that if there was nothing else the investigation could possibly uncover, he would have said that straight up.
“Also,” he says, “refrain from accepting any gifts. For example, if a store tries to offer you a free shirt, or if a restaurant wants to pay for your meal, if someone offers you free tickets to anything—decline. Do not accept anything. Do you understand?”
I nod, like the fool I am. I used St. Sebastian’s, and they used me. But it’s my future that’s slipping away. Not theirs.
Headmaster Stevens continues. “If anyone in the press contacts you, direct them to me.”
I nod. But I’m barely listening anymore. The room feels like it’s spinning. I want to throw up.
“Good.” The headmaster forces a smile. Straightens his tie and tugs at his vest. “Listen, you’re a good player, a good student, and a good kid, Benedict. You deserve to be here. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”
I loosen my own tie and unbutton my shirt collar so I can breathe.
Headmaster Stevens asks, “You did file a police report, yes? About your phone?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I thought I left it here at school.”
“Did you tell anyone last night when you noticed you didn’t have it?”
“My sister,” I say immediately. “And she sent a text to my parents.”
He writes something on a sticky note. “Excellent. That should help.” The headmaster passes me the square of neon yellow paper. “Have them take a screenshot of the message and send it to me at that number.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everything will be okay,” Dr. Dietrich says. “The director is an old friend of mine. We went to Princeton undergrad together. Good woman. Used to call her Shots because—”
“Don’t worry, Benedict,” Headmaster Stevens says, interrupting Dr. Dietrich. “We won’t let them delay this until Monday. We’ll fight as hard as we can to get you on the court Sunday.”
I know this is supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. First, not to be cocky, but I’m not too confident St. S will make it past tonight without me. Second, I’m still trying to figure out why the hell Nasir would do me like this.
“If nothing else,” Coach Baum says, “you’ve got plenty of time to bring home the hardware. And if worse comes to worst, there are other routes into the NBA besides the NCAA—you could always play in Europe for a year after graduation.”
I don’t lift my head. “Can I go back to class?”
“One more thing,” Headmaster Stevens says. “About your special request—for your friend . . . Naseem?”
“Nasir,” I say.
“Right. Anyway, until this all gets sorted out, let’s hold off making any promises to Najid about his possible place at St. Sebastian’s next year.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, no problem, sir.”
With that, they tell me not to worry about a dozen more times and that they’ll let me know as soon as they hear anything. Then I head back to class, my mind replaying that conversation like I’m listening to the worst track in the world stuck on repeat.
34
Nasir
I pull the trigger the moment the Nazi zombie shambles out of the darkness and into my crosshairs. Head shot. Blood, brain matter, and skull fragments spray the wall. Its headless body slumps to the ground.
I reload and then peer into the gun’s scope, scanning the dark hallway in the flickering light. There’s nothing except shadows, but I can hear them approaching. The tortured moaning. The dragging limbs.
When one finally rounds the corner, its yellow eyes two points of light in the darkness—BANG—I take it down with a single shot. As it collapses, another appears behind it. I fire again—but this time I miss. Three more stumble into view.
Taking aim at the zombie out front, I pull the trigger. Nothing happens. I check my ammo.
Damn—empty.
I switch to my knife. The nearest zombie lunges at me. I slash at it. I take some damage, but it falls. I can’t even take a breat
h before the next one’s on me, and the next one, and the next.
My screen goes red. I fall back. Stare at the ceiling. My consciousness fades as the pack of Third Reich zombies feasts on my innards.
Damn.
Almost made it to the next level.
Before I can mourn too much, my phone buzzes. I shut off the console and move over to my desk, where it lies in a wedge of afternoon sunlight spilling between the window and my blinds.
It’s a text from Keyona.
We need to talk, it says.
My stomach lurches a bit, because I know what it’s about. I tap Ignore and turn my phone face-down.
The article’s right in front of me, still pulled up on my computer screen. THE SINS OF ST. SEBASTIAN the headline reads, with a shot of Bunny driving through the lane underneath it. Still in shock, I reread it for the hundredth time since it posted about half an hour ago. The article doesn’t identify the person who leaked the message, but it’s not hard for me to connect the dots. Wallace couldn’t find anything incriminating, so he got creative and sent a fake email to himself from Bunny’s account, claiming St. Sebastian’s is paying him to play, and then he forwarded it to the director of the NJSIAA and to the paper’s sportswriter. But the worst part of all of this is the section that talks about the possible consequences. Wallace assured me that Bunny would have to sit the rest of the season and that would be it, but it seems like shit could get a lot more serious than that.
This all better be worth it tonight.
My phone starts buzzing again. This time Keyona’s calling. I tap Ignore, and a moment later, she texts, Why’d you do this to Bunny?
So I guess they pieced it together. Except it wasn’t me—I just gave the phone to Wallace, and he did what he did.
I don’t reply, but that doesn’t stop Keyona. Her text bubbles start piling up, carrying on a one-sided conversation.
Please, talk to Bunny. He’s confused and hurt.
He thought you were friends again.
I know you’re reading this.
You show up. Bunny’s phone disappears. That story breaks.
