by Tim Green
Harrison didn’t mind helping Coach clean the fish and he couldn’t explain what bothered him so much about the hurt fish, but Coach didn’t bring it up. Mrs. Kelly was happy, and she laid the long slabs Coach cut from the sides of the fish into flour before settling them into a pan that snapped with bacon grease and onions. Harrison’s mouth watered; the fish was delicious.
After dinner, Harrison and Coach cleaned up while Mrs. Kelly sipped tea and worked on a puzzle set out in what looked like a million pieces across the dining room table in the next room. When they finished, Coach and Harrison helped with the puzzle until Mrs. Kelly yawned and looked at the clock. Darkness had enveloped the house not long after dinner, but Harrison was still surprised to see that it was already nine o’clock.
“We like to read before bed, Harrison. I know you might like to watch TV, but it’s something we try to do only a couple times a week. Coach has his Monday Night Football and I like Dancing with the Stars. Is there a show you watch?”
Harrison shrugged. The Constables liked to watch TV, but he never got to choose the channel, and what they watched, besides football, never interested him. Lump, his older foster brother, had an old Game Boy, and Harrison used to watch him play it and was rewarded every so often when Lump let him have a turn. So, when Mrs. Kelly suggested that Harrison might like to read—as she said she and Coach would do—before bed, he figured it was worth a try.
Coach shook his hand and Mrs. Kelly kissed the top of his head at the landing on the second floor before turning down the long hall toward their own room.
Harrison used the bathroom—his own bathroom—that opened directly into his room. He marveled at the soap, smooth and pink and clean, nothing like the cracked and grimy cakes he was used to at the Constables’ farm. The corners of the tub were white and clean too. There was no grease or grime or old, oily body hair.
He shuddered and stripped down to his boxers and looked at the fresh white sheets. Mrs. Kelly had turned the covers down so that a crisp white triangle welcomed him to the bed. Sackett’s Land was the name of the book on the night table beneath a small lamp. Harrison climbed into the bed, propping himself up on two pillows, and opened the book.
The first words made him go cold.
Chapter Twelve
“It was my devil’s own temper that brought me to grief . . .”
Harrison looked around the room. A car drove by down on the street. He listened to it disappear and then to the quiet ticking sounds of the house. He thought he could just make out the murmur of Coach and his wife talking in their bed. Were they talking about him?
He had no doubt the first words of this book were meant to scold him for his past deeds and his own devil’s temper that led to the death of Mr. Constable. Curious, he read some more.
“. . . my temper and a skill with weapons born of my father’s teaching.”
He stopped again. That didn’t fit him. No one had ever taught him anything about weapons, and certainly not his father. Harrison had no idea who his father was.
While the second part of the first sentence made him less certain the book was meant as a message to him, it made him even more interested to go on.
Harrison read, and read, and read.
He only stopped to look up at the sound of a soft knock on his bedroom door.
He laid the book on his chest.
The knock came again.
“Yes?” he asked.
The door opened a crack. Mrs. Kelly peeked in. “You like it?”
Harrison nodded. “There’s a lot of fighting. With swords.”
“Good. I’m so glad you like it, Harrison, and I hate to even say this, but it’s getting very late and I just don’t want you to be tired on your first day. Okay?”
“What time is it?”
“Just after midnight.”
Harrison looked at the night outside his window. “Okay.”
“Good night, Harrison.”
“Good night, Mrs. Kelly.”
Mrs. Kelly’s head disappeared, only to reappear a moment later. “You don’t have to call me Mrs. Kelly. It makes me think of Coach’s mother. I know you might not want to call me Mom, although you’re welcome to, but I’m guessing that may take some time.”
“Mrs. Coach?”
That made her laugh. “Oh, no. Please, not that. How about Jennifer? That’s my name.”
“Would Coach be okay with that? I mean, you’re a grown-up.”
“I think Coach will love it. Good night, Harrison.”
“Good night, Mrs.—” Harrison swallowed. “Good night . . . Jennifer.”
“Very nice.”
Harrison turned out the light and whispered her name twice to himself. As he lay alone in the dark, he thought about the story he had begun and about the main character, Barnabas Sackett. Then he thought about himself. Barnabas had found an old purse with gold coins that was the beginning of his fortune. Maybe tomorrow he’d find his own bag of gold coins. Maybe it would be the game of football, a thing he’d dreamed of for so long.
He imagined himself the star of the team, the boy everyone wanted to be, and he couldn’t see that picture in his mind without the girl, Becky, standing beside him.
With that thought, and a smile on his face, Harrison slept.
Chapter Thirteen
THE NEW JEANS JENNIFER had put out for him were a little stiff, but the blue cotton shirt with its polo collar felt almost as soft as his bed sheets. Jennifer made eggs over easy with whole wheat toast. Before he ate, though, she boiled a clear plastic football mouthpiece, dipped it into cold water, and helped Harrison mold it to his teeth. He then tucked it into his pants pocket so that he wouldn’t misplace it. Coach was all business, reading the paper and drinking two cups of coffee, before he stood with a clap of his hands. “Let’s go, Harrison. School.”
Harrison followed, accepting the brown bag lunch from Jennifer. He stuffed the lunch into a backpack she gave him that was already filled with notebooks, pencils, pens, and some empty folders. From the front seat of Coach’s truck, Harrison stared at the kids walking to school, some in little clusters, others by themselves. Harrison studied their faces as best he could, looking for something they’d have in common and seeing nothing that would help him to fit in. His mouth dried out and his palms grew damp.
Coach turned off the truck in the parking lot beside the school. He reached into his briefcase and handed Harrison a packet of papers stapled together.
“It’s our playbook. I don’t want you looking at it during classes, but if you have time at lunch or study hall, you might want to take a look.”
Coach flipped open the packet and pointed at a series of circles and Xs. “You see? This page shows you the number for each hole. Next are the formations, then after that the plays. The circle that’s filled in is the guy who gets the ball. Then, these are our basic defenses, just where to line up. It’s pretty simple, really, and if you have the chance to look it over, things will make sense out there.”
Harrison held the packet like it was gold and tucked it into his backpack.
Coach walked him into the Brookton Junior High School office, introduced him to the principal, Mr. Fisk, and then sat him down in the office of Mr. Sofia, the guidance counselor. Mr. Sofia had a kind but worried face, and his dark hair had thinned enough that his tan scalp shone through. Mr. Sofia finally stopped staring at Harrison’s discolored eye and went over his school schedule. Coach signed some papers. The bell rang as the three of them entered the hallway. Kids scrambled for their classrooms and no one paid Harrison any attention.
Coach stopped and turned to Mr. Sofia. “Frank, can I have a second with Harrison?”
Mr. Sofia nodded and disappeared around the corner.
Coach cleared his throat and looked around before he spoke in a low voice to Harrison. “I have to tell you something that’s very important.”
Chapter Fourteen
COACH LOOKED HARD AT Harrison, and Harrison dipped his head.
“I know about everything that happened in your old life, Harrison,” Coach said, “and I believe my mother-in-law when she says you’ve just caught a bunch of bad breaks.”
Harrison glanced up and saw that Coach meant what he said.
“Okay,” Coach said, “fine. You’ll get a fresh start here. But I also know kids, and I know what happens when a new kid shows up. You’ll be the biggest kid in the grade, so you’ll stick out, and your eye is still kind of noticeable, and I’ll bet dollars to donuts that before the day is out someone’s going to give you some grief. That’s life.
“Well, I need you to rise above it. I can’t have you exploding on me and knocking someone’s block off. Do you get what I’m saying? You might get angry. I know it. But you’ve got to contain it. Save it up for football practice today. I promise, you’ll get to let it all out then, but you’ve got to wait. You can’t fight anyone, no matter what. You understand? If you have problems, you tell me and we’ll work it out.”
Harrison realized that Coach was staring at him, hard.
“Okay?” Coach asked.
“Okay.”
Coach mussed his hair. “Good. I’ll see you third period.”
Harrison watched him go, then he went in the direction of the guidance counselor. When Mr. Sofia showed Harrison his locker and handed him the combination, they were the only people in the hallway. “Your . . . father . . . your foster father is a good man.”
Harrison looked around and realized Mr. Sofia was talking to him. He didn’t know what to say about that. It was hard to think of Coach as his father because the word had come to mean something Harrison didn’t necessarily appreciate, and he already really liked Coach.
After Mr. Sofia realized Harrison had no reply, he pointed to a door down the hall. “There’s your math class, Mrs. Zebolt, 209. If you have any problems or questions, you can stop by anytime.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sofia.”
The guidance counselor smiled a big, bright smile and said, “Kids call me ‘S.’ Just ‘S.’”
Harrison nodded and crossed the hall to 209. He opened the door and stepped inside. All eyes were on him.
“You’re late, young man.” The teacher had little round glasses and the curly brown hair of a poodle. “That’s no way to start your career with me.”
Harrison said nothing. One empty desk remained in the front row. He sat down at it, but not before he saw Becky Smart sitting in the back. That only made Harrison’s face glow, and he hunched over in the front seat, aware that he blocked the view of the person behind him.
“Your name?”
It took Harrison a moment before he realized the teacher was talking to him.
“Harrison.”
“Harrison what?” she asked.
“Harrison Johnson, ma’am.”
“Manners?” Mrs. Zebolt sniffed. “I know all about your past, Harrison.”
Harrison nodded and felt his cheeks warm.
Mrs. Zebolt turned back to the whiteboard, attacking it with her marker in little squeaky bursts.
Harrison felt a pencil eraser poke him in the back. The boy behind him whispered, “Hey, you big, dumb retard. How many grades did you fail?”
Harrison shifted in his seat, ignoring the kid. He felt the anger building up inside him, but he remembered Coach’s words only a few minutes ago. It almost seemed like Coach had set him up, to test him. That’s what Harrison thought, and he was determined to pass the test.
After a few minutes, he felt another poke. “What are you, a retarded zombie? What’s with that bloody eye, you retard?”
Harrison heard the boy next to him and the girl behind him snicker together under their breath and glance his way.
Harrison saw red. He had a vision of himself turning around and punching the boy directly in the mouth, breaking his teeth, and then throwing him to the ground for a good stomping. He actually could see it happening in his mind, but he brought Coach’s words back to life in his head. He had to hold back.
But when the next poke came, Harrison couldn’t help himself.
He had to do something, and he spun around.
Chapter Fifteen
INSTEAD OF FREEING THE punch that had coiled itself up inside his arm like a rattlesnake, Harrison snatched the boy’s pencil and snapped it like a matchstick in one hand. He laid the broken pieces on the desk, ignoring the look of shock on the boy’s face, and turned back toward the front.
Mrs. Zebolt’s marker squeaked out the final line to her problem and only then did she turn to face the class. “Who can tell me how to solve this?”
Silence greeted her. She scowled and headed for Harrison, holding out the marker. “Well, Mr. Johnson, in case you’re not the type to do your homework, it’ll be good for you to know that if no one volunteers, I choose a person to do the problem. And, if they can’t, it’s an F that gets added into their test scores for the marking period.”
Mrs. Zebolt was two steps from Harrison. The anger burning in him from being poked and teased was already simmering beneath his skin, and now this mean teacher was going to give him an F when he’d done nothing wrong?
The teacher took another step, then someone said, “I know the answer, Mrs. Zebolt.”
All eyes turned toward Becky Smart. She was already up and out of her seat. She whisked past Mrs. Zebolt and stood facing the board. She stared for a moment, then began to jot down a series of numbers until she wrote “x = 7/8,” circled it, and spun around.
Mrs. Zebolt stared and her lips worked through the series of calculations as if someone had hit her mute button. Then she squeezed her lips together before saying, “Correct.”
Becky returned to her seat, offering Harrison a quick wink as she passed.
The boy behind Harrison muttered, “Beauty and the beast.”
The pair next to Harrison giggled again.
“Do you have something to share with the class, Mr. Johnson?” The teacher glared.
Harrison shook his head.
“Then I suggest you take that angry look off your face,” the teacher said. “It neither frightens nor intimidates me, despite the stories I’ve heard.”
Harrison unclenched his teeth.
“And you, Mr. Howard?” The teacher looked past Harrison at the boy sitting behind him, allowing Harrison to turn and get a better look at his enemy. Howard was tall and thick-shouldered with short red hair, freckles, and a mean, pinched-up face.
“Me, what?” He scowled right back at the teacher.
“Do you have anything to share, Leonard Howard?” Mrs. Zebolt seemed to boil. “Maybe in detention, with me, instead of football practice?”
“No.” Leonard Howard’s face softened.
“Good, then leave Mr. Johnson alone.” The teacher returned to her board.
Harrison tried hard to understand everything she wrote. He took notes as best he could, but his head swam with numbers and signs and letters that didn’t make any sense at all. He hoped later Mrs. Kelly . . . Jennifer . . . could help him sort it all out. His mind was so jumbled that by the time the bell rang, he’d forgotten about Leonard Howard. That is, until after class.
Out in the crowded hallway, Harrison felt a finger poking his back. When he spun around, Leonard Howard was in his face.
Chapter Sixteen
HARRISON CLENCHED HIS BOOKS in one hand and a fist in the other but forced them both against his legs. “Leave me alone.”
“You scared? You big retard.” Howard gave Harrison a shove.
Harrison stumbled back and his head banged into a locker. He dropped his books and cocked his fist. A small crowd sprang up around them in a ring, but Becky Smart jumped between him and Leonard Howard before Harrison could let him have it.
Leonard Howard chuckled and reached over Becky’s shoulder to point at Harrison. “You’re lucky.”
Becky swatted his hand away. “Can’t you be nice?”
“You’re nice enough for everybody. Another freak show for you to take care of, Little Miss G
oody Two-Shoes.”
“I’m not ashamed to be nice, Leo.”
Leo Howard snorted.
“You play football, Leo?” Harrison asked, picking up his books.
“So what?” Leo stuck out his chin.
“So, I’ll see you then.” Harrison stared at the boy for a beat before turning and walking away.
Becky caught up with him halfway down the hall. “Where you going?”
“I got history with Mr. Guy. Room 324.”
“Me too,” she said. “I’ll walk with you. You did good. He’s such a jerk.”
They climbed the stairs and Harrison said, “Coach warned me.”
“About Leo?”
“About someone. He’s smart, Coach.”
“He’s good friends with my dad.”
“He said I’ve got to save up the anger.”
“Are there other things you’re angry about?”
Harrison glanced at her and touched his bad eye. “This.”
“Someone did that to you?”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That would make anyone mad.”
“There’s worse things than this, believe me.” Harrison stopped in front of room 324.
“That’s scary,” she said.
“You’re right.” Harrison walked into the classroom and found an empty seat.
The first two classes were the only ones he had with Becky, but the day got better as it went on anyway because none of the other teachers were as strict as Mrs. Zebolt. Coach treated Harrison just like everyone else, and he didn’t even mention that Harrison was his foster son when he introduced him as the new boy to his class. That seemed strange, but there was so much to learn and think about—including the playbook he studied during lunch—so it got lost in the chaos of the day.
