by Tim Green
“Hi.” She looked at Brock with an intensity that made him blush as she scooped his temporary card and the books from the counter. She fired a laser beam at the card, then the books’ inside covers, checking them out with a beep like a cash register.
Brock was suddenly very aware that Mak smelled like roadkill and he wasn’t much better in his sweaty T-shirt and shorts. He looked over at Mak, who grinned wide from behind his face mask. “Laurel? What are you doing here?”
“Why wouldn’t I be here, Mak?”
Mak shrugged and looked around. “I guess I figured you’d be riding horses or something.”
Laughter rolled off her tongue like the gurgle of a fast stream. “Community service, Mak. It’s for college.”
“College? College is for football.” Mak nodded his head to back up his words.
“Who’s your friend?” Laurel looked at Brock, and he felt his throat tighten.
“He’s new. Real name’s Bob, but he’s like a brick so they call him Brock.” Mak grinned with pride at his faulty recollection of the story.
Brock wanted to melt.
Mak pointed at each of them, making eye contact, and giving a proper introduction, per his father’s advice. “Brock Barrette, Laurel Lehman.”
“Hi, Brock Barrette.” Laurel raised an eyebrow and pushed the books and card back across the counter. “A boy who not only reads, but drags Mak Koletsky into the library?”
She clucked her tongue and checked out Mak’s book. “I thought I’d seen everything.”
“We just came from football practice.” Mak accepted the checked-out book along with his temporary card.
Laurel sniffed the air and looked down at Mak’s wet and grubby pants. “Really? And I thought someone threw up in the book return again.”
“You can watch for him and me on the line together.” Mak puffed his chest. “First team.”
“First team?” Laurel raised her eyebrows. “Nice.”
“Quarterback.” The word escaped Brock’s lips from he didn’t know where. The sound of it made him jump and clamp his lips tight.
Mak laughed and slapped him on the back. “He’s funny.”
“Everyone loves the quarterback. You’re tall enough.” Laurel kept her eyes on his and Brock could say no more. He thought of Bella, the first girl who ever made his brain tingle. This girl was nothing like Bella, who was more compact and tough, but she did the same thing to him and he marveled at it.
“You ought to come see practice sometime,” Mak said. “School spirit. Colleges love that.”
“Maybe we could get some ice cream sometime?” Brock said, startled by his own words. It was like an alien took over his body and he could see that not only Mak, but Laurel, too, was surprised.
Before anyone could say anything more, Brock’s dad appeared with half a dozen books and they all went quiet. Laurel checked out his books and kept her eyes on her business until she pushed Brock’s dad’s books back to him with a smile. “Have a good day.”
“You too.” Brock’s dad turned and they followed him out.
At the door, Brock glanced back—still under alien control—and waved.
Laurel smiled, and waved right back.
17
As they crossed the river, Brock’s dad asked, “What’s with you and that girl?”
Brock’s mouth hung open and he couldn’t help staring in total disbelief at his dad. “Nothing.”
Mak leaned forward and planted his face between the two front seats. “Don’t worry, Mr. Barrette. That happens to everyone. When Laurel Lehman walks down the halls in school, guys wilt like flowers on a grave.”
Brock’s dad glanced back at Mak as they pulled into their driveway. “Flowers on a . . .”
“Grave. That’s what Coach Hewitt says when someone gets crushed on the line.” Mak scrunched up his face and made his voice gruff, talking out of one side of his mouth. “‘He wilted like flowers on a grave.’ That’s how he talks.”
“Yeah, I heard him.” Brock’s dad shut off the engine and they all got out.
“Don’t mind Coach, Mr. Barrette,” Mak said. “Everyone says his bark’s worse than his bite. He teaches freshman English. You should hear him talk about Romeo and Juliet. I hear he gets tears in his eyes. Can you imagine? I mean, who’d poison themselves over a girl? My dad says to stay away from girls as long as you can. Nothin’ but trouble. That’s what my dad says.”
“Mak, you’re an interesting guy.” Brock’s dad shook Mak’s hand. “Maybe you’ll join us for dinner?”
“Sure I will. Maybe lunch too?” Mak looked around hopefully. “It’s gotta be noon.”
“Better get a shower first.” Brock’s dad waved his hand in front of his nose.
Mak’s face brightened and he looked down at his grungy pants. “Yeah, after three days of dirt and sweat it’s time to get a wash in.”
“Yes, three days is.” Brock’s dad smiled. “But come by for dinner if you want.”
Mak nodded, picked his bike up, and trudged up the street, guiding it along on its crooked wheel.
“Nice boy.”
“Funny,” Brock said. “Now what?”
Brock’s dad slapped his hands together. “I’ll make us sandwiches, then I gotta go find a job. I’ll pick you up some cleats on my way home.”
They went inside. Brock filled two paper cups with milk and sat at the table while his father laid out slices of ham onto white bread he’d slathered with mayo.
“What will you do?” Brock asked. “For a job, I mean.”
His father came over to the table and laid down the sandwiches on two paper plates. “Probably construction if I can find it. Something that pays cash.”
“Cash?”
His father bit into his sandwich and spoke through the food. “Just to be safe. I don’t need any paperwork going to the government. If I get paid cash, there’s no record of me.”
“I thought we were going to live a ‘normal’ life.” Brock couldn’t help the edge in his voice.
“Relax. Plenty of people live on the fringe. Cash jobs. Cash payments. There are some things you can’t do, but not much.”
“Like what?” Brock asked.
His father shrugged. “You can’t buy stuff online. No credit cards.”
“What about our library cards?” Brock asked.
His father laughed and swallowed. “I like the way you’re thinking, like an operative. No, library cards aren’t linked into anything anyone can search on a national level.”
“But you said our identities were, what’d you call them? Clean?”
“They are clean. Everything the government does is in computers. Some people—like me—know how to get inside those computers and make stuff up. I did all that when I was still working there, made up stuff for you, me, and your mom. Just in case. That’s how I got a driver’s license in Maryland and your birth certificate as Robert Barrette, which let me register you for school. What I don’t want to do is get a job where my social security number gets entered into the IRS database. Your mom and I are the only ones who knew the names I made up, but I like to play things safe. It’s a habit, and I don’t like having any connection to government computers.”
Brock absorbed that, again wondering if it really was possible for them to have a whole new way of life. To change the subject, he said, “That coach doesn’t like people from the Flats.”
“Who told you that?”
“Mak.”
“Coaches yell, Brock. They’re trying to motivate twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys. I’d yell.”
“It’s not that. It’s the way . . . I don’t know. I get a feeling.”
“If I got upset every time someone gave me a feeling, I’d be in a rubber room.” His father got up and put his plate in the trash. “It’s football. Football is different than baseball. It’s more . . .”
“Mean?” Brock suggested.
“Intense. Like the army. Taking orders.” His father reached into the cupboard. “You w
ant an Oreo?”
“Sure,” Brock said. “Speaking of cookies, there’s something called a Mom’s Club meeting tonight at the high school cafeteria. I guess all the players’ moms get together for some bake sale.”
His father turned his way with the Oreo package in his hands and froze. He spoke soft and gentle. “Well, you don’t have a mom. I’m sure not everyone does.”
“Apparently they do. And Coach said everyone’s mom had to be there. Everyone needs to help.”
His father forced a laugh. “I’ll go then.”
“You?” Brock didn’t know if he was serious.
“Sure.” His father opened the package and jiggled three cookies onto Brock’s plate before pouring more milk into his cup. “If your mom was here, I’d be doing the baking anyway. She could barely butter bread.”
His father laughed, but this time it was cheerful, like he was remembering good times without the pain.
It made Brock sad, and he could only imagine the reaction from people when his father from the Flatlands showed up at the Mom’s Club.
18
The next morning, Mak appeared at Brock’s back door in his football gear, still grungy and stained, but heavy with the smell of laundry soap instead of the stink of old sweat. Brock let him in and Mak stood in their kitchen with his helmet on, watching Brock and his dad finish breakfast and looking around the kitchen while he waited for a ride.
“Still wearing the helmet?” Brock’s dad asked after a glance at Mak. Mak had shown up to dinner last night before the Mom’s Club meeting with the helmet on as well. After Brock’s dad assured him their home wasn’t a public place, Mak had only taken it off to eat.
“That was great fish last night.” Mak sniffed the air as if he could still smell their dinner. “My mom never gets fish from Hooligans. Too expensive.”
“Do you want me to fry you an egg?” Brock’s dad shoveled in the last bite of his breakfast.
“No,” Mak said, still looking around with his nose tilted up. “We gotta get to practice, but thanks.”
Suddenly, Mak froze like a beagle. “Hey, what are those?”
Brock’s dad turned around and looked to where Mak pointed. Brock put his face in a hand.
“Gingersnaps.” Brock’s dad cleared his throat and stood up to throw away his cup and plate.
“Can I?” Mak started for the pile.
“Sorry, buddy.” Brock’s dad put a hand on his shoulder. “They’re for the Mom’s Club bake sale tomorrow.”
“Oh, yeah. My mom said everyone was talking about how funny it was that you showed up at that meeting last night.” Mak snapped his mouth shut and his face reddened. He looked at the floor.
Brock’s dad laughed it off. “I was a fish out of water, but they’ll like my cookies.”
Brock wanted to crawl in a hole, but he acted normal. “We’d better go.”
They got into the car and Brock’s dad took them to the school. This time, instead of watching practice, he said he was headed out to find a job.
“You guys grab a sandwich at Subway in town after practice,” Brock’s father said, giving Brock a twenty-dollar bill as they got out of the car. “Then you can hang out in the park and I’ll pick you up there around one.”
They were only halfway across the hot dusty football field when Coach Hewitt blew the whistle and got things started. Brock was glad for his new cleats. He was able to move faster and better. No one said anything to Brock about the throw he’d made after practice the day before, even though he gave Coach Hewitt an eager look every chance he got. It must have worked though, because when warm-ups and agility drills were over and Brock started to go with Coach Hewitt, Coach Delaney, and the linemen, Coach Hewitt stopped him. “No, you go with the skill guys.”
Coach Hewitt then shouted over Brock’s shoulder at Coach Van Kuffler. “Coach, let’s see how Barrette does at quarterback. When his pads go on we can always put him on the line, but with an arm like he’s got, we should at least see how he takes to it. Good?”
“Sure, Coach.” Coach Van Kuffler looked anything but happy. When Brock joined the group, Coach Van Kuffler wore the stitched-on smile of a scarecrow.
“Just try to follow along and watch today. I don’t want you slowing things down,” he growled.
Coach Van Kuffler looked at Brock the way a caged dog looks at a cat, then he blew his whistle and everyone fell into place. The backs and receivers made two long lines. The first- and second-team quarterbacks pretended to take snaps from a center, then threw various passes depending on the patterns Coach Van Kuffler called out. Brock stood and watched, aching to be able to throw some passes himself. He was pretty sure he could, and he knew he could do it better than Wally Van Kuffler and Kurt Wentzel, the second-team quarterback who was even worse than Wally.
Eager to show what he could do, Brock felt the pressure building up inside him. Every time Coach Van Kuffler came close to him, he imagined himself asking if he could throw some passes, but every time, the words froze in his throat. His hands began to sweat from nerves. Finally, when Wentzel put a pass right into the dirt and Coach Van Kuffler was barking at him to finish his throwing motion and keep his head up, Brock burst out.
“Coach, can I try?”
Coach Van Kuffler turned and glowered at him, obviously mad, but it seemed he was also mad at Wentzel. Coach Van Kuffler’s lip quivered under his long front teeth; then he pointed at the spot where Wentzel stood. “Sure. Go. You can’t be worse than Wentzel.”
Wentzel hung his head and stepped aside.
“Let’s go, receivers! Give me ten-yard out cuts!” Coach Van Kuffler bellowed.
Brock watched Wally’s receiver run ten yards down the field, then break out toward the sideline. Wally threw it behind his receiver. Brock stepped up to Wentzel’s old spot and pretended to take a snap of his own. He dropped back, crossing his feet and nearly falling down so that by the time he regained his balance the receiver was dangerously close to the sideline. Desperate, Brock reared back and fired the ball like a fast pitch.
19
The football whistled through the air and Brock knew it was a good throw. When it hit the receiver’s hands, though, the receiver yelped and the ball kept going.
“Wentzel! Get back in there!” Coach Van Kuffler barked.
Brock’s mouth listed open. “B-b-but I . . . I . . .”
Coach Van Kuffler glared at him. “What?”
“I thought it was a good pass, Coach. I know I threw it a little late, but . . .”
Coach Van Kuffler began to mangle his lower lip with his teeth. His eyes bulged even more than they already did. “Now you’re gonna tell me how to coach?”
Brock stayed silent, but that only seemed to make Coach Van Kuffler more mad.
“You think I care if you got a strong arm?” Coach Van Kuffler stabbed a finger into the space between them. “You gotta complete the pass. You threw a bullet your receiver couldn’t catch. The object is to make plays. It’s a team game, not a track meet. Now, stand back and watch and see if you can figure that out.”
It was Brock’s turn to hang his head. He wanted to tell the coach he’d missed a step and needed to throw it extra fast before the receiver reached the sideline, but he remembered his father’s words and knew he’d said too much already.
“You better pick your head up and pay attention,” Coach Van Kuffler said. “I’m going over our base pass plays just for you. Everyone else knows them, but Coach Hewitt wants to see if you can even learn this stuff.”
Brock did his best, but it was hard. Coach Van Kuffler talked in a language the other boys seemed to understand, but Brock had no idea.
“Z has to break that post at twelve!” Coach Van Kuffler shouted at a receiver after Wally threw another incomplete pass.
After a while, Brock sorted out that Z was the wide receiver on the right. X was the wide receiver on the left. When Brock got up the guts to ask Coach Van Kuffler if that was correct, the coach replied, “What’s it look li
ke?”
Brock had no idea what the difference between H and Y was because Brady Calenzo, their compact and fleet-footed running back, seemed to be H sometimes and Y other times, and Brock wondered how that could be. When they took a water break between periods, Brock found Mak and asked him for help.
Sweat poured down Mak’s face. He was huffing to catch his breath and he shrugged. “I don’t know that stuff. I just gotta know who to block. Ask Coach Hewitt for a playbook, though. We can go over it after practice and maybe I can help you figure it out.”
“Great.” Brock watched Mak slurp down some water from the hose. He hadn’t done all that much, so he wasn’t thirsty, but to be like the others he took a turn and gulped some down as well.
After Coach Hewitt blew the whistle again, he shouted, “Linemen with Coach Delaney! Skill players with me and Coach Van Kuffler, seven on seven!”
Brock followed the rest of the skill players—everyone who wasn’t a lineman—and stood in the back while Wally took charge of the seven-man huddle, called a play, and went to the line against a defense that also had no linemen. Brock scowled in concentration, taking in every last detail he could, but he was still generally confused after the first ten plays.
Coach Hewitt seemed to be running the defensive side of things, coaching the linebackers and defensive backs on their coverage assignments and techniques, but after Kurt Wentzel ran five plays, the head coach shouted across the field, “Coach, let’s see Brock!”
Coach Van Kuffler hesitated, then shouted back, “He’s got no pads, Coach.”
Coach Hewitt waved a hand impatiently. “We’re not hitting. He can take a snap and throw a pass.”
Coach Van Kuffler shrugged and grit his teeth, but quickly forced a smile. “You got it, Coach. Brock, take the huddle.”
Brock hesitated, not knowing what it meant to “take” the huddle, but he assumed he should just do what the others had done.
“Okay,” Coach Van Kuffler said. “Call an X Cross Z Post on two; you know this, right?”
“I . . . I think I do. Yes.”
“Sure you do, it’s the first play I taught you and you watched it about a dozen times during individual period.” Coach Van Kuffler had raised his voice so that everyone could hear him clearly, including Coach Hewitt.
