by Tim Green
Taylor blushed and cupped his hand so the ring didn’t show. “You’re gonna need some extra help if you’re gonna try and break in around here, especially with Wally Van Kuffler in the same grade. You’ll be swimming upstream like a fish with a hook in its gills.”
“Help?” Brock didn’t even want to think about the image of a hook in his gills.
“With the plays. Lots to learn,” Taylor said.
“You could teach me?” Brock glanced over at Laurel, who was lit up like a merry-go-round at a carnival.
“We all run the exact same offense,” Taylor said. “I’ve been doing it since I was five. I gotta go to practice now, but come over tonight. We can go through some footwork in the yard too.”
“Why?” Brock couldn’t keep the question from rolling off his lips.
“I don’t know. Ask her.” Taylor laughed and nodded toward the desk as he made his way out of the library.
Mak grabbed Brock’s arm and tugged him into a quick hug. “Dude, do you know how cool that is?”
“Yeah.” Brock had his eyes on Laurel. She was opening new books, pasting stickers on the inside cover and running the scanner over them with a beep. She acted like she hadn’t even been paying attention, but her cheeks were flushed, and she was focused a little too hard on the books. Brock walked over to the desk. She didn’t look up until he cleared his throat.
“Oh, hi,” she said.
“That was really nice. Thanks.”
“What do you mean?” she said, but the smile crept onto her lips. “No, I’m kidding. I like underdogs, that’s all.”
“Underdog?” For some reason, that made Brock mad. “Like community service? Helping out a poor Flatty? Must be nice to be so important. Princess and the pauper, right?”
“No!” She scowled. “I’d never say that. You’re new, that’s all.”
Laurel got up and held out the book in her hands, open, as if presenting it to him. “And you’re rude too.”
She slapped the book shut, set it on the stack, and marched off into the back.
Mak tilted his head. “Dude, you just blew the whole thing. What is wrong with you?”
24
“What is wrong with me?” Brock asked the question out loud as he quickly exited the library. Mak paused on the steps to put his helmet on. Brock put his head in his hands. He couldn’t just tell Mak he was a social misfit after years of living a life on the run with his father, fending off friends with a stiff-arm of secrecy and silence.
“Go in there and tell her.” Mak shoved Brock back toward the library doors.
“Tell her what?” Brock let Mak push him along.
“Anything. That you got hit in the head. That you’re suffering from heat stroke. Anything. Just say you’re sorry, Brock. This could be your ticket, if you really want to play QB. I want you to play because I saw that arm and I want to grow up and win a high school state championship and go to Notre Dame and then the pros. Say ‘sorry.’ It’ll work. You should see the stupid stuff my dad does, then bang. He says ‘sorry’ to my mom and it works like a charm. ‘Sorry’ is like magic with women.”
Brock swatted Mak’s hands away and stopped short of the door. “Do you realize how silly you look in that helmet?”
“Don’t change the subject. Just do it. I’m telling you. And I’m not letting you leave here unless you do. I play defensive tackle too, you know. I can sack you right here and now, a quarterback sack on the library front steps. Sounds like a movie, and I’ll do it.” Mak crouched down and flexed his fingers like he was getting ready to make a tackle.
Brock looked at the sidewalk, wondering if he could make it. If he could, he’d outrun Mak and be clear of this mess, but then what? This was his home, now. He touched the skinny new nose on his face. They weren’t running anymore.
He turned and went through the doors, but stopped at the sight of the gaping hallway that led to the library offices in back. “Who knows if she’s even still in there?”
“Go.” Mak pointed a thick finger and crouched down in his tackling position again.
Brock sighed and circled the counter. He stepped slowly into the offices. Fear buzzed in his ears—fear of being in a place he didn’t belong, and fear of seeing her face. The librarian appeared suddenly from a doorway on the right down the wide hall. She didn’t look happy.
“Were you mean to Laurel?” The softness was gone from the librarian’s voice and the color of her cheeks matched her fiery hair. “She’s here to help people, you know. No one’s paying her.”
“I’m . . . I wanted to say sorry.”
“Well, that’s a good idea.” She said it like an order and pointed her finger toward the door she’d just come out of.
Brock marched down the hall. He passed an open office where a large man in a dress shirt sat with his back to Brock, typing at a computer. When Brock got to the door, the librarian opened it and marshaled him in.
“Laurel, this young man has something to say.”
The room was a lounge of sorts with dusty old chairs, a couch, reading lamps, and a noisy refrigerator in the corner. Laurel stood at a sink built into the counter beside the fridge. She pulled coffee mugs out of the sudsy water and rinsed them in the steady stream of the spout. When she raised her chin, he thought she looked more angry than sad.
“Oh, man,” Brock said. “I’m really sorry. Please. I swear the sun got to my brain. I’m just a mess of scrambled eggs between the ears, moving here and trying to play football and looking like a dork wherever I go. Why I’d take it out on you when you’re being nice to me is . . . well, it’s . . .”
She glared. “Inexcusable?”
25
“Exactly. It is.”
She sighed and her face softened. “It’s not easy to apologize.”
“It’s easier when someone as big as Mak is gonna smear your guts all over the library floor if you don’t.”
She laughed. “He’s nice. A little crazy, but nice.”
“You mean your brother doesn’t wear his football helmet to bed?” Relief gushed through Brock’s veins, cooling and calming him. She smiled at him and he knew at that moment that if she asked him to jump off a bridge, he’d do it.
“My brother can help you, you know.”
“I do know. What I don’t know is why you’d do all this for me.”
“My mom tells us all the time to do random nice things for people.”
Brock’s face fell. “Oh.”
“But it’s more than that.” She spoke quickly. “You just . . . seem nice. I like that you read and . . . When You Reach Me is one of my favorite books, but you’re this big football player. Or, you want to be.”
“Want to.”
“Anyone tough enough to get Mak Koletsky into the library, then brave enough to check out a book that has a girl for the main character can be a football player,” she said. “My dad used to play for the Bengals, so I should know.”
“That’s awesome,” Brock said. “What was it like?”
She shrugged. “I don’t really remember. He retired when I was only two.”
“Mak says your brother might go to Ohio State,” Brock said.
“Maybe. He’s tough like that too. He doesn’t care what he looks like or what people might say. He took a dance class once.”
“Dance?”
“Jazz.” Laurel nodded.
“Jeez.” Brock didn’t even know what jazz dancing was, but he had an image of the big blond Taylor twirling on a hardwood stage under some spotlights.
“No, jazz.” She frowned.
“Yeah. I mean, that’s cool.”
“Well.” Laurel wiped her hands on a towel. She moved toward the door, stopped and touched his arm. “I better get back to work.”
Brock followed her out of the lounge and down the hall. Only a huff and a head wag from Mak could break her magnetic pull; otherwise, Brock thought he would have stayed behind the counter for the rest of the afternoon, just looking at her. Laurel jotted something down on a scrap o
f paper and handed it to him. “My address. Come over after dinner. Seven thirty? Taylor will work with you.”
“I . . . what about a football? We don’t use the same size ball as the varsity,” Brock said.
Laurel rolled her eyes. “My brother could fill a barn with his old footballs. He’ll have something. See you later.”
She went back to her stack of books, but again, as Brock walked out through the main entrance he looked back and caught her smiling at him. Brock barely felt the flagstone steps beneath his feet.
“See?” Mak thumped him on the back. “Magic with women. Flowers is another trick my dad uses. Don’t have to be roses, either. You can pick stuff from the side of the road, daisies, buttercups. . . .”
“Buttercups?” Brock couldn’t contain a laugh as they turned onto Main Street heading for the Subway. “Listen to you . . . buttercups.”
“Hey, I’m not the one with a girlfriend.” Mak poked his arm.
Brock’s heart buzzed like a bee, but he waved a hand. “She’s just being nice.”
“Yeah. Well. I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“If you were, you’d have a hard time crossing the street. Seriously, you gotta lose the helmet, Mak. People are staring.”
“Let ’em stare.” Mak looked around and caught a little girl on the other side of the street holding her older sister’s hand and pointing at him. Mak raised an arm and hooked his hand so his finger pointed down at the top of his helmet. “Take a look! Calhoun Middle Fighting Crabs. First team, girls!”
“Come on.” Brock shoved his friend inside the sandwich shop and treated him to a chicken bacon ranch sub. They sat facing each other in a booth. Mak removed his helmet to eat. He set it down on the seat beside him, and they dug in.
“Stuff is awesome!” A slug of chewed sub plopped out of Mak’s mouth as he spoke. The blob of food banked off his chest, bounced off the helmet, and hit the floor. Mak glanced around, bent over, scooped it up, and held it high between his fingers, examining it in the light as if it were a jewel.
Brock choked down a mouthful of milk. “Mak, you’re not going to . . .”
26
Mak popped the blob into his mouth and chewed, rolling his eyes with delight as he gulped it down.
Brock leaned over and looked at the dirty floor, losing his appetite.
Mak raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“Dude. Disgusting.” Brock set his sandwich down.
Mak took another huge bite and talked through the food. “My dad says everyone eats a pound of dirt over their lifetime. That barely hit the ground.”
Mak took a swig of milk to wash down his food.
Brock wrinkled his nose. “That was gross. Even if it hit a clean plate, it looked like something that came out of the other end.”
Mak burst with laughter, choked, and milk sprayed from his nose all over the table. Everyone looked. Mak howled even louder as he mopped up the mess with a handful of napkins. Finally, he caught his breath.
“The other end!” Mak grinned around at everyone else, delighted with the humor and expecting them to be too. People rolled their eyes and looked away in disgust.
Brock examined the rest of his sub, saw that it hadn’t been sprayed, and folded it carefully in the wrapper to save for later.
“Where you going?” Mak blinked up at him.
“Not hungry anymore.”
Mak shrugged, stuffed the rest of his own sub into his mouth, and jammed the football helmet back on his head before he rose to follow Brock with his milk in one hand and his garbage in the other. Brock waited for Mak to throw away his mess. When he turned around, he stood face-to-face with Wentzel, the backup quarterback, and two goons who looked like linemen.
“Hey, it’s the son of the cookie man.” Wentzel smiled like a boy who enjoyed pulling the legs off spiders. “Heard your dad likes to get in the kitchen and bake.”
All three of them laughed.
Brock’s stomach knotted up and he clenched his teeth.
“What’s a matter?” Wentzel kept grinning. “You don’t like it here? Maybe you should head on over to your side of the river? It’s a little flatter over there, like your head.”
Brock’s hands coiled into fists. He stepped forward so that his chest almost touched Wentzel’s.
Mak burst in between Brock and Wentzel with both hands. “Hey, guys. Come on, now. We’re all on the same team. You know what Coach says. You fight, you’re cut. Now, come on.”
Mak dragged Brock away. They walked out into the sunshine and headed for the park.
“Don’t fall for that.” Mak shook his head.
“What?”
“You get into a fight with Wentzel, who wins?”
“Wentzel would get cut too if that’s the rules,” Brock said.
“Yeah. So, who wins?” Mak asked.
Brock thought about it and realized Wally would be the real winner. “Seriously? Wentzel would risk getting suspended for Wally Van Kuffler?”
“I’m not saying he wouldn’t. Maybe it was one of those other guys who were gonna step in. Quinn can’t play his way out of a paper bag and the other kid isn’t even on the football team. They’d do it just to get attention, so keep away from that kind of junk.”
“We moved around a lot,” Brock said. “I got used to fighting, especially in the first week or two. Then people usually leave you alone.”
“Well, don’t fight here.” Mak led the way to a bench under a big shade tree in the park next to a statue of a Union soldier on horseback. “Who cares what they say? Let them say what they want. Cookies? Who cares? That’s so stupid it hurts.”
Mak picked up a stick, sat down, and began to break it into pieces.
Brock sat next to him. In the silence, Brock noticed a big dark-gray car parked along the road. Four silver rings on the grill told him it was an Audi. The windows were tinted so that he couldn’t see inside, but Brock had the sudden feeling that someone was watching them. He stared at the car and the lights went on as it revved to life.
“Is that someone you know?” Brock kept his eyes on the car so Mak would know where to look.
“Nice wheels,” Mak said. “Not me. Why?”
Brock was overtaken by a feeling so strong it made him sweat.
He stood to go. “Come on.”
Mak sighed. “Let me rest. Your dad said to wait for him in the park.”
Brock kept walking. The car began to roll slowly forward, mirroring Brock’s movement.
“Hey.” Mak caught up.
Brock’s mind did cartwheels. He didn’t know if he should keep walking to pretend he wasn’t aware of the car, or take off and run. Suddenly, he felt like his old life was back upon him—running, hiding, panic.
Brock broke to his left and bolted across the park, away from the car. He heard the yip of tires as the Audi took off behind him.
“Brock!” Mak hustled to keep up.
Brock looked back and saw the Audi turn the corner so that it could circle the park and cut him off. He broke back again the other way.
“What are we doing?” Mak had confusion in his voice and a touch of fear.
Brock didn’t know what he was doing. That was the problem.
He reached the street and shot down a brick alley.
It was a dead end.
“Brock.” Mak threw his hands up in the air, puffing. “You’re crazy.”
Brock was crazy, and when he turned and looked back up the mouth of the alley and saw the headlights swing into the narrow space, heading his way, he was so crazy he couldn’t even breathe.
27
The car stopped.
It wasn’t the Audi. It was another car, his father’s. The horn beeped and the window rolled down. “Cut the nonsense and get in, will you?”
There was no urgency to his father’s voice, no panic.
Brock swallowed and gulped for air.
“Dude, you’re cracked.” Mak huffed, and he whispered, “You scared me.”
Th
ey piled into his dad’s car.
“What was that about? Hide-and-seek?” His father switched on the radio.
“Just kidding.” It was all Brock could think of to say. He felt so foolish. His father said they were going to have a normal life. Why couldn’t he just believe it and let go?
“Yeah, well do me a favor, will you? Save the kidding for Mak.” His father glanced at him as he backed the car out of the alleyway. “I’ve got things to do at the house.”
“Did you get a job?” Brock asked.
“In fact, I did.” His father nodded and bit his lip. “Sanitary engineer.”
“Man,” Mak said, “sounds important. My dad’s just a factory worker.”
“A job’s a job,” Brock’s dad said, turning back into the street.
Brock could tell by his dad’s face that he should stop asking about the job. They were off the subject of hide-and-seek though, so he clamped his mouth shut.
“We’ll get you a bike later on so you can start riding to practice with Mak,” his dad said. “I’ll be working all day.”
“My dad’s picking me up a new wheel today,” Mak said brightly. “So I’m good to go too.”
“How was lunch?” Brock’s dad steered them across the bridge.
“Better than practice,” Brock said.
“Why’s that?”
“That Coach Van Kuffler doesn’t like me, Dad.” He had no plans on getting into the details because he figured his dad would only remind him that it wasn’t baseball.
“Oh?” His dad rubbed his beard.
Mak leaned forward so that his helmet poked out between the seats. “But we got a plan, right, Brock?”
“A plan?” Brock’s dad passed the broken-down factory and turned down their street.
Brock told his dad about Taylor Owen Lehman, the varsity quarterback, offering to help, and then he held out the scrap of paper.
Brock’s dad glanced at it. “Very nice.”
“Yeah,” Mak said, “and his sister—”
Brock gave Mak a deadly look.
“. . . is real nice too,” Mak continued. “That’s how we met Taylor. He was visiting her in the library and we just stopped in to . . .”
