Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  “Damn, I do move beautifully.” Terrence sighs in appreciation.

  As we huddle up, Sweeney, a wide receiver, comes sprinting onto the field, relaying Coach’s next play to Scott. Scott’s helmet swivels side to side in an exaggerated no and spit flies out past his face mask. He walks into the huddle with Sweeney trailing.

  “Okay, fullback sweep left on two,” Scott tells us. “Brodsky must be giving Coach hand jobs again to get these plays,” he tells the rest of the huddle while his eyes skip past mine. I reach down and pull up my socks, then adjust my knee pads, notice none of the guys laughing for Scott. “I don’t know why he hasn’t given up on you yet.”

  “This is bullshit!” Tom slaps his thigh pads then spits at my feet.

  “Shut the fuck up, Jankowski,” Terrence snaps. “Start blocking for a change and maybe Kurt’ll get some yardage.”

  “Mind your own business, Terrence, or I’ll give my guy a free pass at you.”

  “Tell that to Coach”—Terrence jabs a finger almost into Tom’s face mask—“and I’ll be laughing when he benches your fat ass.”

  “Enough, ladies,” Scott speaks. “Fullback sweep left on two, on two,” he repeats. We clap and break huddle, then set up into position. My rushing’s sucked all night because Scott’s purposely holding on to the ball a fraction too long when handing off to me, messing up my timing, and Jankowski’s throwing powder-puff blocks whenever the ball’s coming to me. To be honest, I don’t much care anymore. One way or the other, it’s over for me. All I want to do is smash something.

  “Ready!” Scott barks, lining up under center. I cast one more glance at the fences, come up empty in my search for him. I crouch down, fire up the ignition, feel the power thrumming across my thighs, big turbines winding up, approaching takeoff.

  “Set . . .” Scott calls out, his voice fading in a gust of wind and crowd roar. I chance a last look downfield, past the wall of scrimmage, think I see him now. He’s there, waiting. He’s so small ...

  “Hut.”

  . . . like Lamar . . .

  “HUT!”

  Launch!

  Going supernova slows everything around me, expands my vision until I’m watching the field from all angles. Scott steps back from center and baits me with the ball. My arms clamp around it like a bear trap, ripping it from his hands, allowing no chance for mischief. I spot Tom slipping to the ground, untouched, letting his man—54—leap over him into my path. Like my last three carries, Tom’s unblocked defender will lock me up in the backfield for a loss of yards. I prepare for the inevitable ...

  Bam!

  Terrence—lined up in the backfield with me—cuts off 54, buying me a half second. It’s enough. I stop dead and break right, against the traffic of bodies sweeping left. The wall clears and a field of almost pure green waits for me to dance over it. I plant my foot for the sprint downfield, already seeing the end zone as I cross it, when something cracks my kneecap, pushing it backward. Feels like a jagged icicle stabbing me there, shattering against the bone. I collapse across the lone body below me—Jankowski. Son of a bitch has leg-whipped my knee under cover of the scrum.

  While the game clock ticks down I lie there in the grass clutching my knee. Cold sweat trickles along my neck as I sit up and try to slowly bend the leg, testing it. I yank off my helmet in frustration and slam it into the turf.

  “Give him room. Give him room,” Scott shouts, then squats so close his face mask jabs my cheek. Wincing as I keep trying to bend and flex my leg, it takes me a second to realize Jankowski’s on my other side. The two of them block out all the others.

  “It’s only gonna get worse.” Scott speaks just loud enough for me to hear. “You done crossed the wrong bulls and now you need to learn your place.”

  “You’re fucking finished, retard,” Tom hisses. “Finished !” He’s smiling at me through his face mask. They both stand up and back away, letting the trainers and Coach get to me.

  “Son, where’s it hurt?” Coach asks. He’s pulled off his baseball cap and his face creases with worry. Not sure if it’s for me or for how he’ll replace me, but I don’t much care. I’m grateful for his presence. The pain in my knee eases a little. The wind whips past my sweat-dampened hair, chilling it, as anger and fear swirl within me. Our plan starts to feel as worthless as my knee. It isn’t enough, I realize. Doesn’t matter what we come up with. Scott, Tom, and Mike won’t stop. They’ll keep coming.

  The trainer gets my arm around his neck to help me stand up. I just want one good lick on them. One lick, let them know how it feels to really hurt, for once. Then I’ll go into hiding. The crowd claps and hoots as the trainer and Rondo ease me up to my feet. With my arms draped over their necks, I limp off the field.

  By the time Rondo and the trainer help me to the sidelines, the rest of the team’s jogging toward the school building for halftime. I’m able to walk by myself now. My knee feels loose, like it’s been stretched out the wrong way. I worry it might decide to go the wrong way again and snap in half. I glance up at the Jumbotron but there’s only cartwheeling potato chips and a blizzard of popcorn kernels telling everyone the concession stand is offering a family pack for $15.99.

  At the fence exit leaving the playing field where we’re supposed to meet, there’s no sign of Danny. I did see him, I tell myself. Or I think I saw him. Maybe it was only Lamar, again, in my head. I limp on toward the school, deciding to go through with it even if he bails on me. My doubt, my fear, dissolves under the realization of what’s been done to me again and again, over and over. Right now I don’t care about being trapped in the back of Officer Jankowski’s squad car, I don’t care about Scott’s threats, don’t care if the world thinks I’m a murderer. I’m doing it. Fury burns off the rest of my worry. I’m going to give it to them.

  53

  DANNY

  I can do this.

  I can do this.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis . . .

  Who am I kidding? This is insane! I’m dead. I’d rather catch the high bar with my teeth than go through with the plan. How did she talk me into this? What part of this did I think would work?

  You owe it to Ronnie! You owe it to Kurt. You owe it to yourself . . . to the school.

  Nope! Still not working. Dammit! I blow on my hands to warm them up, then jam them back into the pockets of my letter jacket. The cold turns the leather of the arms stiff as plastic while I pace the school parking lot, trying to work up the nerve to go down and buy a ticket, then mix with the herd cheering on the Knights, cheering on a football team with three captains capable of murder.

  They’re also cheering for Kurt, says a voice in my head, sounding suspiciously like Tina’s. I keep pacing, hoping to gather up some courage, wish I’d taken a big chug from Fisher’s special Gatorade cocktail when I had the chance, before he left to go meet with Tina. Too late now.

  Go down there now, you little pussy!

  I force myself to walk to the gates, pay for a ticket, and mill about with the crowd. The smell of buttered popcorn floats through the cold air. I could buy some popcorn and then leave. Say I got food poisoning from the popcorn. I wanted to go through with it but couldn’t because I was throwing up. That last part would be the truth, anyway. I’m ready to hurl every time I think about going through with it.

  “Danny!”

  I practically jump out of my shoes at my name. I turn, see Coach Nelson wrapped up in a big parka with a black knit cap pulled low over his head. He’s walking toward me, his face grim. “I’m worried about you,” he says as he reaches me, squinting in a way I’ve never seen from him. He doesn’t trust me, I think. Sees me as a little off. I don’t mind. Wary means there’s fear, means there’s some respect. Maybe “class psycho” isn’t such a bad label. Beats “class loser” or “class victim,” I think.

  “I’m fine,” I try assuring him.

  “Danny, that phone call, that was no accident. Something’s terrorizing you. I’ve b
een around the real thing enough to recognize it when I hear it,” Coach says. “Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Maybe it’s because standing in the cold surrounded by thousands of cheering fans makes me feel small, makes my problems feel insignificant, that suddenly talking about Ronnie is simple. Maybe it’s because holding the secret so long has exhausted me. Whatever the reason, I open my mouth and say, “You don’t know the whole truth about what happened to Ronnie.” Coach watches me, waiting for more, and I’m about to continue when the big stadium speakers crackle to life.

  “Number twenty-seven, Kurt Brodsky, is hurt on the play,” booms over the stadium sound system, so strong and clear, even down where we stand on the grass, that it could be the announcer’s standing just over my shoulder. “We have an injury time-out on the field.”

  “Kurt’s hurt,” I tell Coach like that explains everything. I start walking toward the fence line near the end zone.

  “Danny, you’re acting erratic. Both you and Bruce . . .” Coach fades off for a second, like he’s thinking about something. “Did you come with Bruce?” he asks. “Is Bruce here?”

  “No,” I say. “Yeah.”

  “Danny!” Coach grabs the arm of my jacket to stop me.

  “No, I didn’t come with him,” I clarify. “But he’s here, somewhere. He texted me he’s coming,” I tell him.

  “Has someone been scaring him, too?”

  Well, I think, if stringing him up like a gutted hog counts, then, yeah, they’re scaring him.

  “Is he ... are you two planning something?” Coach asks, and this time he’s a man I don’t recognize as he yanks me into him, staring into my face for an answer. Maybe wary respect is more than I bargained for. “Does he have a weapon?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, though I’m pretty certain the only weapon Bruce has on him tonight is the baby Swiss Army knife attached to his key chain. My answer isn’t one that reassures Coach.

  “Text him,” Coach orders me. “Tell him to meet you here at the concession stand. Do it now so I can see.”

  This isn’t part of the plan.

  “Coach,” I tell him. “I have to go.”

  “Really?” Coach asks. “Where do you have to go?” He’s not loosening his grip on my jacket sleeve.

  As the half ends, the football team jogs from the sidelines through the fence opening; their footfalls, as they near us, buffalo heavy and blind, driving toward a cliff. The crowd parts for them, gets out of their way or risks being trampled. At first I think I’ve missed Kurt but then I see he’s being helped off the field by a trainer and another teammate, that he’s only now crossing the track ringing the field as the rest of his teammates leave him behind. The trainer and other teammate finally leave Kurt and jog on ahead as Kurt limps alone through the fence opening. He’s met by a crowd of fans slapping his shoulder pads and grabbing his jersey, trying to touch any part of him, hoping some of him rubs off on them. They’re drawn to the star fullback like a magnet.

  54

  KURT

  Every other step, a bur deep inside my injured knee pricks like a rodeo spur. I snort in the cold night air, fury blowing out my nostrils in jets of steam. It’s all I can do not to hobble ahead through the forest of arms and hands reaching out for me and windmill my helmet like a war hammer until I brain my captains. Lamar’s phantom rides my shoulder, egging me on, reminding me what he did for me, how he took the blame that night I broke Crud Bucket’s stereo and TV in Meadow’s House. I was the one playing with the football in the sitting room when I smacked into the console and knocked the whole thing over in a huge crash. To protect me, Lamar told Crud Bucket that he did it. Crud Bucket put both of us in that plastic tub to teach us a lesson. Duct-taped it. Sealed it up. Airtight.

  You ain’t gonna take his shit no more, Lamar whispers.

  I ain’t gonna take his shit no more, I agree.

  You’re gonna get them good for me, Lamar commands. You owe me that, Kurt. You owe me!

  I owe you, I agree. I’ll get them good for you, Lamar. I promise! The crowd presses in thick and my knee ain’t making it easy to move. I pull my helmet back on, feel the weight of its protection, and my tongue loosens a little. I’m ready to hurt someone, hurt them like they keep hurting me.

  “All right, men, just keep doing what you’re doing,” Coach says, wrapping up his halftime speech. I’ve waited patiently for him to finish before I begin. I can always tell when he’s finishing his pep talks because he starts adjusting his baseball cap and resetting it on his head. “We’re wearing Columbus’s front line down. We play hard for another thirty minutes and the game is ours. We can clinch home field advantage tonight for the conference play-offs, so no letting up. No relaxing. Our next two away games will be tough, so we need to keep the momentum going right through the rest of the regular season and into our first play-off game. We do that by winning here tonight. No excuses. Okay, let’s get ready to head out.”

  I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Kurt?”

  “Suh-suh-suh-Scott wants to suh-suh-speak.”

  Coach cocks his head at me, confused. “Well, then, why doesn’t Scott speak? What’s he need you to tell me that for?” Coach looks over at Scott, who quickly glances from Coach to me and then over at Jankowski and Studblatz.

  “I don’t know what he’s talking about, Coach,” Scott says, shaking his head at me like I’m crazy.

  “Suh-suh-Scott wants to suh-suh-speak,” I repeat. Hiding under my helmet’s not helping my tongue so much now, because the anger’s rising.

  “Kurt, you take a hit to your noggin as well as your knee?” Coach asks with a frown. “I ain’t got time at the moment for these hijinks. Now, speak your mind, boy, or pipe down!” By now, the whole locker room’s watching me. The small stereo that Tina lent me and that I pulled out of my locker before Coach began his speech has been dangling by my side, partly hidden by other players’ legs, butts, and pads. I lift it up to my chest with the speakers facing into the circle of teammates, coaches, and trainers. I press play.

  “Studblatz, tell ’em. Nothing better than popping fresh meat like Gunderson. Best way to keep ’em in line.”

  “Gotta keep ’em in line.”

  “Whaddya think, Tommy? Think Kurt should try it?”

  “Probably has already.”

  “Awwww, lookit. Our big fullback’s crying like a little bitch.”

  “Big fuckin’ baby!”

  “Worse than Gunderson when we shoved it up his ass.”

  “Hold up, now, son.” Coach shakes his head at me in confusion while raising his hand like he’s patting the air.

  “Come on, Kurt. So we popped Gunderson’s cherry. Big deal. We didn’t tell him to kill himself. That’s on him. I mean, that’s weak.”

  “What in God’s name are you playing?” Coach shouts. Like the rest of the team, it takes him long seconds to figure out what he’s listening to and even then I’m still not sure he knows. It seems pretty plain to me. Why isn’t it clear to the rest of them? The other players stand quietly, scratching themselves, adjusting themselves, as their eyes go from the floor to Coach, to Scott, to me, and then to each other. Their faces are blank, impossible to read.

  “Shut that shit off!” Scott screeches. He’s shaking. I’ve rocked him. It feels good, like landing a solid body blow. I lock eyes with him through my face mask and crank the volume until I risk snapping off the knob in my fingers.

  “Gunderson wanted it. Loved it. Know how I know? He never fought back. He cried but he barely struggled, never escaped. That’s how they act when they secretly want it.”

  “. . . everyone knows it takes a fuckin monster to fuck a kid with a broom.”

  “Kiss your scholarship offers good-bye.”

  “Kurt, is this some kind of prank?” Assistant Coach Stein asks. “It’s not funny! What’s wrong with you?”

  “. . . and when we get through with him, you can add that little faggot, Danny, to your victim list.”

&nb
sp; “Go find your little friends. Go pretend you can save them. And tell ’em we’re waiting for ’em. Tell ’em we’ll get them alone, eventually, so they better learn how to man up and take it!”

  “That ain’t me. That ain’t us,” Scott shouts. “That’s a fake! Sick freak.”

  “I don’t know what kind of game you got going on here, Kurt,” Coach breaks in again, “but that’s enough.”

  “It’s nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh . . . not a guh-guh-guh—”

  “Brodsky’s gone off his meds, Coach.” Scott cuts me off. “What’s up with you, retard?” he asks me. “Huh? Speak up, freaktard!”

  “Coach,” Tom speaks. “Kurt’s a freakin’ nut job. My dad told me he’s loony, he tried to kill a kid.”

  “Shut it!” Coach snaps. “Shut it now! That’s enough from all of you.”

  I try speaking but my mouth stops working. Helmet or no helmet, I got too much to say, too much to tell. But it’s all here on the recording. All they got to do is listen. Just listen. I press the stop button, hit the back button, and hit play again. I’ll play it again, and again, play all thirty-eight seconds Tina edited together for me—thirty-eight seconds that rip your guts out to hear. Why aren’t they getting it? Why aren’t they seeing it? Where’s Danny? He’ll explain. If Coach and the team hear it again, they’ll understand. They have to understand.

  Assistant Coach Stein steps across the circle and reaches for the stereo, grabbing the handle. “That’s enough, Kurt,” he says, trying to snatch it away, but I hold on and we’re both tugging on it.

  “Shut it off, dumbass!” Scott yells. “Go back to prison.”

  “Thuh-thuh-they ruh-ruh-ruh-ruh . . .” I stammer. It’s all there, all the evidence of what they did to Ronnie. All they have to do is listen. “Duh-duh-Danny!” I cry out. He should be in here now. This is his part. It doesn’t make sense to them. It needs explaining. Where is he?! “Duh-duh-duh . . .” He ain’t here to explain it. He’s left me. Abandoned me.