Out of Nowhere

by Maria Padian

  “And just think: English isn’t her first language.”

  “Done!” Abdi cried. He slapped his pencil down and held up his sheet. Around the words and definitions he’d drawn a big jar of malab and a green one-dollar bill. “I go now, right?” Before any of us answered, he was out of his chair and flying toward the exit. He almost crashed into Saeed, who’d just arrived.

  He looked terrible.

  If despair were an expression, he’d have been wearing it. His eyes lit on me and he walked right over to our table.

  “Tom. I can talk to you?”

  Myla and I exchanged a glance and she wordlessly pointed to the office.

  I closed the door behind us. There were a couple of chairs, but when I went to sit, Saeed remained standing, so I stood, too.

  “I off the team.”

  Damn. Damn, damn … damn. This was bad. I’d known they’d try, but deep down I hadn’t been able to believe those Maquoit assholes would actually get him thrown off. How the hell had Coach let it happen? Principal Cockrell? Were those guys completely asleep at the wheel?

  “Who told you?”

  “Coach. Before school end, he call me down. He say we gots to fight, and he say we will win it, but today I off the team. No practice. Nothing.”

  “Did he say how long you’ll have to sit out?”

  “He don’t know, Tom! I don’t know. I ask, ‘You need to see the green card?’ but he says no. So I don’t know!”

  I put one hand on his shoulder.

  “Saeed, Coach will fix this. You’ll just have to miss a couple days of practice probably, then it’ll all be worked out.”

  He nodded, but he didn’t look too convinced.

  “How are the other guys doing? Ismail, Double M? Are they okay?” Saeed shrugged.

  “Yeah, they still plays. They is okay.” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right.

  “The other guys are still on the team?” He nodded.

  “Only your eligibility has been challenged?” I heard my own voice rising.

  “Coach say somebody say my age? On my green card? Is maked up. The peoples in Maquoit tell Coach somebody tell them I makes up the age! I don’t!”

  Oh God. Oh no. Fuck. Fuck you, Alex Rhodes. You two-faced son of a bitch.

  I’d handed it to them. Told him Saeed had no papers back in Africa and he estimated his age and might actually be older. I said that. I didn’t say it about the other guys, just Saeed. And that’s what they were using.

  They must’ve had nothing. Absolutely nothing. Until I opened my big, stupid mouth.

  Certifiable, Tom. Even Don had known I was nuts to talk to Alex.

  I had to find Coach. I had to tell him what happened.

  I beat it out of there, scarcely saying goodbye to Myla and Samira. I got to the fields at least a half hour before JV practice ended, but Coach was nowhere to be found. The JV coach said Coach Gerardi had a meeting and wasn’t coming to practice and so he was going to work with us. Told me I could try calling him at home that night or track him down at school the next day.

  So I went through the motions at practice, expressing disgust and anger with all the other guys over Saeed’s eligibility case. I said nothing about speaking to Alex, nothing about how my fingerprints were all over it. I buried my guilt and my rage and took it out on the ball. Ran a couple extra laps when practice was over, and prayed I could get some sleep and the night would pass quickly.

  Then the storm hit.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A nor’easter is a winter storm, but we can get them in Maine as early as October.

  It forms when warm air spiraling up the East Coast mixes with cold Canadian air, creating a meteorologist’s nightmare. Heavy snow and rain pelt the ground. Winds whip, taking out power lines heavy with wet snow. It usually gets really cold right after a nor’easter, freezing the rain and turning the snow into a sharp crust that makes things especially fun for all the emergency crews trying to restore power and all the people creeping out of their homes to survey the damage and chainsaw the fallen trees blocking roads and driveways.

  When you live in Maine, you pretty much get used to weather. My dad likes to say there’s no such thing as bad weather, just improper dressing. But a nor’easter is serious. It was a nor’easter that finished off George Clooney in that movie The Perfect Storm. When there’s one in the forecast, you count on a snow day from school.

  You bring in extra wood, stock up on batteries and candles and lamp oil. Make sure you have plenty of PB and J in the house, because you might not be cooking for a while.

  Here’s what you don’t do: you don’t go out driving. Especially not with George Morin.

  Practice was canceled because of the forecast, and when the final bell rang and kids streamed out of the building toward the waiting buses, it was getting dark. The sun had already been setting earlier and earlier every day; by late November, it would be pitch black by four-thirty. But that afternoon, with the storm coming? Dusk fell early. The clouds were low and thick overhead, and everything was awash in a gray half-light. Le crépuscule, in French. I’ve always loved the feel of that word, like something soft is closing—and end of day is like shutting the lid on a velvet box.

  Of course, that’s how le crépuscule feels at the end of a good day. On a bad day, like that one? It felt like closing a coffin.

  I had just come from seeing Coach.

  His office is a glorified closet not much bigger than a confessional. It felt like a confessional, with him sitting in there alone, waiting. We didn’t have an appointment, but there he was. Seriously, I almost started out with, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” which is the traditional opener. It precedes the long list of all the things you’ve screwed up and have to tell the priest, who then absolves you, tells you to knock it off (“go out and sin no more”), and assigns you a few prayers to mutter in the pews before you peace out.

  My non-Catholic friends think this is the biggest pile of horseshit they have ever heard of. They’re like, “Dude, so you can pretty much go out and do whatever because the priest is gonna wipe the slate clean for you on Saturday afternoon?” Which of course is not the point. The point is you’re supposed to stop doing whatever it is.

  But in the whole big Catholic cafeteria line, confession is the part I actually get. That and angels, which, after watching Saeed play, I’m a little more open to. I’m not so sure about the rest of it—the body and blood, the pope, saints—but when I walk into that little dark box and tell Father Whoever behind the grille what I feel guilty about, I’m pounds lighter. Like someone just took a sack of stones from my arms. It doesn’t mean I won’t mess up again, but for a while at least I believe I won’t.

  And that feels good.

  Coach let me spill. He didn’t interrupt once, just let me get it all out. And when I was through, he didn’t yell. Didn’t tell me what a complete dope I’d been. We just talked, man to man. And yeah, the stones I’d been carrying all day dropped from my arms one by one. Which didn’t fix anything, but at least I didn’t feel like shit anymore.

  “First off,” he said, “I want you to let yourself off the hook. You tried to do something to help a friend. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. I do wish you’d come to me first, but … well, that’s water under the bridge.

  “Second, I don’t think you and I can appreciate how much pressure that young man is under. It explains why he used you.”

  “You mean Alex?”

  He nodded.

  “His father was at the meeting I attended yesterday and … well, let’s just say it can’t be easy having him for a parent.”

  I thought of that summer day at soccer camp, and Mr. Rhodes speaking to his son. The blinking. Alex was like a dog that’s so well trained it doesn’t need a leash: it obeys on voice command.

  “Why was he there?” I asked.

  Coach swore.

  “That’s what I wanted to know! Why is the president of some private soccer club involved with a public
school sports program? But no one seemed interested in answering that question, and it turned out to be a foregone conclusion that they were going to challenge Saeed’s eligibility. I don’t know why they bothered to waste my time with a meeting.”

  I felt gut-punched. This was mind-blowingly unfair.

  “So Saeed’s off?” I said.

  Coach shrugged.

  “My guess is we’ll work this out in a couple of days, but in the meantime, he’s benched. I did get that concession from them. He can suit up and sit with you guys, but I can’t put him in.”

  A couple of days. We were scheduled to play our first postseason game in a couple of days. And if we lost … we were out. Our season would be over.

  “Also, Tom, given what you’ve just told me … there’s a chance you might get asked some questions.”

  “What sort of questions?” I asked.

  “About Saeed. Whatever you told Alex. They may try to use that against us.” Coach said this calmly. Matter-of-factly. As opposed to the adrenaline flips my stomach was doing.

  “What do I say if they ask me?” I said.

  Coach smiled.

  “Do what you always do, son. Tell them the truth. Tell them to the best of your knowledge, Saeed is eighteen. Exactly what it says on his green card.”

  To the best of my knowledge. Key words there. Pretty much everything I knew about Saeed was “to the best of my knowledge.” Which was none too clear. Bits and pieces I could barely string together. Stories from Myla, a few things from Samira. Plus the dude himself. Laughing, eager, friendly. Fast. What could I say? I liked him.

  But I hardly knew him.

  “There is some good news,” Coach continued.

  “Yeah? Surprise me,” I said.

  “The weather. If the storm we’re getting tonight is as bad as they’re predicting, we might have a foot of snow dumped on our field. That might push the schedule back just in time to return Saeed to the team.”

  When I came out of Coach’s office, Mike was waiting for me. He sat slumped on the floor, back against the wall. His backpack, stuffed full, lay beside him.

  “Hey,” I said, surprised. He got to his feet.

  “So what’s the word?” he asked.

  “Say what?”

  “Saeed,” Mike replied.

  I shrugged. I headed down the hall toward the exit. Mike followed.

  “He’s off. For a while, anyway. Probably long enough to miss the next game or two.”

  Mike stopped.

  “So we’re pretty much fucked, right?” he said.

  “Pretty much,” I agreed.

  Mike shook his head in disgust and we continued walking.

  “How’d you know I was talking to Coach?” I asked him.

  “I didn’t,” he said. “Jake said you’d gone in this direction, and I was gonna ask, since practice was canceled, if we could go over the physics. Torque wrecked me on the last quiz. I really can’t figure out the moment arm.” He sighed. “I’ve got the car today. How ’bout you teach me the physics and I’ll give you a lift home?”

  As we drove to my house under darkening skies, he basically interrogated me the whole way about what Coach said. I didn’t have much to tell him, especially because I left out the parts about my meeting with Alex. I just didn’t have it in me to explain what had happened there. Mike respected me and I didn’t want to lose that.

  Even if I didn’t deserve it.

  At my house, there was a note from Mom taped to the fridge: Hands off the lasagna. I’m bringing it to Tetu’s tonight.

  “Hmm. I don’t think she’s going to any potlucks tonight, but whatev,” I said to Mike. Our first order of business was surveying the microwaveable options in the Bouchard kitchen. Hot food, we agreed, was the goal, because once the storm took out the power it’d be cold sandwiches for the foreseeable future. We started out nuking a bunch of frozen burritos; then I was unsheathing a couple of steaming pasta alfredos from their plastic containers when my cell phone vibrated. My hands were covered in sauce.

  “My phone is ringing,” I told him. “Right back pocket.”

  He gingerly reached into the pocket and slipped the phone out. He frowned, glancing at the display.

  “It’s Plourde,” he said. He snapped it open.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Tom-boy!” I could hear. Donnie was practically shouting.

  “Don-boy!” Mike called back. “How the hell are ya?” Pause.

  “Who is this?” I heard Donnie say.

  “Mike Turcotte.”

  “Turcotte, you loser. Where’s my man Tom?”

  “Yeah, nice talking to you, too,” Mike said. “Tom’s a little tied up. How can I help you?”

  “You can put Tom on is how you can help me. Bye-bye, Mikey.”

  As I rinsed my hands, Mike held the phone out toward me.

  “Your buddy’s high as a kite,” he said grimly.

  “Great,” I said, taking the phone. I put it to my ear. “Don?”

  “Tom-boy!” I heard once again. “Where you and little Mikey at?”

  “My house. Fixing something hot to eat before the power goes out. What’s up?”

  “Man, the power isn’t gonna go out. What a bunch of sissies. It’s still October! Whoop-dee-doo, it’s gonna rain!” Laughter.

  Yup. Stoned.

  “Tell you what. Call me when you return to earth.”

  “No, no, don’t go! Seriously, bro, I need you.” He fought back laughter. I opened the fridge but kept the phone to my ear. There was also some leftover Chinese we could reheat. I gestured to Mike, whose eyes lit up when he saw the white carryout boxes lined up next to the milk.

  “What do you need, Don?”

  “Hey. So, are you gonna see that little Myla tonight?”

  I sighed. He was stalling. Just trying to keep me on the phone.

  “Probably not. I don’t know if anyone told you, but this is a real storm heading our way. Might be a good night to stay home.”

  “Dude … no. That’s why I’m calling. We’re going out to the speedway. Morin says someone took the gate down.”

  The Millsap Plains Speedway is about a forty-five-minute drive from Enniston. It’s a short track, a third of a mile of semi-banked asphalt where kids from age eight to age fifty go to race. People head out there on Friday nights, with coolers loaded with whatever, and watch cars buzz around. It’s not my thing. I like to watch sports where people compete against each other, instead of engines and tires competing against each other. But hey, to each his own.

  You’re not supposed to drive on the track when the speedway is closed. And it’s suicide to drive fast on a banked road that’s glazed with ice.

  I looked at Mike, who was shoveling heaps of General Tso’s chicken into one of my mother’s microwaveable bowls.

  “He says they’re going to the speedway,” I told him.

  He shook his head, then leaned toward the phone in my hand.

  “Do you have a death wish, Plourde?” he said loudly into the receiver. “Pass.”

  “You’re a woman, Turcotte!” Don yelled in return.

  Mike went back to spooning out the leftovers.

  “Don?” I said into the phone. “No way, man.”

  “Oh, c’mon,” he wheedled. He was so out of it. He usually didn’t call me when he got like this. “We never do anything together! We used to do everything together, but now it’s like, you’re always playing soccer, or hangin’ out with that woman, Turcotte, or with some girl. I mean, I get that. The girls. And Myla? She’s nice, Tom-boy. Definitely your type. An in-tel-lec-tu-al.” He emphasized each syllable, then started giggling like he’d made a great joke. I couldn’t decide whether he was pissing me off or worrying me.

  Then I realized: pissing me off. More than usual.

  “Let me ask you something, Don. Have you ever noticed that shit happens? All the time. To people who are just walking around, minding their own business. They get cancer. Or lose their jobs. Or they’re
just out there in the fields, taking care of a cow or something, when out of the bush comes a dude with a gun who burns their house and chases them to a refugee camp. Shit finds us. But you, buddy? You actually go out looking for it. And it blows my mind, because it’s not like you don’t already have a boatload of shit to deal with!”

  I could hear sounds coming from his end, so I knew he was still on the line. I think I surprised him. He didn’t realize what a day I’d just had.

  “Now, I should probably just tell you to fuck off, good luck, whatever, but I’m stupid enough to put up with your sorry ass. So screw Morin and come over here. We can hang and watch ESPN until the television goes out. You know my mom loves to feed you. You can sleep over.”

  There was another long silence as he considered my offer.

  “Nah. Thanks, but I shouldn’t come over right now, if you know what I mean. Besides, I don’t have a car. Do you have a car?”

  “My parents aren’t home from work yet, but Mike’s got his car. We’ve got some homework to do first, but if you can sit still long enough, we’ll swing by and get you later.” Mike flashed me a look that pretty much summed up what he thought of being transformed into Donnie Plourde’s cab service. Whatever.

  “I’ll be long gone later, Tom.”

  I glanced out the window. In the fading light the first flakes fell. They turned in the air, spiraling down, hinting of the wind to come. This was so useless.

  “Well, then I can’t help you,” I said shortly. I heard him breathing on the other end.

  “Yeah. Well, it was worth a try, right? You have a good night, bro,” he said.

  I snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye. The microwave beeped, and when I opened the door the smells of ginger and soy sauce wafted out. As Mike and I divvied up the Chinese food, he glanced at me curiously.

  “He need a lift?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  We carried our plates and textbooks into the den. As we walked by the big picture window in the living room, I glanced outside again. Already a light dusting of snow had covered the handrails on our front porch and turned the driveway white. It was blowing hard enough to obscure my view of the mailbox. Passing cars had their wipers going and had slowed their usual speed.