PRACTICE THAT afternoon is brutal. The heat slows us down, especially with all the pads and helmet. I feel like I’m running through quicksand, and every yard is a struggle. An hour into it we’re all fading. Coach has us practicing sweeps but Trent is sluggish from the heat and keeps getting tagged by the defensive line before he can make the handoff, which puts Coach in a tizzy.
“Goddammit, Trent,” he spits and throws down his clipboard, “What the hell is your problem today? You get hit in the head or something?”
“No, sir.”
“You got dirt in your eyes?”
Trent huffs and says nothing.
“You need to run some stadiums to get your head screwed on right?”
“No, sir.”
“Get back out there and get it right.” He glances over at the defense. “This time, tackle his candyass. We need to make it real for him.”
We start again. The first two drills are successful, but Coach isn’t satisfied. The third time, Trent takes a shoulder in the gut and falls backward, kind of rolls over and curls into a fetal position. Coach pounces on him right away.
“Get up on your feet and take that hit like a man.”
Trent rises slowly to his feet, still hunched over gripping his stomach. He’s sweating and wheezing and looks like he might pass out. Coach either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he barrels on. “You see any women out here, Trent? Look around, you see any women?”
“No, sir.”
“You know why? Because we don’t allow pussies to play football. This is my field and it’s for men only, so unless you’re vomiting or shitting blood, I expect you to suck it up and run that goddamned drill again.”
There’s no way Trent is going to make it through another play. He can barely stand on his own two feet.
“Coach,” I cut in. “I think we need a water break.”
Coach turns his mean, beady eyes on me. “You telling me how to run my team, Webber?” I glance across the field to the empty bleachers. When he’s in a state like this, it’s better if you don’t look him directly in the eyes.
“No, sir.”
“Sounds like you are. You think I don’t know it’s hotter than hellfire out here right now? You think I’m not sweating my balls off like the rest of you? If you and Trent could get this very simple play right, we could be taking that water break right now, but I got a couple of nancies bitching and moaning at every turn.”
Coach goes on about it. I tune him out and eye Trent. His face has gone ghost white and his eyes are at half-mast. He looks wobbly on his feet. I go over and catch him just as he’s about to collapse. This interrupts Coach’s tirade long enough for him to call over a trainer and a water boy to get him hydrated. “Everyone else get water,” he snaps, “except you, Webber. Hang up your helmet. You’re done for the day.”
What kind of bullshit is he trying to pull now?
“You want me to hit the showers, Coach?” I ask, trying not to let on how pissed I am.
He gets right up in my face and grabs hold of my face mask so I can’t look away. His breath is tangy like he’s been drinking and his eyes are bloodshot. Rumor is he keeps his sports bottles liquored up. What I know about the man would support it.
“I want you running stadiums until the end of practice. That’ll teach you to challenge my authority.”
I don’t care about his authority. He’s being an idiot and putting Trent and the rest of our team in danger. “Coach, heatstroke is serious. You can have a seizure and die from it.”
He yanks on my face mask to intimidate me, jerking my head around. Short of laying him out on the field, there’s nothing I can do about it. I fucking hate that shit. I rip off my helmet and throw it to the ground. Coach narrows his eyes at me and crosses his arms over his chest.
“You got something to say to me, Webber?”
I take a few heated breaths and wipe the sweat from my brow. “No, sir.”
“I thought so. Now, get out of my face before I decide to make you come back here tomorrow and do a few hours of suicides.”
I stride away from him, drop my helmet and pads on the bench and head for the bleachers. He calls after me, loud enough for everyone to hear, “And cut your goddamned hair. You look like a faggot.”
I tackle the stadiums, pounding the concrete stairs with all my anger and frustration. Boy, what I wouldn’t give to tackle Coach, just one good hit to remind him he’s not the big badass he thinks he is. After a while the heat and physical strain sap the anger out of me and I feel empty and bitter. Coach is still yelling at Trent down on the field, even though it only makes him play worse. As much as I despise Coach Cross, at least I only have to put up with him for two more seasons.
Trent is stuck, though. He has the man for life.
Later, in the locker room, Trent comes up to me, claps me on the back, and says quietly, “Next time, don’t interfere.”
“You were dying out there, Trent.”
His tone is black when he says, “Don’t get between Coach and me again. You know better.”
My fingers curl into fists and my back stiffens. Since we were eleven, he’s been telling me that. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll handle it myself. It’s not just the beatings either; it’s the bullying too, calling Trent worthless and stupid, making threats. I want Trent to stand up to the man and expose him for the piece of shit he is.
“You hear?” Trent says when I don’t respond.
I nod. “Loud and clear.”
Hiroku
I HAVE another failing: I’m weak when it comes to saying no. My rehab therapist Dr. Denovo called that having an addictive personality. I don’t know if I was always this way or if it’s a product of being with Seth for so long. Did he weaken my resolve, or did he prey on that part of me that was already vulnerable?
I did a lot of reflecting in rehab. I took a long, hard look in the mirror, retraced all the shitty decisions I made, and devised a plan to not make those same shitty decisions again.
Yet here I am on my way to Austin to see Petty Crime, but really, it’s to see Seth. Everyone who loves me will be disappointed, except one person. Seth will be thrilled.
I arrive at the Depot after they’ve already started. The stage is an old feedstore, slightly raised off the ground. The warehouse doors are open. Other businesses have come in and taken over the surrounding buildings to form an industrial-looking outdoor courtyard. The bars are strung with tea lights, as is the stage. This is a big venue for Petty Crime, and the place is already so packed, people have to thread through the crowd to get a place up front. I find a spot toward the back. I don’t know yet what I’m going to do, but I do know I want to see Seth before he sees me. A test of my own willpower.
Onstage, Seth is gorgeous, as always. Electric. His dark hair is already damp with sweat. The corded muscles in his arms glisten under the stage lights. He holds his guitar like a lover, like he once held me, alternating between strumming and striking it. He croons and he screams. That’s Seth, from tender to vicious in the blink of an eye. Part of it is that he’s bipolar. Another part is his desire to control people. I actually wrote a song about it called “Queen of Hearts.” I shot the video too and ended up starring in it, my first paying gig. I bought my bike with the money from the video, and also a lot of drugs.
I avoid looking at him so I won’t be swayed by his appearance, but his voice has the same effect. When I met him, he was Seth from down the street, three years older, who sometimes dropped in on our basketball games. He sucked at basketball, though. He told me later he only played because he thought I was cute.
He had a band then, but they weren’t very good. My friend Sabrina played drums for the high school marching band, and I introduced them. The two of them recruited a lead guitarist and a bassist, and I watched them go from total suck to partial suck to pretty damn good from the beat-up couch in Seth’s garage.
I did all their promo stuff and wrote some of their songs. Now they’re touring bigger venues an
d selling out shows. They’re on the cusp. Part of me feels like I should still be there with them, since I’ve given so much over the years. Another part knows better.
On stage Seth whispers promises into the microphone, and I close my eyes to listen.
Use my skin
Burrow deep down in
I will take the dive
I will make you mine
He sings like a siren. He once told me all his songs were for me, that when he looked out at the crowd, the only face he cared about was mine. It was the artist I fell in love with. His mind, the part of him that can be so thoughtful and loving.
I take a deep breath and open my eyes, only to see Seth staring straight at me. He’s found me in the crowd. He always had a sixth sense about me.
I shiver as our eyes lock, but he doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t trip over the lyrics or even stutter. He motions with his hand for me to come closer.
Like his puppet, I do.
The song ends and the crowd roars. Seth takes a moment to drink it all in. He feeds off the crowd’s energy like a vampire. He says something to his bandmates, then takes the microphone again, commanding the room into silence.
“This next song is for a special someone here tonight, a pretty bird who flew away from me but has finally returned. I hurt him….”
Here, the crowd boos as if they can’t believe a person as charming and talented as Seth could hurt anyone. He plays along with their reaction while looking me dead in the eyes. “It’s true,” he continues. “I was a very bad boy, but only because I love the pretty bird so much. And this song is to tell him I’m sorry.”
Behind the drum kit, Sabrina strains to look for me. When she finds me, she slices across her throat with her drumstick. She’s going to kill me before I give Seth the chance. I can still get away. If I leave before Seth finishes the set….
Then Seth strums the first few chords of “Queen of Hearts,” and the crowd loses their shit. It’s a fan favorite, even more popular now thanks to the video, the same one that got me in trouble with my parents. The video—and the song—is about Seth and me.
I rise and you fall
I push and you pull
away
I scream and you cry
I beg and you fly
away
I take a little at a time
Give you just enough
to make you mine
you waste
away
I stand there spellbound, imagining Seth’s garage where I wrote that song, the smell of sawdust and car oil, how Seth would distract me with kisses when I was trying to compose and laugh at me when I told him I was working. “You take yourself too seriously,” he’d say and unravel my resolve with his hands and his mouth. And the drugs, ever present in our last year together. They were the glue holding our relationship together through his cheating and abuse.
Now Seth watches me as he sings, perhaps to see if his magic is having the intended effect. And I watch him, a closed loop of all we’ve shared. Did he choose that song to acknowledge what he’s done to me or to throw it in my face that I can’t leave him? The fact I have to ask means I should run like hell, but my body remains, swaying along to the music.
Seth is infecting me all over again, working his way through my bloodstream. The song reaches its crescendo, and I know when it’s over I’ll go to him, follow him down that rabbit hole all over again.
None of what I’ve been through matters anymore. Not my mother’s face in the hospital when she found out how bad it had gotten. Not the nine weeks I spent in rehab. Not the times I scared even myself at how willing I was to do what he wanted. None of it will matter, because I’ll be in Seth’s orbit again. The song is in its final throes and my feet are leading me to the stage. Within minutes we’ll be reunited. My body will betray me, as it’s done time and time again.
“Hiro.”
A six-foot wall erupts from the ground and blocks my path.
His name is Berlin Webber.
Berlin
“WHAT ARE you doing here?” Hiro asks as I step in front of him. He looks past me, his eyes still on the stage.
“I like their music,” I say, which is part of the reason. I was also hoping he’d be here, but I keep that to myself.
Hiro doesn’t answer. It’s like he’s off in another world, stoned or something. I wonder if he came here alone. He shouldn’t be driving if he’s high.
“You okay? You want a ride home after?” I put my hand on his shoulder.
Hiro glances down at my hand. “I have my bike.”
“I can put it in the back of my truck.”
“It’s pretty heavy.”
“I keep a two-by-four in the back in case I get stuck in the mud.”
He looks confused and glances again toward the stage, where the band is winding down. Then he leans in close and says into my ear, “If you want me to go with you, we have to leave now.”
I follow his gaze to where the lead singer of Petty Crime is staring at the two of us. “I think they’re going to play another set.” Hiro licks his lips, which distracts me from the band. Something about his eyes reminds me of an animal on the run. Maybe he’s on something more than just weed. “Fine, yeah. Let’s go now,” I say.
He grabs my arm and leads me out a side door that empties right into the parking lot. He’s obviously been here before. “Where’d you park?” he asks, glancing behind him like we’re being chased. I point at my truck. “Can you bring it over to my bike? I don’t want to start it up.”
He’s definitely trying to dodge someone, but who? And why? I don’t ask, though. I drive over to his bike. Hiro bounces on his toes while I load it up into the back of my truck and strap it in. In the cab his jitters get worse, and he rubs at his knees over and over. Across the parking lot, the lead singer of Petty Crime is jogging toward us, waving his arms kind of crazy-like.
I point toward him. “I think he wants to talk to you.”
Hiro grabs my arm. He has my full attention now.
“Just go, Berlin.”
The singer must be who he’s running from. He isn’t very big. I could take him if it came to that, but there must be a reason Hiro’s acting so frightened, especially after I saw him stand up to a guy like Trent. Instead of asking questions, I hit the gas, and we haul ass out of the parking lot.
Hiro sticks his face out the open window like he needs one last look. The wind catches his hair. I need to pay attention to the road.
In my rearview I see the singer break into a run. He shouts something, but I can’t hear it over the growl of my engine.
“You owe that guy money or something?” I ask once we’re a few blocks away and it seems safer to talk.
Hiro collapses into the seat like a punched paper bag. “Something like that.”
Maybe that guy’s his dealer, or Hiro’s selling drugs for him. That would explain some things.
“Is that why you didn’t want to come to the show?”
He sticks out his lower lip and chews on it. I wonder what it tastes like. “Yes.”
I go over it in my mind. The dedication that singer made, it was for the same song as that video I’d seen. I glance over at Hiro, kind of check out his physique. I’ve seen him in the locker room without his shirt on. A lightning bolt strikes me.
“You’re the guy in the video,” I say. I’ve watched it more times than I care to admit. I practically have his body memorized, which is weird and something I’d never say out loud.
He sighs but says nothing. I’ve been fantasizing about that guy right alongside Hiro, not realizing they were the same person.
“You guys were together?” They had to be. That video was way too real, more like a documentary than a music video.
Another sigh.
The singer said he’d been bad to someone. Hiro’s parents had moved to Lowry to give him a fresh start. “He’s the reason you left Austin?”
Hiro fidgets in his seat. “My parents thought I needed a change
of scenery.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
“According to the GPS on my phone, I’m at Lowry High School, working late on a video for school.”
This is serious if his parents are tracking him and Hiro’s lying to them about it. That guy has to be bad news. I remember the stoned look in Hiro’s eyes earlier.
“You came back to see him.”
He claps his hands once, hard. “Enough about me, Berlin. Let’s talk about you. What position do you play?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s changed the subject to football. I guess he doesn’t want to answer my questions. “Running back.”
“You fast?”
“Pretty fast.”
“Your team any good?”
He sounds like he’s interested. Football is an easy subject, one I can talk about all day long. “We went to the play-offs last year. Almost made it to state. You follow football?”
He shakes his head. “Not in the least.”
He’s too cool for school, apparently. I imagine him in the stands, wearing our team colors, cheering for me, of course. But then, I can’t really see Hiro jumping around and shouting for any sports team. More like slouched back and scowling with his perfect, pouty mouth.
“You should come to a game sometime,” I tell him. “Might improve your school spirit.”
He snorts at that. “School spirit is not my top priority right now.”
I figured that was the case. “So what is?”
He tucks the long side of his hair behind his ear. I wonder how many piercings he has and if he has any in places I can’t see. The singer had them too. Maybe they did that for fun, pierced each other.
“Staying off drugs,” he says, then leans forward and scratches at his arms. He looks like he wants to crawl right out of his skin.
Drugs too? He grew up fast in Austin. When I think about that video, the way the singer touched Hiro seemed like he was handling his property more than a person. I wonder if drugs were involved.
“Are you on something now?” I ask him.
“No, unfortunately. Just high on life.”
The Bravest Thing Page 4
