by Tim Green
His breath was coming short and fast. He felt like he needed to do something crazy, something wild, maybe even something that would get him hurt. Sometimes high school kids would build fires in the woods and drink cans of beer, then jump off the trestle into the Hooch. Everyone heard the story about the kid who jumped off the bridge one time and broke his back on a floating log.
Troy imagined himself laid up in the hospital, getting all kinds of flowers and candy and balloons after breaking a leg and nearly drowning. Then how would his mom feel? She wouldn’t care about losing her dumb job with the Falcons. She’d be sorry then.
And his dad?
What if something really bad happened? Some freak thing like the kid who hit the log. Troy stepped to the edge, gripped the steel, and hung out over the river. How would his dad feel when he got the news?
“Troy!” Tate screamed. “You crazy?”
He took a deep breath and jumped. The water came up at him, fast.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS DARK AND cloudy under the water, and Troy fought, climbing for the surface. When he broke into the air, he gasped and then choked. There was a terrific splash next to him, and by the time he realized what it was, Tate was near. She grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him toward the bank.
“I’m okay,” he said, shrugging her off as he swam.
They splashed up into the mud and sat panting. The current had carried them a ways from the trestle, but they could still see it, a black steel skeleton stretching between the dusty trees.
“What were you doing?” Tate said, huffing and scowling at him.
Troy shrugged and looked down at his hands and told her the story of what had happened at the game.
“That’s no reason to kill yourself,” she said.
“I wasn’t killing myself,” Troy said. “People do it all the time.”
“We don’t,” she said. “You know it’s crazy.”
“My mom couldn’t even talk to me, she was so mad,” he said.
“Sometimes people just need to cool down,” she said.
“Now I can’t even give that football back,” he said, looking up at Tate. “I owe that jerk Jamie.”
“Well, Seth Halloway isn’t going to miss one football.”
“He laughed at me, Tate. They all did, everyone on that sideline, but I was right and they lost. Why wouldn’t anyone listen?”
“You’re a kid.”
“I’m going to be thirteen,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, “a kid to them.”
“I don’t even care,” he said, standing up and peeling off his wet shirt. “Let them lose. Come on, let’s swing from the rope.”
“You mean you don’t want to jump from the trestle again?” she asked, falling in behind him as he picked his way along the bank back toward their rope tree.
Troy looked up at the trestle. “It seems even higher when you’re up there.”
Tate took a jackknife out of her pocket and picked up a stick, whittling it as they walked.
“I’d like to cut that Jamie Renfro’s hamstring,” she said, holding up the blade. “Then you’d be the quarterback and we’d win some games.”
Troy looked at her. One eyebrow was way up on her forehead and the other was scrunched down over her other eye like some kind of mad pirate. The knife blade glinted in front of her face.
Then both of them started to laugh.
They climbed the bank and unwound the rope from the twisted old tree trunk. Together, they picked up the end of the thick horsehair rope and ran off the edge of the bank, swinging high up into the air nearly ten feet high, hanging there, floating and grinning at each other before they dropped into the river.
Up and down they went, swinging, floating, and falling until they were breathing hard and the shadows were long. They walked dripping down the railroad tracks, and when they were nearly to the path that led through the pines to Troy’s house, he said, “I’m done with the Falcons. If they’re that stupid, I’m rooting for the Tennessee Titans.”
“They barely have any players,” Tate said.
“They’ve got Jeff Fisher for a coach,” he said. “They don’t need players. He’d listen to someone if they were right, even if they were twelve.”
“Okay,” Tate said, putting her arm around his shoulders as they walked the rest of the way to his drop-off point. “I’m a Titans fan too.”
Troy gave her a squeeze, then jumped down off the railroad bed before turning and looking back up at her.
“You know,” he said. “If I was ever gonna have a girlfriend, which I’m not, it’d be you.”
She looked down at him.
“Same here,” she said, her face turning red. “Which I’m not either.”
“I know,” Troy said. “I was just saying. Really what I wish is that you were my sister.”
“I kind of am anyway, right?” she said.
Troy grinned at her and shrugged and turned for home. As he passed through the pine trees and the warm scent of their sap, the thrill of swinging into the water and Tate’s happy face began to fade. Every step brought him closer to the ugly reminder of what had happened at the game. The humiliation of the players and coaches treating him like he was some kind of crazy kid. T.O. scoring a touchdown that could have been stopped. Losing the bet to Jamie Renfro. His mom getting fired. By the time he climbed up onto the porch and swung open the squeaky screen door, he didn’t think he could feel any worse.
He was wrong.
His mom stamped out from the kitchen, scowling.
“And where did you get this, young man?” she asked, her voice shrieking like the tires of her car on the ride home. “I go to wash your smelly equipment and I find this?”
In her hand was the stolen football.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EXCEPT FOR THE PART about Nathan and Tate going with him to the hole in the wall, Troy told his mom the truth about what he’d done and why. There were times he had to back up and tell it over because he was sobbing so hard she couldn’t understand him. The part that seemed to make her maddest of all was when he told her about Jamie Renfro.
“He didn’t believe you were with the Falcons,” Troy said, “and I wanted to show him.”
“You think it matters what Jamie Renfro thinks of me?” she said, raising her voice to a howl. “You think that’s a reason to steal?”
His mom paced the living room, yelling wildly about how wrong it was to steal. Her ranting then turned into how he’d ruined her chance at the best job she’d ever had in her whole life. Then to how he probably should be sent to military school. Then she did the worst thing of all: She stood still, looking at him until her breathing slowed, and said she’d never been ashamed to call him her son. Now she was.
“So I’ll go live with my father,” Troy said, the words coming out of his mouth before he could take them back.
His mother looked like she’d been hit with a board. She stepped across the room and raised her hand, swinging it through the air.
Troy winced, but her hand only slapped the cushion on the couch next to his head. She staggered back, a look of surprise on her face, then straightened herself and tilted her chin up.
“A father is someone who pays the bills and helps you with your homework, Troy,” she said. “You don’t have a father. I know that hurts. I’m sorry.”
She walked out of the house with her head high, but before she got off the porch, a single, miserable sob escaped from her.
Troy ran to his room. He slammed the door and threw himself onto the bed.
“You’re all so stupid!” he screamed into his pillow, pounding on it with a fist. He meant the parents, the coaches, and the players. Everyone over the age of thirteen. The Duluth Tigers as well as the Atlanta Falcons. “All I want to do is help them win! But no one will give me a chance!”
It dawned on him then that a kid without a father wasn’t likely to ever get a chance. He tried to let the anger burn so hot that it would snu
ff out the shame, but it was a losing battle. He tossed and turned for what seemed like hours before, finally, he fell asleep.
The next morning, when his mom nudged him to wake up, there was an instant where it seemed like the whole thing might have been just a dream. Then he heard the cold tone of her voice.
“Come on,” she said.
Weak daylight came in through the window. His mom was already dressed up in pants and a blazer. She threw open his closet, yanked a shirt and a pair of dress pants off their hangers, and threw them onto his bed along with a pair of shoes.
“Brush your teeth and put that on,” she said, walking out of the room.
The clothes were stiff and the inside seam of the shirt collar scratched his skin. The shoes were tight. When he came out into the kitchen, there was a glass of juice and a bowl of dry cornflakes next to the milk carton.
“Eat,” she said, pointing, then turning away to look out the window over the sink while she silently sipped her coffee.
Troy wasn’t hungry. His stomach was clenched tight, but he was afraid not to eat. She stood there, watching.
He finished it all, rinsed his dish, and put it in the sink. Without speaking, his mom walked out of the house. He took his backpack off its hook and followed her, climbing into the front seat while she revved the engine. The football was wedged into the space between their seats. He wanted to ask where they were going as they swerved down the dirt driveway, squealing out onto Route 141, but his throat was too tight to speak because he figured he knew.
When they went past the place where they should have turned for his school, Troy sat straighter and looked at the road ahead. Eventually, they got on the main highway and headed north. When she slowed down for the Flowery Branch exit, he stopped praying for a miracle. He knew for sure now that they were heading for the Falcons’ training facility, and it made his knotted stomach turn. He remembered being very young and taking a pack of gum from the store. He hadn’t even known what stealing was back then, he was that little. He sure knew what it was after his mom dragged him back into the store. She made him give back the gum and apologize to the scowling man behind the counter.
The man behind the counter this time was Seth Halloway, and Troy thought he would rather have their car go off the bridge than make it to the Falcons’ facility. The complex was a big brick building with a black iron fence that surrounded everything, including the three grass football fields and a white bubble like an airplane hangar that covered a turf field for indoor practices. There was a guard at the entrance, but when he saw Troy’s mom, he waved her in with a smile.
“Must not have heard about your little incident,” his mom said bitterly, under her breath, glancing at Troy in the mirror.
They pulled into the circular drive at the main entrance and went inside. There was a guard there, too, who looked at his mom’s pass and nodded. She dragged Troy by the wrist into the back and threw open the door to a small office. There was a box of pictures on the desk along with a phone and some books. Troy knew they were the pictures, mostly of him, that she’d taken from the house to hang in her new office.
“This was my office,” she said, putting the stolen football into the box of pictures and scooping it up under her arm.
Then she dragged him upstairs, where the red carpet was lush and the office doors were trimmed in dark wood. When Cecilia Fetters looked up from her desk and saw them, her face clouded over and she stood up.
“We came to apologize,” his mom said. She thrust Troy through the door.
His face was hot and he looked at his shoes and said he was sorry.
“That’s very nice,” Cecilia said stiffly, coming out from behind her desk, “but I’m in the middle of something and I’ll have to ask you to leave now.”
“We kind of need to see Seth Halloway,” his mom said, gripping the football and showing it to her. “This is his.”
“That’s fine,” Cecilia said, reaching for the ball. “The players are in meetings already. I’ll take that.”
“No,” his mom said, pulling the ball away and putting it back into the box. “Troy needs to do it himself.”
Cecilia’s mouth fell open. She stared at Troy’s mom and shook her head, huffing out a little laugh.
“I’m sorry you thought this job was a chance for your son to meet the players,” she said, “but it’s not. It wasn’t.”
“That has nothing to do with it,” his mom said.
“Please. Leave.”
Troy’s mom snatched his hand and down the hall they went. They were almost to the top of the stairs when the head coach and some men in business suits spilled out of a big office looking grim. Troy’s mom stopped and looked at the floor, waiting for them to empty out of the hall. When they were gone, she dragged him down the stairs. They were halfway down when a voice came from above.
“Tessa, is this your son?”
They froze and looked up toward the voice. Mr. Langan, the owner, was leaning over the railing dressed in a neat gray suit and wearing a small smile.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Langan,” his mom said.
“Well, it was only one game,” the owner said with a serious expression. “No one wants to start the season with a loss, but we’ll bounce back.”
“I meant what happened,” his mom said.
Mr. Langan’s graying eyebrows moved up, wrinkling his tan forehead.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Well,” his mom said. She let go of Troy’s hand and walked slowly up the steps. Troy didn’t know what to do, so he followed her and looked at his feet while she told the owner the story of him getting kicked out of the Dome. She did it without trying to make any excuses, and when she was done, there was only silence. Finally, Troy looked up at the owner. Mr. Langan’s pleasant face lost its expression and he looked down at Troy with sad green eyes.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’M VERY SORRY,” HIS mother said in a quiet voice.
“Well,” Mr. Langan said, patting her arm. “Kids get excited, don’t they? I think Cecilia is right about maybe not having Troy down on the field during the game. I’ll take the blame for that. But I tell you what—does he have school?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you go take him to school, and by the time you get back, I’ll have talked with Cecilia. I’m pretty sure we can find a way to work this out.”
His mom said a quiet thank-you and dragged Troy out of the offices like the place was on fire. On the way to the school, his mom looked at him in the mirror and said, “If I get that job back, don’t think you’re getting away with anything. You’re getting punished no matter what. You don’t even know how bad.”
Troy spent his morning dodging through the crowded hallways from class to class, keeping a watchful eye out for Jamie. At lunch, he ditched his regular group of friends for a seat with a bunch of brainy kids who always took the table in the back corner. Troy sat with his back to the lunchroom and ate hunched down over his chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, moving the straw to his mouth without picking up his head.
His straw made a slurping sound at the bottom of his milk when he noticed the guys around him had stopped talking. Troy smelled Doritos. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Thought you could hide with these goobers in the corner?”
It was Jamie, and his words rolled into a mean laugh that was automatically imitated by his gang. Troy picked up his tray and turned around to face him like nothing was wrong.
He shrugged and said, “What?”
Jamie put his pointer finger into Troy’s chest and said, “Your team sucks and you owe me, that’s what.”
“Yeah, I know. You know I’ve got it,” Troy said, glancing at Jamie’s friends, a tough-looking bunch, each one a frequent visitor to the principal’s office. They all wore red Converse sneakers, the old canvas style, with black laces.
“Where?” Jamie asked, folding his arms and frowning.
“I left it at my grandfather�
��s,” Troy said, the lie flowing effortlessly from his mouth. “I went over to his house after our game the other day and forgot to bring it home. I’ll get it.”
“The last goober that welched on me got bumped around in the hallways pretty good,” Jamie said, smirking.
“I’m no welcher,” Troy said. “You’ll get your ball.”
He’d seen Jamie and his red-sneaker bunch bullying kids, dumping their books in the halls, tripping them, and poking them in the back with pencils. Troy got ready with his tray, figuring if they tried to get tough with him that at least Jamie was going to get what was left of his mashed potatoes right in the mouth. As if they sensed this, the group parted and Troy walked through them with his tray.
After he got his tray on the conveyor belt, Troy looked around and ducked out the side door.
Troy got to football practice late. So, even though Coach Renfro barked at him and made him run two penalty laps, at least he didn’t have to stand around and listen to Jamie. Coach Renfro treated every minute of practice as serious as if it were the final two minutes of the Super Bowl. Once practice began, even Jamie didn’t get to chatter or fool around.
After stretching, they went to individual drills. The running backs and quarterbacks worked together on handoffs, then short passes. Troy got to take one turn for every five of Jamie’s, but still he was smoother and quicker than the coach’s son and the runners never fumbled the handoffs he tucked neatly into their arms.
Jamie’s father pretended not to notice, but Troy would catch him looking, especially when they started passing the ball. Whereas Jamie’s passes were wobbly and inaccurate, Troy’s throws were crisp and precise, hitting the backs right in their hands. When the receivers joined them and the passes got deeper, Troy’s throws would whistle through the air. He had the knack for leading his teammates so they didn’t have to slow down. They just kept running full speed and the ball would be there.
