Vaughn had a sheen of sweat on his right arm before Jordan spoke. “You ever think about that hot Anna Big Sky?” he asked. “I hear she puts out for guys with lots of muscle.”
“Oh yeah, sure thing.” Vaughn grinned, with embarrassment, I guess, and somehow it made him look even more like a guy the girls would go for. He switched the weight to his left hand.
“Think about it. Those Indian girls go like minks. By the time they’re twelve, they’re all putting out.”
What a crock, I thought, but I didn’t say a word.
The weight kept rising, falling, the pace steady, Vaughn trying to ignore him.
“You know what the experts say. A little red meat is good for the appetite.”
I got suited up as fast as I could and headed for the field.
When we’d finished warming up and doing drills, while Coach Conley was working with the kickers at the other end of the field, I noticed Jordan go up to Coach Ramsey. He was talking to Ramsey, but he was grinning at me, and I could hear every word he said.
“Why don’t you put young Russell in? He never gets much chance to play in game situations.”
They put me on the corner, and, watching the team gather for the huddle, it was the same thing again, Jordan talking to Blake this time, but grinning at me. I wished I could hear what was going on because, pretty soon, Blake was grinning too.
I figured there’d be a pass in my direction, and when Jordan didn’t try to fake me I thought he was going deep. He hit me while I was still back-pedaling, his shoulder in my chest, and I stumbled, felt his helmet now, under my chin, driving me backwards, and I was flat on the ground when Blake galloped by, the ball cradled at his side. He’d called a run for my side of the field.
“Hey, Russell,” said Coach Ramsey, “you’re supposed to nail the runner, not wave bye-bye while he scores an easy touchdown.” He called to Blake: “Run that play again.”
This time when Jordan came for me, I tried to cut around him, but he veered with me, like a hawk swooping, striking its prey, and I was on the ground again.
They ran it six times in a row, Jordan hitting me every time, hammering me as hard as he could, using the helmet every chance he got, though once I managed to dodge around him, and here was Vaughn Foster blocking too, ramming me aside just as Blake darted by. It was kind of weird, but when Jordan trotted back for the next play, he never looked at me, but I heard him say, “You know something, Russell? You’re a tough little sucker.” Then he paused beside me. “Your brother’s being a jerk. I’ll have him call something else.”
He wasn’t the only one with something to say to Blake. I hadn’t noticed it before, but Coach Conley had left the kickers to their work and was standing on the sidelines beside Coach Ramsey, drawing one foot back and forth in the chalk at the fifty-yard line. He didn’t seem interested in watching the action. Suddenly, he stepped onto the playing field, cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “You’ve got that play down just fine, Blake. Time to work on another one.” Then he was walking toward me.
“You want to sit out a couple plays?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if he admired my effort or felt sorry for me.
“No, no,” I said, “I’m fine.” But my legs were weak, I was shaking like a kid before his first communion.
It was the very next day that I ran into Anna Big Sky at school. I guess I’d have to admit that “ran into her” isn’t the most accurate term for how we met. My brother had said she was in his history class, and I knew he took history in period four. When the bell rang to start the five minute break, I took off, running for the history room, hoping to catch her before she disappeared into the jumble of kids that always jammed the halls between classes. At first I thought I’d missed her — the doorway was empty — but then she came striding from the room, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Excuse me,” I said. Already I felt like such a kid. “You’re Anna Big Sky, aren’t you?” That was obvious. I was going to have her convinced I was a complete idiot. Yeah, put me near a girl I liked and you might as well jam my brain through a garburator.
“So?” She stopped beside me. She was an inch or two taller than I thought she’d be, uh-huh, taller than me.
“I just wanted you to know I saw you yesterday — at noon with Jordan Phelps.” Her lips were drawn together, a thin, tight line, her expression stern. “He’s a great athlete, you know.” Why was I telling her that? I rushed on. “But he’s a total jerk. He had it coming.” Her lips relaxed a bit, but she didn’t smile.
“And who are you?”
“Blair Russell.” I was surprised how good it felt just to think that now she’d know my name.
“You must be Blake’s little brother.”
I stretched up as tall as I could, my heels lifting off the floor maybe half an inch. “Yeah, but I don’t boast about it.”
She glanced around as if checking for someone, then leaned toward me before she spoke. “I remember you. The guy with just his gotch in the gym. Nothing else but duct tape and bare skin — mm, and lots of muscles.”
She smiled then, white teeth shining between red lips — for just a second I thought she meant it, but that was crazy, she was teasing me. Still her dark eyes were shining too. I think I was in love with her already, but she was moving down the hall.
“I’ve got a class,” she said, reaching behind her with her right hand, groping for the strap on her pack, her breast thrusting forward as she plunged her arm beneath the strap and pulled the pack around. I couldn’t help myself; I thought, man, she does have big breasts.
She was striding away from me, and I had to run to catch her. I hoped I wasn’t blushing.
“Something else,” I said. “Yesterday at noon, I thought you were terrific.”
She stopped so suddenly I almost went past her, but I got myself stopped beside her.
“You’re okay, Blair.” She gazed right at me, her eyes as warm as they were dark. I was blushing now for sure. “Got to hurry. I’ll see you around.”
She walked down the hall towards her next class, and I watched her all the way, saw her open the glass door at the end of the hall, her good, strong arm heaving it open, saw her go up the stairs, her feet dancing on every step till even they had disappeared from sight.
My name, I thought, it sounded different when she said it, no, not different, special.
But I was late for class.
My father was reading The Anglican Journal when I got home from school that day. He dropped the paper on his lap, smiled at me, asked me how my day had been, but his eyes kept dropping to the open paper, and I knew he was in the middle of an article he wanted to finish. That was all right. I wanted my brother in the room when I talked about my day.
I grabbed the latest Maclean’s from beside the globe on the coffee table and flopped on the couch, idly turning pages until Blake came downstairs. He went to the front door, collected The Leader-Post from the mailbox and came back into the room, slapping my legs with the folded paper.
“Shove over,” he said.
I sat up, gave him half the couch, waited till he found the sports section.
“Coach say anything when I was late for practice?”
“Didn’t notice.”
I could see he was into a piece about the Riders, the columnist, Rob Vanstone, trying to stir up a quarterback controversy.
“Maybe I got lucky, and he didn’t notice either.”
“Probably not.”
This wasn’t working out the way I’d planned. “Mrs. Young was on my case, kept me after class.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t care.
I heard a rustle of paper, looked across the room at my father, all his attention directed my way. “Tell me: why would she be ‘on your case’, as you put it?”
“I was late for class.” It was okay now. I knew my father, knew exactly what question was coming next.
“And why were you late for class?”
“I got talking to Anna Big Sky.” I had to
hand it to my brother. He never moved the paper, never turned his head, but I saw the tension in the line of his jaw. He was listening all right. “Time flies when you’re having fun, eh? Talking to her, you know, I didn’t notice what time it was. She’s really neat.” Looking at Blake, you’d swear he was cut from a block of marble. No sign that he was breathing. Let’s see what I could do about that. “I think she kind of likes me.” Not even a tremor. “But man, I saw the time and took off running. I almost made it.” That was for my father.
“Seems to me,” he said, “being late isn’t something you should be feeling proud about.”
My brother was still hidden behind his paper, but now he turned his head and glowered at me. “You got that right,” he said.
I might have thought he was responsible if the crap had started the next day, but it didn’t begin till later in the week. By then, I’d managed to see Anna Big Sky three more times in the halls at school. She always kept moving, except on one occasion never stopped to talk, but she always spoke. “Blair,” she said, just that, never “Hello,” or “Good to see you,” but with a smile every time, the kind of smile that would melt the ice off the creek the coldest day in January.
I wanted to see her every chance I could — which is why, when we had a short practice that afternoon, I grabbed a quick shower, pulled on my clothes when I was hardly finished dripping, and rushed into the gym. The volleyball games were still going on, her team defending the far court. I trotted across the gym and climbed onto the bleachers. The girls playing in the back row were so close, you could almost reach out and touch them. Anna, though, was in the front row, blocking shots, slamming the ball down at the floor. Man, she knew how to get elevation, her hands rising way above the net while somehow she hung in the air, smashing the ball past another leaping girl.
She’d just scored a point when I saw the far door open. Vaughn Foster sauntered into the gym, strolled slowly along between the stage and the court, then reached out with those powerful arms, hoisted himself onto the stage right beside the net. Bugger, I thought, what’s he doing here?
A minute later, Anna was in the back line, taking over the serve. Most of the girls served underhand, but Anna raised the ball above her head, slammed it across the net. It would have gone out-of-bounds, but one of the Vanier players tried to block it, had it ricochet off her hands. Another point and our girls would win.
When Anna got the ball back, she cradled it for a second in both hands, then turned slowly around. Turned around and winked at me. “I need some luck, Blair,” she said and shoved the ball toward me.
For a second I didn’t know what to do, but then I reached out and tapped the ball with my fist.
“That’ll work,” she said. She tossed the ball above her head, but this time she leapt to meet it, catching it at its apex, smashing it so hard that it was already coming down as it crossed the net, an instant later hitting the floor, no one even close to it. Anna turned to me again, grinning, her right hand raised, and I slapped my hand on hers — no hesitation now. Man, it was almost as if I’d won the game for them.
The girls clustered together for a cheer, then trotted off the court, all of them passing right in front of the stage where Vaughn Foster sat, slouched there, his elbows on his knees, looking as cool as Brad Pitt would ever look. When Anna was almost beside him, he casually lifted one hand, that handsome smile of his spreading across his face, and she gave him a high five as she headed for the showers. Shit, I thought, why did he have to show up?
I was in the Seven-Eleven at noon hour when it began. Some kid I’d never seen before walking by me in the line-up, muttering, under his breath it seemed, but just loud enough so I’d be sure to hear him, “Injun lover,” like that, the kind of thing you might hear in some old clunker of a cowboy movie on the late show, one you’d be too embarrassed to watch if anybody was in the room with you. It sounded so stupid I almost laughed.
I was in the locker room, pulling my practice jersey over my head when it started there.
“You hear about the football player couldn’t get himself a girl?” I knew the voice at once — Jordan Phelps. “Had to settle for red meat, eh? Pretty soon he don’t want nothing else.”
Better ignore him, I thought. And then I thought about his grammar, which was usually good, but this was weird, now he was dumbing it down, playing the part of the folksy redneck. I tugged at my jersey, got it twisted on my shoulder pads. Jordan was sitting on the bench, leaning against his locker, lounging with his feet crossed before him, Todd Branton crouched beside him like a toad. Branton grinned at me. “What the hell kind of guy,” he said, “chases after squaws?”
“Screw you.” I gave my jersey a yank, heard it tear. It was still caught on my pads, but I walked by them, jerking at it to get it down. Practice jerseys, they were always ripping.
On the bench beside the door I noticed Morris Ackerman and Neil Tucker getting into their equipment. Morris was bent over his shoes, looking glum, concentrating on his shoelaces as if he thought they might somehow tie themselves in knots if his attention lapsed for even a second. Neil just looked disgusted, but neither of them spoke.
On the way out I almost bumped my brother coming in. He was flushed and in a hurry. I kept going.
Things were okay at practice, no one hassling me; I even laid a hit on Todd Branton, nailing him just as the ball touched his fingers, the ball bouncing in the air, him knocked to the ground. It felt good to hit someone. I thought Branton might try another smart crack, but Coach Conley was there. When Branton got up, he jogged back to the huddle without a word, never even looked at me.
I guess he was saving it for the shower room.
Half a dozen guys around me, I was massaging shampoo into my hair when he started. “Stinks in here,” Branton said. “Like somebody’s been rubbing up against a piece of smoked meat.”
I groped for a shower, found the button, pushed it, eyes stinging with soap. Bumped someone.
“Quit shoving.” Neil Tucker, right beside me.
“Yeah,” said Branton, “somebody in here’s been screwing Indians.”
I tilted my face toward the shower head, washed the soap out of my eyes. Turned toward Branton just in time to see a naked Ivan Buchko stepping forward, like a giant emerging from a swamp, fog all around him. “Hey!” he said. “Enough. My turn for a shower.” He nudged Branton with a massive hip, bumped him aside like someone knocking off a bug.
“Take it easy,” said Branton. He glared at Ivan, uncertain what to think, then turned back at me. I could almost see him making up his mind. In the haze of steam behind him I noticed my brother come into the room, a bottle of shampoo balanced on his fingertip like a baton.
“No doubt about it,” said Branton, “somebody around here’s nothing but a squaw humper.”
Blake grabbed him even before the shampoo hit the floor. Spun him around, drove him back, his head bouncing off the wall, Blake slamming him under the chin with a forearm, pinning him there. “Shut up,” he said. “Shut your face — or I’ll slap it shut.” I was every bit as stunned as Branton, who couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d been sucker-punched by a priest in the middle of a prayer. All the guys who’d peeled away when Blake went for him were staring at them now. The only sound was water bouncing off the floor, spinning down the drain. I don’t think Branton dared breathe with Blake still leaning into him, arm planted on his neck. Finally, Ivan Buchko stepped over, tapping Blake on the shoulder.
“You don’t get in here pretty quick,” he said, “hot water’s gonna be all gone.”
Ivan gave us both a ride home that night. When he pulled up in front of our house, he said to Blake, “If I was you, I wouldn’t be calling any quarterback sneaks around the left end for a while. Don’t think Branton’ll be out there blocking for you.” He laughed. “Man, he was shaking like a leaf. You hadn’t had him pinned, he would’ve slid down the wall, disappeared right down the drain.”
Blake snorted. It sounded like a cross be
tween a laugh and a grunt. “He needs to watch his mouth.”
We got out of the car, started around the side of the house, heading for the back door.
“You sure shut him up,” I said. “Thanks.” The sidewalk was narrow between the house and the fence, and Blake had stepped ahead of me, but as I spoke I reached out and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. It was the first time we’d touched in ages.
He stopped walking, turned toward me, a puzzled look on his face. “What do you mean?”
I must have looked just as puzzled. “The way you handled him, I appreciate that. Bugger’d been giving me a rough time all afternoon.”
“Shit,” said Blake. “I thought he was riding me.” He spun around, walked right by the backdoor and out to the picnic table under our crab apple tree. Sat down, his chin cradled in his hands. I glanced past him at the maple tree, the bird-feeder hanging crooked, but almost full, not a bird in sight. Surely, that damned hawk wasn’t still around.
I followed Blake, slid onto the bench across from him, brushing a couple of withered crab apples out of the way. Blake didn’t look at me. He was staring at a branch above my head, as if waiting to see when the last leaf would fall.
“He’s been on me like a badger,” I said. “What a prick.” Blake was still studying the tree. “Why would you think he was riding you?”
My brother dropped his hands from beneath his chin. Finally looked at me.
“I figured he’d probably seen me — or someone might’ve told him.”
“Told him what?”
“I took her out last night — Anna Big Sky.”
I felt something rising in my throat, anger maybe, a flash of jealousy, I don’t know, a surge of fear or craziness, something I’ll never be able to explain, but I’d like to think that accounts for what happened next. “Those friends of yours,” I said, “they get you all hot and bothered, going on about red meat?”
Living with the hawk Page 6
