If Ryder had been on the team, it occurred to me now, he would’ve been Delinsky, starting freshman year. Which meant maybe I never would’ve gotten to be a soccer star at all, however faded I was now. Maybe I wouldn’t have had three years as a forward, and all the hype and visibility it entailed, and Ellie wouldn’t have noticed me and sent me that note through the school newspaper. (“Which East Coast transplant doesn’t want to be too Forward about her crush?”) It didn’t have to be me. Anyone who’d been forward that year might’ve ended up as Ellie’s boyfriend. Maybe she and Ryder would’ve gotten together! Maybe it was better that Ryder … God, stop.
I shook my head as though I’d poured water on it and needed to shake off the drops from my hair and eyes. Josh looked at me like I was nuts. I went over to the sideline and grabbed a bottle and poured some real water on my face, just to have something to do. Not like I’d worked up a sweat in the three minutes since the game began. Fuck Delinsky. Fuck Griffin. Fuck me for having all these weird thoughts.
Finally, five minutes later, the action reached my area of the pitch. We gave the ball away at midfield, and one of the Agua Dulce players sent a pass to Steve. But he wasted no time in lofting it over to his teammate on the far side.
If Steve never personally took the ball to the net, I was dead. You can’t foul what’s not there. And I couldn’t cover both sides at once; one half was Josh’s area.
Speaking of Josh, he was determined to play his guy tight, and things got tangled up before the ball went over the endline and the ref called a corner kick for Agua Dulce. We lined up, and I elbowed Steve just to let him know he couldn’t get away from me that easily. But Patrick blocked the header and controlled the ball and the Desert Cats were off on offense again for another few minutes.
The next time Steve got the ball, I acted fast, sliding feet-first and keeping my cleats up to trip him. Steve went down, but the ref let us play on. What the fracking hell?
I stole the ball and danced through traffic and the stands erupted for me. Well, gee, if they were going to be supportive … I chipped it ahead and to the left where Delinsky was waiting, and then prayed he didn’t score again. It felt good to hear those cheers. It felt good to remind everyone I was still there, I still had the moves. And it also made it look like I was trying to win, which couldn’t hurt.
Steve was still on the ground. I went over and held a hand out. He ignored me, stood on his own, and then leaned in to whisper a threat.
“You better cut that shit out,” he said.
“Son,” I said. “I’m just getting started.”
Unfortunately, my words fell somewhat flat since the action was all taking place at the far end of the field. Delinsky tried another shot on goal, shaking off a tackle and firing from long range again. His touch was off, though, and his attempt hit the far post. The crowd strained forward in their seats, then let out a collective moan of disappointment when the ball bounced off. Another attempt was caught by Agua Dulce’s goalkeeper.
I was already getting sick of Delinsky’s grandstanding. This wasn’t supposed to be a one-man show. If I’d still been the striker, you could bet I’d have shared the wealth, passed the ball to other guys instead of acting like I was the only one who could score.
Finally—finally—in the twenty-fifth minute Steve received a solid pass and zipped toward our goal. I waited till he got close to the penalty box and then I lunged and grabbed his arm, pulling and twisting him off the ball.
Whistles, chaos. I held my hands up, an innocent man even while assuming Steve would be awarded a penalty kick, make it, and tie the score. But then the ref jogged over, signaling offsides. Apparently the flag had been up all along. The perfect opportunity, and Steve was offsides!
I was back at zero.
The next time Steve got possession, I chose a different tactic. I made like I was running really hard after him—so hard that I tripped over my own feet. I hoped that would give him the space he needed to take a shot. But at the last second he passed off to a teammate, who tried to get too cute and had the ball stripped by Josh.
But when Josh tried to clear the ball, he shanked it, sending it sailing back across the field. Steve was closer to it than I was and he got possession. I went straight for his bad foot, the one he’d been limping on earlier. I “accidentally” nailed it with my cleats, really put the full force of my weight into it. He howled and went down.
I got a yellow card, which really should’ve been a red. But at least Steve got the penalty kick. At long friggin’ last, I’d fulfilled my part of the plan.
And good on him—he converted. Even with his limp, or maybe in part because of it, he was a good faker. Made like he was aiming left and then sent the ball neatly in the right corner of the net, a topspin blast. Patrick was devastated. I couldn’t bear to look at him.
At halftime, the score was still tied.
I headed to the locker room to cool off and drink my weight in water.
But the fountain was broken, and our assistant coach, Mr. Mitchell, hadn’t brought the cooler in from outside yet. I headed down the hall to find a working fountain. When I turned the corner, my face connected with a fist.
I dropped like a bag of hammers.
THE BLUE-RASPBERRY LOLLIPOP
WHEN YOU FIND YOURSELF TIED UP IN THE CHEM LAB SUPPLY closet, surrounded by jars of formaldehyde, about to be maimed by a microscope-wielding thug, it’s a pretty good indication that something in your life has gone wrong.
When the base of the microscope came down on my foot, I blacked out.
When I woke up again, the room was fuzzy. Above me on the shelves were all the items any self-respecting mad scientist could want. Test tubes, filter paper, eye droppers, plastic funnels, red and blue litmus test paper, safety goggles, glass stirring rods, Bunsen burners, thermometers, custom rubber tubing, boxes of plastic gloves, and scales.
“What’s your problem?” said a voice. I blinked and refocused, turning my head in the direction of the sound. “Why are you trying to wreck my scholarship? If I’m injured no college will want me.”
I could just make out a blurry shape above me.
Steve.
And pals. The pals were what worried me. The pals were the size of buildings—no soccer players, they. These were wrestlers, football linebackers, or an unholy hybrid of the two.
Looking deranged and vengeful, Steve raised the microscope again, this time over my right foot, intending to wreck both my feet and make them even. Awfully considerate of him.
Before Steve could bring the microscope down, Ryder plowed into the supply closet out of nowhere and slammed Steve into the shelves, causing lab equipment to fall over.
“Don’t! He’s trying to help you, asshole. He’s on our side. You friggin’ moron.” He slapped Steve across the face.
Steve’s pals each grabbed one of Ryder’s arms, but Steve waved them off.
“What are you talking about?” said Steve, looking cowed and patting his face lightly. “He’s the one trying to maim me out there.”
“He’s trying to get you penalty kicks. He already got you one, didn’t he? He’s trying to help you win!”
“But—what—” Steve stopped and directed his next words to me. “So get called on a handball or something. Don’t ram into me and stamp my bad foot!”
“A handball? What’s the fun in that?” I wheezed.
“You nearly broke my ankle.”
“You did break my foot, you psycho!” I sputtered from my place on the floor. “I’m going to kill you!”
Ryder untied me and I hobbled up to one foot. “I can’t even play the second half now.” I swayed from side to side, woozy with pain and adrenaline and fear and hatred. I came at Steve wildly, wishing I could balance enough to head-butt him and knock his teeth out.
Ryder held me back, his hands firm on my shoulders, and looked me straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I’m so sorry. You’ll still get your money, I swear—”
“I
wasn’t doing this for the money.”
Ryder turned his attention back to Steve, his fury mounting. “I told you you’d win the game. Didn’t I tell you? Why didn’t you trust me?”
“You sicced your pit bull on me. How was I supposed to know that was part of the plan?” Steve whined.
“If you had your fuckin’ eyes open, you woulda seen what was going on. Penalty kick after penalty kick. If you don’t start paying attention, you don’t deserve to be scouted.”
My head felt shaky, and blackness threatened to overtake my vision again. I couldn’t figure out what they were talking about. Wasn’t the point of losing so that Ryder could break free of Griffin? So Griffin would be bankrupt and Ryder would have money to skip town? What did it possibly have to do with Steve being scouted?
“Let’s get Charlie outside, get him some help.” Ryder snapped his fingers at Steve’s thugs, who jumped into action, sensing a new alpha to lead them.
Steve was nervous now. “Shit, man. I wish you’d told me.”
“And I wish you weren’t so fucking stupid.”
This may be impossible to believe, but the weirdest thing, the most vivid thing about the situation—besides my incapacitating pain and dizziness—was Ryder’s behavior. He didn’t sound like himself. He was swearing a blue streak, smacking Steve around, issuing orders. Toward me, he was the same old Ryder—patient, cool, collected—kind, even. Toward Steve, he was acting like a boss. The Man in Charge.
He was acting like Griffin.
Steve and Ryder propped me up and carried me down the hall, one of my arms around each of their shoulders. I tried to walk, but even the slightest pressure on my foot was agony; enough to make me crumble. A microscope as a weapon. I’d never cared much for chemistry, but I didn’t think it was capable of hating me back.
I could see the countdown clock at the edge of the field. Four minutes until the second half started. Coach saw us and sprinted over.
“Think fast,” Ryder whispered in my ear. “We can turn Steve in, get an assault charge going, or say it was an accident. Whatever you want to do, I’ll back you.”
“But if I turn in Steve, they’ll have to call the sheriff’s department and cancel the game, and all this’ll be for nothing.”
“I don’t care,” said Ryder vehemently. “This never should’ve happened to you. What do you want to do?” And just like that, he was back to being Ryder, the kid who threw the bat for me. The kid I knew.
“Let’s finish the game.”
“What happened?” Coach bellowed.
“Nothing, just fooling around on the stairs, twisted my foot,” I said. “I need an ice pack, I’ll be fine.”
Ryder and Steve set me down on the team bench and brought me Gatorade and ice packs.
Steve, looking pale and ill, went to rejoin his team, occasionally glancing back at me. I propped my foot up, and Coach asked me if I was all right.
Before I could answer, I pitched forward and threw up, and the next thing I knew, I was lying down in an ambulance, headed to the ER.
I was on a gurney, and Ellie sat beside me, clutching my hand, as we coasted through Palm Valley. She was sucking on a blue-raspberry lollipop, her favorite. “Charlie, your parents are right behind us. They’re following in their car.”
“I think I broke my foot. I can feel something shifting down there, in pieces …” I moaned.
“They said you were horsing around, that you fell down the stairs at halftime. What were you doing?”
“Um, maybe there really was water damage to the staircase last year.”
“It’s okay, don’t talk.” She smiled at me, but all I could see was Patrick’s disappointed face during Steve’s penalty kick, and the base of the microscope coming down on my foot.
“You were right. You said something bad was going to happen. You had that feeling, remember?” I gripped her hand tighter.
“I wish I’d been wrong. I wish I’d never said that.” Her eyes shimmered wetly. “I just want you to be okay.”
I closed my eyes and rested my head.
Ellie’s fingers brushed against my temple, petting and caressing me. It felt so good, I could almost block out everything else.
“I want you to know something,” she said softly. “I don’t want to lose you next year. We’ll figure something out.”
It was almost worth it. The injury, the pain, the fear, to hear those words.
“I don’t want to lose you, either,” I said.
She kissed me, a sugary mess of blue-raspberry tongue. It tasted like summer, and fall.
“How’d you get the blue tongue?” the nurse asked. She looked familiar.
“My girlfriend. She likes blue-razz lollipops. They sell them at the games.”
The nurse was familiar because I’d met her on Tuesday, when I’d peeked into Maria Salvador’s room.
I was hooked up to an IV drip and my foot was elevated with an ice pack. The X-ray showed that my big toe was okay, but two of my smaller toes were fractured. My foot wasn’t actually broken; only my toes got smashed. Steve’s aim left something to be desired.
The doctor didn’t think it was too serious. I was on a mild painkiller so the world felt soft and safe again, like it had never been any other way.
My tongue was blue. Ellie had kissed me. Ellie was my girlfriend again. She was coming to Lambert College with me.
My tongue was blue, because she’d kissed me.
My tongue was blue.
The kiss.
It left a residue.
Sugar, sugar.
“That’s how Posey did it,” I blurted out. And because of the painkillers, I had a goofy smile on my face, which I didn’t intend to have. But you kind of had to admire Posey’s sneakiness, no matter how terrible it was.
“That’s how who did what?” the nurse said.
“That’s how Maria Posey—Sound of Music Maria—dosed her. They were playing Spin the Bottle. Posey made sure her turn landed on Salvador, and she took a sugar cube of acid and tongue-kissed her, transferring the drug.”
The Kiss. Sugar, Sugar. In Exile. It wasn’t Chekhov titles. Or at least, it wasn’t just Chekhov titles. Maria Salvador remembered what happened, or she remembered what happened just before a bunch of worse things happened. Her bizarre babblings when I’d seen her on Tuesday weren’t incoherent. They were clues. An attempt to reach out.
“Go ahead, ask her. She’ll tell you. She remembers. She just couldn’t say it, you know? But she remembers. Ask Maria Salvador about the kiss, and the sugar cube, and Spin the Bottle. I know that’s what happened, I know it.”
The nurse looked disturbed and upset. “I would ask her, but she’s in a coma. It happened last night.”
While Mom and Dad were in the hospital cafeteria grabbing a bite, Granddad stuck around for a chat.
I motioned for him to sit closer, and I told him about the game, the whole truth; why I’d been fouling Steve, what he’d done to me in return.
To my surprise, he didn’t mention Steve at all. “Your friend Ryder doesn’t sound like a real friend,” he said. “He sounds desperate. And desperate people are like pets you shouldn’t have. They turn on you.”
I frowned. The muscles in my face felt tight. “He’s not a dangerous pet, Granddad. He’s just a guy from a lousy family who got in over his head. If I hadn’t helped him, I couldn’t live with myself.”
“And now look what you have to live with,” he said, motioning to my foot.
“They said I’ll be fine. I mean, not right away, but soon,” I said. “I won’t be able to play for a few weeks, that’s all.”
I upped the dosage on my IV because what else could I do? They’d taped my wrecked toes to the stable ones for support. It was called “buddy taping.”
The phrase had made me laugh, in that sour way. I was taped to Ryder and he was taped to me, and if it caused me pain once in a while, that was the price of having a friend, right? He’d paid a price for having me as a friend a long time ago.
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“I’ve been cut loose,” Granddad added. “Pneumonia-free. I can go home now.”
“Home home, or senior center home?” I asked.
“Senior center.”
I was bummed.
“It’s time. Time to sell the house. Time to move on,” he said.
“Maybe I can take some days off school and we can fix the house up together, repaint it, refloor it, make it shine for the agent.”
“Maybe,” said Granddad, but what I heard was, “Probably not.” I felt smaller under his gaze, like my hospital bed was receding and his chair was growing farther and farther away.
He was no longer proud of me.
Sometimes you can see the shift right when it happens, and seeing it does nothing to help you correct it. Awareness isn’t power.
I hated the phrase “Those who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.” As if knowing something was going to happen made it in any way possible to avoid. No. If anything, knowing something beforehand made it even more inevitable. Like me in Little League, telling myself not to throw the bat but always doing it anyway. Or like Ellie moving here from New York but never intending to stay.
Except she was, wasn’t she? She was staying here with me, even though I wasn’t a soccer player anymore, even though I’d worked for Ryder. So why? What did she see in me, exactly? It wasn’t my love of sci-fi and bad TV because she didn’t know about that. It wasn’t my kindness toward her brother; I’d used him.
The hospital cut me loose, too, with a page of instructions and nothing stronger than a bottle of Tylenol. At home, I watched a bit of TV in the den while keeping my foot propped up.
When Ellie came over, Mom told her I needed to rest, but Dad gave in and said we could have half an hour. Mom shot him a look that could burn through glass, but for some reason their contradictory responses didn’t bother me anymore. They felt comforting, a much-needed dose of normalcy after a surreal day.
Ellie and I went up to my room, and the half hour played out like a soccer match, each minute important, vital.
Minutes one and two, I spent with my head resting on Ellie’s thigh, making her confirm for me what she’d said in the ambulance. She didn’t want to lose me.
High and Dry Page 16
