The rumor is that someone thought the wretched lost souls of our class should be "given their due." So, at the end of our sophomore year, a ladder was drawn on a sheet of paper. The wretched lost souls were hung from the lowest rungs; those in the crowd from the highest rungs; the rest of our class, somewhere in between. The hierarchy had been there all along. Now it had been made real. At least on paper.
They said the original and only copy of the ladder was hidden in the stacks on the second floor of the town library, neatly folded inside a book so obscure it would never be borrowed. But it's all a mystery. Or a myth. It's kind of like the Bible in that way. I mean, does anyone really know who wrote the Bible? Yet millions live by its words, if only to pass judgment on others. The same was true with the ladder. The creator intended to be anonymous, and through that anonymity, gave the ladder authority.
But these vagaries don't imply that the ladder's existence is in question. It's not. It's tangible, even if it can't be held and examined. It's the material from which our class's social fabric is woven, securing the fate of each of us. And don't mistake my frustration for resignation. A thousand times I've thought, I'm better than that. In fact, every day of my junior year, I walked the crowded hallways and sat in the classrooms, praying that something, somehow, might change—hoping against hope that I might be moving up a rung or two, that someone in the crowd might recognize that I'm more than where the ladder—
Glass shattered.
"Damn it," I heard my mom say.
"You all right?"
She let out a long sigh. "Just being clumsy."
"Need help?"
"I'm fine."
Holding on to the countertop, my mom picked up the glass pieces, then tore off a handful of paper towels to soak up the wine. She had a slightly bothered look on her face. From more than just spilled wine. Was she thinking about my dad? A strange thought, but the first that came to mind. I think about him sometimes. I don't remember much, though. I only knew him for a short time, when I was a little kid, before he left us. I suppose I should be thankful for any time I had with him. I've kept some of his stuff. Rather, I've taken things that my mom stored away in the attic or hid in the secret drawer of her vanity. A watch with his initials and the date 3-5-1974 engraved on the back. A light blue button-down shirt he wore to work. Ticket stubs from a Cosmos-Rowdies NASL game he took me to.
Thinking about my dad is like opening my eyes in the middle of the night and not being able to distinguish dreams from reality. So I try to fit these vague memories together, like puzzle pieces, with the hope of seeing some kind of truth. A bigger picture. But that's never really worked.
I wondered how often my mom thought about him. She's never said anything, except once when we were driving down the parkway to my aunt's house for a holiday dinner. She told me her life with him, for a time, was nice. Nice. That was it, nothing more. I always thought she said it just to appease me, because when I looked at her eyes, I saw something that she never revealed in words. Pain.
I've asked questions like, What does "nice" mean? Was it ever better than that? Why isn't he here? But no one is around to hear me, and so the questions remain lost in the silence between my mom and me, and I go back to being an only child of a single mom in this rich town, much of the time feeling way out of place. I think she knows I feel like this—my mom kind of reads me really well. Who knows? Maybe she feels the same way.
My mom finished cleaning the floor. She walked in from the kitchen and leaned against the doorway. She had another glass of wine in her hand.
"Should I leave the outside lights on?" she asked.
"No."
"Not going out?"
I shook my head.
"Where's Kyle?"
"Don't know."
I could've told her Kyle was partying at the circle, but she wouldn't have known what or where the circle was, and then I'd have to explain it all. Then she wouldn't have understood why I wasn't there, too, and I'd have to explain that as well. It's just easier to let her think her son is this really happy kid who's friends with all the popular people at school.
"Everything okay?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know..." she said. It seemed she was trying to get at something. "The two of you have been friends a long time."
"Ma, I'm fine. Kyle's fine. We're all fine." I sank down in the couch and stared at the television.
Kyle and I had been close since the day the Saint-Claires moved in across the street. As kids, we played capture-the-flag until midnight in the summer. Often I stayed at the Saint-Claires' shore house in Brielle. We built snow forts in the winter and played ice hockey on North Pond when the flag was up. Kyle would sleep over at my house and I'd sleep over at his. We grew up catching lightning bugs, colds, Yankee-Red Sox games, and a fist fight or two. Or three. We were best friends, and best friendships endured anything. At least I thought.
Then things changed. I don't think my mom had a clue about that. Kyle and I trained together for the upcoming varsity season and, when school started, I'd get a ride from him on most mornings. But that was it. The truth was, ever since seventh grade, we lived different lives at Millburn. I sometimes wondered what would've happened to me if I'd never quit baseball to concentrate on soccer. I was going to be a soccer star, I'd convinced myself. But it never happened, and that decision was now long in the past.
"My son," my mom said, with a thoughtful smile, "a senior in high school."
I frowned. "It's no big deal."
"You'll be the talk of the school."
"Not likely."
People at Millburn saw only what they wanted to see. If they wanted to think you were cool, then you were cool. Or smart. Or an athlete. Or hot. If they wanted to think you were a nobody, then you were that, regardless of how you saw yourself. Some thought my friendship with Kyle was a fraud, that he had taken pity on me. Others believed I had dirt on Kyle and that he only maintained the façade of a friendship in return for my silence. But no one knew the real me. No one could get inside my head. Of course, that didn't matter. What the people in my class thought of me was my reality. And, in the end, my reality was that I couldn't go with Kyle to the circle to hang out with the crowd—people I've lived in the same town with all my life—because of the ladder. Sure, I was about to be a senior. Sure, I should've felt something special. But I didn't.
"It'll be the time of your life," my mom said, as if she were imparting wisdom for the ages.
"And you know this how?" I said.
She shook her head. "You don't think I was a high school senior once?"
"Way back when," I said with a grin.
"It wasn't that long ago, mister," she said. "High school is high school. Senior years are special. You'll see what I mean."
I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."
The Tuesday after Labor Day, the sun would come up, I'd dress, get a ride, then walk in the Millburn High main entrance as I had hundreds of times as a sophomore and junior, as I had as a seventh-, eighth-, and ninth-grader at the junior high. Senior year would be just another in a long chain of endless years of academic endurance. There'd be different teachers, different classrooms, different books, but it'd all be the same. Barring a miracle on the soccer field, nothing would make it especially memorable.
My mom frowned and shook her head. "With an attitude like that..."
I had nothing else to say. I waited for her last words that in any of our discussions were the closing credits, the pithy epilogue. She walked back into the kitchen. I heard her shoes click on the tiled floor, then stop.
"You never know how things'll turn out," she said. "They just might surprise you. But you have to at least try to enjoy yourself."
That was it? I didn't expect her to have the definitive answer on how I was going to make it through the year without crashing and burning, but I certainly expected something more, something a bit more tangible.
I looked bac
k toward the kitchen and heard the spray bottle.
Then heard it again.
It had been an especially humid morning. I was wiped out; Kyle was, too. In the middle of the Christ Church field, he took ten paces in one direction, then another ten perpendicular to that. We used our shirts, water bottles, and whatever else we could find to mark the boundaries. Kyle brushed the sweat from his forehead and stood on one edge of the square, the soccer ball at his feet. I stood on the opposite edge, facing him.
"Ready?" Kyle said. "You first."
He flicked the ball to me.
I caught it with my instep and brought it down to the ground. Kyle charged at me. I shielded him with my body. My cleats danced on and around the ball, pushing it forward, drawing it back, nudging it left, then right. I imagined myself a player much greater, and I saw the two of us battling on a field infinitely grander—like Wembley or Estadio Azteca. Kyle was with me every step, trying to knock me off balance with his shoulders and hips. Still, the ball remained in my control.
"Not bad, Jonny," Kyle said.
Sometimes he could be so damn patronizing.
"I'll let ya touch the ball when I'm done," I said. Kyle pushed into me, but I held my ground. "Shoulda eaten your Wheaties, Saint-Claire."
That was all Kyle was going to take. He stepped on my cleat, then elbowed past me to steal the ball.
"So that's how we're playin'?" I said.
He gave me a wry smile. "Get used to it."
I bent down, tied my laces, then stood again. It was his turn. I charged at Kyle, leaning my body against his, darting my cleats at the ball. To his surprise (and mine), I quickly made the steal.
"Gee, that wasn't too easy," I said.
"A stroke of luck, wiseass," Kyle said.
We took turns, playing keep-away for another half hour. It had been a good training session for me. Great, really. My passes had been crisp, my shots on target, and earlier, when the two of us ran laps, the end lines and sidelines seemed shorter than usual.
"Last one," Kyle said.
I moved toward him. He stepped over the ball, faked one way, then pulled it backwards. I closed the distance between the two of us, then bumped him. He held me off. I bumped him again, feeling the intensity in his body—he was not going to give up the ball. But I pushed forward, trapping him in a corner.
I lunged at Kyle, shooting my leg between his, my cleat catching his shin. Kyle stood strong, controlling the ball with one foot. But I was relentless. I knocked him off balance; he recovered. I pressed further. For a moment, as the ball moved close to the edge of the square, Kyle seemed frustrated. I relished the thought and moved in for the—
Bang!
I was on the ground looking up. "What was that?" I said, wiping my lip where his elbow had hit me.
"An accident."
"An accident?"
"Yeah."
"Bull."
Kyle stood above me. "You wanna play with the big boys? You gotta get tougher."
"You just don't like me beating you."
"Never happened," he said. "So I wouldn't know."
"Did today."
"Jonny," Kyle said, scooping the ball off the ground with his cleat, then juggling it with his knees to his head, "you're dreamin'."
No, I think I pissed off the mighty Saint-Claire." I stood up and grabbed my shirt. "I did, didn't I?"
I got on my bike. Kyle got on his.
"That was garbage," I said. "And you know it."
***
With the noon sun above us and the black steel trusses of Redemption Bridge ahead, Kyle and I pedaled up Lake Road. My thighs were jellied, my shins bruised, and heat rising from the pavement had me sweating bullets. Kyle pulled a water bottle from his backpack, took a gulp, then swung his bike beside mine and passed the bottle. I took a swig and handed it back.
"What're you smirking about?" he asked. "Thought you were good today, is that it?"
"I was feelin' it."
Kyle shook his head, dismissively.
That pissed me off. "Know what, Kyle? I was goddamn great today. You know it, and I know it." I tilted my face into the sun. "Now, excuse me while I bask in my magnificence."
"Heat's fried your brain."
"Not as bad as I burned your ass in keep-away."
"Think so?"
"Know so."
"How about you do it in front of Pennyweather next week," Kyle said. "Better yet, do it in a game this season. Then we'll talk."
I shot a look at him. "What's your problem?"
"How important is soccer to you?" he asked.
"What're you, my mom?"
"So you like riding the bench?" Kyle pushed.
"Best seat in town," I quipped.
We continued up Lake Road in silence and, for a while, I thought we'd make it all the way home without saying another word. But then Kyle suddenly cut in front of me and slammed on his brakes. I stopped short. He grabbed my handlebars.
"You want more playing time?"
I rolled my eyes. "Gee, ya think?"
"I'm serious. You want more playing time, don't ya?"
"I played last year," I said. "Averaged nine minutes a game. Nine minutes and fifteen seconds, to be exact."
Kyle shook his head. "Was that enough?"
"Maybe."
"Was it?"
"No," I conceded.
"The starting lineup should be your goal," he said. "If not, you're wasting your time."
I looked at him. "You really think I've been draggin' my ass around Christ Church field with you so I can spend the next two and a half months planted on the bench?" I backed my bike up until he let go, then I started up Lake Road again. "I got everything under control."
But the truth was other people had more control over what happened to me than I did. Whether it was some anonymous jerk creating the ladder, or Pennyweather deciding if and when I played. On and off the field, in and out of school, other people controlled so much of what I could or couldn't do. I hated it, but had to live with it.
Kyle was behind me. "Things are gonna be different this year."
"Different?" I said. "How?"
"It's senior year."
"So?"
"Time to live it up. Take advantage of everything. Like sophomore girls. But you know what'll be the coolest?"
"What?"
Kyle caught up to me. "No rules," he said.
"No rules?"
"Yeah."
"What 'no rules'?"
"No rules."
"Kyle, you already don't have rules. You do what you want, when you want, how you want."
His face turned hard. "You think I can do whatever I want?"
"It's not what I think," I said. "It's what I know."
"Jonny, everyone watches me. All the time. Everything I do." It must have looked as though I thought he was full of it, because Kyle went on as if he had to convince me. "Remember our second game against Caldwell last year, on their field? We won, one to nothing. Clinched the conference title."
I remembered. I had played most of the second quarter. I had four touches on the ball, took a shot that went wide of the net, and even made a defensive stop on a Caldwell give-and-go in our zone.
But this wasn't about me; it was about Kyle. He dominated both ends of the field, controlling the midfield play with punishing tackles and initiating a half-dozen offensive attacks that led to scoring chances. Each time he touched the ball, Caldwell players knocked him down or slid into him with their cleats up. A few dozen fouls were called and the referees handed out three yellow cards. Blood streaked Kyle's calves, but he never stopped running, never showed any quit. On Millburn's lone goal, with just six minutes left, Kyle weaved his way through three Caldwell defenders, then set up Tony Gallo with an easy tap-in. Kyle's play that afternoon was, in a word, incredible.
"There was a problem," Kyle said.
"A problem?"
"Yeah."
"What?"
"All I got was that assist," he said. "Forget
that I owned the midfield. Forget that my assist set up the winning goal and all that Gallo had to do was stand there like a statue and let the ball hit him. Forget that I cleared two Caldwell corner kicks from our goal area."
"You were good," I said.
"Better than good, Jonny," Kyle said. "I was awesome."
I rolled my eyes, even though I knew he was right.
"Know the first thing I heard when we came off the field?" Kyle said.
I didn't.
"Was something wrong with me?" Kyle half laughed. "After all, something had to be wrong with Kyle Saint-Claire if he hadn't scored. I even heard someone's dad say it didn't seem as if my head was in the game. The Item wrote that I had an 'uncharacteristically quiet game.' Can you believe that? Jonny, I can't do anything I want. I can't do anything at all without people in this town examining every little detail."
"At least they notice."
"I don't want it."
"Attention comes with the territory," I said. "The soccer star gets nearly all of it. Other starters get some. Those of us riding the bench, waiting for Pennyweather to dole out a few minutes of playing time, get nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada."
You gotta change that," Kyle said.
"I wish," I said. "But it's not gonna happen."
"Why not?"
"Not at Millburn. The last day of school next June, the bell rings and I step out. That's when it changes, Kyle. That's the big equalizer. Until then, the way it is, is the way it is."
We weren't far from Redemption Bridge. When we got closer, I stepped off my bike and picked up a quarter-sized rock.
"Is the mighty Saint-Claire ready to tempt Fate?" I said.
Mounted on one of the bridge's railings was a weathered metal plaque. It read:
In June of 1780, valiant residents of what would later be named Short Hills, under the leadership of Gen. Nathanael Greene, helped repel British and Hessian troops in the Battle of Springfield, thus protecting Gen. George Washington's headquarters in Morristown. This battle marked the final British incursion into New Jersey.
Over the decades, the plaque had become a kind of good-luck target. After a big soccer or football victory, Millburn players would drive over the bridge and throw bottles at the plaque, raining down broken glass into the creek below. Every year, on the last day of school, seniors would douse the plaque in paint and brush across epithets such as "Scummit Sucks," a pleasantry for our cross-town rival, Summit. The town's public works department would quickly have the plaque repainted black, but hundreds of dents remained.
Over the End Line Page 2
