"Not bad," Kyle said. He seemed pleased with the challenge.
I moved aside, letting him step onto the dock. He wasted little time, tensing for a moment, then with an effortless motion of his arm, let loose a throw. We watched the stone soar beyond the lily pads, the jagged rock, the water's edge, and stop dead in the soft mud.
"You're ahead," I said.
Kyle stepped back, sweeping his arm to give me room.
I took my position on the dock, wondering whether my ego had provoked a challenge my arm couldn't win. I held the second stone, placing my fingertips on its creases. This one felt good. I took a big step and lunged. The stone took off from my outstretched hand and sailed. Farther this time, I could tell immediately. It streaked through the sunlight, well above the lily pads and jagged rock, and disappeared into the mud.
I had hoped for more.
"We'll call it even," Kyle said as we switched positions. He readied himself for a second throw, and then cocked his arm.
"Maako wants to take over midfield this season," I said.
Kyle stopped and looked over his shoulder.
I shrugged. "It's what I heard."
Maybe I heard someone say Maako's name, and maybe I heard someone else say he wanted to take over something. So I extrapolated a little. No doubt, in any other years before or after the Saint-Claire Era, Maako would have been the soccer stud at Millburn, beyond reproach even with his obnoxious personality. Instead, with Michael Maynard playing stopper at the top of the diamond, Trevor Jones at left fullback, and Solomon Smith on the right, Maako carried the burden of being the team's last line of defense against giving up goals, and the unthinkable—losing. For that reason, I would've bet my life that Maako did entertain the thought of taking over center midfield—where the game is controlled—a position that Kyle considered his stage. Alone.
"Nice try," Kyle said with a bemused look. "You should have more confidence in your arm."
"I do."
"Then why the distraction?"
"But I thought the mighty Saint-Claire ignores distractions."
"I do."
"Even about Maako?"
"Especially about Maako."
I would've preferred to ignore Maako, too. But as much as I hated his guts, he couldn't be ignored. Not by me. Not even by Kyle.
And maybe his name did distract Kyle, because the instant the stone left his hand, it was obvious the throw—though a strong one—didn't have enough elevation. Gravity brought the stone earthbound, where it skipped off the jagged rock and rolled up the shoreline to the top of the embankment.
"Bounces don't count," I said.
"Wiseass."
Just confirming the rules, Kyle. Just confirming the rules."
I saved my best stone for last. I marked my footing to the edge of the dock, and wiped away any concern about throwing out my shoulder. There was too much at stake. I could live with a little pain. This was for glory, and glory was eternal.
And I did hit all the steps I'd measured, reaching my arm back and snapping it through the air, elbow first, forearm next, wrist last, my left sneaker firmly planted on the final plank. The stone rocketed out of my hand on a perfect trajectory. It rose through the air, leveled off, eased back down to earth, and, finally, landed halfway up the embankment.
"That, Saint-Claire, is how you do it!" I said. I turned to him and unleashed what was surely the biggest grin in the world.
"You got hold of that one," he said.
"Damn right I did," I said. "You're up. Last throw. Think about what's at stake."
Kyle stepped onto the dock. He had a faraway gaze, as if searching for something in the distance. It gave him a serious look, the kind of look that people in school thought made him seem even more extraordinary. His body stiffened with a focus so intense, it was startling. He didn't study the stone, he didn't take a running start, he didn't edge closer to the end of the dock. He just stared across South Pond. And stared. And stared some more. Until, it seemed, his mere concentration would draw the opposite shore closer.
"While we're young," I said.
Kyle shot a look toward me. "You see, Jonny," he said, matter-of-factly, "someone's always gunning for me."
He then reared back and launched the stone. What the—I couldn't complete the thought. His arm whooshed, I mean really whooshed. My eyes and brain scrambled to understand how a stone could travel in that kind of arc, with that kind of distance. It wasn't possible. My God, it just wasn't possible.
But it was possible, and it happened and I did see it, so I can never deny the truth without being a full-on liar. The stone climbed high into the air, well above the pond, beginning its descent as it passed over the lily pads, then the shoreline, then the embankment. It disappeared into the woods beyond the embankment, like a shooting star shining in splendor, then slipping into the black of night without a trace.
Kyle slapped his hands free of dirt, raised his eyebrows, and stepped off the dock like it was the easiest, most commonplace thing he had ever done. I followed him, but stared back incredulously at the distance the stone had covered, still wondering if there was, somehow, another explanation.
As we walked back down the path toward Lake Road, Kyle sniffed the air, then suddenly put his arm out to stop me from walking any farther.
"Smell that?" he said.
"Smell what?"
He sniffed again. "That."
I breathed in, but couldn't smell anything more than the stink of pond water.
"It's here," Kyle said.
"Here?"
"Can you smell it?"
"No," I said.
"I didn't think you could, Jonny," Kyle said, grinning. "That's because it's the sweet smell of sophomore girls."
With my equipment bag in hand, I rumbled down the stairs to the hallway. "Gotta go," I called out to my mom.
"I'm getting dressed," she said from behind her bedroom door. "I'll see you after work. We'll have dinner together."
In the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water and an orange. I yawned, then yawned again. And each time I did, my body shivered. I was too anxious to eat much of anything—it might end up on the field. Not that the nervousness was unfamiliar. The start of the season always had me on edge. If I wanted to make my mark on the team, I'd have to prove myself each practice, each step of the way. Starting today.
I heard a car horn.
I looked out the kitchen window. Kyle's black BMW, which his father bought him last year for making first-team all-state, idled on Lake Road. After a final check to make sure I had my shin guards, cup, and athletic tape, I walked through the dining room to get my cleats in the garage.
Instead, they were hanging from the doorknob.
That was a surprise.
I held the cleats up. Cleaned of dirt and grass, the laces were bright white and the leather shined as much as when I first bought them. I looked back toward the stairs to the second floor. Mom and I never talked about soccer, and I certainly didn't think she knew when the season started. Sometimes I wondered if it mattered to her what was going on in my life. Then she'd go and do something like this. I wondered when she took the time. I wondered why.
"Thanks, Ma," I said, quietly.
***
Underneath the Millburn football field grandstand, Kyle and I entered the crowded locker room. The walls were slick with perspiration and the air smelled stale. Kyle took the same locker as last year; I picked one on the opposite wall, beside Solomon. The room was noisy, with metal doors opening and closing, and plastic cleats clacking on the cement floor.
Solomon glanced over at Kyle and muttered, nearly under his breath, "Another season for Team Saint-Claire."
I was sure he wasn't the only guy who felt that way.
The season schedule was taped to the chalkboard. We opened with Livingston and faced Oradell at midseason, in addition to playing home and away games against each of the other seven Suburban Conference schools: Dayton, West Orange, Verona,
New Providence, and, our three main rivals, Caldwell, Madison, and Summit. The season finished with the Essex County tournament on the last weekend of October, and the Group III state tournament the weekend after.
But the specifics of the schedule were irrelevant—Millburn was simply not allowed to lose. Modestly successful in the decade before, Coach George Alban eventually built the town's soccer program into a state powerhouse. In the last season before he retired, Millburn compiled a 22-1 record and a number three final ranking, the only loss coming in double-overtime of the state championship game. A banner honoring that team was suspended above the locker room doorway, reminding every player who followed that the Millburn program was expected to remain on par with Wall, Kearny, St. Benedict's, and Delran as the finest in New Jersey.
After putting in my cup and taping my shin guards, I followed Kyle out of the locker room. On the field, guys were warming up, some passing or dribbling, others stretching. Pennyweather, in his blue shorts and short-sleeved white shirt with MILLBURN SOCCER embroidered on both, walked among the players. Though I saw Pennyweather almost every day of the school year, today he looked uneasy and a bit older than the ten months that had passed since the last time he was on a soccer field—standing dejectedly at the end of last season.
A perfect conference record did nothing to lessen the sting of a 1-0 loss to Columbia High in last year's county title game. That was followed, a week later, by a crushing overtime defeat by Rahway in the Group III state finals, a game that Millburn should've won. Kyle's header off a free kick late in the second half, that would've sealed the game, was disallowed by an awful (and incorrect) offside call. Four minutes later, Rahway tied the score, then eventually won on penalty kicks.
But even before that loss, there had been rumors that the Millburn soccer powers-that-be were not pleased. Maybe it was time for a change. They had had Pennyweather hired; they could have him fired. Often during pep talks, Pennyweather would remind the team that there was a target on its back, making it sound like a badge of honor. What I thought he really meant was that the target was on his back.
This season, it'd be worse. Newspaper articles. Cable TV coverage. College admissions. Scholarships. Parents' egos. Players' egos. It would all come colliding together in the next two and a half months.
"Hustle up, fellas!" Pennyweather shouted.
"Yeah, hustle up, homo," Maako said, running up behind me. He knocked me with his shoulder.
"Gain some weight over the summer, Maako?" I sneered.
"Good one, faggy Fehey," he said, his words punctuated with mock laughter. "Ready for another season watching me from the bench?"
Maako sprinted to the sideline, hollering, "Let's go, Millburn! Time for practice!" He started dribbling a ball around the field, making a big show of himself. I watched each step he took, each touch on the ball.
I wanted to put my cleat up his ass.
Come on, Tony!" Pennyweather shouted. "Push yourself!"
A week into the season, Pennyweather was trying to break us down. After two hours of exercises and drills, he had the team running the "snake," single file down the sideline, across the end line, up the opposite sideline, then along the far end line. Over and over.
I focused on the back of Kyle's jersey. I didn't let my mind stray. I couldn't afford to. One step after the other, constant and continuous. One breath after the other, constant and continuous. Gallo came up hard, sprinting to the outside of the snake. I could hear the ragged breaths of our striker, Pete Beuhler, behind me and our collective steps pounding the ground.
"That's it," Pennyweather shouted. "Keep going!"
As we rounded the corner, Gallo settled into the front position and Pennyweather called for the next man. Richie Luongo, our right winger, took off from the end, passing Pete, then me, then Kyle, then goalkeeper Stuart Masterson, as he charged up the sideline. My turn was coming. I had to bust it. Here was a chance to show Pennyweather that, late in practice, with puke at the back of my throat, I wouldn't let the snake beat me.
Richie soon settled into the front position.
"Nice job!" Pennyweather said. "Glad to see some of you worked hard this summer! Pete, go!"
Pete, who had been struggling to keep pace, shot past me, then Kyle. I was now last in line. My heart couldn't possibly beat any harder, waiting for Pennyweather to call my name. I had to sprint to the lead position as fast as possible. The more time it took, the longer I had to run and the more grueling my turn was for the team.
Pete was quickly fading. Pennyweather was yelling. Guys in line were groaning.
Pete slowed.
Then stopped.
And booted his guts.
"Awww, that's what I'm talking about," Pennyweather said. "We might as well toss that preseason ranking in the crapper. Only nine teams better than us in the state? I'll bet there are ninety teams better than us. Fehey!"
I looked up.
"Waiting for a goddamn invitation?" Pennyweather snapped.
My cleats dug into the grass as I overtook Kyle, then Stuart. I felt my body fighting me. My rib cage tightened and my calves stiffened. My mind was dizzy, but I had to keep it together. I ran by a few more guys. Richie, at the front of the snake setting the pace, still seemed a mile away. Falling to the side would've been bliss. I wouldn't have been the first. Shawn had done it early on; Pete just a few moments ago.
That's exactly what Pennyweather was expecting. I passed Maako. My legs kept churning, though my ankles and feet were going numb. I gritted my teeth, my breaths sounding like angry hisses. I moved up the snake.
Closer...
And closer...
Richie was right there...
And then he was behind me, and I was at the lead. I wanted to drop, but I wouldn't let that happen. It was an impressive display, Pennyweather had to agree. I'd made a statement. Mark it down, Pennyweather! Mark it on that damn clipboard of yours! I'm not riding the bench all season. I'm gonna play. I'm gonna score goals. I'm gonna taste the glory that Kyle thinks he has a divine right to. I raised my eyes to the center of the field. Look at me, Pennyweather, look at me!
"Okay, Kyle, show 'em how it's done," Pennyweather said.
Within a short time, Kyle was in front of me. We continued around the field, lap after lap, hearing Pennyweather bark out commands, but not really listening. Just waiting for another preseason practice to come to an end.
The garage lights behind me stretched a long shadow down our driveway. I had a garbage can in each hand, my mind lost in thoughts about soccer and senior year and a million other things, when something in the dark caught my attention. I looked up. Kyle was crossing his front lawn. I was sure he saw me, but he didn't say a word. I didn't say anything, either. I set the garbage cans at the edge of the street, and our game of charades continued.
After practice, I'd overheard guys talking about a party at the circle. Gallo asked Kyle if he'd be there. And Solomon. Pete and Dennis, too. No one asked me if I'd be there. Not that I expected anyone to. It was such a fucked-up contradiction. I wasn't exactly banned from these parties. I mean, there wouldn't be a posted sign, saying, YOU HAVE TO BE THIS HIGH ON THE LADDER TO ENTER. But I wouldn't be invited, either. It was all unspoken, yet made so perfectly clear. We could share the same soccer field and locker room, and we could share the same school and classrooms, but we weren't equals.
I looked down Lake Road, but Kyle's silhouette had disappeared. "Thanks." I felt like saying it loud enough for him to hear. "Thanks a helluva lot."
Inside the house, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I closed the door and turned the lock. On my dresser sat a half-dozen college applications. My life was neatly summed up: seventeen years old, varsity soccer team member, ninety-second percentile on the SAT, three AP classes, essay questions, and a photograph. Admissions people would pat themselves on the back for assessing whether I'd "enrich" their campus. It was all such a joke. They couldn't possibly know me from essays or grades or test scores. They couldn't get inside m
e. They saw only what they wanted to see. Experience one day as Jonathan Fehey. Then maybe they'd understand a tiny bit.
I took off my jeans and shirt. In my closet, I swept aside a dozen hangers of shirts and pants, and stepped through. I bent down to move away a wooden chest. My fingers reached along the wall for a seam, then followed that seam to a latch. I unhooked the latch and pushed open a small door. I then closed it behind me.
Inside the attic, I stood up. Heat and humidity, trapped under the roof all day, swallowed me. The space was pitch-black and insulated, and the pungent smell of mothballs and bare floorboards filled my head. I took in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweltering, musty air. Prickly sensations raced up and down my body.
Soon, sweat started to rise on my forehead.
And my arms.
Across my back.
And along my stomach.
This was my place to be alone. To let my thoughts run wild. To feel whatever I wanted to feel. In solitude. But more than just solitude. In a kind of cocoon, closed off from the world outside.
***
In the attic, I liked to remember her.
Ruby Luvelle.
I met Ruby last summer on a teen tour through Cleveland, Chicago, and Sioux City, eventually stopping in Vail at a ski resort turned quiet for the summer. She wore her frizzy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, listened to the Divinyls all the time, and had a half-dozen piercings on her ears.
"Where're you from?" I asked.
"Nowhere," she said with a shrug. "And everywhere."
Ruby actually came from a town near Worcester, Massachusetts, and was a thousand times better looking than I deserved. But she chose me when she could've picked any of the other guys on the tour. With Ruby I had a clean slate. No ladder. No circle. No crowd. No one pulling her aside to ask what she was doing with faggy Fehey.
We spent days sitting next to each other on the bus and hanging out on our own at tour stops. I told her how I was the star of my high school soccer team, planning on going to UVA on a full athletic scholarship. About pinpoint passes that I never made, shots I never took, spectacular goals I never scored. Ruby never questioned anything I said. She'd look at me with her marble brown eyes and whisper, as if inside my head, "Jonathan, it'd be wicked cool to watch you play."
Over the End Line Page 4
