On our last night, while everyone else went to the movies, Ruby and I snuck into another hotel and made our way to the rooftop pool. We sat alone in the Jacuzzi, chlorine foam bubbling on the water's surface, our hands exploring below. We talked about silly stuff, but everything that mattered. Ruby wanted me to visit her before soccer season started. She said we shared something. Simpatico, she called it.
Later, we buried ourselves under a pile of towels on a chaise longue, staring up at a black sky dusted with a zillion stars, sharing a bottle of cheap wine. Ruby told me about the summer house that her family had on Lake Winnipesaukee in New Hampshire and how, two years ago, her friend drowned one night swimming alone. "He was wicked drunk," she said. "He just got tired." That's why she didn't swim in lakes or ponds or oceans anymore. She didn't like going near any of them, either.
I was going to tell her about my favorite place—the edge of the dock on South Pond with the afternoon sun beating down, dragonflies buzzing, the water's surface glimmering—but I didn't think I should. Sometimes you can't be honest with someone even when you want to be dead-on honest. But I did tell Ruby, when she asked, that remembering things about my dad was like "trying to catch a leaf in a wind storm." The words just sort of came to me. She thought I was lyrical.
"What about your mom?" she asked.
"She's pretty cool," I said. "It's only me and her, though. It's been that way a long time."
"So what happened to your dad?" she asked. But before I could say anything, she said, "No, you don't have to tell me. That's just me being super nosy. Know where my mom is? In Houston, on business. Dad's in San Fran. I'll see them both on Friday in Taos. It'll be the first time in, like, months." She rolled her eyes. "They wanna fly home as a family."
I didn't have to say a word; Ruby just kept talking. She was good at that. "That's why I'm on this damn trip. They send me every summer to some place or another." She reached her hand out to me. "Oh, I didn't mean it that way. This trip's been wicked great. Really, I swear. I just don't know why they bother playing games. They hate each other—I mean hate, with a capital H. I know it. Our family knows it. Their friends know it. Even my friends know it. Supposedly they named me after that Stones song when they were young and blissfully in love. Now? They make such a big deal of trying to put up a good front. Guess I shouldn't let it bother me, but they're either up my ass trying to know everything about my life, or they don't give a damn because they're all caught up in their own shit. I can't deal with it sometimes, know what I mean?"
Ruby stopped, as if she was done spilling her frustration. Then she said something that blew me away. "Jonathan, let's do it."
"Do what?" I said.
"Knock boots, mess around—whatever you wanna call it." She grinned. "Come on, I wanna be with you."
I stared at her. Blankly, I'm sure. I wondered if this was a genuine moment of outrageous fortune, or had my ears deceived me in a colossally cruel way.
"Okay, how about this?" she said. "I request the opportunity to make love to the hot soccer stud, Jonathan Fehey. That sound better?"
I looked around. But before I could answer, Ruby's legs were straddling me. She touched her forehead to mine and let her hair cascade down around us, blocking out the little bit of light there was on the rooftop. It felt like our minds were in a warm, tight space. My body tingled from the heat of her skin. I breathed in her scent deeply so that I'd never forget it.
"Relax, Jonathan," she said, her fingernails slow dancing down my chest ... Then my stomach. "You're gonna have a wicked good time."
Something inside me was certain—absolutely certain—that it wasn't luck, but my destiny to be with Ruby, alone, poolside, on top of this hotel, feeling her body on top of my chest, then melting over me. Her mouth found mine and we didn't stop kissing until later, though I couldn't remember the time, or how much of it had passed, or anything else in the world.
***
I was sweating, really sweating, perspiration not even beading on my skin but simply rising from the pores and spreading. Down my forehead. My back. Down my stomach. And my thighs. I lowered my arms, and the tracks of sweat went drip, drip, drip on the stained attic floorboards beneath me.
***
"I wanna go to Wellesley," Ruby said. "I'll live in a residence hall for my first couple of years, then get a place in Cambridge. I take the T to Back Bay almost every weekend during school anyway. There's so much I can show you. And my friends, Marcie and Donna, are the best. You'll like them. They'll think you're adorable, like I do."
It was late and I was tired. But it was a soft tired, a comforting tired—nothing like being tired from running the snake or listening to Pennyweather or fighting Kyle for a loose ball. It was the kind of tired the luckiest guy in the world would enjoy. I slept well that night, long and heavy.
From the moment I woke up the next morning, all I could think about was Ruby and what we had done. It wasn't that it was wrong—far from it—it just seemed that I had crossed a kind of threshold. Something was different. Like I was suddenly grown up, but at the same time kind of embarrassed, too. Yet whatever uncertainty spun in my head, it all disappeared the moment Ruby climbed the stairs of the tour bus.
"What's up, Jonathan?" she said before kissing me on the lips.
I remember wishing that we had been in the middle of the high school cafeteria at noon, when people from every grade were there eating. On the tour bus, I heard the surprised whispers and felt the envious stares, but Ruby was so sure of herself. She touched her hand to mine. She told me how wicked cool last night was, and while a part of me wasn't sure whether to believe her totally, the rest of me was ready to combust.
"You'll write?" Ruby asked, as the bus headed to Denver. "Because I really like to write letters. Long letters. Long letters that go on and on and on telling you what I'm thinking and doing and wondering." She tilted her head and said, "I like to get them, too, Jonathan."
I told her I liked to write letters, even though I didn't really. (Again, you can't always be honest.) We exchanged addresses. Ruby encircled hers in a heart. She made me promise to write every week. Then she looked at my address and her expression turned curious.
"You're from Short Hills?" she said. "In Jersey?"
I nodded.
"No way," she said. "My cousin lives there. On my mom's side. You might know her. Sloan Ruehl."
My heart sank. As a freshman and sophomore—even before the creation of the ladder—Sloan Ruehl had been firmly entrenched in the hierarchy of our grade. She enjoyed making life miserable for anyone she thought wasn't in her realm of greatness. I told Ruby about her cousin and all the people at school she left in her wake. It didn't surprise Ruby.
"Sloan always was kind of bitchy," she said. "I love her, though. Know what? I'm gonna call her and say you and I did it, like, ten times. That'll give you a good rep."
"But we didn't," I said.
Ruby smiled. "Then we'll have to when you visit. Or," she said, "when I visit Sloan for fall break."
Was Ruby going to lift me from obscurity at Millburn and make me someone no one thought I was? Was she going to confer on me a kind of seal of approval by telling Sloan and, in effect, the entire school, that we had been together? Was my existence at Millburn going to suddenly change, so that I was on par with the very crowd I envied so much?
I wanted to be popular—who didn't? But I wasn't a star athlete. I was smart, but just one in a class of smart people. My mom wasn't rich. My dad wasn't around. Whatever my looks were, it didn't matter. The ladder had ensured that the prospects for my junior and senior year would be dim. Was I suddenly going to grow taller? Doubtful. Or become a soccer stud? Unlikely. Junior and senior years lay ahead of me—two long years of frustration. Maybe I could convince my mom to move. She had been thinking about it. Maybe to Mendham or Mountain Lakes or Flemington. That was my best chance for escape.
Until Ruby.
She was going to change my life—after she had already changed my life—so th
at I could walk the school hallway, looking at those less worthy as those in the crowd had looked at me.
It made for an impossibly long flight home from Denver. In the margins of a magazine I made a list of how things would be different, what parties would be like at the circle. A new life opened up. A magnificent one, one made up of dreams busting from my mind. Nothing was going to stop me from claiming my rightful place at Millburn.
And it all came back to Ruby, the girl from Worcester who was all I wished to be. I knew we were together only a week or so and that we shared each other just one night, but did you need more than that to fall in love? Did you need a certain amount of time to know that person is someone you envied, but wished to be like even more? I didn't think so. Ruby was that opportunity that comes only when God is shining down on you, a rare occurrence that had to be taken for all it was worth.
Thirty thousand feet above Michigan ... Lake Erie ... Pennsylvania ... and eventually northern Jersey, I dreamed of my upcoming junior year. I figured the letters from Ruby might come early and often. Then slow. Then eventually stop. But she would have done all that was needed. I'd have status, I'd be someone. I don't remember my mom picking me up from Newark Airport or the ride home, but I remember being so sure about how things were going to change.
But Ruby never made it to Taos.
Thirty miles into New Mexico, on Route 285 South, the bus driver momentarily lost control on the rain-slick highway, and the Greyhound skidded sideways before righting itself and slamming into the back of an eighteen-wheeler. Seven of the forty-two passengers had injuries that put them in the hospital. One didn't make it.
It was a quirky thing. One in a million. The impact came as Ruby was reaching for her backpack above her seat, sending her into the aisle backwards. She hit the base of the dashboard. Fatal head and neck trauma.
And that was that.
I was told about the accident a few days later when I called Ruby's home number. Through tears, her mother explained what had happened. "I'm sorry," I said. It was all I could manage. Her mother thanked me, and we hung up.
At school, I wanted to say something to Sloan. One afternoon, early last fall, she and I were in algebra class alone, both of us finding ways to occupy time before the others arrived instead of having to acknowledge each other's presence. It was the kind of moment that, in years past, Sloan wouldn't have let go by without saying whatever nasty thing came into her mind. But not that day. She checked her notebook once.
Twice.
Three times.
Glanced at the clock.
Then out the classroom window.
I wanted to tell Sloan that I knew her cousin and that she was the most incredible girl I had ever met, that I would ever meet. I wanted to tell her that her cousin really liked me. I wanted to tell her that I had been inside her cousin one night, but she would be inside me forever. I wanted to say that she should bring me into the crowd, because her cousin Ruby would've said so.
I wanted to say a lot of things, but I didn't.
***
I felt lightheaded, and spat into the dark of the attic. What was the point of remembering? When I remembered Ruby it tore me up inside, knowing I'd never be able to relive that week with her again. And as the memories ran through my mind, they only reinforced that the past was over. Gone. I was left feeling hollow, wondering if that week had even been worth living in the first place.
I didn't want to face this. I just wanted to come down slowly; I didn't want to crash. But things couldn't be that simple. I felt trapped in the attic, just as I felt trapped at Millburn High. Both were oppressive. But I could leave the attic. I could step in and out when I wanted. It didn't have a hold on me, other than the one I allowed. And so, it was a way for me to escape my reality and be who I wanted, and go where I wanted, and do all I could imagine. The ladder, on the other hand, was the ball and chain that kept me in my place with the people at school. It was out of my control. I never asked to be on the rung I was. But I was hung there nonetheless.
I crawled back through the attic door. The air in my bedroom felt cool on my sweaty skin. I grabbed a towel, dried off, then sat at the end of my bed. I looked toward the window, wondering what Kyle was doing, what girls he was hanging with. I thought I heard voices, laughing and joking. But my mind was teasing me. The circle was certainly too far away. Much too far.
Pennyweather stood at the center circle, jotting down notes on a clipboard, a duffel bag at his feet. The JVs were sitting in the stands. I looked around the field. New lime had been laid down on the sidelines and end lines, and flags marked each of the four corners. Something was definitely up.
"Bring it in, fellas," Pennyweather said.
The varsity team gathered around him. On Pennyweather's cue, the scoreboard lit up.
HOME 0 AWAY 0 15:00.
"This is the roster we're going to war with," he said, his eyes sweeping over each player. "From this moment until mid-November, Millburn Soccer is your life. You go to sleep with Millburn Soccer on your mind. You have dreams about Millburn Soccer. You wake up hungry for Millburn Soccer. Everyone expects you to go undefeated. Newspapers do. Opponents do. The town does. That doesn't leave any margin for error. So I'm not gonna waste any time waiting for you guys to get in game shape. We're going all-out today."
A man wearing black shorts and a black and white striped shirt jogged in from the parking lot. "You remember Mr. Scolari," Pennyweather said, gesturing to our old junior high gym teacher. "He'll be refereeing today."
Pennyweather grabbed an armful of jerseys from the duffel bag. "We're scrimmaging. White versus blue. White'll be the home team." He tossed a white game jersey to each player as he called out their names. "Stuart in goal. Maako, sweeper. Jones and Solomon, fullbacks. Maynard, stopper. Midfielders, Brad, Kyle, and Dennis. Wingers, Gallo, and Richie. Pete, striker."
I waited among the others, stretching my legs to ease my nerves. It was starters versus backups. Them against us. Bright scoreboard lights. New lime. A uniformed referee. JVs watching from the stands. This was serious. I glanced at Kyle. He had his game face on.
"The blue team..." Pennyweather named the goalie, defenders, midfielders, and wingers. Each guy grabbed a blue jersey and slipped it on. Finally, Pennyweather said, "Fehey, striker."
I took my jersey and sprinted into position. The few guys left took seats on the varsity bench.
"Let's make one thing clear, fellas," Pennyweather said. "No one's spot in the starting lineup is set in stone."
But we all knew better. There was no way the blue team was going to win—we were going up against Kyle, Maako, and Brad, for God's sake. And if the blue team did win, so what? Pennyweather wasn't going to dump the entire starting team for backups.
Still, every practice, every drill, every lap was a chance to let Pennyweather know that my skills had improved since last season, and that I was sure as hell ready to contribute more than just giving a first-stringer a breather a couple times a game.
"Who's gonna show me something today?" Pennyweather said. He turned and walked off the field. "Get yourselves organized. Mr. Scolari will blow the whistle."
***
"Fehey." Maako laughed. "Have ya even touched the ball yet?"
A striker's job was to score goals; a sweeper's job was to stop that from happening. Maako was doing his job infinitely better than I was doing mine. Halfway through the third quarter, the white team led 2-0 on a goal by Pete off a scramble in the penalty area and another on a direct kick from Kyle. Most of the play had been inside the blue defensive zone, where our back line struggled against Kyle and his midfield control. The few times the ball did come my way, Maako was there to shut down the threat. On both sides of the field, our blue team looked every bit like a bunch of second-stringers—unorganized and overmatched.
"Didja hear me, Fehey?" Maako taunted.
"I'll get my chances."
"Gee, ya think?" Maako said. "Before the game ends?"
"Drop dead, Maako."
>
"Good comeback. Think of that all by yourself, or did ya have to get permission from Kyle?"
The ball came up the sideline.
"Don't bother," Maako said, shadowing me. He was fast, insanely strong, and had an overwhelming arrogance that made it clear that if you and he were in a battle to get a loose ball, he expected to win every time.
But I saw an opening. "Through, through!" I called out to a blue teammate.
I heard Maako's footsteps behind me as we chased the pass into the corner. With my back against him, I gained control, pushing the ball forward and backwards, waiting for my wingers to move into our offensive zone. But while I was looking and thinking, Maako knocked me off balance with his elbow, then cut in front to steal possession. With a few quick strides, he opened up space between us. I tried to catch him, but he passed the ball to Solomon, who one-timed it to Kyle at the center circle. And just like that, the white team was on the attack again.
As I jogged by, Maako said, "Fehey, just take a seat on the bench. The two of you are such close friends."
***
The scoreboard clock showed 00:00. Mr. Scolari blew his whistle to end the game. Final score, 5-0.
I ripped off my jersey and tossed it at the duffel bag. It had been a long, lousy sixty minutes of Maako making me look like a goddamn JV. I wanted to get out of there, but Pennyweather started with another of his inane pep talks, reminding the team that no one was guaranteed a spot in the starting lineup when we had all just experienced why the eleven players on the white team were pegged for first string, while the rest of us remained scrubs.
When Pennyweather was done, I said to Kyle, "I'll be at your car," and I started toward the school parking lot.
***
I slammed the garage door shut, put on the stereo, and cranked the volume. I dropped a soccer ball to the cement floor nudged it forward with my sneaker, then let loose a shot. The ball banged against the inside of the wood garage door, careening back to me.
Over the End Line Page 5
