Luc’s feelings are hurt, it’s obvious, and he looks to Dad for aid and although the camera doesn’t show my father, I hear him say, “Ry’s right. We should be practicing not goofing around.”
“Then will you play with me later, Dad?” he wants to know.
“I’ve got some things I need to do when I’m finished with Ryan, but maybe tomorrow.”
I’ve picked up the football by the time he’s done speaking and I throw it to him. He catches it and draws back for a long hard throw. I back up and as I do I reach out and two handedly shove Lucas in the chest. He staggers back a step, can’t catch his balance and falls to the ground.
“Dad, Ryan pushed me.”
“Tattletale,” I call him, and he gives me that same glare that is now a permanent part of his expression.
“Hop up, Luc,” Dad calls out. “You’re okay. And, get out of his way so it doesn’t happen again.”
I stare at the computer screen in total disbelief. Not only was I a complete asshole to Luc, but nobody told me I’d done wrong. Not the man hurling the ball. Not the woman holding the camera.
“What the hell?” I say aloud. I almost don’t want to watch anymore of the video after that, but I do. I fast forward through enough of it to discover that it’s predominantly about me. Which answers the question I asked my mom days ago, do you guys always treat Lucas like he’s second best?
SEVEN
My car wreck took place in mid-May. It’s early September, now, and I’ve missed the first two weeks of school.
Time to go back.
My doctor thinks I’ll be okay to do so, since most of my day will be spent sitting at a desk, but I don’t want to go. I don’t know my way around the building and I don’t know any of the teachers or students.
I’m the new guy at a school I’ve attended for three years.
I’m not sure if it’s standard procedure, or just special treatment, but Mrs. Winford, the school principal, requests a meeting with me on Friday morning, before I’m officially allowed back.
She’s a tall, skinny woman. Her nose is long and straight as an arrow. Her lips are tight and wrinkles have formed around them from being pursed for . . . her whole life, probably.
Her jet black hair has streaks of gray running through it, and it’s pulled into a bun that’s so tight it stretches her eyes closer to her ears.
There is absolutely nothing in her office that is out of place, except me. I don’t feel like I belong here at all. I’m sitting in a guest chair across from her desk and I’m so nervous that I have to tuck my hands under my legs to keep the trembling from showing.
Mrs. Winford stands above me with her arms crossed and quotes for me, word-for-word, all the school rules. She makes me sign a paper stating that I will abide by them.
Then she says, “The sports programs are mere privileges of this institution, Mr. Farnsworth. They are not the reason school exists. Being involved in them does not make a student above another that is not.”
“No. Yeah. You’re totally right,” I say and then watch her eyes narrow as if she’s about to clown me for being a wise-ass.
Was that not the right thing to say? Why is she even pointing this out to me? I just want to get the hell out of her office. She freaks me out. She’s like one of those stern and evil principals you see in the movies.
She drills her gaze right into my skull and watches me squirm for way too long, and finally, she says, “You may be excused, Mr. Farnsworth.”
I’m up and out of the chair as quickly as my bum leg will let me. And I’m two steps out the door before she stops me.
“Ryan.”
“Yeah?”
“None of your shenanigans, like last year.”
“Okay.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I’m not stupid enough to stick around and ask for details. I’m outa there.
I’m late for class. A lot late. Like fifteen minutes late, and by the time I locate my locker, work the combo a few times, and actually find the room of my first class, I’m thirty minutes late.
I pull open the door and step into an English class that is in full swing. A class discussion of some type. The teacher, Mr. Murphy, is pointing at some writing on the white board and several students are trying to talk at the same time. But then I step in and the room completely shuts down.
Silence. Why do I evoke it everywhere I go? I hate it.
I stand there at the door and they all stare at me as if they’re seeing a ghost. I guess if I’d gotten my way a few months ago, they would be.
“Ryan,” Mr. Murphy breaks the terrible void of words. “Welcome back. Take your seat, please.”
My seat? I scan the room for an empty chair and as my eyes move toward the back, a dark haired kid scrambles to his feet, scraping his open book off of the desk top with him. He flashes me a very nervous look and the guy across from him laughs. “That’s right, get out of Ry’s seat, Reject.”
Reject, not that he is one, but I don’t know his name, finds a seat on the opposite side of the room, so I head for his old one. Or, I guess it’s my usual one.
The dude who’d called him Reject, grins at me as I make my way down the row and holds up a hand.
High five.
I don’t know him, but I just want to get sat down, so I make palm to palm contact with him and slide into my seat.
“You missed a killer party at the lake,” he whispers. “Heard you got grounded. What the hell? You never get grounded.”
I’d like to ask, I don’t? But instead I glance at his name written across the top of a paper on his desk. Scott Degrate. He’s crossed out his last name and above it written, De Great, and don’t you forget it.
I study his square jawed face and broad shoulders until Mr. Murphy calls the room back to attention by saying, “Eyes up here, folks.”
I was worried about trying to make my way down the crowded halls between classes without being knocked off balance, and possibly falling, but it hasn’t proven to be an issue. People move out of my way. It’s weird. It’s like there’s a force field that goes before me. A two or three foot bubble that pushes everyone out of the way.
At first, I think it’s just because they see me coming. They gawk at me like I’m a leper, then move. But it doesn’t take long before I notice that even the people who aren’t paying an ounce of attention to me, do it too. Like people I’m approaching from behind – they seem to sense my presence and step aside.
At one point, a kid a few years younger than me accidently bumps into my bubble. He doesn’t touch me, he’s still several feet away, but the fear of God flashes in his eyes and he scurries out of the way. “Sorry, Ryan. Sorry!”
I just look at him.
This get out of my way behavior is too practiced, too ingrained in people to be new and I have my doubts that it has anything to do with my car wreck.
Zane enters my bubble without hesitation. He walks right up to me and mocks a gut punch before smiling. “You lucky F–, got an extra two weeks of summer break.”
“Yeah, it was a real blast lying in a hospital bed the whole time,” I tell him.
He grins. “I’d have been grabbing me some serious nurse ass. See you at lunch.”
I wait until he’s moved around me and gone on his way before I roll my eyes. When you’re as messed up as I was, feeling pain every second of every day, a piece of ass is the last thing you’re thinking about.
Lunch 1: A large, noisy room full of people I don’t know; 2: A very uncomfortable situation.
Under the watchful eye of everyone in the place, I get a tray, go through the line and find an empty table to sit alone on. During this process, I hear more of the whispers. “Oh. My. Gosh.” “I know, right?” “He looks so different.” “What the . . .” “Shit, he really F–ed himself up, didn’t he?” “He won’t win us any games like that.” And my all-time favorite, “Too bad he’s back.”
I wanna go home.
I want to hide in my bedroom with my stupid blue hospit
al bag and not have to hear what they’re all saying about me, and not have to see the looks they’re all giving.
I know it’s childish to be close to tears over stuff like this, but I’m hating it right now. Mentally I’m already overloaded by the day, and physically, I’m drained. I feel like the loneliest, most foreign person on the planet. I don’t even wanna eat because I feel nauseated.
I close my eyes to fight off these emotions and when I open them again I’m rushed with relief. A familiar face. Luc.
He’s with Connor and a second kid I’m assuming is Jake. He’s happy. All smiles as the three of them enter the lunch room. He doesn’t get a tray. He just falls onto a bench of a table that is several away from where I sit. He didn’t notice me.
His back is to me now, but I watch him steal a bag of chips out of Connor’s home lunch. Connor fights for them and finally gets them back, but gives Luc a granola bar as a trade. Lucas isn’t exactly satisfied with this and peers into the bag to see what else Connor has brought. Nothing – and he unwraps the bar and starts to eat.
They joke. They laugh and play around, and I know he doesn’t really like me, but it somehow makes me feel better to see him.
Someone slaps the table beside me and I flinch. It’s Zane and he’s with Scott.
“What the hell are you doing in the lunch room, Ry?” Zane asks.
“Eating?” I say in question form.
Scott laughs. “We can’t leave you alone for one second, can we? This is where the geeks and freaks, like your damn brother, hang out.” He nods Luc’s direction then grabs up my box of chocolate milk. He splits open the top and takes a chug.
“That kid is a waste of a perfectly good wad,” Zane says. “Your dad should have blown that one on the wall instead of inside your mom. The world would be a much better place if he had.”
I’m offended, but before I can say anything about it, Scott shouts, “Incoming!” and he chucks the box of milk like a grenade at Lucas’s table. It hits and explodes, sending liquid shrapnel spraying in all directions.
The girls that are nearby scream and try to take cover under their arms, and Lucas, Jake and Connor are forced to spring from their seats. The brown mess has soaked Connor’s sandwich and hands. It’s dripping off of Jake’s bangs, face and chin.
Luc hasn’t gone unscathed. Wiping beads of milk from his face with the back of his hand, he turns around and his ruined white T-shirt is on full display.
His eyes lock hard with mine and even though I had nothing to do with it, I feel a sense of guilt crawl up the back of my neck.
Zane is laughing. So is Scott. But like everyone else in the cafeteria, I can’t bring myself to think it’s all that funny.
“Come on; let’s bail before we get busted.” Zane is dragging me out of my seat and Scott is already heading for the door. I’m hardly able to remain standing as I’m pushed and pulled through the exit.
Once we’re outside, I shout at Zane. “Let go of me!” I shake loose of his grip and his laughter fades to a smile.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“Mine?” I cry out. “What the hell is yours? Why did you do that to him?”
“I didn’t do shit to him.”
I turn to Scott. “What the hell, Man?”
“What?” He shrugs innocence.
“He’s my brother for hell’s sake.”
“All of a sudden you’ve got a conscience?” Scott wants to know. “You’ve done way worse to him, Ryan, and you know it.”
“No, I don’t know it!” I’m furious.
“Well, go back in there, then, and ask anyone. In fact, ask everyone, if they’ve ever seen you dump on him. You’ll get an overwhelming answer of yes, and then you can start asking how many times they’ve seen you do it. They’ll tell you they’ve lost count.”
I feel hot and ill as my mind flashes back to the home movie, and how ruthlessly I pushed Luc. I recall Connor warning him, as they went downstairs, that I was going to kick his ass. I hear Connor’s words of, ‘he was being cool – for once,’ repeat in my head, as well. And lastly, my own mother as she said, ‘I’m surprised it wasn’t you that hit him.’
“Shit,” I whisper rather numbly.
Scott mocks me with a laugh and shakes his head. “Not so saintly, now, are ya?” He starts off walking, after that, and Zane nudges me.
“Come on, let’s go.”
I don’t know why I follow them, but I do.
We end up under the bleachers of the football field and Zane lights up a joint. Scott takes a hit and then, because my body hurts, and because I can’t wrap my head around one more thing right now, I take a hit, too.
Whoever thought it would be a good idea to put PE on my schedule was slap out of their mind. Hello, I can hardly walk, people!
I have the class fifth hour, right after lunch, and I don’t dress for it. I’m the only guy in the gym wearing jeans, but I don’t care. I’m going to fail this class anyway.
Attendance has just been taken by Coach Regan, and he’s ordered the class to run four laps as warm up, that’s when someone calls out, “Farnsworth!”
I turn around to find a man I recognize from my welcome home party standing at the back gym door. Coach Stone – Head Football Coach. He calls me to him with the wiggle of a few fingers.
“My office,” he says when I’m close enough that he doesn’t have to shout. He places a hand between my shoulder blades and guides me to it.
I sit down. He sits down. And judging by the way he’s looking at my eyes, he knows what I’ve been smoking. A jolt of fear shoots through me, because I just sat through Principal Winford’s “no tolerance” drug policy spiel and I don’t want to go back to her office to face the consequences. My fear subsides, though, when Coach releases a slow breath and says, “Wanted to talk to you about this year’s team.”
“You made Zane captain,” I say.
“I didn’t have any other choice. Without you, this year is shot, anyway.”
“I’m sure he’ll do fine.”
Coach chuckles and I can almost swear I hear a thread of doubt in the sound. “I want you out there, Ryan.”
“As what – the mascot? That should work out perfectly. That way when I stumble around and fall on my face it’ll look like it’s on purpose.”
The deep sadness that flashes in his eyes tells me I need to stop being sarcastic. That he’s not a grown up version of a dumb jock, but that he really cares about me.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“I am too, Ry, because you were better than the best I’ve seen. I have no doubt that, in time, the NFL would have signed you.”
A chill runs through me, and for the first time since I woke from the coma, a sports related compliment actually means something to me.
“Well, thanks.”
“Look, I know you can’t play, but I’m still trying to get this team to pull their heads out of their ass and I just think your presence at practice would help get the job done. A lot of those boys still think of you as their captain, you know?”
No, I don’t know, but I pretend I do.
“Come on out to the field after school. Hang out, tell me what you think. You know you’re opinion has always mattered to me.”
Again, I don’t know, but he seems sincere so I take his word for it.
I want to tell the guy thanks, but no thanks. I want to tell him that my leg is already killing me and I’ve barely made it half way through the day. That the only way I can rejuvenate is to take a nap, which I need to do right after school, if not sooner.
What I really want to do is admit that I don’t have much of an interest in the sport, anymore. But I have a feeling it will break his heart, and I also have a feeling that it would not go over well with my dad.
Dad. I’ve only known him a short while, but already I feel the pressure of not disappointing him.
EIGHT
I can’t take my medication on my own even though I’m a big boy. I’m not allowed to have
drugs in my locker or on my person, even if it’s prescribed. So my mom has arranged to meet me at the school office after fifth hour – every day.
Today, after Coach is done talking to me, I leave gym class and from the boys bathroom I call Mom on my cell. I ask her to swap the mild pain killers she’s scheduled to bring me with the more powerful shit.
She asks if I’m okay and while biting back tears I say, “I don’t know; I hurt.”
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. I’ll just come get you and bring you home.”
“Just bring me something strong and I’ll try to stay. Coach Stone wants me on the field after school.”
“Oh, that’s fantastic! Your dad will be thrilled.”
I’m sure he will.
She brings the pill. I take it, and twenty minutes later I’m back in the boys room puking. They really mess up my stomach and head, but they kill the pain.
Numb and shaking, I stand in the empty hall and twist the dial on my locker. I don’t want to go back to class just yet because my stomach is still in violent protest. So I open the locker door and stare blankly at the inside.
I don’t see her coming, but suddenly she’s there. She presses her body against the back of mine and whispers in my ear. “Hi, Sexy.”
I turn around to see who it is. A gorgeous blonde is batting her long, dark eye lashes at me. She’s a Barbie girl, and one of the prettiest I’ve ever seen. Perfect shape, perfect hair and perfect clothing. She pokes me lightly in the chest with her hall pass. “How are you, Ryan?”
“Do I know you?” I ask, then smile because saying that suddenly makes me think of Paige.
“I don’t know, do you?” Her question is asked in a flirting tone, but there’s something hidden there. I see it flash in her eyes. It’s some kind of fear. Some kind of urgency for me to answer.
“I’m sorry,” I shake my head. “I don’t remember you.”
An easy smile spreads across her simply gorgeous face, and she steps in closer and kisses me. On the mouth!
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