Home of the Braves

by David Klass

  “By the time I was your age, I’d gone with lots of girls,” my dad said.

  I was already standing up, moving away from the table, getting my books together. “I bet you were quite the stud.”

  “It’s no big deal,” my dad said. “Getting chicks is pretty simple. Anytime you want me to explain it to you, let me know. I can tell you everything you need to know in about five minutes.”

  “Okay,” I said, heading for the door. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  15

  I never believed that Lawndale High School was haunted, but Wednesday morning, when we all returned to school, I felt an odd, almost eerie tingling, as if some kind of dark spell had been cast over our familiar halls and classrooms.

  First, there was the metal detector that greeted us at the front door. It wasn’t that big a deal, I guess—just two sensor bars that we had to walk between, single file, to enter our school. But it was a search, just as if they had made us strip off our clothes, or held us upside down and shaken us. We knew it was a search, and we also knew that the reason we were being searched was because someone had decided we were not trustworthy. We constituted a threat, to each other and to ourselves.

  Then there were the cops. I guess one of them was assigned to our school on permanent patrol, and three or four others were there to help out with the metal detector and to make sure there were no disturbances on our first day back. One cop might be a safety measure, but five were a show of force. Seeing that many cops at our school didn’t make me feel safer. It made me feel like our school had been invaded and occupied by a foreign army.

  Lots of other small and large changes waited for us that morning. Metal grates were going up over our first-floor windows. Two new security cameras had already been installed in the main front hallways—more were soon to follow in other school gathering places. Homeroom was extended that Wednesday for fifteen minutes so that our teacher could explain the details of the new zero tolerance policy. She told us what objects we could no longer bring to school because they might be mistaken as weapons, what words we could no longer use because they might sound like threats, and what the penalties were for breaking the new rules. She also told us how many second chances we would get if we did break the rules—zero. Zero tolerance meant automatic suspension or expulsion.

  It was strangely silent by the lockers, as kids got out their books and glanced up at the two new security cameras overhead. It was also quiet when we changed classes, even when the police weren’t patrolling nearby. You could sense everyone looking around, taking the security measures in, digesting them, as we realized that something quite serious had changed in our school. And even for the students who had felt threatened or victimized in the past—and I know there were more than a few such kids—I think there must have been a sense of sadness. Nobody wants to see metal detectors and grates and bars in doors and windows of a school. It felt like we were losing something that we might never get back.

  Something had changed between Kris and me also. No bars or grates had gone up between us, but we had also lost something that I doubted we would ever get back. We sat next to each other for all of fifth-period advanced biology without exchanging a single word. Several times I glanced at her, and thought of writing her a note or whispering something to break the ice, but each time she seemed to look away. So I just sat there and listened to Mr. Desoto’s lecture on the difference between cold-blooded and warm-blooded organisms, and Kris and I stayed as still and silent as two lizards on a cold rock.

  The summons came for me right after fifth period. This time it wasn’t a summons from the front office but rather from Slade and the hard guys. I had been expecting it since Monday morning, so I wasn’t surprised when a senior bodybuilding goon named Chris Coleman lumbered up to me as I left the bio lab and said, “Slade wants to talk to you.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Subbasement bathroom.”

  “Fine.”

  Now, you might think I would have been afraid to go down there all alone, but I wasn’t. For one thing, I didn’t think Slade would try something violent on school grounds on the very first day of zero tolerance, when there were police all over the place. And for another, I’ve just never been scared of these kinds of confrontations. I’ve always found I can take care of myself, and the best way to face danger is to meet it head-on. So I headed right down to the subbasement to hear what he had to say.

  The subbasement bathroom is off by itself in a dark corner of the least-used floor of the school. It’s not really a floor at all—just a dark and narrow hallway that seems like an extension of the stairwell, with the school’s boiler rooms and furnaces, and locked storage closets, and what looks like a windowless brick cave that the Photography Club has turned into a darkroom. There were no security cameras down there, and no police walking around. The light bulb nearest the bathroom had either burned out or been busted on purpose, so it was semidark and deserted. I opened the door.

  Slade was inside, sitting on a sink. Half a dozen other hard guys were there, including Jack Hutchings and Tony Jaws Borelli. I let the door close behind me. “Hey,” I said, “what’s up?”

  “What’s up with you?” Slade asked. He was wearing a tight black T-shirt, and he looked bigger and wider than the swinging door to the one bathroom stall.

  “Not much,” I said, relaxed and easy, with a shrug. “You wanted to see me, right?”

  “Right,” he said. “You been talking to someone you shouldn’t, Joe?”

  “Like who?”

  “The police have called me in twice,” Slade said. “They wanna know about Saturday night. Somebody gave them my name.”

  “They called me in, too,” I told him. “Coyle and Tobias grilled me.”

  “How did they get your name?” Slade asked.

  “I have no idea. They said somebody saw me running near the golf course. They wanted me to name names.”

  “And what did you tell them?” Jaws Borelli demanded.

  “I told them I couldn’t help them. What did you tell them?” I shot back.

  “He didn’t tell them nothing,” Slade said, “but somebody sure did. They know I was there. They just can’t prove it. And they know details about what happened. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t like it either,” I said. “I didn’t like getting called in any more than you did.”

  “So what about your friend the Mouse,” Jack Hutchings said.

  “What about him?” I asked.

  “Maybe he’s the one who talked to the police.”

  “No,” I said. “First, that’s not his style. I know him from way back, and he would never do that. And, second, whoever gave your name gave my name. Mouse is my friend. He’d never get me in trouble.”

  There was silence in the little bathroom as they thought that over. I knew that what I’d said was true, and made perfect sense, but I also knew that they were pissed off, and anything could happen. Two of them had edged near the door, and if they decided to block it, no way I could fight my way out before the rest of them grabbed me. I stood there, nice and relaxed, hands away from my body, waiting for them to decide. And as I waited, it occurred to me how strange it was that this was happening on the same day that all the new security measures were clicking into place all over the school. Clearly things weren’t as secure as Vice Principal Tobias and Deputy Police Chief Coyle wanted to believe. I wondered if they ever would be. I wondered if any school, anywhere, can be made completely secure.

  “Clear out,” Slade said, looking at me.

  Without a word they all left. It was just him and me. He stood up from the sink and took a step toward me. I’m used to looking down at people, but he loomed about four inches above me. “You say you know your buddy, and it’s not his style to go to the cops?” Slade asked.

  “I guarantee it.”

  “But he’s marked, and he’s not paying respect.”

  “He does respect you,” I said.

  “Then why isn’t he
showing it? He knows what he has to do.”

  “It has nothing to do with not respecting you. He doesn’t bow because … of pride,” I said.

  “Pride?” Slade repeated the word as if he was chewing on it and finding an unexpected taste. “That little pimple has pride?”

  “Yes, he does,” I said.

  “He’s cruising for a bruising. A real bad one. You’d better warn him.”

  “You already gave him the bruising,” I said. “You guys dunked him in the lake. Nearly drowned him. That was the bruising for not showing respect. You already got him.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “It could work that way if you say so,” I pointed out. “This isn’t the time to push things, with police all over and the whole school messed up. Just let it go, Slade. As a favor to me.”

  A grin flashed across his face, and then he unexpectedly took another step closer, and I thought to myself that if he threw a punch I should get down low as quickly as possible, and try to get inside and wrap up his legs. That’s the best way to fight a boxer. Don’t stay outside and punch with him, because he’ll kill you at long range. Get inside and tie him up. But Slade didn’t throw a punch. “You told me that new guy who hurt Jack wasn’t on your soccer team,” he said. “But he is. He’s practicing with you guys.”

  “Coach wants him on the team. It’s out of my control.”

  “So you were wrong?”

  “About him, yes. But not about Mouse.”

  Slade studied me carefully, and I couldn’t read his expression. He looked like he was trying to figure something out. “What do you weigh?” he asked.

  “One eighty-five.”

  “I don’t see no body fat.”

  “There’s some,” I assured him.

  “I’ve seen you wrestle. And I can tell just by the way you’re standing there, with no fear at all. It’s the two of us, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes you do. Those guys out there”—and his eyes flicked to the door, behind which I knew half a dozen of the hard guys waited—“are pumped up with muscles, but you’d take them apart. In this school, it’s you and me. Ain’t that right?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “So? Which one of us? I’m just asking.”

  “You,” I said. “I’m just a little guy who’s too dumb to be scared.”

  Slade’s grin flashed again. “You ain’t that little,” he said. “How come you never played football? You woulda been a natural. I hear your father was a warrior. We coulda definitely won the county with you. Maybe even the state.”

  “Never liked football,” I told him. “I like soccer.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a beautiful game.”

  “It’s a pussy game,” Slade said.

  “Each to his own. I gotta get going. I’m already late.”

  “Go,” he said. “I’m not keeping you.”

  So I turned toward the door, and even though I didn’t see him, I sensed him step toward me from behind. He moved incredibly fast for a big man. I ducked away, but it was too late—his hands gripped me for a split second, and then his shove propelled me into the bathroom’s metal door with a loud BAM. I spun off the contact, and whirled to face him, low in a wrestling stance, but Slade was just standing there grinning.

  “Just playing around,” he said. “When I’m serious, you’ll know. Go. Get out of here.”

  16

  “I think it’s terrific,” Ed the Mouse said, as we jogged to the soccer field. He nodded toward a police car that stood on a corner of the school parking lot. The big cop who had parked the cruiser there was patrolling the pathway between the school and the athletic fields, keeping watch as students walked home. “It’s about time they stepped in. I feel safer already.”

  I didn’t want to burst Ed’s bubble, but I thought I’d better tell him what I had heard. “I hope you’re right. But, listen, I talked to Slade this morning.”

  “You can talk to anyone you want,” Ed the Mouse said, “but don’t tell me about it.” He put on a burst of speed.

  I caught up with him in three long strides. “Listen, Mouse, you should hear this. Slade said—”

  He cut me off. “No I shouldn’t. I couldn’t care less what he said.”

  “But he said I should warn you. You should at least hear—”

  “NO, I SAID NO,” Ed the Mouse blurted out really loud, really fast. “Don’t try to make me a victim, Joe. I don’t want to hear any of that stuff. Okay? Okay?”

  “Suit yourself,” I told him.

  We ran on in silence. The soccer field came into view. A few of our teammates were already out there, dribbling balls. Coach Collins was there, too, in a brand-new blue sweatsuit, looking a lot more enthusiastic than usual. He had been Lawndale’s soccer coach through many long and losing seasons, and I guess he was savoring the prospect of a true star joining our team. He was barking commands and encouragement even though practice hadn’t even started yet.

  And we had fans. Not just Kris and the perfect Jewel Healy. Jewel had brought Laura Weston and Jennifer Mackenzie, two friends of hers from her clique of “super-popular prettiest girls in the school.” Even from a distance, I could see cardigans and scarves and a hat with fur trim. They had chosen a corner of the highest bleacher, and they sat up there as if they were conducting a private little fashion show, talking among themselves as the wind tugged at their cottony scarves and blew their feathery hair.

  “What’s with the beauty pageant?” I asked Mouse.

  “Kris must have brought them,” he said. “She’s really different these days.”

  We reached the edge of the soccer field and headed for the knot of players in the center circle. “Different how?” I asked, and slowed down so that Mouse could answer before we reached our teammates.

  Mouse began to walk, and we trudged across the freshly mown grass side by side. I could tell he didn’t want to hurt me. “Go ahead,” I said. “Different how?”

  “I guess it’s no secret she and Antonio are an item,” Mouse said. “She’s not exactly trying to hide it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw them holding hands in the hall the other day,” Ed the Mouse said. “But here’s what I don’t get. Kris and I have lunch fourth period. She used to eat with her friend Anne, and sometimes with me and Zigler, or Rory. Or wherever there was an empty seat, Kris would just plop herself down. But she doesn’t sit with us anymore. She and Antonio sit at the ‘popular table’ with Jewel and her posh pals and Andy Powell and his stuck-up suck-ups. They’ve got this table by the window, and they all sit there together like royalty. Kris doesn’t even say hello to us anymore. She doesn’t even wave. What gives?”

  We neared the circle of soccer players. “I guess she’s made some new friends,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, well, it’s weird for someone to change that fast,” Mouse said, and then he ran off to retrieve a stray ball.

  For a fraction of a second I couldn’t help glancing up. Ed the Mouse was right—Kris didn’t wave, or even smile back. Nothing. Then I realized she was looking toward me, but not at me. She was looking over my head and beyond me, to where Antonio was loosening up in a corner of the field.

  He was keeping the ball in the air with just his knees and his head, each touch a work of art. The ball never seemed in any danger of taking an awkward carom and hitting the ground. It took great skill to juggle a ball in the air like that, but he was also showing off.

  Then I saw the cameraman, and Antonio’s father. The Phenom’s dad stood about twenty yards from his son, in his expensive leather jacket with a bright yellow scarf tucked into the neck. Next to him was a fat man who toted a big TV camera on his shoulder. As Antonio skillfully kept the ball in the air, the cameraman pivoted to follow his movements.

  When we circled up to start stretching, the man with the TV camera walked onto the field and stood about ten feet from us. Now that he was closer
I could see a decal on his camera—he was from a local cable news station. As we did warm-ups, our players kept glancing over at the guy, checking to see if they were being filmed. “Coach, could you ask that guy to stay off the field,” I finally said.

  “Don’t worry about it, Joe,” Coach Collins replied. “It’ll be great publicity. Just put it out of your mind.”

  I wasn’t sure why our soccer team needed publicity, but I tried to ignore the cameraman, and to lead the guys through warm-ups and calisthenics the way I always had. When I got to the final set of leg lifts, I shouted out, “Last set, make it hurt. Six inches, to the death …”

  Coach interrupted me, with a nervous glance toward the TV cameraman, who had just walked back to the sideline. “Joe, you can’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “‘To the death.’ You can’t say anything like that anymore.”

  “But I always say it. Everyone knows what I mean …”

  Coach Collins walked over and stood above me. “No mention of death. No mention of causing pain. The new policy is really clear. If you say it again, I’ll have to report you. Don’t put me in that position.”

  The guys were all looking at me. I wanted to argue, but I didn’t know what to say. It was preposterous. I wasn’t threatening to hurt anyone. They were just leg lifts, and Coach knew that as well as I did. I couldn’t believe he was threatening to report me, in front of my team.

  “Why don’t you just do the run?” Coach Collins suggested. “We can talk about this later.”

  “Okay,” I said. And then to the group: “Everybody up. Three miles, to the road and back. Last four losers to make it back take down the nets after practice—”

  “No.” Coach Collins cut me off again. “Students are not allowed to penalize or punish other students, or call them losers. That’s hazing under the new policy, and it’s strictly forbidden.”

  I looked back at him. “This is the way I’ve always run practice. We never had a problem.”

  “I didn’t make these rules, but I have to enforce them,” Coach Collins told me. “And so do you, as captain. Right?”