by Carl Deuker
Hartwell’s back straightened, and his voice turned business-like. “Jonas, you’re upset, and I understand that, but what you’re saying makes no sense. Nothing happened on the camping trip. Nothing happened at my apartment.”
“You’re a liar, and I’m going to tell everyone. You’re going to prison.”
“Stop,” he commanded. “Stop right there and come with me.”
14
I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY I FOLLOWED him to his office—maybe because he was a teacher and I was a student—but I followed him. He had me sit in a blue plastic chair while he sat in the swivel chair behind his desk.
“Let’s be clear with one another. You’re suggesting I abused Levi, right? That’s what you’re accusing me of.” His voice was eerily calm, as if he were discussing the scouting report on an upcoming opponent.
“That’s right,” I answered, determined not to back down.
“And what is your proof?”
“He told me.”
Hartwell smiled contemptuously. “He told you? We’re talking about Levi, remember? Levi wouldn’t even say the word damn. So what exactly did he tell you? That I did something bad? And that means what? That I drank a beer while I was tutoring him? It means nothing, Jonas. Nothing. And Mr. Diaz will send you right out the door.”
As Hartwell’s confident sentences filled the room, what had been clear became cloudy. I tried to remember the words Levi had used. Because Hartwell was right—Mr. Diaz, the police—they would want to know Levi’s exact words. Had Levi ever used the word sex? Or was I the one who had said that word? Had I figured everything out from Levi’s silences?
As Hartwell waited, I could feel his tension. When I said nothing, he exhaled loudly, and a look of triumph came to his face. “Here’s why I know Levi didn’t tell you anything—because there’s nothing to tell. Levi and I went camping on New Year’s Eve. Camping, that’s all. I tutored him at my apartment. Tutoring, that’s all. If he implied that I did anything wrong, then it was entirely in his imagination, or maybe in yours.”
“Levi didn’t imagine things,” I said, my voice shaky, “and neither did I. You did things—I know you did. You can deny it all you want, but I’ll never believe you.”
Hartwell tapped the top of his desk with his fingertips, and then he folded his hands in front of his face, scorn in his eyes. “Don’t believe me, then. That’s your choice. But keep your sick thoughts to yourself, because if you accuse me of anything, if you try to take away my name and my career, then I’ll fight you with everything I’ve got, and I’ll win.” He paused, and a little smile came to his lips. “You’re sort of in a glass house, aren’t you? You’re not exactly in a position to throw stones. Or hadn’t you thought about that?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, baffled. “What glass house?”
“I’m talking about chemistry, Jonas. I’m talking about your scholarship to Monitor College. I was there right before you downloaded Butler’s files and e-mailed them to yourself, remember? I know the date, the computer, everything. If I were to tell the school district’s tech guys, they’d have your e-mail tracked in ten minutes.”
“My chemistry class has nothing to do with Levi.”
“It has everything to do with you, though. If you go to Mr. Diaz with some crazy story that you can’t prove, then you’ll force me to tell him a real story that I can prove. Your B in chemistry will become an F, and your scholarship to Monitor College will evaporate. You’ll brand yourself as a cheater, and you’ll wear that label for the rest of your life. That’s what you’ll do to yourself. And what you’ll do to Levi is even worse. Right now he’s a hero. You start telling sex stories about him, and that’s gone. Levi’s father—you know what he’s like. He’d hate the memory of his only son. Would you really do that to him, Jonas? And for what? This is America. A person is innocent until they’re proven guilty, and you have no proof against me because nothing happened.”
Hartwell let me sit for a while before he spoke again. “I’ve got a class to teach. Stay here and think this over. You’ll see my way is best for everyone—you, me, and Levi.”
He left, and I sat in that stupid plastic chair, staring at the basketball team photo on the wall behind Hartwell’s desk. In the photo, Levi was standing next to me in the center. On one side was Mr. Knecht; on the other was Hartwell. Cash, Nick, DeShawn, Brindle—they were mixed in with the other guys, all of us shoulder to shoulder, all of us smiling.
15
THERE WAS A MEMORIAL SERVICE in the school cafeteria the next night. Flowers covered tables up front, and on the walls were pictures of Levi. In every corner was a table with butcher paper and markers where kids could write whatever messages they wanted.
Levi’s father spoke next, Levi’s mother at his side. He said that God had a plan for all of us and that sometimes that plan was a mystery, and this is where faith came in. He stepped aside then, and others came to the podium to describe what Levi had meant to them.
Rachel spoke next. She described how much Levi had loved the mountains and how it was fitting that his life would end there. “My brother’s soul is with God now,” she said, and as she left the podium, her father hugged her. It was the first time I’d ever seen him hug any of his children.
After Rachel, a stream of students took the microphone to describe things Levi had done or said. Some of them were kids who never spoke in class and barely said a word in the halls. Invisible kids—not athletes, not great students, not anything. But they knew Levi. They weren’t invisible to him.
Toward the end, I went up and said something about him being my friend, and how the word friend was the only word I could think of, but that it wasn’t a big-enough word. Hartwell spoke last, describing what a great teammate Levi had been, but how he was even a greater person. If I could have blocked out his words, I would have.
My parents also came to the memorial. On the drive back to Tangletown, they discussed how moving the service had been. I agreed, but upstairs in my room with the door closed, I felt sick.
Everything people said had been true, but it hadn’t been the whole truth. Nobody had said anything about Levi being called Dumb-Dumb or about how he was a kid who others teased—but that was also part of who he was, who he had been. He was getting whittled down, somehow. Death was doing that to him.
At school the next day, the hallways were hushed in the morning, but during each passing period, the volume grew. By lunchtime kids were laughing and talking loudly. And the next day, the hallways weren’t quiet at all—not in the morning, not in the afternoon. Midterms were coming up, and after that came spring break and pretty soon graduation. People hadn’t forgotten about Levi, but they were beginning to forget. All that time, I kept going over everything that had happened. All that time, I asked myself the same question: What should I have done differently?
I received a letter from Coach Richter giving details about orientation at Monitor College in late August. For two days, only freshman would be on campus. I’d get a feel for the school, see the athletic facilities, and meet some of my teammates. Richter wrote that there was no designated athletic dorm, but most of the guys lived at Hawthorne Hall, and he recommended I sign up for that. It was obvious he hadn’t heard about Levi’s death. Why would he? New Hampshire was three thousand miles away.
I showed Richter’s letter to my mother, and she told me that I shouldn’t feel guilty about moving on. “Levi would want you to go to Monitor College and do well. You know he would.”
Friday before chemistry class, Celia told me that her volleyball coach had passed out free tickets to see the UW Husky women’s basketball team play. “If you want, we could go together.” I knew that it was a charity date, but I agreed.
My parents were happy when I told them why I wanted the car for Saturday night. “You need to get your own life going again,” my dad said.
I sat next to Celia during the basketball game, but she spent most of the time talking to Cassie Holt, a girl I sort of
knew from English class. Every so often my mind would drift and I’d think about Levi. I’d come out of it, talk about the game with Celia for a little bit, and then my mind would drift again. When the games ended, a handful of us went to Miro on Ballard Avenue, where we drank Italian sodas and listened to two guys playing Spanish guitars.
I took Celia home a little after midnight. “That was fun,” she said, after I’d walked her to her front door. Instead of going inside, she stood looking at me. Maybe she was waiting for me to kiss her, I’m not sure. The moment passed. Then she had her key in the door, and after that I was walking back to my car.
I got up late Sunday morning. When I went downstairs, my dad shoved the sports page of the Seattle Times at me. “Look at page four,” he said, before he headed out the door for work.
I took the newspaper to the kitchen table, put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, and then glanced at the page. The headline jumped out at me:
RYAN HARTWELL NAMED HOOPS COACH OF THE YEAR
The article described Knecht’s accident and the title run, and at the end it briefly mentioned Levi’s death. My mom came into the kitchen as I finished reading. “Your father showed me,” she said, nodding toward the newspaper. “I’m glad for Coach Hartwell. He deserved it. A young man facing all that’s happened. He’s handled it really well.”
16
BEFORE SCHOOL ON MONDAY, A bunch of kids surrounded Hartwell, congratulating him on his award. He’d high-five one person, then bump knuckles with the next, while all the time the crowd grew larger. I slipped away before anyone could see me.
During lunch I didn’t want to run into any of the guys on the team, so I ate outside on the steps by the parking lot. In six months I’d be three thousand miles from Seattle, taking classes at Monitor College, and all this would be in the past.
When the wind came up and rain started to fall, I headed back into the building, figuring the library would be a good place to kill the ten minutes before my next class.
I pushed through the turnstile and looked for an empty area. I walked past the fiction shelves to the rear wall and turned a corner. All alone at a small table sat Brandon, the sophomore on the team who’d almost never played. He gave me a wave and a smile, and I smiled back. I’d always liked Brandon—maybe because he reminded me of Levi. They were both on the shy side, and neither one of them ever had a mean word for anyone.
I was about to sit down across from him when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and found myself face-to-face with Ryan Hartwell. I looked at him and then looked to Brandon, and the world seemed to shrink to that one small spot.
“Is he tutoring you?” I asked Brandon.
Brandon nodded, his face down. “Yeah, in geometry. I suck at math.”
I turned back to Hartwell. Our eyes locked exactly as they had after Hartwell had knocked Knecht to the ground. Something had passed between us then. I knew what it was—I’d always known—but until that moment, I’d never admitted it to myself. That had been no accident, any more than Levi’s death had been an accident. Hartwell had seen Knecht step onto the basketball court, and he had smashed him to the ground. He’d knocked the old man down so that he could take over the team. Hartwell did whatever he wanted. My eyes returned to Brandon. He was gazing at both of us, his face open and trusting just like Levi’s had been.
Hartwell must have read my mind. “Don’t do anything stupid, Jonas.” His voice was soft but menacing. He was blocking my way, but I pushed by him. He followed as I moved toward the front desk of the library. “I’m warning you—don’t play the hero. All you’ll do is blow up your future.”
“Maybe that’s what I need to do,” I said, spinning around to face him. “Maybe I need to blow everything up so I can start clean.”
I turned back and took a few more steps. I was about to pass through the turnstile and head out of the library into the main hall when I felt his hand grasp my shoulder. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”
His fingers were like claws digging into my skin. I put my hand over his and wrested myself free. He resisted at first, but in the end he let me go. He looked at me while I was breaking free, trying to read what I’d do. I held his eyes for a while, but then I had to look away. His will was stronger than mine, just as it had been stronger than Levi’s.
I left the library and walked down the main hallway of the school. My body was trembling; my face was on fire. I’d gone about fifty feet when I saw a side hallway at the end of which was a door leading to the parking lot.
I hurried to the door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. I sucked in the fresh air, trying to get control of myself. First lunch had ended; second lunch was about to begin. Cars were pulling in and out of parking spots; kids were piling in and out. Everyone seemed to be headed somewhere. But what about me? Where was I headed?
I stood, staring at all those cars, and the answer came.
Nowhere.
I could go three million miles away, and it wouldn’t matter. I had no chance in the classroom at Monitor College, no chance on Coach Richter’s basketball team, no chance to be a man—not unless I stood up to Hartwell.
17
I WAS STILL SHAKY WHEN I stepped back into the school, so shaky I’d half forgotten where the main office was located. Somehow I got there; somehow I opened the door and went inside. My world was in turmoil, but everything in the office was completely ordinary. The secretary, Mrs. Wiley, looked up and smiled. “Can I help you, Jonas?”
“I need to see the principal right away,” I said.
She shook her head. “You’ll have to wait. Your coach is with Mr. Diaz now.” She looked up at the clock. “Why don’t you come back after school? Class will start in just a couple of minutes. You don’t want to be late.”
“Hartwell is in there with Mr. Diaz?”
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell is in there. Now unless this is extremely important, I . . .”
Before she could finish, I rushed past her desk and threw open the principal’s door. Hartwell turned. When he saw me, his face went gray. Mr. Diaz jumped to his feet and came around from behind his desk. “Jonas, you have no business coming in here. You need to leave immediately.”
“Hear me out,” I said, pulling the door closed behind me and holding the doorknob so that no one could go in or out. “Just hear me out.” I ignored Hartwell and instead looked straight at Mr. Diaz. “The stuff he’s telling you about me cheating in chemistry—that’s true. But he’s not telling you what he did to Levi. Ask him about the trip he took with Levi to Mount Rainier on New Year’s Eve. Ask him about the party he had on Labor Day, about the tutoring sessions he had with Levi in his apartment. Ask him about Brandon Taylor.”
When I’d first stepped through the door, Mr. Diaz’s thick eyebrows had narrowed and his eyes had turned into angry dark slits. But as I spoke, the anger was replaced by confusion. He looked to Hartwell, and then he looked back to me. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” he asked.
I motioned toward Hartwell. “He’s the reason Levi is dead,” I whispered, fighting back the tears that were suddenly choking my words. “He did terrible things. You’ve got to stop him, or he’ll do them to somebody else.”
Mr. Diaz turned to face Hartwell. For a moment Hartwell’s face was frozen, but then his mouth formed a strange smile. “This is ridiculous.” He pointed at me. “I catch you cheating, and you rush in here with some crazy story. You are completely out of line.” Hartwell reached across Mr. Diaz’s desk and picked up the telephone. “Mr. Diaz, with your permission, I’ll call security.”
While Hartwell had been speaking, Mr. Diaz had kept his eyes fixed on me. I could feel my shoulders shaking, but I fought to keep control. I was not going to break down in front of Hartwell.
“Put the phone down, Mr. Hartwell,” Diaz said.
“Excuse me?” Hartwell said.
“I said to put the phone down. Then please step outside and wait in the staff room for me.”
“You want
me to step outside?”
“I want you to step outside.”
“What about Jonas?”
“Jonas is staying here with me.”
Hartwell’s odd smile disappeared. “You’re not taking him seriously? You can’t be. The kid is both a cheater and a liar. How can you possibly—”
“Mr. Hartwell, I want you to leave my office now. We’ll talk later.”
Hartwell stood still for a long moment and then threw his hands up. “All right. All right. I’m gone.” I moved aside so he could get to the door. He turned the doorknob, looked back, and pointed a finger at me. “Making up stuff isn’t going to work. The truth will come out. The more lies you tell, the worse it will be for you.”
18
I TOLD MR. DIAZ EVERYTHING, beginning with meeting Hartwell at Green Lake and ending with Brandon in the library. The beer, the R-rated movies, Butler’s chemistry files, the New Year’s Eve camping trip, Levi’s tutoring sessions at Hartwell’s apartment—I talked for thirty minutes straight. The hardest part was describing that night at the Good Shepherd Center. But I went through that for Mr. Diaz, too, going slowly and repeating Levi’s words as best as I could remember them. While I talked, Mr. Diaz took notes, his body perfectly still, his pen moving smoothly over a yellow notepad.
When I finished, he leaned forward in his chair. “You know it’s a crime to make a false accusation, don’t you?”
“I know.”
“And you know this won’t change your chemistry grade.”
“I know. I’ll get an F. I’ll lose the scholarship.”
“But you stand by everything you’ve said.”
“Everything.”
“Okay, then.”
He turned away from me, picked up his telephone, and dialed. I could faintly hear the phone ring once. A tinny voice came through the receiver. “Seattle Police Department. How can I help you?”