by RJ Martin
“SAINTS! SAINTS! Saints!” the crowd chanted. NC3 held its own and then some against Lake Henry Heathen, I mean Regional. The lead changed each trip down the court, and everyone watching was way deep into the action. Their hell-bound boosters packed the opposite side of the court between the baselines while NC3’s took up the surrounding three quarters of the bleachers. Our school after all, so we got first crack at the tickets. They were two dollars cheaper for students, alumni, and parishioners. Of course, Sister Margo sold as many of the full-price ones to the visiting team as the fire marshal would allow. Their wedged-in fans looked the same as ours except the public school’s mascot was a menacing, teeth-baring fisher (think a badger’s bad-tempered cousin), and their side had it sewn into or stamped on pretty much everything they owned. We sold NC3 T-shirts once a year, but they were the cheap “too much blend and not enough cotton” kind and no one wore them, at least not in public. On cold nights I slept in mine.
Like the rest of our school, the gym was old and nothing had ever been done to hide it. Gray cinderblock walls absorbed none of the din so the cavernous room was deafening. Round disc lights caged by thick coppery wire hung overhead and added to the prison-like vibe. At one end there was an icon inside a glass case grotto above the clock. No one ever did seem to know why she was there. Supposedly the nuns, back when there were more than two old ones, thought it brought the team good luck.
The guys called her “Our Lady of the Hardwood” (wrong, but I think JC’d find it funny). Some of the cruder nicknames I knew he wouldn’t like. “Our Lady of Hard Ass” was in honor of Sister Margo and/or Coach Danetto. “Our Lady of Hard Knocks” had been popular when my dad was there and the teams would rap their knuckles on the floor to say thank you if they won. On the opposite wall the happy haloed unnamed Saint mascot hung beside the old scoreboard. The Saint looked kind of like the pious brother of a burger chain’s cartoon spokesman but with a friar’s smock and sandals.
“I can’t believe how into it these people get.” Chad sipped his two-dollar cup of Coke and shook his head at the frenzy around us. “It’s like they’ve been drugged.”
“Don’t you have any school spirit?” Darcy was being serious, and that made Chad’s eyes bug.
“They’ve gotten to you too.” He grabbed the front of my Expos jersey and balled it in his hand. “Jonah, please tell me you don’t care about this.”
I didn’t know how to answer. On the one hand who cared? Chad was right. We weren’t on the team. On the other, why not care? It was my school, my peer group. Bart was on the team and we were cool now, I guessed. Dwight was the star and he could be all right. I knew the Sisters took it hard when we lost too, more than the students, and who wants to see an old nun bummed out? “I think it would be nice if we won.”
“That’s awesome, Jonah.” Darcy spun back to Chad and lectured him. “We have, like, a quarter as many students and we could win.”
“We?” Chad leaned in front of me to talk directly to Darcy. “Are you on the team?”
“We all are tonight, baby!” Darcy swayed like the cheer was a song and waved her arms in the air. “Saints! Saints!”
Down on the court Bart swatted and dove to try to get the ball from a taller, more typical basketball-player-looking Lake Henry kid I didn’t know. Since my whole life had been at Holy R and now NC3, that was the case with many kids outside of my class of fifty-one sophomores. We were a handful more than the juniors because last year nonbeliever recruitment began.
“You really going to root for that jerk?” Chad demanded.
“Let it go, dude.” I hadn’t filled him in about what Bart said at his dad’s restaurant. Probably because I had no idea what it meant. My focus was more on Angie than the game anyway. She sat several rows below us and held court with her girlfriends Maya Torres and Jana McGovern. Maya had big brown eyes and tan skin that made her kind of exotic for Lake Henry. She didn’t have a Spanish accent because her grandparents came here way back in the sixties from Puerto Rico where everyone is Catholic.
Jana was Irish with hair so red, it looked fake. They could have been cheerleaders, but all three believed there was something sexist and old-fashioned about girls cheering for boys. Also, Angie didn’t need pom-poms to be sexy. My sister was the reason I’d agreed to come. She was supposed to bring Rusty. The noise, crowd, and balmy feeling inside the gym made me spin just like back in Jace’s limo-like car. I took Chad’s soda and downed the last swallow. The too-sweetness of it almost gagged me.
“Diet?”
“You’re welcome, and shut up.” He tossed the cup on the floor in front of us. I’d make sure it got picked up later. Being good was kind of ingrained now, except I was stalking my older sister because I coveted her boyfriend. I had a vision of the tote board in my head. It fast approached the one thousand mark but only had three places. If it went back to zero would that mean my sins were wiped out or just no longer forgivable?
“You’re not careful, you’ll turn into a real grouch, Jonah,” Darcy squawked as she pressed against me and threw an arm over my shoulder.
“Funny.” Great, she was hitting on me right in front of Chad now. He must’ve told her how I rejected him. It was her turn.
“Lighten up.” She tried to tickle me. I spun kind of like one of the defenseless trout Dad killed. Already a little light-headed, I lost my balance and toppled forward. I made the geezers in front of us spill their smuggled in beers. They glared at all three of us.
“Sorry.” I retook my seat. Chad and Darcy made a point of leaving space on either side of me. “I am,” I said to Darcy.
She just shook her head and turned back to the game.
“All right, Dwight!” Our pastor rooted for our nonbeliever all-star. The amber in the lights actually gave him some color, and I saw that Dwight could be considered cute but not in the same way as JC or Rusty. Father Dom waved his arms to get the crowd to cheer while Sisters Margo and Matilda clapped in near unison and nonstop. I wondered if our small band of holy servants of JC’s thought the applause was somehow for them as well as the team. These nights really mattered to them more than just a check in the win column.
Karen and her clique stood and cheered Dwight on as well. He glanced her way and then raced back up the court. Bart’s dad joined in now too. “Did you see what Dwight just did, son?” Big Bart stood so close to the court, he didn’t need to shout. He did anyway, like he wanted to make sure everyone heard. “That’s what I’ve been telling you!”
“Good hustle, Bart.” Father Dom stood by the side of NC3’s biggest benefactor and acted as if the man weren’t being boorish: a vocabulary word I’d just found a use for. Father Svi was not there. You’d think a fast-paced basketball game would be his thing. Where did priests go at night? I’d never really thought about what my off hours would be like until that moment. Would I be lonely or would JC be there too? Father Dom was kind of old, and I could see him just collapsing at the end of his day, but the Polish Express was younger than Dad. How did his days end? If he liked me, I might ask him, but he didn’t, so I wouldn’t bother.
Bart Jr.’s face was drenched in so much sweat, he kind of glistened, but his dad wouldn’t let up. “You got to get in position to make the play, son!” Dwight floated and soared up and down the court like the ball was magnetically drawn to his fingers. Bart worked for every block, every shot. I really saw it now. He scowled at his dad, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. Why had he told me? Maybe it was an opening, an invitation to see him as less of a threat. Bart stole the ball from the same Lake Henry kid who was three inches taller and had been dragging him up and down the court all game. Bart shot a three, not pretty, but it buzzed the rim and then fell.
“See what happens when you listen!”
Bart Jr. didn’t nod or anything, so his dad started to pace the sideline after him.
“Bart! Bart! Bart!” I started to cheer and pretty quickly got the crowd around me to do so too.
“Are you high?” Chad di
d not participate.
Bart looked up at me, and I wondered if my impulsive attempt at being nice to him was going to get me a black eye at the half. I couldn’t help it. I hated bullies. If Bart was kind of one himself, it was pretty obvious where it came from. I guessed he got worse than he gave too. “Bart! Bart!”
Down below me Angie got a call on her cell phone. I could tell it was Rusty because she looked pissed and turned on at the same time. When she got up, so did I. My brain instantly went to work on scenarios. I could pretend I was sick and ask Rusty and her for a ride home. Angie would say no, but he would do it anyway. Then on the way I’d feel better. Then what? The three of us would go to the movies so I could watch them make out? Sit down. My feet kept moving.
“Where are you going?” Darcy called after me like we were characters in one of those Victorian novels we slogged through last year in English class. “Jonah, please don’t leave.” Except she was not on a crag, and I didn’t race across a moor, just bleachers packed with sweaty, agitated fans. We had a shot tonight, and NC3 never won this game, ever.
“I got to go to the bathroom, all right?” Where else would I go? Line segments are fixed.
“Bring me another Diet Coke.” Chad pulled up his suddenly sagging pants. My best bud was slimming down. Why didn’t he tell me? Maybe because I was acting like a jerk. That could be it.
I scrambled after Angie as fast as I dared without arousing suspicion. Then I got how ridiculous that seemed. How could anyone make the connection that I was stalking my sister in case her boyfriend might be here? If you’ve never done it, climbing down totally jammed bleachers is not easy, and I had to say “Excuse me” or “Sorry” over and over and over. When I finally reached the gym floor, I looked back at my friends. Not paying attention to the game anymore, they huddled together, deep in conversation, and I wondered if I was the subject. Were they plotting strategy? Tallying points? Nothing like my high school experience appeared anywhere in Lives of the Saints. I wondered if poor St. Dominick Savio might’ve gone dark side too if he’d lived through freshman year.
Big Bart gave me a kind of a grumble as I passed. At least I think he did. I had no time for his shit-filled self. To me he was a big fish in a mud puddle of a pond. Screw him. The man was such a jerk he made me do something nice for his also-a-jerk son. Angie pressed the bar on the old steel door that had wire mesh in the glass. I was just far enough behind her not to be too obvious, but I wouldn’t lose her either.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I SLIPPED out of the gym right before the steel door closed behind us. The hammer on nail thwack of its slam echoed down the empty hall in both directions. I tried to not let her see me, but Angie stopped, and I saw what she did: my reflection behind hers in the dusty glass of the trophy case. My sister spun around and faced me. A tear ran down one cheek and then the other. Each droplet glistened in the pale, fluorescent light and made her appear divine.
“Do you want to go home?”
“It’s Friday night.” She made my request sound excruciating and insane.
“I’ll go too.”
“That’s even worse.” I think Angie knew she might have hurt my feelings because then she said, “For both of us, little brother.”
“So, what do you want me to do?”
“Watch the rest of the game.” She made up her mind as she said it. “I’m okay, kid, really.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Soon enough.” Angie found her smile and slipped into the girls’ room. I wasn’t sure if I should wait for her or not. I felt certain about one thing: I did not want to go back into the gym. It was noisy, hot, and way too crowded. I’d thought it was a great idea like a nanosecond ago. Now I began to wonder if challenging Bart’s dad wasn’t really just super dumb. Big Bart had the power to make my dad’s life more difficult, and I’d just given him a reason.
My own reflection drew me to the faded pictures and tarnished trophies. Like a museum exhibit of ancient glories, there was one whole case just for a football team that no longer existed. Big Bart had been on the team once upon forever ago, and his year’s senior squad got the best placement. No one knew anymore what Division II Champions or Section B 2nd Place even meant. The only thing anyone could really take from all of it was NC3 had seen better days.
A buzzer wailed and my focus bounced from the wall of pictures back to my reflection. Before I could choose an escape route both doors flew open and the nesting doll nuns practically leapt out in a mad dash to assist at the refreshment stand. Really they wanted to make sure the Lord got his due, and it wasn’t given away to friends of the kids selling the coffee and sodas. I ducked as the sisters swooped past. When I rose again the entirety of the NC3 varsity basketball team headed right for the locker room, and I was directly in their path. The rest of the team circumvented me while I tried to slide to one side but that only brought me face-to-face with Bart.
He glared at me and his breathing was still fast and deep from the sixteen minutes of nearly nonstop running he’d just done. I inhaled through my mouth to avoid his sweaty reek. As the crowd began to file out, I spotted Big Bart in the background. Bart Jr. didn’t turn around but somehow it was like he sensed his father’s presence. “I don’t need your help.”
“He’s full of shit, you know,” I said just loudly enough for him to hear without me whispering.
“And you’re not?” Bart brushed by me as I saw Dwight sidle out of the gym with Coach Danetto yakking in his ear.
“Nice game,” I said cheerily. Dwight remained crucial to my plan, and he had played well. Watching it done right and with such grace made me almost pay attention again.
“It’s not over yet.” His expression tended toward violence too. What if my show of support backfired? Made Bart decide to be an asshole after all and tell everyone about me? Would every kid I so carefully recruited for the retreat suddenly bail and leave me even more alone than before? Farther back, Father Dom nodded as Big Bart lectured him about something. I could see my pastor’s ears redden. If you didn’t have so much money….
Why was I here anyway? Basketball was okay to watch, I guess, but more fun to play. At least it was back before I gave up CYO because of my fear of being naked in the locker room. All bodies, well, boys’ anyway, scared me back then and honestly still did. Except JC’s but that thought led to Rusty. I had to stop doing things because of him. The Messiah doppelganger, son of the famous—to my mother anyway—author had caused me enough tribulation. Resolved, I shuffled toward the exit with Forge, and all the other weathered codgers, for whom half a game was enough. I stooped like a lot of them too but not so much they’d think I was making fun. I just wanted to escape unseen. As the day faded, cold became frigid. Home. I crossed the parking lot and braced for the long walk I was going to offer up to JC.
“Hey, Jonah, where are you going?” Rusty sat on the hood of his mother’s car busily doing something with his hands. “You got me out here and now you’re bailing?”
“It’s really crowded,” I said.
“Your sister still in there?”
“You know she is.” I should have told him without being asked. The tote board lit up and ran off a lot of bonus sin points.
“She pissed at me?” His jacket had the same puffy padding as mine, but that was where the comparison ended. His was shiny like black plastic, had no pockets, and a fur collar.
“You made her cry.” It felt better I told him, but a little piece, okay a big piece of me, wanted not to mention my sister at all.
“Damn it!” Rusty barked out a huff of the cold air. “She wanted me to meet her friends.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“You want me to meet your friends?” From under the turned-up end of his beanie, Rusty peered right into my eyes and further still.
“No.” I told the truth. Really, I didn’t want to share him with anyone.
“Come sit.” He patted the hood next to him.
“I don’t want to cau
se any more damage.”
“Jace can afford it.” Rusty didn’t wait for me to decide. He yanked me by the arm. Either Rusty was pretty strong, or maybe I didn’t really resist, because either way I was beside him in an instant. He sighed and I got a whiff of some kind of sweet booze on his breath. Rusty’s fidgety exercise was him rolling a cigarette. I wasn’t that clueless and knew right away it wasn’t the legal kind.
“You ever get high?” He slipped the whole thing between his lips and then slid it back out. “Jonah?”
“No.” I confessed because it would be too easy to get caught in a lie. I winced a little, afraid he might think of me as a cloistered child.
“You’re going to.” He put a lighter to one end and huffed a few quick times on the other to get the tip glowing red. “Exhale.”
“I really don’t….”
“Empty your lungs.” He made it sound like if I didn’t he would never speak to me again. I squeezed my stomach and forced out as much air as I could. Something I knew how to do from my twice a year checkup to make sure I was not like my brothers. Rusty clamped one hand over my mouth and inhaled deeply so the joint reddened in the fingers of his other one. He held the smoke in and looked down at me, our eyes closer even than they were in the car. Before I knew what was happening Rusty’s hand was off of my mouth and his lips were there, not pressing into a kiss but just off of mine. I took the smoke into my lungs with a gulping breath he didn’t need to ask me to take. Rusty had the back of my head in his hand and spread his fingers just a little bit into my hair. As the last of his smoke filled me, Rusty’s lower lip barely grazed mine. My whole body sparked.
“Hold it,” Rusty said as he pulled away enough to look at me again. I did for as long as I could but then exhaled the smoke in a fit of coughing.
“How do you feel?” Rusty took a swig from a can of Coke on the hood next to him.
“I don’t know.” I took the can from him before he could offer it and drank. It was mostly rum and just a splash of Coke. I tried not to cough again, but it was no use.