"Throw it at me."
"No."
"Pick up the damn snowball!"
Shelley stopped and turned. "I'm going home."
As she plowed through the snowdrifts, Ivan thought—hoped—she might stop and turn around again. But she didn't. She crossed Farmingdale and continued up the driveway. Please turn around. Please! Ivan wanted to yell, but his mouth was silent.
The Petersons' front door opened, then closed.
Ivan was suddenly cold. Friggin" cold. His teeth chattered; his skin felt as if it were burning. He squinted into another wave of white, searching for his gloves, and his sweatshirt, and his jacket. His diaphragm jerked tight, and he could hardly draw in a breath.
Ivan ran up the front walkway, sliding on the ice-slick porch, his knee slamming into the front door. He fumbled for the doorknob, then stepped inside. The shivering was uncontrollable. He pulled off his shoes, stripped off his jeans, and raced up the staircase.
In his bedroom, Ivan tore through a dresser drawer, pulling out sweatshirts and sweatpants. His chest shook violently as he put on the clothes, then he ran to his closet, grabbed wool blankets, and draped them over his body. He sat against the heater. Utterly embarrassed. Utterly confused.
An hour had passed. Ivan heard the Nova pull up the driveway and, shortly after, his father walking around in the kitchen. He hadn't finished clearing the walkway of snow, and for that, he expected some kind of remark. Maybe something more.
Ivan dropped the blankets off his shoulders. He thought of Shelley. Why'm I such an asshole?
The telephone rang. Maybe it was her, Ivan thought. He got up and ran to the hallway, grabbing the receiver before his father did.
"Ivan?" said a raspy voice.
"Yeah."
"Coach Riker here. Got a few?" he said. "I'm sure y'all keep getting coaches 'round the country calling day and night. Pain in the rear end, I'll bet."
"No, Coach."
"How's the weather back East? Heard it's downright nasty."
"I'm used to it," Ivan said, watching down the staircase to see if his father was eavesdropping.
Coach Riker let out a hearty laugh. "Well, that dang cold can't last forever, right? We've talked a few times now, and I think it's at a point where we gotta get more serious about our university. Still liking Western Arizona, right?"
"Sure, Coach."
"How's it lookin' for the end of the season?"
"I'm fourteen and O," Ivan said.
"Good, good," Coach Riker said. "I've been talkin' to the 158-pounder over there at Phillipsburg. Undefeated, too. Do some of my best recruiting in Jersey. Don't know if it's the corn y'all grow out there, but Jersey produces Wrestling talent like a dang factory. And I know how good y'all are. Two-time region champ. Third in the state last year. Son, how'd ya'll do in the AAU freestyle championships last August?"
"Won the Eastern region qualifier," Ivan said. "Most valuable wrestler."
"And the nationals?"
"Took a second." We went over this last time, Ivan thought. Why again?
"Good, real good," Coach Riker said. "Well, let's talk a bit about our program. We gotta tough one here. Dang good wrestlers. Cream of the cream. We wrestle teams in the Pac-Ten and make trips back East against Lehigh and Penn State and so on..."
Ivan had heard this all before. Had read it in Wrestling USA. Just tell me I'll be accepted.
"We're all looking for only the best wrestlers to bring out here," Coach Riker said. "Now, son, I know athletically you can make it. I figure by your sophomore or junior year you'll be an all-American. But..."
But? Ivan's throat tightened. He held the receiver tighter.
"...we ran into a kinda situation. A snafu, you might call it. Usually we gotta recruit our butts off to get the caliber of wrestler capable of competing with the teams I just mentioned, and do good enough in the classroom. Last year was different. This year, too. We got lots of quality wrestlers—too many—all with decent college boards and grade points. In fact, we got more wrestlers than our allotted scholarship number. Y'all with me?"
"Kind of."
"While it's great for our coaching staff, it's a bit of a problem for y'all. I looked at your transcript..." Papers shuffled in the background. "Son, your grade point just don't cut it. Can't get around it. Know what I mean?"
"I guess," Ivan answered. But that was the sort of candy-ass answer McClellan would give. "No, Coach, I don't know," Ivan said. "Didn't think grades were so important in Wrestling."
Coach Riker didn't laugh this time. "Son, y'all aren't happy, I can hear it. There might be an answer. Y'all sent in your application, right?"
"I'm finishin' it."
"Get that in now. Deadline's coming up. I could pull some strings ... Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. I might be able to smooth talk the admissions committee. Maybe accept one of our recruits on an academic scholarship. That might open up a final athletic scholarship for y'all. I might be able to pull that off. From your end, since it's a bit late to fix your grade point, I figure there's only one thing y'all can do."
Ivan shut his eyes.
"I'm afraid it comes down to this, son. If y'all win the state championship, I'm sure I can convince the committee to accept you. Anything short of that, y'all be passed over. I know, I know, it's a dang slim margin of error—"
"That's crazy," Ivan said. "I'm better than the guys you're recruiting."
"Whoa, hold on now," Coach Riker said. "We got boys with better grades who are dang fine wrestlers."
"But not as good."
"I gotta consider the entire wrestler. Whether he can handle the social stuff, the academics, the travel schedule. I won't lie; it'll kick your butt. Does me no good to bring in someone who can't hack it, right?"
"But I shoulda won the states last year."
"Coaches here want you; make no mistake about that. Vail are as good a recruit as we've seen in years. But our hands—my hands—are hog-tied. If you wanna come to Western Arizona, y'all gonna have to win the state championship."
"But—"
"Look, I gotta run. I'll be following the states closely. Good luck down there at Jadwin."
The phone clicked. Soon, a dial tone broke in. Up was down, down was up, and the world suddenly spun madly. Ivan stumbled into his bedroom. The room grew smaller, the walls closer, the ceiling lower. Arizona—bright afternoons running around the green campus, warmth, somewhere new and different—was now farther away than Ivan could possibly imagine.
"I shoulda been state champ," he whispered, hearing the scoreboard buzzer in his head.
On the shelves above his dresser, gold and silver trophies were fined up like plastic soldiers. Tournament medals dangled from each ledge. Thirty-three in all. Nearly all gold. Leaning against the back of the shelving were framed pictures of his two region championships. The trophies and medals should have remained buried in the bottom drawer, but Shelley had taken a Sunday afternoon to display them meticulously.
"Out in the open," she had said, "for everyone to see."
Ivan had appreciated her care. Now he despised the perfection.
He grabbed one of his Wrestling shoes, wheeled around, and hurled it toward the dresser. The top shelf erupted in chaos, throwing the medals off their hooks and flipping them across the room, banging trophies against one another, falling to the dresser below, their plastic limbs and marble bases cutting into the wood.
The room was quiet.
Then suddenly, the top shelf came down on the shelf below, causing everything left standing to crash spectacularly to the floor. The last picture hit, shattering at his feet The explosion of sound stopped. Ivan bent down and brushed off shards of glass. He picked up the silver frame, turned it over, and pulled out the photograph—the one of his mother. It was torn through the middle.
Ivan dropped to his knees. "Mama..." His stomach lurched, but nothing came up. He quivered and ached.
His father yelled, from the bottom of the stairs, "Ivan, did something
fall?"
Ivan raised his head. "No."
"Come down now," his father said. "You must finish outside."
And if I don't? If I just walk down those stairs and say, "Papa, I'm goin' to Western Arizona, that's it, that's final, keep your mouth closed, and I don't wanna ever talk about this again"?
Ivan gnashed his teeth, knowing the truth was, the margin for error in getting into Western Arizona had suddenly become impossibly small. "I'll be there," he said.
"I did not hear you," his father said.
Ivan breathed in deeply, then shouted each word. "I'll ... be ... there!"
The walls pushed closer. The ceiling dropped lower. The room closed in.
29
Kenny pounded the mat. "How many more times are you gonna take me down?" He climbed to his feet and shook his head in disgust. "And why in the world are we over here? It stinks like rancid milk."
Bobby had picked this corner of the practice room on purpose, forcing himself to ignore the distraction, challenging the will of his practice partners. "Let's keep going," he said, flatly.
Kenny frowned, hands at his waist. "Yeah, sure."
They shook hands, and again, Bobby shot in deep on a single-leg, ran the pike, and covered on top. Too easy, he thought. Flat on his stomach, Kenny's defense waned. But Bobby wouldn't let up. He couldn't. It was too deep in the season and he was Wrestling too well. Relentlessness had carried him to six straight victories—including four pins—since the tie at Rampart, raising his record to 14–1–1. Now, when Bobby was tired, he relived that Saturday afternoon, the object of mockery for a delirious Rampart crowd, while the team he captained withered in defeat. The same putrid feeling of embarrassment filled his thoughts. It made him nasty, a pissed-off, arrogant machine set for one mission—to beat the hell out of anyone he wrestled. Every time.
So he jammed his left forearm against the back of Kenny's neck and serpentined his right arm underneath Kenny's right arm. Kenny's body twisted oddly as he let out a grunt. Bobby stepped to the side and began prying him with a deep half. This was his teammate, his co-captain, his best friend, but Bobby felt no remorse.
He settled his chest just under Kenny's shoulder, his right arm squeezed around Kenny's head. For a second, he noticed Coach Messina, arms folded, watching. Very satisfied, Bobby was sure. Chest to chest, up on his toes, Bobby first exposed Kenny's back, then held both shoulders to the mat. In a match, the referee would have signaled a pin.
"Time!" Coach Messina shouted. "Next pairs out on the mat."
But Bobby wanted to keep going. He needed to dominate Kenny, and Anthony, and everyone else in the practice room who stood before him.
Kenny sat up, his shoulders sagging and face etched in frustration. He ripped off his headgear and smacked it against the wall. "Damn," he muttered.
Bobby, too, unsnapped his chin strap. The eyes of his teammates were on him, and he relished it thoroughly. Everything was coming together, there was no doubt about that. His quickness, endurance, strength, and every bit of Wrestling talent had risen to the surface. Kenny had been the victim today, but next week it would be three opponents in the districts. And the week after, the regions. And the week after that, yes, the states.
In the locker-room showers, Bobby leaned his head forward, letting the stream of hot water flatten his hair and roll down his body. Steam rose to the ceiling. Most of the team had dressed and left long ago. Kenny stepped under a nearby shower, turned the handle, and waited for warm water.
"You've been whipping my ass," Kenny said.
Bobby pulled his head from the stream of water, snapped his hair back, and opened his eyes. "I had a good practice."
"Nah, it's more than just today. You've been whipping my ass for weeks."
"I've been lucky."
"Bull," Kenny said. "I know I've gotten better this season. I'm quicker and stronger, better on my feet. But you, you've changed over the past two months. You're at another level. I can't take you down; I can't ride you."
Bobby said nothing. He finished his shower and grabbed a towel. He sat half naked in front of his locker, not in any particular rush to leave. He weighed himself a few times, combed his hair, peed, then finally dressed.
Kenny dressed, too. He gathered his practice clothes and stuffed them in a gym bag. "Wanna hang out?" he said to Bobby. "Maybe some of that friggin' talent of yours'll rub off."
"I gotta do something."
"Yeah?"
Bobby closed his locker. "I'm going down to Newark. To see Carmelina." He paused. "I think it's time."
"For what?"
"A change."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"She got any idea?"
"I don't think so," Bobby said. "Maybe she does. Shouldn't be hard to figure out. We haven't gotten along. It's like eleven-thirty at night, I'm starving and so thirsty I can't even get saliva in my mouth, and we just sit there on the phone—silent. I'd rather be sleeping."
"This isn't the time to be screwing around," Kenny said.
They walked out of the locker room and down the hallway. They passed a display case dedicated to the history of Millburn's athletics. There were dozens of conference and county championship plaques, state tide trophies, and team photos. Bobby stopped to look.
"Senior year, districts in a few days," Kenny said. "This is what it's all about. Bobby, you're looking real good on the mats. You'll win the districts hands down. I think you'll win the regions easily, too."
"Thanks," Bobby said.
"Then it's the states, Bobby. Crazy stuff happens at Jadwin. Always does. Guys come out of nowhere to win it all. But you can't let any distractions screw you up. Time to get mentally lean and cut away all that other garbage."
Bobby nodded.
"Anyway, I'm gonna go. I'll call you later." Kenny opened the school exit door, then stopped. "And Bobby?"
He turned.
"Let Carmelina down easy, okay?" Kenny said, with a slight grin.
Bobby buttoned his varsity jacket. Branch Brook Park was desolate. Clouds hung low, and the air was cold and wet. An ugly afternoon, he thought. He waited by the set of swings, where only a few months earlier, he and Carmelina had spent a Sunday flirting and kissing and touching. The rusted swings were still, the seats covered with remnants of the last snowfall.
"Eight days," Carmelina said. She was behind Bobby.
He turned. "What?"
"You haven't called in eight days." Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked from tears. "Forget that I waited around all night last Saturday."
"I couldn't get my dad's car," Bobby said.
"So you don't call?"
"It's been a tough week," Bobby said.
"Oh, I see," Carmelina said. "It's been a tough week."
"Coach's been practicing us hard. Really killer. I get home too tired to do anything."
"Too tired to dial a phone number?"
Bobby kicked at a patch of snow on the ground, spraying a mist of flakes into the wind.
"Well?" Carmelina said.
"Well what?"
"Stop actin' all innocent, Bobby, it's a simple question. Why don't ya call? I trusted you."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Bobby said.
"You're gonna."
"You don't know," he said. "You don't know what's going on inside me."
"I know you don't call." She wiped her eyes.
Bobby looked past the anger so clear on her face, seeing the beauty that made him first fall for her. "Let's sit, okay?" he said. He gestured to a picnic table not far from the swings. "Please."
After a hesitation, she followed. With the sleeve of his jacket, he brushed the snow from the table. Carmelina sat down. Bobby sat next to her.
"Sorry I didn't call," Bobby said.
"It hurts."
For a while they sat without speaking, shoulders touching. He smelled her perfume. It reminded him of stealing kisses in the mall fitting rooms and having sex Saturday nights at his house.
"You look thin," she said.
Bobby shrugged.
"Saw your name in the Ledger," she said. "They say you're real good."
"Always hoped one day I'd be really good," Bobby said. "And not just good; I'm talking about being one of the best in the state. All the days I've gone without eating. Filling cups with spit. Eating laxatives. Always feeling like throwing up. Always being thirsty. I figured one day it'd be worth it."
"Is it?"
"We'll see. I could be a state champ. Before, I dreamed it a million times." He drew in a deep breath. "Now I think about it for real. It's important to me."
"Is anything else?"
Bobby looked away. "I gotta be focused."
"You already are," she said.
"No one can keep up with me in practice," Bobby said. "Everyone on the team notices. Coach Messina, too. I can't let up. I gotta think about winning."
"Take this however ya want, Bobby," Carmelina said. "I don't give a damn about your Wrestling. Win or lose, you get to drive home in a fancy car to a big house in a rich white town. You pick the college you want—your parents pay for it. You don't even gotta think about it. You wanna win, win, win, and all, but if you didn't, it wouldn't be the biggest tragedy in the world."
Bobby shook his head. Carmelina just didn't get it. That annoyed the hell out of him. They were talking about Wrestling, for god's sake. It was nearly the only thing that kept living in his house tolerable.
"You wanna know what I worry about, Bobby?" Carmelina said. "I worry about us."
Us? There is no more us. "Carmelina, I got so many other things to worry about. Christopher. My parents. Everything's just—" Bobby stopped himself. "It all needs time."
"What about us?" she said. "When will you have time for us?"
"Soon."
"That's not good enough."
"Why?"
"We been goin' together four months."
"And?"
"Things happen."
Here it comes, Bobby thought. She wants more time. She wants Fridays, and Saturday nights. She wants my mom to be nicer. She wants me to call more. More, more, more. Always more.
Bobby stood up. There was only so much time in a day, in a week, in the rest of the season. He couldn't give Carmelina any more. Something needed to change. This was the moment. He'd let her down easy, just like Kenny said. Face-to-face. That was noble. Damn noble. She couldn't complain about that.
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