Soon, Shelley appeared at the front door. "My parents are sleeping," she said. "What's up?"
"I need to talk to ya."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Let me grab my coat."
Maybe it was a mistake to drag Shelley into this mess, Ivan thought. Maybe he should tell her to forget it, that he would deal with it himself. Then he'd slip into his house without his father noticing. Hide in his bedroom. Spend some more time thinking. The answer would come to him then. Something would come to him then.
Shelley opened the front door again, buttoning her coat, swinging a scarf around her neck. "What's the matter?"
Ivan walked down the driveway, unsure where, or whether, to begin.
In quickened steps, she caught up with him. "Hey..."
"Today was bad," he said. "Real bad; probably the worst day of my—" He stopped himself. "Not the worst, but damn close."
Shelley followed him to the middle of the street. "What happened?"
"I'm off the team."
"Off the team? What are you talking about?"
"McClellan kicked me off the team."
"Off the wrestling team?"
"Yeah."
"Why? Why would he do that?"
"We're in practice, and I'm drilling with this freshman, a kid named Hannen. He's really doggin' it, trying to make me look bad. So I tell him. Then he starts in with me, saying crap." Ivan rubbed his knuckles.
"You didn't hit him, did you?"
"McClellan takes his side. What'd you expect? Bailed on me freshman year. Nothing new now. He's always been jealous—wishes he had half the talent I got. He was baiting me, pushing me. He knows I hate him, and he just kept pushing me ..."
Ivan stopped, and for a while, neither said anything. Eventually, Shelley said, "Ivan, tell me honestly, whose fault was it?"
"They could care less about winning," Ivan said. "It's one loss after another. They all go home happy. No one does a damn thing about it."
"But you guys won on Saturday."
"Liberty Hill? You, me, Modine, and a few of the neighbors could beat that team."
"Oh, that's not fair, Ivan. Our guys were so excited, yelling, jumping around. The only one that didn't seem happy was you."
But Ivan was in his own world. "Don't even remember how I got to the locker room. I just went off. Smashed the paper-towel thing right off the wall. Cracked the mirror. I can't remember it all ... It was like I was outta my body, watching me tear up the locker room. I was so mad—crazy mad—yet my brain was just kinda calm." He looked at Shelley.
"I'm tired, ya know," Ivan said. "Not sleepy-tired, but..." He tried to think of the right words. "Living-tired. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear for a long while."
Shelley moved close. "You can't."
"Maybe not." Then, without knowing really why, he said, "Ever think about dying?"
Shelley seemed startled. "No," she said. Then hesi-tantly, as if afraid to hear his answer, she asked "Do you?"
"I have these dreams sometimes—nightmares, really. Scare the hell outta me. I'm floating, arms crossed. The ground comes up underneath me—a casket surrounds me. Shovel after shovel of dirt covering my legs, my stomach, my chest, my mouth. And I'm gasping for air, but the dirt just pours down my throat. Choking me."
Shelley held his hand. "You've gone through so much."
"Wasn't my choice."
"But you survived better than anyone might've. God, you're so much stronger inside than I am. Than I'll probably ever be. And look what you've done with Wrestling. You're the best in the whole state. Don't throw that away. Just apologize."
"To who?"
"Coach McClellan."
"No."
"Yes, Ivan," she said. "Tell him that freshman—what's his name?—was messing up in practice. It made you frustrated, so you threw a punch, but you didn't mean to."
"But I did," Ivan said. "I wanted to kill him."
"Ivan, your whole Wrestling life is on the line. You can say what you want, but I know how important that is to you. You made a mistake, that's all. Tomorrow, I'm sure Coach McClellan will see things differently."
Shelley wouldn't let him off the hook, Ivan knew. But she had also helped ease what troubled him, if only for a while.
"Look, it's late," Shelley said. "I gotta get back. We'll talk tomorrow. In the morning, if you want—before you straighten this whole thing out."
They stopped at the end of the Petersons' driveway. Up one end of Farmingdale and down the other, all was quiet. The scarf slipped off Shelley's neck. She reached for it, but Ivan's hand was there first. He wrapped the scarf around her neck to the other side. He felt the warmth of her breath before it was lost in the cold. He thought to kiss her. In the middle of this mess, a kiss—a simple kiss—seemed okay. Maybe a little of Shelley would make up for a whole lot of Wrestling. His lips moved toward hers. Slowly. He smiled, embarrassed, then glanced away but quickly looked back into her eyes, unsure what to do or say. But something inside was drawing him nearer.
"Yes?" she said.
"I, uh..." Ivan was distracted. Something else gnawed at him. He drew no closer, and for that moment, Shelley seemed disappointed. He could forget this afternoon, but not for long. He straightened up. "Ya know what? Ya know what pissed me off the most about this whole thing? I mean, this might be kinda dumb, but it pissed me off."
Shelley leaned into him, almost touching his lips with hers. "Tell me."
"That damn poster."
"What poster?"
"In our locker room. You shoulda seen it. Thing was stupid. Can you believe someone wasted time on it, all because we won one goddamn match? That's such crap. I just ripped the thing into shreds. Tossed it into the garbage, where it belonged."
Shelley turned away. She touched a finger to the corner of her eye. "I made it," she whispered.
Ivan wasn't sure he heard her right. "What?"
"The poster," she said. "I made it."
"No, no, I'm talking about this one in the locker room. It said 'Congratulations Lennings' in big letters. It had a—"
"Maroon and black border," she finished.
"You made—" Ivan stopped himself. No...
Shelley's voice was choked with hurt. "I spent so much time on it. Hours. I tried to make it look good because winning seemed so important to the team. Stenciling the letters, choosing the colors, filling in each one."
"You did it?" Ivan's voice was weak.
"Didn't you see my initials in the bottom corner? Next to your name." She wiped her eyes and sniffled. And sniffled again. "It's late."
A million thoughts came to mind, but no words came to Ivan's mouth. He watched Shelley run to the front porch and disappear behind the front door.
It was 1:32 A.M. Ivan leaned wearily against his bedroom window. He had managed to sneak inside the house and into his bedroom. Tomorrow morning, his father would probably hear from someone at work about him being kicked off the team. Bad news spread quickly in Lennings—any news spread quickly in Lennings. But Ivan would worry about that when it happened.
Across the street, Shelley's light was still on. "I should be really impressed with myself," Ivan whispered. "I screwed everything up ... Wrestling ... Western Arizona ... Shelley..."
He despised Hannen and McClellan with a fury he had never felt before. And now, Arizona might as well be a million miles away. But he worried mostly about Shelley. He wondered if she was crying. He wondered if she hated him. He worried that he had lost his best friend. For good.
33
In the hall closet near his bedroom, Bobby squeezed himself under the bottom shelf. He tried to sit but was only able to hunch sideways. He had on a rubber suit, sweatpants, and a sweatshirt, and had propped pillows along the walls and door as insulation, then covered himself with two wool blankets. It was pitch-dark, stiflingly hot, and so cramped, his neck ached.
He pulled slack on the telephone cord and put the receiver to his ear. "Yeah, I'm here."
I
t had been the same routine the past few weeks. He and Carmelina would sit on the phone and talk about nothing, break into an argument, then hang on in silence. Bobby was waiting for the fighting. It wouldn't be long now, he was sure.
"What are you doing?" Carmelina said.
"Sitting in the closet."
"Why?"
"To sweat."
"Don't ya sweat enough in practice?"
"You can never sweat enough," Bobby said. Each breath made the tight space hotter.
"So you sit in a closet?" she said. "Are you mental?"
"The districts are on Friday—"
"Yeah, yeah, I heard all about these districts."
"I gotta worry about my weight," Bobby said. A drop of sweat tickled his cheek, and dampness rose along the folds of his stomach muscles.
"You're lucky that's all ya gotta worry about."
Bobby said nothing.
"Don't wanna hear that, do ya?" Carmelina said. "Think I wanna have a baby? Think I wanna work in a damn department store, kissing rich white women's asses all my life?"
Bobby had expected this. "When are you going?" he asked.
"Oh, so now ya worry about the mess we're in," she said.
"Carmelina, just tell me when."
"Thursday."
"What time?"
"Four. Maria told me they make me pee in a cup. And take blood. Probably ask me a hundred questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Think they'll ask my name?"
"You wanna find out so badly, go with me."
"I can't go on Thursday, Carmelina. I got practice. It's the—"
"God-damn districts," she answered. "I'm not expectin' a thing from you, Bobby. I'll get a ride there and a ride back."
He paused. "I'm sorry."
"You're not sorry; why even say it?"
"I'd take you on Sunday, Carmelina, I swear I would," Bobby said. "I can't go on Thursday. I don't have a choice. I can't say, 'Coach, I gotta miss practice the day before the districts. Why? Well, my old girlfriend's pregnant.'"
"You're an asshole."
"Why?"
"It's just like Maria said..."
Bobby lifted off the wool blankets, letting the heat escape, allowing himself that small reprieve. Carmelina had him talking much longer than he wanted. Only ten minutes—fifteen, tops—he had told himself. Now it was almost an hour. He was hungry and dehydrated and so tired from all the fighting. He shifted his body, but there was no way to sit comfortably. He again covered himself with the blankets.
"Not listening, are ya?" Carmelina said.
"I'm here."
"I hope when you're sitting in your Wrestling practice, you're thinking of what's in my belly."
Bobby made the sign of the cross and clasped his hands together. Our Father, who art in Heaven ... Hallowed be thy name ... Thy kingdom come.... He finished one Our Father, then another. As he said the words to himself, the distraction gave him a hint of comfort. But the heat was too much, the blankets too heavy, the space too small. Though he was sweating a little, he was far too dehydrated to sweat enough.
"Say something," Carmelina said.
"Hold on," Bobby said, kicking the door open with his foot and knocking away the pillows and blankets. He sucked in the cool hallway air, then quickly stripped down, tossing the sweats and rubber suit to the tiled bathroom floor. The sweat on his naked body was slight. Much less than a quarter pound, he figured.
"Look, I gotta sleep," Bobby said. "I'll call you on Thursday. When you get home."
"Nah, ya mean after your practice."
Bobby shook his head. "Okay, whatever. When I'm done with practice."
"So you'll call me then?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, Bobby, you do that."
"I promise."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "I believe ya."
There was a click on the other end, then the dial tone cut in. Bobby hung up the receiver.
34
Ivan woke up exhausted and thirsty. It hurt his throat to swallow, and his head throbbed along his temples when he sat up. Still, it was better than he had expected. He looked at the torn photograph of his mother. He had made a promise to bury the state championship medal beside Layaree's Wall. He hadn't told anyone. Not even Shelley. But the chance to fulfill that promise vanished the instant his fist hit Hannen's jaw. Or maybe on the second punch. Or maybe, he thought, it was when he yelled, "You're the worst goddamn coach in the state."
That was it, Ivan knew. That was what he would hang for.
He had stayed up hours, trying to understand what had happened. He had considered everything, but in the end, it didn't make a bit of difference. He was no longer in control. As vile as it was, McClellan now held the key to whether he would ever be allowed to set foot on a Lennings Wrestling mat again. Shelley was right. He would have to apologize, and apologize in a goddamn big way.
Ivan's jaw tightened. I won't do it. A man gets on his knees for no one.
There was a knock at the door. Ivan slid out from under the covers.
The door opened and his father walked in. "It is quiet up here." He eyed the room.
Ivan pulled the sheets to the head of the bed, then smoothed out the blankets. "I didn't wanna wake you."
"I am always awake before you."
Ivan grabbed shorts, socks, and a T-shirt from a drawer and stuffed them into his gym bag. He felt odd going through the motions. He glanced over his shoulder, but his father hadn't left the room. Wondering where the Western Arizona application is? Not gonna telly a, Papa. Look all you want. Take all morning. Doesn't make a difference anyway. Not now.
"You came in late last night," his father said.
"I was at Shelley's," Ivan lied. It was easier than he thought. "Doing math homework Got a quiz this week"
"You were very late."
"Does it matter?" Ivan said it stronger than he wanted. Already in deep enough trouble, a fight with his father wouldn't help matters. His tone eased. "Ya want me studying, right?"
His father nodded less than enthusiastically. Again, he looked around the room. "You received a letter from Bloomsburg University. About your scholarship."
"Another time, Papa."
He could see his father stiffen. "Life does not always go the way you expect. I am pleased for your interest in studies. But these next weekends are too important. Do you understand?"
Ivan nodded.
"How is your weight?" his father said.
"Okay, Papa." Then, after it seemed there was nothing left to discuss, Ivan said, "I gotta get ready."
In the busy clatter of the school hallway, the slam of Ivan's locker went unnoticed. Past the water fountain, Shelley stood with some friends in front of her locker, setting down her books and hanging up her coat. She wouldn't look his way. Ivan waited a few minutes for the hallway to clear, but by then Shelley was gone.
Time to get this over with, Ivan thought. He muscled his way through the crowd, in full view of the furtive—and not so furtive—looks. They had heard. Ivan put on his best scowl. He walked past Holt's office, glaring at anyone who looked his way, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. At an office door marked HISTORY DEPARTMENT, Ivan raised his fist—noting the scrapes on his knuckles—and knocked.
When Ivan heard "Come in," from behind the door, he opened it and stepped inside the room. It occurred to him that he had never been in McClellan's office. The renovated janitor's closet was as cramped as he had heard. A bookshelf hardly hid a shadow of replastering where a sink had been, while cracks along the ceiling ran as extensively as a road map. A framed degree from Yale University and two mahogany plaques stood out. The engraving on each plaque read: PRESENTED TO LEWIS MCCLELLAN. VOTED TEACHER OF THE YEAR BY THE LENNINGS STUDENT BODY.
"Sit," McClellan said.
Ivan dropped his backpack to the floor and sat down. The room was hot, damn hot. If it was any hotter, he thought, we could roll the damn mats out
right here. At least I wouldn't have to drag my ass down to that dungeon. Bones underneath his thinly padded buttocks cut through to the chair. He shifted to ease the discomfort.
McClellan took his time clearing his desk, stacking one pile of papers at the corner and placing another in a drawer. He had an air of smugness that Ivan had never seen before.
"That was a pretty disturbing scene yesterday," McClellan said.
"It was a misunderstanding."
"A 'misunderstanding'?"
"Hannen was jerkin' around."
"So you punched him?"
"He was doggin' it."
"So you punched him?"
"I let him off easy," Ivan said. "I bust my ass in practice every day. You know it; all of them know it. Maybe the others should bust their asses."
"What about self-control?"
Ivan felt himself getting angry, so damned pissed he was in this position. He was tempted to get up and leave. That would show McClellan, and everyone else at Lennings, that Ivan Korske doesn't kiss anyone's ass. "I thought winning was the point," he said.
McClellan shook his head. "You don't get it. Winning's never the sole reason for wrestling. You can lose and still have integrity and respect for others. But with you, it's always been about what's best for Ivan Korske."
"I win."
"What's that get you? A free pass to punch out a teammate?" McClellan said. "No, I have rules. I talk about them all the time so everyone is clear." He ticked off each with a finger. "One, the team comes first. Two, never use profanity. Three, no fighting. The rules couldn't be simpler. They help you as a person, and as a wrestler." Then McClellan smiled, a snide, fake smile. "But you don't like getting help, do you?"
Ivan's expression didn't change. You want me to tell ya how much better ya made me? You wanna take credit? I won't let ya. I don't need your help. Never did. Never will. You know that and it kills ya.
McClellan stepped out from behind the desk. "We're all influenced by one another. By teammates, teachers, parents, and coaches, sometimes—even people we don't like."
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