Hardball

by Steven Barwin

  Carson laughed. “Who are you?”

  “Just watch this.” I placed the triangle inside the top left side of the lock and wedged it in. Then I wrapped the shim’s rectangle arms around the loop of the lock. “Here we go.” I pulled the loop upward while pushing the handmade shim down at the same time.

  The lock popped open, and I jumped in surprise.

  “Nice one!” Carson said, patting me on my back.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  I pulled the door open and had to take a step back. Textbooks were crammed on top of molding food. Old gym shorts and a dozen empty water bottles filled the small locker. On the bottom were all of his Lake Wade baseballs. They were so deteriorated that the leather was peeling off most of them. I started breathing only through my mouth as I sifted through the locker.

  “Anything?” Carson asked, looking over my shoulder.

  “Nothing. Wish I had brought rubber gloves.” Thinking he might have a hiding spot, I pulled on the shelf, tapped on the back and even tried to lift the bottom metal base. Nothing. I stepped back from the locker’s stench, happy to start breathing normally again. “I really think he’s using.”

  “How else could he get stuff to plant on me?”

  “Plus all those home runs.” I closed the door and slid the lock back on. “I don’t know where he’s keeping his stash. But even if we can’t find the drugs, that doesn’t mean we can’t find his dealer.”

  “I like the way you think,” Carson said.

  “Maybe that’ll lead to proof that he’s using.”

  “But if he finds out what you’re doing, he’s going to kill you.”

  “Don’t care.”

  Carson smirked. “Let’s go get a coffee. I want to hear this long story.”

  Never having been in the market for steroids or any other drug before, it was a rough beginning. We started with the yearbook, picking out people we thought might be users. All we really had to go on were stereotypes drawn from years of watching television. But we kept striking out. How hard could it be to find drugs at a high school?

  After a few days, we still had nothing, so we took a chance on another stereotype. Lewis Reynolds, who always wore flip-flops and sported a permanent tan, was big into surfing. Based on a B movie I had seen recently, I figured there was no way he wasn’t smoking up after a totally radical ride or during a beach bonfire party.

  Carson and I followed Lewis to a restaurant called Snorkels. I found parking and spotted Lewis already in line, waiting to order food. Snorkels was painted bright green and orange. Wetsuits, flippers and other diving equipment were attached to the wall. Everything on the menu was ten dollars or less. In line, I kept my distance from Lewis.

  “What should we do?”

  “Order.”

  We took our fried-fish sandwiches and French fries outside to an empty picnic table. I sat facing Lewis while Carson provided a barrier between us. Lewis met up with two friends and worked on his food with one hand while he texted with the other.

  “I don’t know how to do this, Carson.”

  “Just go up to them and say, ‘I’m looking to score drugs.’”

  “Sure. Why don’t you go for it?” I took a big bite out of my sandwich. It was too hot.

  “This was your idea.”

  “But I’m the one helping you!”

  “Yeah,” Carson said, “and you get nothing from Wade being kicked off the team.”

  “Fine,” I said, stretching my neck, trying to shake off the nerves. I held out my hand, and Carson placed the fifty dollars we had both coughed up into it. Going to start small talk with Lewis was worse than asking a girl out. Not knowing what to say when I got to his table, I dropped to one knee and pretended to tie a shoelace. Too bad I was wearing my Converse slip-ons.

  I looked up and pretended I knew him. “Hey, Lewis, right?”

  He looked at me, trying to place my face.

  “How’s it going?”

  His friends didn’t look up from their phones. Too busy checking the surf report, I guessed.

  “Ah, not bad.”

  “How’s the surf season so far?” I asked, wondering if surfers even had seasons. Enough stalling—just ask. “Look, can you hook me up?” I said under my breath.

  Lewis turned to his friends. Apparently, I had piqued their interest. “So, because I surf, you assume I smoke pot or something?”

  I took a step back. “I’m sorry.”

  He broke out into laughter. “Have a seat, bra.”

  I did.

  “So you go to SCH?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatcha want?”

  “Whatcha have?” I asked, trying to fit in.

  “This isn’t Target.”

  His friends laughed until I said, “Steroids.”

  “Not on my usual menu because it’s tricky to get. That stuff comes from labs in China, you know.”

  I nodded.

  “You got cash?”

  I put the assortment of bills on the table.

  “Whoa.” Lewis and his friends stood, stepping away from the table. “Ever heard of the Five-O?”

  I was confused. My little deal was quickly falling apart. “Huh?”

  “The fuzz, my man. Put the dead presidents away.”

  I stuffed the cash back into my pocket, and Lewis sat back down. “How much you have?”

  “Fifty.”

  He held out his Styrofoam takeout container and signaled me to put the money in it. One of his friends counted the money under the table. He nodded, confirming what I’d said.

  “Won’t get you much—barely a starter kit.”

  “It’s all I need.”

  “You play sports or just trying to Schwarzenegger up?”

  “Bulk up,” I said, wondering what it mattered to him.

  Lewis nodded. “Meet me back here, same time on Monday.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lewis gave me a funny look. I wondered if he was thinking I was totally out of my element. And why did I thank him? You don’t thank a drug dealer.

  He stood, patted my shoulder and left.

  I watched him go and then speed-walked to the safety of my car. A few minutes later, Carson arrived.

  “So?” he asked.

  “Done.” I felt confident, like I did after a double play. The plan was officially in motion.

  Chapter Nine

  The next day at practice, Coach Brigman announced that everyone was working the infield. “Whether you’re a pitcher or outfielder, I want you here. Now toss a ball back and forth for warm up.”

  I partnered with Tom.

  “Focus on transferring your weight into the throw,” Coach Brigman said. He had McKay and Santos walking around, making sure we were following instructions.

  I guess practice is the one place where Wade’s rules for the freshmen don’t apply, I thought. Hard to throw the ball at someone who’s not allowed to look at you. Next, I stepped closer to Tom, and Brigman had us squat down. I caught Tom’s bouncing pass in my glove and threw it back at him. The more the drill went on, the more I felt pain building in my thighs and abdomen. “This is worse than when he made us do a hundred sit-ups.”

  “Yeah, I can’t feel my legs,” Tom said.

  “Problem is”—I snatched the ball and returned it to him—“I can feel mine.” Just when I was about to keel over, Coach Brigman stepped forward.

  “Down on one knee and same drill. Chest out, but face your partner.”

  Facing sideways but looking at Tom, I picked the ball out of the grass and flung it back at him. The pain vanished.

  “I appreciate you trying to stick up for us with that alligator,” Tom said.

  “No problem. It was a stupid situation and you guys—”

  “Next time,” Tom interrupted, “please don’t.”

  “Why?”

  “It makes it worse for us.”

  I nodded. I was just trying to help.

  After doing the same drill
on the other knee, we were told to get down on both knees. “Five balls,” Coach said. “Your partner throws while you make the catch with one hand behind your back. If you miss or you fall over, you and your partner can get some water.”

  The first few rounds back and forth were no problem, but then it got tough to focus. It didn’t help that I could see who missed and who fell off position. At the far end, I saw Wade and Casey going strong. Another round and the competition thinned out. Wade and Casey were left, plus Darren and Rafael.

  “Hold up,” Coach Brigman said, clapping his hands. He got the six of us up and repositioned in a circle, facing each other. “Keep one hand behind your back like before. If your throw’s off, you’re out.”

  I caught Wade’s eyes on me and looked away. It was strange practicing with him, knowing that I was in the middle of a plan to set him up.

  Coach tossed the ball to Wade and said, “Go.” Wade whipped it at Tom. His reflexes weren’t quick enough, and he was the first eliminated. Casey sent a curve ball at me, and I tracked it before securing it. I eyed Wade, then sent a low, fiery ball to Darren instead. Darren tried to get a glove on it, but missed. He stood and walked past me, gritting his teeth. Casey was next to go.

  Wade, Rafael and I were left. Coach passed the ball to Rafael, who must’ve seen Wade as a threat, because he practically lobbed it to him.

  Wade put some extra muscle into his throw, almost blowing me over.

  I could play dirty too, I thought. I sent the ball down low into the grass. It took an unpredictable bounce, flying up and into a collision course with Wade’s face. He swatted it away, protecting himself, and the ball bounced to the side.

  I raised my hands in celebration.

  Wade stood. “You call that a throw?”

  “Looked like one to me.”

  Wade approached, and I jumped from my knees to my feet.

  Coach Santos stepped in. “Boys, cool off.”

  “Yeah,” Coach Brigman added. “You’re both out.”

  Rafael stood, and I joined in on congratulating him. Losing had never felt so good.

  Chapter Ten

  In the long shadow of a palm tree, I sat on a bench with Carson outside of Snorkels. Ditching our last class before lunch gave us a chance to do some research. Carson hovered over my phone as I googled anabolic steroids. Wikipedia had too much information, and other sites tried to lure me in with pictures of bodybuilders. “I just want to know what I’m buying.”

  “Click on the ESPN site,” Carson said. “What’s your plan once you get these steroids, exactly?”

  “Not sure. But there’s no way Lewis is going to admit selling drugs to Wade if I seem like a narc.” I skimmed over the scientific mumbo jumbo and right to a description of how they’re taken. “‘Steroids can be taken orally or they can be injected,’” I read.

  “I hate needles,” Carson said.

  “Don’t worry, we’re not the ones taking them.”

  “Yeah, but what if Lewis wants to make sure we’re legit and forces us to take them?”

  “Then we bolt.”

  Carson nodded. “I’m good with that.”

  “Here’s what the coach was talking about. Side effects are development of breasts, pain while urinating, premature heart attacks—”

  “Shrinking of private parts!” Carson shrieked, loud enough to catch the attention of a passerby.

  “Look at this. Steroid users have severe mood swings. They range from ‘extreme temper to feelings of invincibility to aggressive behavior.’” I looked at Carson. “That describes Wade perfectly. He’s got a wicked temper. And invincibility—well, I told you about that stunt with the alligator.”

  “Aggression too. Look how he treats the freshmen.”

  “Exactly.” I clicked on another site that warned of something called ’roid rage. “If you take large doses, violent behavior can turn to brutal attacks and even murder.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be messing with Wade.”

  “So that’s it?” I said. “You want to give up?”

  Carson didn’t have an answer, so I moved back to my search and clicked on images. The screen filled with grotesque pictures of extreme bodybuilders, dumbbells and closeups of the drug. I clicked on an image of colored vials filled with liquid steroids. The next picture showed green and white pills.

  “Ready?” Carson asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  I shifted uncomfortably on the bench, barely able to put a dent in my fish burger. I felt a tap on my shoulder and saw one of Lewis’s friends. He wore dark reflective sunglasses, and the top of his head stuck out of an army-green visor. The word Callaway was written on it in red.

  I got up. “You going to finish your fries?” Carson said.

  Lewis’s friend pointed to Carson and gestured that he should come too.

  Carson lagged behind me as I trailed Lewis’s friend past some peach stuccoed stores. The sidewalk ended and we hopped over a row of perfectly trimmed shrubs. Lewis stood beside his car, parked near a Dumpster. It was a silver Honda Civic with tinted windows and a large sunroof. I quickly calculated that he was probably making more money than I was and working fewer days. Working smarter, not harder, as my dad would say.

  Lewis waited for us to approach. “First, I’m not selling you drugs.”

  I was confused.

  “I’m offering them to you.”

  “Okay?”

  “There’s a big difference. I’m just providing a service to sad lowlifes like yourself who can’t live without drugs.”

  I looked at him. Was he joking, or was he trying to protect himself somehow?

  “I’m doing you a favor.”

  I offered a thank-you, but he didn’t say, “You’re welcome.”

  “One more thing. Steroids aren’t easy to find, so it’s going to be an extra fifty.”

  I knew that I was being ripped off, but I also didn’t have much of a choice. There was no one around but us. “Can I speak with my friend first?”

  Lewis nodded.

  With my back to the boys, I told Carson to empty his pockets. He was about to argue, but I cut him off. “What do you want me to do? They don’t negotiate or give refunds.”

  He held up a ten and I grabbed it. I handed Lewis twenty-one dollars and change. “It’s all we have.”

  Lewis examined it before nodding. One of his friends grabbed the money and held out a candy container. He shook it, and I heard something rattling around inside. I held out my hand, but he placed it on the ground and kicked it to me.

  “Nice doing business with you,” Lewis said, already moving toward his Civic.

  I grabbed the container and hauled Carson back to the storefront. I popped the container lid open. Inside were two white pills.

  “Let me see.” Carson examined them. “Right shape and color.”

  I poured them into my cupped hand and rolled them around. “What’s that?”

  Carson held one up. “Looks like something’s been scratched off it.”

  We could both make out the remnants, in red, of the word Tylenol and the number 500.

  He slapped the pill into my hand. “They ripped us off!”

  Behind us, I heard a honk and saw Lewis peel out of the parking lot, laughing. Frustrated but more embarrassed, I kept moving. “Let’s go to plan B.”

  “What’s plan B?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Think my haddock burger’s still over there?” Carson started to move toward the bench.

  I shot out my arm, stopping him. Down a narrow walkway to the restrooms, I saw Wade with someone I didn’t recognize. Wade was holding a wad of cash and counting it.

  We took cover behind a car. “You know the other guy?”

  “No,” Carson said. “But this plaza is ground zero for drug transactions.”

  “And I think we just bumped into plan B.” We ducked when we saw Wade and the mysterious teen exit. Hunched over, I scurried to my Mustang in time to see them get into the
ir cars. Wade was first to leave, but we decided to find out who the other person was. I kept my distance, staying two car lengths behind. When he pulled into a gas station, I put my flashers on and pulled over. He pulled out of the station and did a U-turn, and I struggled to keep up with him.

  At the next street there was no light, so I was able to make a quick turnaround.

  “Where do you think he’s going?”

  “I don’t know. Do drug dealers have a hangout?”

  He started to slow down, crossing three lanes before pulling into our high school.

  “This just got a lot more interesting,” Carson said.

  I parked far enough away to keep a low profile. We jumped out of the car, still tailing him. “How do we not know this guy?”

  “Don’t know,” Carson said. “Lewis was a bust, but we can still bring Wade down through his dealer. Won’t put me back on the team, but at least getting some justice will be sweet.”

  “How’re we going to do that?” I asked.

  “We’ll shake him down! Threaten to report him unless he rats on Wade.”

  “Or we could just report this guy to the principal.”

  “We have no evidence,” Carson said.

  “But we have a time and a location. The more details we have, the more the principal and coach will know we’re not lying.”

  We stopped when we saw him go into a classroom. We found out from someone heading in behind him that it was gradeeleven science.

  “Ready for the good news?” I asked Carson.

  “Yeah.”

  “Since I did the deal, you get to report all this to the principal.”

  “He won’t believe me. He’ll just think I’m trying to get even with Wade. Plus we don’t even know this guy’s name.”

  “Just take out your phone and snap a quick picture.”

  I pushed Carson toward the door of the classroom.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carson promised me he reported what we saw to the principal. But over a week later, I was still waiting for the tsunami to strike and take down Wade. There was nothing. It was business as usual. I tried to keep my distance from Wade as he continued to treat Tom and Adrian like dogs.