Kick

by Walter Dean Myers

  Monday afternoon Kevin called and told me his mother had received notification that the hearing would be on the sixteenth and was freaking out.

  “She wants to know if we need to have a lawyer present,” he said. “We don’t have a lot of money.”

  “You don’t need a lot of preparation for this hearing, but I’ll ask around and let you know,” I said. “I called the hospital today, but I couldn’t get any information about Mrs. McNamara.”

  “Did you ask them about her meds?” Kevin asked. His voice was subdued. “She gets them from the hospital pharmacy.”

  “You think I should ask Mr. McNamara about the meds?” I asked.

  “He won’t tell you,” Kevin said. His voice was barely audible. “He’s really strange. Christy says he hardly ever speaks to her lately except for things that don’t make sense. I can’t figure him out.”

  “Do you think we can figure him out together?” I asked.

  For a while there was no answer. I imagined Kevin holding the phone, his mind working overtime, and maybe deciding to clam up again.

  “You want me to come to your house now?” he asked.

  Chapter 12

  I dropped my bike on the lawn and ran up the front walk of 238 Terrence Road. It was raining so hard that I could barely make out the numbers on Sergeant Brown’s house. I wiped my muddy feet on the doormat and rang the bell.

  Mrs. Brown opened the door and signaled for me to come in. “This is the rainiest season we’ve had in years,” she said, smiling at me. “You’d better come in before you catch pneumonia.”

  I took my shoes off at the welcome mat.

  “One minute!” a familiar voice shouted from another room in the house.

  I heard heavy footsteps, and there was Sergeant Brown standing in front of me. “Sit down, Kevin,” he said as he gestured to the couch. Then he gave his wife a look that meant get out of here.

  “I’ll leave you two alone to talk.”

  “I brought you some cookies,” I said, stretching out my hand to give Sergeant Brown the wet bag.

  He smiled. “Thank you,” he said as he eagerly opened up the bag.

  “Jerry!” Mrs. Brown yelled as she was walking out the door. “You’ve already had dessert!”

  He rolled his eyes. “I know, I know, just a few.”

  Sergeant Brown’s house had a cozy feel to it. On the mantel, there were several pictures of him and his wife.

  “Is that you?” I asked, pointing to a picture of a young-looking man wearing an army uniform.

  “No, that’s my son. He looks a lot like me.”

  “He’s in the army?”

  “Yes, he’s a drill sergeant at a training camp in Texas,” he replied. “So you wanted to talk, Kevin?” Sergeant Brown relaxed into a black leather armchair.

  “You know, Sergeant Brown, I really shouldn’t be in all this trouble. I didn’t really carjack a car and do all the stuff that people said I did.”

  Sergeant Brown leaned toward me. “So what happened?”

  I hesitated, knowing once I told him, there was no turning back.

  “After soccer that night, I was just kind of daydreaming in my room when Christy called me. She sounded pretty upset and she asked me to meet her down at the park. I asked her what was going on, but she didn’t want to tell me over the phone. I wasn’t even sure that I wanted to go, but I did.”

  “You had a friend in trouble,” Sergeant Brown said.

  “Yes, and I like Christy; we’ve been friends since preschool. She’s not stuck up and she doesn’t act like a drama queen in school,” I said. “She had spoken to me before about her problems. But after my dad died, I didn’t feel I could help anyone with their problems, and we’d been growing apart. When Christy called, she swore me to secrecy. I said I would meet her. I grabbed a jacket and walked down to where she said she’d be. She wasn’t there yet, so I sat down on a bench to wait for her.”

  “Then what happened?” Sergeant Brown asked, looking intently at me.

  I hesitated. I was wishing that I hadn’t come and hadn’t started talking to Sergeant Brown.

  “I thought she’d be walking from the direction of the entrance to the park, near Riverdale, and I was looking that way when a car screeched to a halt on the road near me. I was a little startled, but I didn’t think much of it until the window rolled down and I saw Christy behind the wheel. I did a double take and went up to the car window. She told me to get in and I did.

  “Christy was really upset. Her face was wet, and even in the darkness of the car, I could see that her hair was sticking to her cheeks. I knew she had been crying for a while. All kinds of things went through my mind. I thought maybe somebody had hurt her or something. I was already thinking about calling the police.

  “‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  “Christy pulled herself together after a while and reached over and took my hand. Her hand was wet, and it sent a chill through me.

  “‘Do you remember when I told you about my mom having problems?’ she asked.

  “I told her I did.

  “‘Things have gotten worse.’ She told me that her dad had hit her mom. ‘I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it anymore!’ she said.

  “I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.”

  “There are times when saying nothing is the only good thing to say,” Sergeant Brown said.

  “Christy started telling me about her mother’s depres-sion, how she sometimes would start crying in the middle of a conversation, or would go and sit in the dark by herself. Her dad didn’t know how to deal with it and would try to force her out of being depressed. He used to yell at her a lot, but now he was hitting her and pushing her around.”

  Mrs. Brown came into the room carrying two glasses of milk for us. I thanked her and Sergeant Brown smiled. Our conversation stopped until she left the room.

  “Okay, it’s making more sense now,” Sergeant Brown said, resting his chin on his hand.

  “Christy said she just couldn’t take it anymore. The therapist had told them they would have to watch out for her mom so that she didn’t kill herself, but sometimes—and Sergeant Brown, this is what really freaked me out—Christy said that sometimes she felt that she wanted to kill herself, too. It made her feel so depressed to think about putting her mother in the hospital. ‘Like some kind of animal or something.’ That’s how Christy put it.

  “I didn’t know what to do. Christy was talking about suicide. My stomach was turning something crazy. I mean, what do you think I should have said? ‘I’m sorry you’re going to kill yourself but I can’t help you because I’ll get in trouble’? I would much rather get arrested and go to juvie than have a friend kill herself!”

  “Kevin, there were other ways to help her besides getting behind the wheel of a car. How did you think you were helping her by doing that?”

  “She asked me to help her. I told her that we could call the hospital and see if someone there could help her mom. I told her we shouldn’t drive the car back to her house. I offered to have my mom come and return the car, but Christy said no.

  “‘As soon as my father finds out that the car’s gone,’ Christy told me, ‘I’m going to have to answer a thousand questions from him. He’s starting to act as crazy as she is.’

  “By this time, she was crying again. A lot. She didn’t want to have to deal with her father, and I couldn’t blame her—he’s got such a bad temper. I guess I did something stupid. Maybe I shouldn’t have helped her. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  For the first time since I began talking, I relaxed a bit.

  Sergeant Brown nodded. “And you decided to drive the car back to Christy’s house?”

  “She couldn’t really drive very well. Christy made me. I’ve only driven around a parking lot in my cousin’s car,” I said, “but I wanted to get the car back to her house as much as Christy did. She was shaking so bad that when she asked me to drive, we switched places. I got behind the wheel. The par
k wasn’t far from Christy’s house, and I thought I could get there all right.”

  “And that’s when you crashed the car and got arrested?”

  “Everything was okay when I started driving,” I said. “But then Christy’s cell phone rang and I thought it was going to be her father. It was just a girl from school, but it made me distracted enough that I didn’t look before I changed lanes. It wasn’t a big accident, just a few dents, but when the other driver saw how young I was and Christy in the car, he jumped to a lot of conclusions. He backed away from the car and called the police. Before I knew it, I was in handcuffs.”

  “What did you tell the arresting officer?” Sergeant Brown asked.

  “All the while we were waiting, Christy was saying that we couldn’t tell the whole story about her dad hitting her mom, because then he would be arrested.”

  “Automatic domestic violence,” Sergeant Brown said.

  “And then everyone would know about her mom’s depression, and maybe she would end up being put in the hospital,” I said.

  “That was one messed-up night, wasn’t it?”

  “What would you have done, sir?” I asked.

  “Well, if I were my age and wore a badge, it wouldn’t have been a problem.” Sergeant Brown was actually chuckling to himself. “But if I were your age and didn’t want to betray my friend, I would have sat there and stammered until they took me to juvenile.”

  “That’s what I did,” I said. “I thought if I just blabbed everything, the police would put her father in jail and her mother in an institution. And I don’t want her to grow up without a father, Sergeant Brown. I know what that’s like and . . . I wouldn’t want it to happen to anyone. No matter what her father is like.”

  The room was so silent, I could hear the faint ticking of the clock.

  “Don’t you feel better now that you told someone, Kevin?” Sergeant Brown said.

  “I do. I couldn’t tell my mom or my abuela because they’ve been through so much. . . . I don’t want to go back to juvie! I don’t belong there. Do you think they’ll send me back?” I asked, feeling nervous again.

  Sergeant Brown looked thoughtful.

  I went on. “I want to help Christy and her mom. Her mom really needs help, but both Christy and her dad are afraid that if they put her in the hospital, she won’t get out.”

  “Kevin, I might, just might, have an idea that will help Christy’s mom and keep you from going back to juvie. Let me think about this some more.”

  I gave a sigh. It felt good, like I was letting out all the bad feelings I’d had for weeks.

  “It’s late. Do you need a ride home, Kevin?” Sergeant Brown asked.

  “Thanks, but I rode my bike and it looks like the rain has stopped.” I called good-bye to Mrs. Brown. At the door I shook Sergeant Brown’s hand.

  “Thanks for all your help, Sergeant Brown. I feel a lot better.”

  I walked to the lawn and straightened up my bike. No sooner had I started riding than I felt a drop of rain slide down my face. Then another and another, until it began to pour. I put the hood up on my sweatshirt and rode off fast, in sixth gear, then stopped pedaling as I went down a hill. It took me only a second to go all the way down the hill on my bike, but it seemed like it took months for me to climb back up. I guess life was a lot like that, too.

  I couldn’t see anything in front of me—only the headlights of cars coming up the hill. The rain was blowing into my face, and I stood up on the pedals. I stayed close to the curb. I thought of how stupid I was, biking like this in the rain. I should have taken Sergeant Brown up on his offer. Yet the raindrops hitting my skin felt cool and refreshing.

  “C’mon, Ref!” parents whined.

  “Hey, Ref, who’s paying you?” one of our team’s dads shouted.

  Our team was losing by a goal midway through the first half of the semifinals at Fort Dix. And Nick, our goalie, was down after being kicked in the stomach trying to save a goal that the ref allowed.

  “One more comment and you’re out of here!” the ref yelled back.

  The sidelines were overflowing with people: scouts, parents, friends, and players from other teams who wanted to watch us. My mom had taken the day off, and she was there with my grandma and Sergeant Brown.

  As Coach Hill carried Nick to the sideline, parents from the opposing teams were shouting at one another on the sidelines. We didn’t even have a backup goalie. Coach signaled one of our biggest kids, Matt, to take Nick’s place. But we needed Matt defensively.

  The other team, the New Jersey Arsenal Warriors, was a passing team that controlled the ball and barely let it get into our hands. As the game went on, I was growing less and less confident that we would win. I was exhausted and desperately needed water. I signaled with my hands for Coach to send in a sub for me, but he told me to tough it out. He had called a four-hour practice on Thursday night, and the whole team was beat and unfocused.

  Ricky and I had no help up top, and we were just chasing the ball as the defenders played with it. I was regretting putting Under Armor on—sweat ran down my forehead and got into my eyes. It stung my eyes, since I had put sunblock on this morning.

  The other team’s best player was Lucas, their left midfielder, who was from Brazil. I figured I wouldn’t run into him too often since I usually hung out on the other team’s last defender. Cal shifted over to guard him. Cal was taller than Lucas, so I thought he wouldn’t have any trouble winning the balls in the air. But I was wrong. This kid could jump higher than anyone I’d ever seen.

  Matt swept up the shot and punted it out of the goal. It landed near Shawn, and he trapped it and brought it down to the ground softly.

  “Right here!” I shouted. Shawn saw me from across the field and made a long pass that curved a little. It landed perfectly at my feet, and I ran down the edge of the field. Pressured by a defender, I knew I was one step ahead of him and my shot wouldn’t get blocked. I crossed it with my left foot, and the ball landed right next to Ricky. Ricky received the ball near the goal. The goalie came out to get it, but Ricky knocked it away with his hip and then slid to tap the ball into the goal.

  The crowd erupted into cheers. Coach Hill yelled, “Nice job, Ricky! Nice job with your left foot, Kevin!”

  A few moments later the whistle blew, signaling halftime. Coach yelled at us to come over and sit.

  “Thanks,” Ricky said as we picked up our water bottles. I gave him a smile, and this time it wasn’t sarcastic. I meant it. Something felt different for me in this game. I felt looser, less anxious—and maybe that was because I had gotten things off my chest by talking to Sergeant Brown. Who would have thought that would help my game? Soccer was the only thing on my mind.

  “You guys are lucky to be tied,” Coach Hill said as we sat down on the sidelines. “They’re outplaying you guys, and they had just one quick lapse on defense. You’ve come a long way since the beginning of the season, and you should be proud of yourselves, whether you win or lose this game. But you’re still not looking like the team I know you are. To win, you’re going to have to show more teamwork, like Shawn and Ricky and Kevin just showed.” Coach paused. “Now tell me, guys, are you having fun?”

  “Yeah, Coach,” we mumbled.

  “It sure doesn’t sound like it. Look, I know I’ve been tough on you the past couple of weeks, but that’s only because I want you to succeed. Now I don’t expect you to be perfect, and I know you think I do, but I don’t. Perfection only drives people to achieve great things, but is never achieved. I’m just hard on you because I want you to try your best and give it your all, and if that’s what you do, I’ll be satisfied and you’ll be satisfied, whatever the outcome.”

  It sounded like Coach knew that this would likely be the end of our season, and it was his way of saying good-bye. I had never seen this side of Coach Hill. Maybe he was seeing another side of me, too.

  “So go out and enjoy this moment, because who knows when it might come again,” Coach added. We put our
hands in. “One, two three, Raiders!” we shouted.

  We came out in the second half with renewed energy and disrupted their style of play by playing man-to-man. The minute they passed the ball, one of our players would close them down and force a turnover. The momentum was changing.

  At the end of the second half, the score was still 1–1. Since it was a State Cup game, we had to go into a fifteen-minute overtime. At the end of that, if there was no winner, it would go into another fifteen-minute overtime. Penalty kicks were the last option. They put a lot of pressure on the goalies and the kickers.

  The Arsenal Warriors started with the ball. Ty was fouled just outside the eighteen-yard box. Coach ordered Cal to take it, since he had the best foot. Cal moved the ball a little bit up when the ref wasn’t looking, and the Warriors created a wall to try to block his view of the goal. Our team lined up to try to get the ball if there was a rebound.

  This was the first time I’d ever seen Cal look nervous. He was usually pretty cool. He took the kick and put so much spin on it, it looked like it was in slow motion as it rotated. It hit the ground right underneath the goalie’s spread-out arms and then bounced into the goal.

  The crowd broke into cheers and our bench stood up in excitement.

  But the danger was not over yet, as we still had to finish out the overtime. There were a few scary moments, but we managed to hold the other team off by keeping possession of the ball. By the end of the game, the Warriors were too frustrated and gave up on themselves. Their coach screamed at them to not give up and run after every ball, but I think they tuned him out.

  We lined up and shook the hands of the opposing players. Their heads were down.

  I wasn’t sure that the better team had won, but I was overjoyed at the opportunity we now had.

  I put my arm around Shawn, who had taken his shirt off in the celebration. “I didn’t think we could do it,” I said.

  “Man, I know it’s just the semis, but it feels like we won it all,” Shawn yelled.

  Coach Hill gathered us together. Looking over his shoulder, I saw the next semifinal game was getting ready to be played. We were more focused on that than on what Coach Hill was saying. But Coach was so happy with the win that he let it go.