by Tim Green
Cory took his spot. Gant beamed at him from across the huddle and gave him two thumbs-up. “Yeah, bro.”
Coach P took his practice sheet back from Coach Tackitt, checked it, and spoke to Parker. “Let’s see a spread right forty-seven veer.”
Parker repeated the play and broke the huddle. Cory lined up. On the snap, Gant made a hole so big Cory wondered if the defense was playing down a man. He shot through the hole, broke back inside off the wide receiver’s block, and turned on the speed. He saw Mike from the corner of his eye.
Mike launched himself at Cory’s knees. It was like a rewind playback, only this time Cory launched himself up and over Mike, hurdling his rival and barely nicking his helmet with a toe. Cory kept going, gave a head fake to the free safety that left him in a heap, and then pranced into the end zone untouched.
He jogged back and tossed the ball to Coach P without comment.
“Now that’s some business.”
Cory bit into his mouthpiece to keep from grinning.
Gant giggled and hip-bumped him. “You’re a megaton bomb, bro.”
“Gant!” Coach P barked. “This ain’t a dance floor! Get in the huddle.”
Gant giggled his way back into the huddle, expressing the joy Cory felt but was too cautious to show—first, because he was still an outsider, and second, because he was afraid it wouldn’t last.
62
Tuesday in school, Gant met Cory outside his English class to walk to their science class together.
“What’s so funny?” Gant asked.
“Nothing,” Cory said.
“Well, your smile is so big it must hurt.”
“Just a writing assignment,” Cory said. “Five-page argumentative essay. I love it.”
Gant stopped him. “Cor, you hurt your neck, right?”
“Yeah.” Cory rubbed where it was sore.
“Well, you must’ve hurt your head too. Your brains are scrambled. No one smiles over a five-page paper.”
Cory shrugged and kept going. “It’s my thing. It’s what lawyers do every day—they take a side and argue for their clients.”
Gant’s disbelief kept him quiet until they saw Cheyenne and Mike leaning against a locker outside science class. “Oh boy,” Gant muttered. “I thought she was over him.”
“They’re friends,” Cory said with a lightness he didn’t feel.
When Cheyenne saw him, however, she quickly said goodbye to Mike and walked over to Cory. “How’s the neck?”
“Uh . . . good.” Cory found it hard to speak.
“Good.” She smiled and touched his arm before heading off to her class.
“Oh, honeybunch,” Gant said in a high-pitched voice, “how’s your necky-poo?”
Gant toyed with Cory’s hair until Cory swatted his hand away. “Cut it out. She’s just being nice.”
“Nice?” Gant’s eyebrows jumped. “Bro, she’s sweet for you. You see how fast she dropped Mike? Like a hot rock.”
“Nah,” Cory said, but the words stuck to the inside of his brain like chewing gum, making it hard to concentrate the rest of the day.
It wasn’t until he took his first hit at football practice that he remembered how sore his neck was. Cory gritted his teeth and forced himself to run just as hard, though, because Mike Chester wasn’t letting up. Cory’s rival had possibly the best day ever running the ball.
After being bowled over by Mike on his way into the end zone, Duck got up slowly and announced, “Hey, Mike, maybe we should call you the Touchdown Kid.”
“Maybe we should call you Daffy Duck instead of just plain ‘Duck,’” Gant growled.
“Easy, Gant,” Duck muttered quietly, “I’m just sayin’.”
Three plays later, it was Cory’s turn. He saw stars of pain as he blasted through the line on an off-tackle play, powering over the top of Brady before zipping past Duck on his way to the end zone.
“Here you go, Duck.” Cory tossed him the football on his way back to the huddle. “A souvenir for you, from the Touchdown Kid.”
While no one came right out and said it, Cory knew he was in a heated competition with Mike. He only wished his neck didn’t ache so badly. After dinner that night, he holed up in his room to work on his paper and ice his neck. If Cheyenne hadn’t been at a friend’s working on a scene from Romeo and Juliet for the school play, Cory would have likely stayed upstairs until bedtime. Alone in his room with a paper that proved harder than he’d thought it would and a throbbing in his neck, he began to doubt himself. For inspiration, he decided to call Liam.
“This thing is killing me, Liam.” He sat on the bed with his feet up and the wet ice bag sloshing behind his neck. “It’s like someone is stabbing me with a knife.”
“Buddy, I wish I was in your shoes,” Liam said. “Now is when you separate yourself. Being hurt is part of the game. As long as you’re not injured—like I am—you gotta just power through it. Westside, Cory. We’re hungry and we’re tough. We fight . . . Westside.”
“Yeah.” Cory tried not to sound glum.
“Say it, Cor. ‘Westside.’”
“Westside.”
“Not like that, come on! Westside!”
“Westside!” Cory raised his voice. “Westside!”
63
Cory got through Wednesday, but he wasn’t shouting “Westside,” he was just trying to survive. His neck throbbed with pain through the day. When he saw Cheyenne, she was talking to that eighth-grade kid Cory sometimes saw her with, and maybe she didn’t see him, but she didn’t drop the eighth-grader when Cory walked by.
Practice was a grind. He tried not to let the neck affect him, but he finished the day doubting himself once again.
Cheyenne was at dinner, and it raised his spirits when she addressed him.
“So, people are talking, Cory.” Cheyenne stabbed a cherry tomato with her fork and paused before eating it. “Tiffanae said her brother—he’s on the varsity—said that Coach McMahan yelled at the running backs and said he’s got a sixth-grader who runs harder than them. He didn’t say your name, but she said everyone started talking about the Touchdown Kid . . .”
“How do you know he wasn’t talking about Mike Chester?” Jimbo asked.
“Jimbo!” Jimbo’s mom swatted him with her napkin.
Cheyenne frowned. “Cory’s here to get you to be all-state, and that’s what you say?”
“Well, throw me in jail.” Jimbo sulked. “I’m only sayin’ that Mike’s been playing out of his mind all of a sudden. And anyway, you’re the one who likes him.”
Cheyenne sighed. “Forsooth. Deb, talk to your son, will you? Cory’s his ticket—everyone says so—and he needs to be more supportive. Disloyalty is ‘the most unkindest cut of all.’”
“There she goes.” Jimbo rolled his eyes.
“Cory’s here so HBS has a run game that opens up the pass for you to do your thing, Jimbo,” Mr. Muiller rumbled.
“See?” Cheyenne made a face.
“Wait, I’m not finished.” Mr. Muiller held up his hand. “Sometimes competition brings out the best in people, and football is all about competition.”
Cory knew what that meant, and it didn’t make him feel any better.
64
Cory was sore and exhausted on Thursday after ladder runs when Coach P dismissed the team and called for him and Mike to remain.
“Take a seat, men.” Coach P motioned them toward the bench and kept talking in low tones with his two assistant coaches. Cory and Mike exchanged an anxious glance as he turned to them.
Cory had scored an impressive seven touchdowns during practice; Mike only had three. The air had been filled with cheers of “Touchdown Kid,” and they hadn’t been for Mike. So Cory was feeling pretty good when Coach P drilled his small dark eyes into the two of them. “Okay, men, here’s how it goes. You both look good. Chester, you’ve got more experience in the offense and you’re built tough. Marco, you’ve got more speed and natural talent, but you’re not as durable.”
> Cory opened his mouth to protest. He’d been playing with an aching neck all week and lighting it up, but Coach P wasn’t asking for comments.
“So, Saturday we got a live scrimmage against B’ville, and I’m splitting your reps with the first team. I’ll let the numbers decide who the starter is going to be for our games. It’s all about the numbers. That makes it simple and fair. Good luck to both of you. That’s all.” Coach P turned and walked away.
Cory sat, stunned for a moment, before he realized Mike was holding out a hand for Cory to shake.
He said, “Good luck,” sounding like he meant it.
“Thanks.” Cory shook his hand. “You too.”
Mike got up and jogged away. Cory sat looking around at the private-school fields with their thick grass and a sweeping view of nearby wooded hills. It was so far from his battered old Westside neighborhood, haunted by Dirty and Hoagie and now that fathead Marvin. It was a world he wanted to stay in, this soft, green place where bleachers were built with fresh-pressed aluminum. He ran his fingers along the grooves in the bench. No graffiti. No scratches or stains. It was a clean, strong place meant for minting football superstars.
Cory sighed and headed for the locker room. He told Gant the deal and Gant whispered that the job was as good as his.
He joined Jimbo—who had treated him great after the discussion at dinner and now that he was playing like a champion. They got in the Range Rover, chatting while Mrs. Muiller applied her makeup in the rearview mirror as usual.
“How was practice?” she asked, puckering her lips in the mirror before shifting the SUV into gear.
“Good,” Jimbo said, flipping some damp blond hair out of his face and turning toward Cory in the back. “What did you have? Seven touchdowns? Cory’s killing it.”
Cory blushed, liking it. “Well, you’re the one who threw three touchdown passes. You’re looking good too.”
“It all looks good. B’ville better be ready for a spanking Saturday.” Jimbo changed his mom’s radio to some station and began to sing along. That left Cory looking out the window.
Cory’s mind was on B’ville too, the big scrimmage where he’d either launch his career or stumble. He’d never played in a scrimmage where so much was on the line. Before all this, football had been a dream where he’d wished hard for a happy ending but never really got there. Even the game against the Cicero Falcons, where he’d gotten Coach McMahan’s attention, had happened so fast and unexpectedly that it still didn’t seem real. Saturday was real, though, and Saturday was what filled his mind when they pulled through the open gates and up into the circle.
Cory knew something was wrong before Mrs. Muiller cried, “What in the world . . . !”
65
The thing about the Muillers’ mansion was that everything stayed in its place. Besides Helga, two cleaning women and at least three outdoor landscape workers combed the property inside and out, day after day. The whole thing made you want to wash your hands, brush your hair, and smooth in your shirt to fit in. It was as though anything out of place broke some unwritten rule.
When Cory saw the front door hanging wide open and the jagged glass of the broken window next to the door, his jaw dropped.
“What the—?” Jimbo opened his car door.
“You stay right here!” his mom snapped, while she got out herself. “Get back in the car and don’t move.”
Jimbo’s mom had her cell phone out. She dialed quickly, put the phone to her ear, and moved cautiously toward the front door. Somehow she sensed Jimbo’s hesitation. She turned and pointed a finger at him. “In! And lock the doors. I’m calling the police.”
That sent a jolt of fear through Cory, because why would she say that?
Jimbo, sensing from his mom’s sharp tone the seriousness of whatever was going on, did as she said, and the door clunked shut.
“What happened?” Cory asked quietly in the silence.
“I have no idea,” said Jimbo, eyes locked on his mom as she crept up the steps, talking again into the phone. Cory could hear him breathing.
Mrs. Muiller paused at the doorstep before she disappeared into the dark, open house.
“That’s it.” Jimbo flung open his door and started after her.
“Jimbo!” Cory ran after him.
They found her at the bottom of the stairs, peering up and speaking curtly into the phone. “They need to get here now if you don’t want me to take matters into my own hands!”
“Mom, come on.” Jimbo dragged his mom by the arm and convinced her to wait for the police with him and Cory on the steps.
It seemed like five years, but it was probably no more than five minutes before Cory heard a racing car engine. A police car rocketed into the circle and shuddered to a stop. In an instant, two policemen burst from the car with guns drawn. Cory made eye contact with the one first up the steps, but he might as well have been looking at crash test dummy. The cop’s face was blank and serious and his eyes went right on past.
The police entered the house and everything went silent again.
66
When the police reappeared in the doorway, their guns were holstered. Jimbo and his mom stood beside them as they examined the door and the broken window without any apparent urgency.
Mrs. Muiller broke the silence.
“We were robbed.” Jimbo’s mom punctuated her words with a sob that ended as suddenly as it began. Cory wondered if she’d made the sound at all.
“It’s actually a burglary,” said one cop as he ran his fingers along the doorframe. “No one was home. No one threatened.”
“Don’t tell me.” Her voice shattered with emotion. The tone startled them all, and both cops looked up at her from their work.
“They got at least a quarter-million dollars in jewelry from my dressing table drawer. At least.” Her eyes widened as though she only now realized it. “Don’t tell me I wasn’t robbed.”
Her eyes swelled with tears, and one spilled down her cheek. She sniffed more of them back. The value of her jewels shocked Cory. He knew diamonds dripped from Mrs. Muiller’s ears, wrist, and neck. He and Liam joked about it. Still—a quarter of a million dollars! He never imagined that she’d leave things worth that much money just lying around.
The offending policeman—his name tag said WELLS—looked at his partner, who put a hand on Mrs. Muiller’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard. Everyone thinks their home is safe.”
“We have an alarm. What good did that do? Ha!” Her laugh was a bitter noise.
“It looks like it wasn’t turned on.” Officer Wells pointed at the keypad. He was a muscular man with dark stubble for hair and the hardened face of a wrestler.
“Oh, I turned it on all right.” Mrs. Muiller put her hands on her hips and stepped up to the keypad. “I always put it on when Helga’s gone.”
“Who’s Helga?” The other policeman, name tag BLANKENSHIP, had a notepad out.
“Our housekeeper,” Mrs. Muiller said. “It’s her day off.”
“We’ll want to speak with her,” said Blankenship. “I presume she knows the code?”
Mrs. Muiller stopped and blinked. “Of course she knows the code. You’re not trying to say Helga did this.”
“Whoever did it knew the code.” Officer Wells had been examining the broken window, and now he stood up. “It’s a pretty clean job. They broke the glass, reached around, opened the door, and then—if you’re sure the alarm was on—they disarmed it with the pass code. We’re not saying it’s your Helga, but maybe someone who got it from her. Lots of times you’ll find a kid or a grandkid with a drug problem and they get it out of someone.”
“Oh my God.” Mrs. Muiller buried her face in her hands.
“Maybe you should sit down, ma’am.” Officer Wells led her into the house. Immediately to the right of the entrance was an elegant room he pointed to. Cory had never seen anyone in that room, even though its walls were hung with fancy oil paintings in gold gilt frames that matched the furniture.
<
br /> “No, we don’t sit in that room,” she said, heading through the house to the kitchen table, where they all sat down.
“Are the paintings in that room valuable?” asked Blankenship, pointing back toward the front door.
“Very,” Mrs. Muiller said.
“So, they weren’t professionals.” Wells looked at Blanken-ship, then at Jimbo and Cory. “And, I assume your kids know the security code?”
“These are both your kids, right?” asked Officer Wells.
There was something in the policeman’s tone that strangled Cory’s stomach. The answer was no, he wasn’t one of Mrs. Muiller’s kids. Not really.
He was from the Westside. He was the scholarship kid.
“Jimbo is my son and Cory is staying with us.” Mrs. Muiller gave Cory a worried look, like she hadn’t even noticed he was there until now.
And the way everyone looked at him—even Jimbo—told him he was completely alone in all this. They thought he was somehow involved in the crime.
67
The officers took Cory into the TV room with its wood-paneled walls, old framed movie posters, and the thick, comfortable couch where the Muiller parents liked to sit and watch movies. The police put him on the couch and sat across from him in chairs they moved from the edges of the room. Blankenship slid the doors closed and they thumped together, sealing Cory off from the rest of the world.
At that moment, the thought of Cheyenne burst alive like a flame in the darkness. She was bold enough to barge right in, even on two policemen. She seemed to know him—really know him—better than anyone outside his mom, Liam, and maybe Gant. He was so hungry for her help he could taste it.
But he knew that on Thursdays Cheyenne went from soccer practice at school to skills practice with her travel team at the Mount Olympus Sports facility. So he sat on the edge of the couch, twisting his fingers together, and pleaded with his eyes so the police could see he had nothing to do with any of this. The questions he’d answered so far were a blur.