At lunchtime, Jesse spotted Goose and Wendell sitting at a table, eating. He was about to go over there to apologize for his outburst in the locker room when he noticed Bucky making his way toward them. The moment Bucky saw him, he wheeled around and looked for another place to sit.
“Bucky,” Jesse called. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to go crazy on you the other night.”
Bucky ignored him and kept looking around the lunchroom.
“Go on and join the guys,” Jesse told him. “I’ll sit somewhere else.”
When he turned, he nearly bumped into Wally, who was standing behind him, holding a red Tupperware container and a blue plastic bottle.
“What’s your story, Jessup?” she asked. “Why is everyone snubbing you? Did you forget to use deodorant this morning or something?”
“Oh, hi.”
Wally sniffed the air. “You don’t smell bad. Hey, you don’t have some kind of contagious disease I should be concerned about, do you?”
“Nah. Let’s just say it hasn’t been a good day.”
“Wish I could help you, Jessup, but I’m all out of peppermint candy,” Wally said. “But if you need company, you’re welcome to sit with me.”
Jesse was hesitant. Wally seemed a little too strange for his taste. But he didn’t have a lot of options. “Sure, okay, as soon as I buy my lunch.”
“I’ll be sitting over there.” Wally pointed to a table in front of a mural of a sidewinder with a red bandana and a white cowboy hat.
A few minutes later, Jesse joined her.
“What are you eating?” he asked, staring at the brown meat in Wally’s Tupperware container.
“Squirrel. Want some? It’s pretty good.”
Jesse’s insides lurched. “Uh, no thanks.”
“You sure? It’s fresh road kill.” Wally stabbed the piece of meat with her fork and held it in front of Jesse’s face. “I found the squirrel on the street this morning when I went out to get the paper. The squirrel had just died, and the body was still warm, so I cooked it right away.” She popped the meat into her mouth and gobbled it up. “Squirrel meat tastes best if you cook it before rigor mortis sets in.”
Jesse gaped at her, and a sour taste filled his mouth.
“Yep. There’s nothing I like better than freshly cooked squirrel,” Wally said. “I only wish I had a bowl of armadillo stew to go with it.” She stared at Jesse with feigned disappointment. “Now don’t tell me you’re one of those weirdos who don’t like squirrel or armadillo.”
Jesse smiled uneasily. “You’re putting me on, right?”
Wally laughed. “I had you going there for a minute, didn’t I?” She cut another piece of meat and ate it. “Anybody can tell this isn’t squirrel . . . it’s rattlesnake.”
Jesse looked closely at her food and saw that Wally was eating boiled chicken. He cut into his meat patty and took a bite. “How’s Samson?” he asked, making sure he remembered to call Duck by his new name.
“He’s doing fine, except that he told me he misses you.”
“So you’ve taught Samson how to talk?”
“No, silly. Dogs can’t talk. Samson uses sign language.”
Jesse decided Wally wasn’t strange after all. She was just having fun. “Who are the Jamaican Rude Boys?” he asked, staring at Wally’s T-shirt.
“They’re a ska band.”
“Ska? What’s that?”
“Um, let me see. How can I explain it? Are you familiar with reggae music? You know, Bob Marley and all that?”
Jesse knew what reggae was because his parents listened to it.
“Well, take reggae, stick a firecracker under it and you’ve got ska,” Wally said. “It’s reggae amped up by about a hundred. Get it?”
Jesse didn’t get it, but he nodded anyway.
“In ska, the emphasis is on the upbeat.” Wally tapped her hands on the table and sang out, “Hep-hep-hep-hep. Hep-hep-hep-hep. Ska is great music to dance to.”
Jesse sat his fork down and mimicked Wally by drumming the beat on the table.
“There you go, Jessup. You’ve got it. Hep-hep-hep-hep.”
“Hep-hep-hep-hep,” Jesse echoed and tapped along with her until a teacher assistant shushed them to stop.
“You catch on quick, Jessup,” Wally said.
“Thanks. I used to play the drums.”
“I bet you were good. Why’d you give them up?”
Jesse found Wally enjoyable to talk to. She liked wrestling, she had a great sense of humor and she had taught him about a new type of music. “I thought about joining the band when I came to Deaf Smith,” he said, “but I decided to play football instead.”
“Do you like playing football?” Wally asked.
Jesse wavered for a moment. Then, candidly he replied, “No.”
“Then why are you on the team?”
“I don’t know. I guess because it’s what’s expected of me.”
“Who expects it?”
“My father.”
“Oh, yeah, the Angel of Death,” Wally said. “What’s it like being the son of a famous wrestling superstar?”
“Not nearly as exciting as you might think,” Jesse said glumly.
“Well, do you think your father would think any less of you if you didn’t play football?” Wally sealed the Tupperware container and placed it and the plastic bottle inside her messenger bag.
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
“Then if you don’t want to play football, you shouldn’t do it,” Wally said. “I mean, be who you want to be, Jessup, not what somebody else thinks you should be. Or to quote that wise philosopher, Popeye the Sailor: ‘I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.’”
Jesse pointed at her with his fork. “Is that why you’ve got that haircut?”
Wally touched her head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“I don’t know. It just looks . . . different.”
“What do you think my hair should look like?”
Jesse didn’t answer.
“It’s who I am, Jessup. It’s who I choose to be. We get into trouble when we stop being who we are and try to be somebody else.”
Jesse loved the self-confidence that radiated from her. “Speaking of being somebody else,” he said, changing the subject, “if you watch Monday Night Mayhem tonight, you’re going to see a huge transformation take place.”
“Like what?”
“I won’t spoil the surprise. Tune in tonight to find out.”
After Spanish class, Jesse cornered Bucky Henderson in the hallway and forced him to listen while he apologized for going off on him. Jesse explained that he was upset and angry that he had cost the Sidewinders the district championship, and he asked Bucky to forgive him. Reluctantly, Bucky accepted his apology.
They walked out of the building, where they met up with Wendell and Goose. Jesse had so much he wanted to share with the guys. He was dying to tell them about TJ’s party and the trouble he’d had with the police.
He started off by saying how sorry he was for his behavior in the locker room. Goose and Wendell accepted it. They understood that Jesse was just letting off some steam, which he was relieved to hear.
Before Jesse had a chance to tell the guys about his weekend adventures, Goose asked, “How was The Jobber’s party?”
Jesse knew then that he couldn’t talk about his experience. Goose would only tease him about his relationship with TJ. “It was all right,” he said flatly.
“Did you invite the bald chick to go with you?”
“You mean Wally?” Jesse asked, annoyed that Goose had referred to her as “the bald chick.”
“Yeah. I saw you with her during lunch, so I thought maybe the two of you might have something going on.”
“Nah. I just sat with her because I thought you guys were mad at me,” Jesse said. He didn’t want to admit that he was finding himself attracted to her.
Wally was certainly no beauty queen. She wore no make-up or jewelry. She didn
’t tweeze her brows. And that haircut! It looked as if she had gotten it clipped by Edward Scissorhands. Still, she had an inner beauty that Jesse found appealing.
He wondered if she had a boyfriend.
CHAPTER TWENTY
That evening, Jesse sat in the den with his grandfather to watch Monday Night Mayhem. His grandmother disliked watching wrestling, so she holed up in her bedroom with a stack of magazines.
The show opened with a match between John Henry Sykes and Sasha “the Russian Bear” Volkov. John Henry took two punches to the face but quickly retaliated with a head butt and a spine buster. He grabbed Volkov’s leg applied an ankle lock, but Volkov reached the ropes, and the referee forced John Henry to break the hold.
Jesse wished he was built like John Henry Sykes. He wished he had an intimidating physique that would make jerks like Riley King think twice about messing with him.
He thought back to Wally’s mention of Popeye. Jesse hadn’t seen a Popeye cartoon in years, but he remembered that in almost every cartoon, Popeye would down a can of spinach. Then gigantic muscles would sprout from his biceps, and he could beat up Bluto, his enemy.
If that stuff worked in real life, Jesse would polish off a can of spinach anytime he had to deal with loud-mouths like Riley King, who got in his way.
The bout ended when John Henry caught Sasha Volkov in mid-air as Volkov came off the second rope. John Henry power-slammed him onto the mat and finished him off with the Derailer.
The match was a good opener, but Jesse had known ahead of time that John Henry Sykes was going to win the match. John Henry was being readied for a bigger role with the company, while Volkov’s career was slipping into jobber status.
After a commercial break, Jesse turned up the volume as Dan Greenberg introduced the next bout. TJ Masters came out first, to almost no reaction from the crowd. Chris Choate, on the other hand, received a decent pop.
The match started with a standard, collar-and-elbow tie-up. Choate followed that up with a side headlock. Then he flung TJ to the ropes and connected with a solid, flying shoulder block when TJ sprang back. Choate picked up TJ by his hair, rammed him against the turnbuckles and hammered him with forearm smashes to the face.
The fans began filing out of the auditorium. As far as they were concerned, this was a bathroom-break match. They weren’t interested in watching a jobber getting squashed.
Choate went for a big boot to the face, but TJ ducked and Choate got his leg caught between the corner ropes. TJ took advantage of the situation and hit him with a series of right hands. He dragged Choate away from the corner and dropped him with a Russian legsweep, then a pump handle slam.
The people in the aisles stopped to watch, and a mild “TJ” chant broke out.
TJ climbed the ropes, pointed to the crowd and smiled. He leaped off the top turnbuckle, flipped himself in the air and landed on top of Chris Choate. He hooked a leg and the referee counted to three. The surprised crowd leaped to its feet, cheering and clapping at TJ’s upset win.
Though Jesse knew what the outcome of the match would be, chills still ran down his arms as he watched TJ bask in the glory of his first victory on Monday Night Mayhem.
“Did you see that, Güelo?” Jesse asked excitedly, but his grandfather had fallen asleep.
The third match featured Black Mamba, who was defending his Iron Fist championship against “Lone Wolf” Luke Mauldin. The match ended in a disqualification when the referee caught Mauldin using brass knuckles to knock out Mamba.
The show went to a commercial break.
When it returned, the Angel of Death’s spectral music sounded, and dark-blue lights blanketed the arena. Columns of flames shot up on each side of the stage entrance, and a cloud of smoke billowed out. Amid a chorus of boos, the Angel of Death appeared. He sauntered quietly down the aisle.
Jesse nudged his grandfather awake. “Look, Güelo. Dad’s on TV.” He hoped Wally was watching.
The Angel of Death climbed through the ropes and stood in the center of the ring, holding his scythe in one hand and a microphone in the other. Speaking in a gravelly, robotic voice, he cut his last promo as the Angel of Death:
The darkness, which the Angel of Death once embraced,
has forsaken its most loyal minion.
Deprived him of triumphs, has besmirched his name,
has cast him from its dominion.
With the gates of the Netherworld now shut,
where shall this tormented soul retreat?
Alas, where shall he find solace
to lick his wounds of defeat?
Fate, cloaked in shadows, thy vanquished son beseeches thee.
Restore thy servant to what once he was,
that he may savor victory.
“Pretty good, huh?” Jesse’s grandfather said, smiling.
Jesse had always thought that the Angel of Death’s poetic dialogue was hokey and silly. His father, on the other hand, took his work seriously. On numerous occasions, Jesse had heard him yelling at his laptop whenever he struggled to write his promos.
The sound technician in the arena played a recording of “O Fortuna,” a religious choral piece, and a white, almost blinding, light radiated from the stage entrance. The orchestral music built slowly, with kettledrums, cymbals and gongs marking the tempo. A chorus sang, almost in a whisper. Gradually, the sound increased, louder and louder.
The Angel of Death turned toward the light and said:
Is this the sign, O Fate, which thou dost send?
Is this what thou givest mine soul to mend?
The Light, which the Angel of Death once shunned,
now beckons the Netherworld’s abandoned son.
As the musical piece reached its climax, the Angel of Death finished his promo.
If Darkness has renounced him heretofore,
then the Angel of Death shall be no more.
With that, he removed his hooded cloak and dropped it and his scythe on the mat. He exited the ring and walked toward the light, disappearing in its white glow.
Immediately, Jesse’s phone rang. When he answered it, Goose asked, “What happened, man? Did your dad just announce his retirement?”
“No. He’s been given a new gimmick,” Jesse told him. “From now on, my father will be known as a preacher called Elijah Nightshade.”
“Are you serious?” Goose said, nearly speechless. “What about the Angel of Death?”
“I don’t know,” Jesse said. “I guess you might say he saw the light.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next day, Jesse was bombarded with questions from kids wanting an explanation for what they had witnessed on Monday Night Mayhem. Even Dr. Ríos pulled him out of class to ask him what his father had meant when he said that the Angel of Death was no more. Dr. Ríos wanted to know the significance of the white light and in which direction the ACW was taking the Angel of Death character. Out of respect for the wrestling industry, Jesse kept his answers brief and sketchy. Except for Wendell, Goose and Bucky, he seldom revealed backstage information to others.
During lunch, Jesse sat with the guys, glad that they were friends again. He filled them in on the plans the ACW had for his father.
“What idiot came up with that idea?” Goose asked. “If I wanna hear a preacher, I’ll go to church.”
Wendell shook his head. “Man, the ACW has ruined the best character they ever had.”
“Yeah, they ruined the best character they ever had,” Bucky said.
Goose took a bite of his ham and cheese sandwich. Through a mouthful of food, he told Jesse, “I noticed that your friend, The Jobber, finally won a match.”
“Yeah, TJ’s being given a minor push,” Jesse said. He wanted to say something sarcastic to Goose for calling TJ a jobber, but after his blowup in the locker room, he held back.
“I’ve got to give TJ Masters his props, though,” Wendell said. “He may be a jobber, but that shooting star press was awesome.”
Goose washed down his f
ood with a drink from his grape juice carton. “I guess we won’t be able to call Masters ‘The Jobber’ anymore. We’ll have to come up with something else that starts with a T and a J.”
“How about just calling him TJ?” Jesse asked. “That’s his name.”
While they were talking, Wally walked up to their table. “Hello, boys. Mind if I join you?”
The guys stared at Jesse. It was his call.
“Have a seat.” Jesse removed his windbreaker from the chair next to him. When Wally opened her Tupperware container, he said, “I’m not even going to ask what you’re eating.”
“That’s good,” Wally said. “It’s best if you don’t know.” She turned to the guys. “I’m Wally Morúa.”
“Yeah, we know,” Goose said. “Jesse told us all about you. You’re the chick who stole his dog.”
“I didn’t steal his dog,” Wally said. “Samson was a gift from Jesse.” She turned to him. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah,” Jesse said, glaring at the guys. “I told you that.”
“Is it true that you have a parrot that can say the Pledge of Allegiance?” Bucky asked.
Wally stirred the beef stew in her container. “No, I have a parrot that can whistle ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ But I’m sure Orpheus could learn the Pledge of Allegiance if he wanted to.”
“How did you teach your bird to whistle ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’?” Wendell asked.
“I didn’t. My uncle Daniel did. He was so proud when he became an American citizen that he taught Orpheus the national anthem.” Wally took a sip from her plastic bottle. “I inherited Orpheus from him when he moved to Colorado.” Changing the subject, she said, “Hey, Jessup, you’ve got to tell me about what happened with the Angel of Death last night.”
“Sorry, but that’s privileged information,” Goose said smugly.
“No, it’s not,” Jesse said. He explained to Wally the reason behind his father’s transformation.
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