by Alan Janney
Chapter Nineteen
Wednesday, October 3. 2017
Last week, I secured Coach Garrett’s permission to follow my own work-out regimen. The rest of the students in our Strength and Conditioning followed a lazy program that drove me crazy, so I ratcheted up the intensity, cramming more and more reps into that hour and a half block.
I left lunch early and hustled to the weight room. I changed and ran to the mats for warm-up stretches and jumping jacks. Cory and a handful of other football players initially cycled through the same exercise rotations as me. First, I sat under the shoulder-press and grunted my way through max reps, thrusting until my muscles shook, and then I laid down on the bench for max bench-press reps, pushing and releasing and pushing and releasing, and then shoulder-flys, inclined bench press, rowing, butterflies, and inverted rowing. I went back to the mats for core exercises: abdominal crunches, medicine ball work, bicycle kicks, back extensions, oblique twists, until the fibers of my body screamed for mercy and my eyes screwed shut against the pain. Some of the soccer girls and cheerleaders in the gym could keep up with my core exercises. By now we were drenched. The football players sat down on the benches to recover, but I increased the weight wherever I could and did another set of everything. And then another.
My work-outs had grown furious and frenzied this week. Whenever the pain grew too intense or I considered quitting, I recalled the image of Tee’s face. His large twisted smile, the aberrant gleam in his eye, the fear and anger would spur me on. I’d envision his text message when I couldn’t do another push-up or another sit-up, and I’d keep going. Katie’s danger and my desperation drove me to greater weights and more repetitions, to such an alarming degree that my teammates and classmates would often gather to watch during their cool-down. Monday, arms and legs. Tuesday, chest and back. Wednesday, arms and legs. Thursday, chest and back. Core work, every day.
What I didn’t tell anyone was that afterwards I had to lay down in my shower stall until the tremendous headaches passed. Most days I vomited from the pain. My body was changing, and not all of it was good. Finally I’d guzzle several muscle shakes the school provided.
On Wednesday, I arrived at English with arms made of jelly and legs barely capable of sustaining my weight. Hannah did not have Strength and Conditioning with me, but she’d heard about my “heroic exploits in the weight room” and so she pushed and kneaded every muscle she could reach without drawing the teacher’s attention during English. I hoped none of my classmates were taking pictures or videos, but I knew that Hannah was counting on it.
That afternoon I raced home after practice and picked Dad up. His attitude was less than thrilled about today’s doctor’s visit. I was in a great mood, knowing that I’d worked hard for today’s doctor’s appointment and that I was paying for most of it myself with the ruby locket reward cash.
I stopped at a gas station on North Figueroa Street and slid my check card into the card reader.
Beep. Declined.
My heart sank straight into my stomach. I’d run out of money. Dad didn’t get paid again for two more days.
Beep. Declined.
Beep. Declined.
I let my head fall forward to rest on the gas pump. Now what? I couldn’t bear to get back into the car and tell Dad we didn’t have enough gas to get there and back. Another car braked behind us, waiting for me to finish pumping. If I scoured the car, I could probably rustle up a few dollars in change.
As I turned to begin hunting under cushions, I remembered the wad of cash in my wallet. I had five hundred dollars in my pocket! That’d have to do. Dad would be required to pay the doctor a little more than I told him. I hurried inside and bought forty dollars of gas (almost three fourths of a tank) while the waiting driver honked at me.
We arrived late to the doctor’s office. I paid as much as I could and collapsed into a padded wooden chair, like a spent marathon runner after breaking the tape.
My pocket buzzed. My pockets were always buzzing. It was not a message from Katie. It was not a message from Hannah. It was a message from Natalie, for the Outlaw. My heart quickened at the memory of our night on her rooftop.
>> Playing hard to get? Kiss me and then not contact me for four days?
My life had escalated out of control. I’d taken on too many roles in too many people’s lives. As I pondered how to reply, the absurdity of the situation struck me again. The Outlaw wasn’t real. But he affected people’s lives like he was. In fairness to Natalie, Katie, Hannah and myself…it was probably time for the Outlaw to disappear.
>> I don’t give up easily. =) Come visit next time you’re flying by.
Later that night I sat on my bed staring at the Outlaw mask long after I should be asleep. Should I just burn it? Drop Natalie’s phone in the trash? I really liked her but…there could be no future down that road. The Outlaw had already complicated my life plenty. Realistically it was past time for him to retire.
My phone buzzed. Not a message from Natalie North. This one came from Katie.
>> OMG!! I got another text from T!!! I think T is the Outlaw!! I think the Outlaw is texting me!!!!!
Uh oh. Maybe the mask shouldn’t be torched just yet.
Chapter Twenty
Thursday, October 4. 2017
“Katie, I really don’t think that is the Outlaw texting you,” I said. Our class was working collaboratively on Spanish linguistic expression, which offered me a chance to discuss the text message with her.
Our Spanish teacher walked by and told us, “En espanol, por favor.”
“Ugh. Bien,” I said and Katie giggled, her eyes dancing while she watched me struggle. “Yo no…creo…el Outlaw…on el telefono.”
“Eres muy malo en espanol,” she laughed.
“I know,” I sighed.
“Why don’t you think it’s him?” she whispered, appearing disappointed.
“What did he text you last night?”
“Here,” she said and covertly gave me her phone.
>> It is curious…
>> …Curious that your phone was returned to you…
>> …on the night the Outlaw was first sighted. - T
Tee had made the connection. He realized one of the phones he stole had gone missing the night his dog disappeared, which was the same night the Outlaw had been caught on the ATM camera.
“This isn’t the Outlaw,” I said.
“Why not? Who else would know that the Outlaw had made the video on my phone? No one else could know that.”
“He didn’t mention the video,” I pointed out.
“But he mentioned the Outlaw, silly.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s from the Outlaw. You told lots of people. It could be from any one of your friends,” I said.
“But it’s from an unknown phone number. I know the numbers of all my friends,” she argued.
“Then why is he signing it ‘T’? Why not sign it as ‘The Outlaw’?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s his name in real life?”
“Katie,” I growled. “This is not from the Outlaw. This is from someone…else. Probably the person who mugged you.”
“How do you know?” she shot back.
“Because I do,” I snapped.
“Oh,” she said slowly, quietly. “I get it.”
“You do?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re jealous.”
“Huh? Of what?”
“Of the Outlaw. You’re jealous that a gorgeous superhero is texting me.”
“Oh my goooooosh,” I groaned and rubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands in frustration. “That’s ludicrous.”
“Is it? I know you’re jealous.”
“No I’m not,” I sighed.
“Yes you are. You don’t like it when other boys pay attention to me.”
“Even if that’s true-”
“Which it is.”
“-it’s not the Outlaw on your phone.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“
You’re being really frustrating.”
“En espanol, por favor,” Senora Richardson admonished us as she circled by.
“Estas siendo…” I stammered. “…un idiota.”
“Hey,” she frowned. “That’s not what you said.”
“I know, but I don’t know the word for frustrating.”
“That was rude,” she glared. She was gorgeous when she glared. “I’m not giving you half my chocolate bar.”
“That’s fine,” I said, exasperated.
“Not until you admit that you’re jealous.”
“Keep your stupid candy bar.”
“Admit you want me.”
“What?” I yelped, and the teacher shushed me.
“You liked dancing with me,” she whispered, her beautiful smile widening by the second.
“Yes I did. So?”
“You really liked it.”
“Katie. What’s gotten into you?”
“You’d like to dance with me again,” she said.
“So? Who wouldn’t?”
“And you want me.”
I looked into her rich shining eyes and her gorgeous smile just inches from mine and I almost admitted it. Agreement came so close to falling from my lips. I even made a slight move towards kissing her.
She was right. I did want her. I wanted all of her. Why was she doing this? Had her feelings towards me changed too?
“It’s too bad,” I whispered.
“What’s too bad?”
“You’re dating that short kid. Otherwise we could go dancing again.”
“It’s too bad,” she whispered back.
“Yeah?”
“It’s too bad you’re dating the blonde bimbo.”
“She’s not a bimbo,” I said.
“And Sammy’s not short.”
We retreated back to our respective desks, arms crossed over our chests, frowning.
“Did you reply?” I asked after an angry moment.
“What?” she said, biting off the question.
“To the text from T?”
“None of your business,” she told me, closing the door on our conversation.
Oh it’s most definitely my business.
Our Homecoming Dance was always held on a Friday night. Therefore, our Homecoming football game was always played on a Thursday night.
Tonight.
It was game day, and I forced thoughts of Katie and Tee from my mind as best I could, except during dinner that night. Katie’s mom cooked for us as usual, and Sammy came again. Katie acted cool towards me, excluding when she’d pinch and pull my hair when she walked behind me. I’d glare at her and she’d pretend like she’d done nothing wrong.
The stadium was stuffed, standing room only. The crowd surged and roared like a sea of red and black, excited to crush our opponent, the Anaheim Alligators. They were annually pathetic so we’d scheduled them as our Homecoming sacrifice.
The electricity in the stadium mounted as we raced to a 14-0 lead by the end of the first quarter. The student body began throbbing with excitement about the crowning of Homecoming King and Queen at half-time.
We didn’t have Josh Magee, whose finger had almost snapped in half during our last game, and Adam Mendoza was playing with a sore shoulder. But even so, the Alligators didn’t put up much resistance. They weren’t ranked and none of their players would be going to college, except for one of their defensive ends. His name was Devin Causey, a senior that had already committed to play for Notre Dame. He completely overwhelmed our right guard and gave us fits.
On the opening play of the second quarter, he came around the line untouched and put the top of his helmet into the back of mine, resulting in a sick thud, and viciously drove me into the ground.
I felt like I’d been electrocuted. Hot darkness rose up to greet me and I crashed into it, like a blind swimmer in thick waters. Distantly through the abyss, voices called to me, pushing and pulling on my consciousness. I sat up, or at least I tried, but the banks of lights towering over the stadium seared into my vision and I could see nothing else. A slow heavy voice talked in my ear and I nodded carefully, unable to form words from the noises. Was the ball still in my hands? Did I ever have the ball?
A harsh stinging aroma pierced through the blackness and knifed straight into my brain. The world snapped into momentary focus, and I coughed and snorted the offensive odor out of my nostrils. Life started shrieking painfully through my ear canals.
Coach Garrett, the team physician Dr. Wilburn, and Cory were crouched around me, watching expectantly. Words gave the impression of congealing into meaning. The pock-marked and rutted ground seemed alien and foreign, and I couldn’t remember why I sat on it.
A detached voice asked me a question and I nodded again to make the noise stop. Hands grasped my wrists and hauled me to my feel, helmets rising under my arms to sustain me. Strangers carried me through a fog and soon I sat again, a towel draped over my head, diminishing the awful sounds and lights.
“Chase? Chase can you hear me?” A man’s voice.
“Yes.”
“Tell me how you feel.”
“Good.”
“Where are you?” the voice asked.
“On the bench.”
“Is my voice hurting your ears?”
“Yes it is.”
A pause.
“What day is it?”
“Game day.”
“What day is that?” the voice asked.
“Friday.”
Another pause. Voices mumbled. Was it Friday? That didn’t seem correct.
“What’s the score of the game?”
“Fourteen to nothing,” I said.
“Who are we playing?”
“Devin Causey.”
Chuckling, and then an astonishingly loud noise exploded around us. The spectators in the bleachers went wild, jarring me and temporarily scattering my senses.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I’m not positive. Maybe a touchdown?”
“A touchdown,” I repeated and stood up. The world swam around me and the ground tilted, but I stayed upright.
“Whoa Chase,” the team physician said.
“I want to see what happened,” I said.
He grabbed my arm and talked into my ear above the noise. “You have a concussion. Your game is over.”
“What? I’m fine.”
“First, look at me,” he said. I tried. I pushed the towel up away from my eyes and squinted against the light. My head pounded harder. “Look at me,” he said again. “Hold still.” He held up a light, an awful terrible light that nearly burnt my eyes out. I winced and pulled the towel back over my eyes, groaning. “Sorry, buddy. You’ve got a concussion.” He pushed my chest and I fell back onto the bench. “Stay here. I’m going to speak with Coach Garrett.”
My world shrank to the cloth fibers of the red towel. I stared numbly ahead, trying to make sense of the noises reaching my ears. Soon I heard a stampede and then bodies started dropping onto the aluminum bench, voices thick with exertion, heaving breath into big lungs. I listened closely enough to understand that Daniel Babington had thrown a touchdown to Jesse Salt. Daniel was Andy’s little brother and he was our emergency quarterback.
Cory sat beside me, and I patted him on the leg.
“Good job,” I said.
“Thanks,” he responded. “How’s your head?”
“Weird.”
I sat there for an eternity, evaluating the game entirely by the racket the crowd generated. Finally Cory placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Halftime. Come on.”
I stood up and pulled off the towel. My wits had slowly been returning to me and I walked steadily beside Cory, who kept one hand on my collar just in case. As we trudged across the field I shot a glance at the scoreboard. Alligators – 7. Eagles – 28.
The players formed a line in the tunnel, waiting to enter the locker room, and while I stood impatiently beside Cory another hand touched my arm.
&n
bsp; Hannah. She looked good, flushed with exercise and eyes full of concern.
“There you are, Chase,” she said and wrapped her arms around my neck. “I was so worried about you.”
“Thanks,” I said, enjoying my girlfriend’s show of affection. “I’m okay.”
She kissed me on the cheek and pulled back. “You are? You don’t look okay, sweetie. You look…dazed.”
“Here she is,” our team’s physician, Dr. Wilburn, said. He put a hand on my shoulder and a hand on hers. “I refused her request to see you earlier,” he told me. “She wasn’t pleased with me.”
“I’m sorry about that, Dr. Wilburn,” she blushed. “And I’m sorry about the name calling.”
“The name calling?” I asked.
“I’ve already forgotten it,” he smiled politely. “You will walk out with him for the ceremony? Keep him upright?”
“What ceremony?” I asked. He and Hannah shared a worried glance.
“The Homecoming ceremony, Chase,” Hannah reminded me. “Remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I sighed in resignation.
“Yes, I’ll walk with him,” she said. “After all, he’s my boyfriend.”
She led me by the hand to the string of Homecoming Court students lined up in the tunnel. Most of the students wore formal dresses and suits, but three football players, one member of the band, and two cheerleaders were still dressed in game outfits. I nodded to the students asking me questions and took my place in line.
“What name did you call the doctor?” I asked Hannah.
“He wouldn’t let me see you,” she squeaked. “Nor would our cheer coach. In fact, she told me I had earned myself an official reprimand, whatever that is.”
“What did you call him?” I smiled.
“Nothing I’m proud of,” she replied sheepishly. “I was almost in tears. I thought that jerk had killed you.”
“You do care about me,” I said.
“I guess I do.”
The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers and we walked back out onto the field. Hannah and I walked arm in arm to the mat on the forty-five yard line and stopped. The field lights were intense and I had trouble keeping my eyes fully open. Soon I lost track of the disorienting proceedings and the incessant barrage of words echoing over the field, and I gave a jolt of surprise when a freshman appeared in front of us and presented Hannah with a bouquet of flowers. Hannah squeezed my arm and whispered, “Wave!”