by Beth Vrabel
“Noah.” Rina made my name wobbly, like she was about to slip into a puddle.
I shoved my books into my backpack. “What?”
Rina grabbed the math textbook out of my locker and handed it to me. “You can’t quit.”
I shrugged. “Whatever.”
That night, Ron called me. “Beating you to the punch, kid. That girlfriend of yours posted your essay all over the freakin’ place. Got half of West Virginia breathing down my throat. We’ve got three guys—my whole crew—out searching for tracks. I’ll let you know if we hear anything. Don’t call me until tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Ron,” I mumbled.
There was a long pause on the other end. “You okay, kid?”
I just hung up.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jeff asked in the morning. I guess we were talking again. He had gotten the mail and tossed another of Mom’s letters onto the table. I ignored it.
“Nothing.” I thumbed through the posts on Bucket Bear’s Facebook page. I scrolled down to where Rina had added my column. Fifty comments. Some were from kids at school.
Noah Brickle needs to shut the hell up.
Bet Noah’s mom was so proud, she toasted him all night. Oh, wait.
Let’s not forget, we wouldn’t even need this bucket challenge if it weren’t for trash like Noah and his mom.
Even worse, though, were comments from parents.
From Mike’s dad: This kid needs a swift kick in the butt.
From Brenna’s mom: Anyone else bothered that Noah Brickle gets a column in the school newspaper? Of all the kids in Ashtown?
From Landon’s mom: This, coming from a kid who gave a mentally challenged boy a concussion on the football field. Worry less about doing right by bears, Noah, and more about making up for your own mistakes.
I closed Facebook.
“You only had two bowls of cereal.” Jeff shook the box. “You sick?”
I chewed my lip. “Maybe I should stay home today.”
Jeff rocked back on his chair. “Sorry, kid. I’ve got a packed day. No playing hooky for either of us.” He dumped more Frosted Flakes in my bowl. “Eat up.”
I chomped on the flakes as Jeff coated them in milk. He cleared his throat. “I, um, read your article.”
“Column,” I corrected with a mouthful of mushy cereal. “Articles aren’t opinion. Columns are.”
“Right.” Jeff stood, grabbing the milk and putting it in the fridge. He rubbed the top of my head as he passed me. “I’m proud of you.”
I let my head slink down to the table. The tiger on the box of cereal seemed to be pointing its finger at my forehead.
My cell phone vibrated, jolting me. The box wobbled and fell from the table. I scrambled for it, but the flakes scattered across the floor. The text from Rina was just a link to an Associated Press article. I clicked on it, and there was my mug again, this time next to the bear. “Boy Rallies to Save Bucket Bear” was the headline. The phone beeped again. Dude! You’re national news!
Jeff leaned over my shoulder, reading the article. “Huh,” he said. Flakes crunched under his feet as he dumped his coffee cup in the sink. “But you’ve still got to clean up this mess.”
Sweeping up all the cereal made me late, and I missed the bus. Walking to school felt like moving through a cloud. It wasn’t really raining; more like dampness hung all around us. The sweatshirt clung to my arms and moisture beaded on my hair. I wished I had an umbrella. For some reason, I thought of the dinosaur rain boots I outgrew when I was four. Man, I loved those. I wore them every day of the week, all summer long, even when Mom told me I couldn’t bring them in the house anymore because they smelled like cheese. Now my toes squished in my soupy sneakers.
Maybe they’d shrink, and I’d finally get a new pair. I knew Jeff didn’t have the money to buy things like clothes and shoes just because. The only new things I saw him buy were packs of cigarettes, and then he only got two packs a month. Just enough for one smoke to start and end the day. Plus, it’s not like I was his kid. He told me to let him know if I ever needed anything, but what was I supposed to say? “Hey, you know these hundred-dollar sneakers Mom bought before she got drunk and ran that stop sign? The ones she bought a size too big so I’d grow into them? Well, they’re too red and shiny. Sort of like that stop sign. How ’bout you buy me something black and cheap?”
The mist was so cold. Soon, there would be snow.
I was so lost in the cloud I trudged through I didn’t even notice the squelching steps just behind me until Landon pushed against my shoulder as he passed me. “Hey!” I called, stumbling a little to the side.
He didn’t turn around or slow his pace.
Suddenly I was the one pushing, my hands shoving him from behind. Not hard, just enough to make him lose his step. He whirled around, his arms up. “Back off, Sneaks!”
“What is your problem?” I didn’t back off, but took a half step forward instead, so his nose was just a couple inches from mine. We were still the exact same size.
Landon tried to turn away from me, but I grabbed his shoulder. He shrugged off my hand but faced me again. “Are you serious?”
I shoved my hands in my pockets and breathed through my nose. “I didn’t do anything to you,” I said quietly. “Look, I’m sorry we don’t have the football team, but I didn’t—”
This time Landon stepped toward me. I backed up at the sight of his boiling face. “How can you say you didn’t do anything to me? You cost me everything. Everything!”
“You?” I yelled. “You? I lost my mom. I lost our team. I’m the loser here, not you.”
“You got that much right,” Landon spit. “You’re a freaking loser. At that championship game, I asked you all night what was wrong. You didn’t say a word. Then Micah’s bleeding, and you’re benched. Coach quits. Your mom … ”
“When do we get the part where I did something to you?”
“I LOST THEM, TOO!”
“Who?” I shouted back. “Who did you lose?”
“You! Your family!” Landon’s whole body shook. His head fell forward like it was on a hinge. And I remembered: Landon and I doing homework with Mom hovering behind us, a hand on each of our shoulders. Me, getting mad that Jeff threw the ball to Landon twice as much as me, and Jeff whispering that we’d get to play later, Landon only had then. Mom and Jeff’s voices hoarse from cheering when Landon scored touchdown after touchdown, more than making up for the empty seat on the bench for Landon’s mom. Landon chewing licorice and swapping stories with Glen at the Shop on Sundays. Landon running into the yard, whooping and waving a paper from the League, saying his football fee was waived thanks to a donation, and Jeff suddenly ducking inside the house.
And I remembered the times I had gone to Landon’s house, where it was so cold we wore our coats inside. Where even with the lights on, the rooms seemed dim. No one in Ashtown was rolling in cash, but Landon had it extra hard. All their savings dried up after his dad died, and his mom worked second shift, three in the afternoon to eleven at night, at the canning factory. She would leave a note with instructions to pick up his brother from the neighbors and warm up some soup for dinner, to give the baby a bath, and go to bed by nine. I remember when I figured out that meant Landon didn’t see his mom until the weekend, and not caring anymore that he leaned toward my mom like a sunflower to the light. I remembered the look in his eyes when Mom asked him to come to Jeff’s house after school, so she could spend time with the baby.
I wondered if Landon could see these memories flying by behind my eyes like a movie on fast forward because he stared at me, still just inches from my face. “You shut me out,” he said, much quieter. “I came to the Shop every day after school for a week. For a month.”
I squeezed shut my eyes trying not to remember, but seeing Landon, his baby brother on his hip, standing in the lobby. Me, curling in a corner of the Shop, bricked in with shame. Glen telling him I didn’t want to see anyone.
Landon pushed my should
er again, but much softer. More like a, “Hey, listen to me!” than a real shove. His voice cold as ice, Landon said, “It didn’t have to go that far. If you had just stood up. Not checked out. I would’ve gone with you to Coach. Did you know I went to the League? I asked them not to shut us down? If you had gone with me, explained things, maybe we would’ve had a chance. If you would’ve said sorry to Micah, maybe his mom would’ve backed off.
“You’re a coward.” Landon turned his back to me again. His bulky backpack knocked my chest. “You should’ve tried. You should’ve done something.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, but he already had disappeared in the fog.
Something he said floated back to me. I’m not sure what he said, but it sounded like, “I miss her, too.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jeff had said this Bucket Bear attention would die down after a few days, but it had been almost two weeks and we still had newscasters calling the house to interview me and half the school still laughed as I walked by. “Bucket Boy” was a common chant. Very creative. The other half—Bruins players and cheerleaders mostly—hissed or threw stuff. Oh, and the environmental group invited me to join their ranks. That wouldn’t have been so bad had they not been in the middle of a “natural cleansing” mission—which seemed to mean not washing at all. I didn’t want to subject my nostrils to that.
Even now, Mike, Landon, and a couple other Bruins meatheads leaned against the lockers across the hall, laughing too loudly to be saying anything nice and staring too hard for whatever they were saying to be about anyone but me.
“What’s with the white?” I asked Rina as she headed down the hall toward our lockers.
Rina looked like an angel sent from above after all of that, and not just because she wore a long white dress. Rina was usually decked out in head-to-toe black. She seemed especially tall, gliding the wrong way in a tide of orange and black.
She shrugged. “I wasn’t feeling too Bruins patriotic. Plus Micah’s coming over tonight, so I felt like dressing up a little. He makes a big deal out of stuff like me wearing dresses.” Rina’s cheeks shined a little.
I was going to say that she looked pretty, but I thought she’d deck me. “How is Micah?” I asked instead, suddenly not able to look up from the stuck zipper on my backpack. I put the bag on the ground and yanked at it.
“He’s fine.” She opened her locker and grabbed a couple books to transfer into her backpack. “Great, actually. I know he’d like to see you.”
My hand jerked so hard the zipper gave, and I fell back on my heels. “I doubt that.”
“No, really,” Rina said. “Micah … he’s not like the rest of us. Like, once we had this god-awful family reunion where Grandpa forgot his teeth, Uncle Harry popped the head off my little sister’s Barbie and made her cry, and my great-aunt Sally’s deviled eggs went bad and made everyone puke. Micah was sickest of us all. You know what he remembers about it?” Rina smiled. “That his hospital cot had wheels like a train.” She closed her locker. “He only remembers the good. All he talks about is how much fun he had with you and the rest of the guys last year.”
I piled my books on the ground outside my locker, sorting which to shove inside and which to take home. “I don’t know, Rina. The rest of us—your mom, for example—aren’t like that.”
Rina sighed, putting my math book back in my bag. “You’re going to need this. Quiz Monday, remember?” She waited until I looked up before continuing. “You could tell him you’re sorry. If you saw him, that is. Might be nice. You know, move on.” She held up her fairy tale book. “‘And they all lived happier ever after.’”
“Shouldn’t it be ‘happily ever after’?”
“Just being realistic.”
I shook my head. “You might be the smartest person I know,” I said as Rina’s mouth twitched, “but you’re pretty dumb sometimes. It’s a little late for happily ever after. Or happier.” I popped open my locker.
“Watch out!” Rina shouted.
But it was too late. A full bucket of orange energy drink tipped as I opened my locker door, straight down my head and soaking my body. The bucket, a metal gardening type, slammed into my head and hit the ground with a familiar-sounding clatter.
“Calm down,” said Rina, even though I hadn’t moved or spoken. She yanked a sweatshirt from the mountain of junk in her locker and patted my head with a sleeve. “Don’t go all Carrie on us.”
I stood in a puddle of orange, my hair dripping into my eyes, not moving, not speaking.
“The Carrie thing was a joke! Did—did they actually fill the bucket with blood, too?” gasped Rina, just as I realized what was streaming down my face was too warm and thick to be energy drink. It’s blood. The thought seemed separate than me, even as the red dripped down my forehead. It’s my blood.
“Oh, geez! Oh, crap!” Rina gasped. She pressed the sweatshirt against my head and turned toward the crowd gathered behind us. Funny, I hadn’t heard them, hadn’t heard anyone but Rina, until that moment.
Now they roared like a waterfall—laughing, hooting, chanting, “Bring back the Bruins!”—while I stood like a statue. Just as quick, I felt pain across the top of my head where the bucket hit, like someone held a flaming lighter against the skin.
“Somebody get help!” Rina screamed. I wobbled a little, sort of falling forward against the lockers. Rina wedged herself between me and the lockers, holding me upright and cradling my head with both hands. “Come on! Someone help him!” Slowly the buzz of the crowd simmered to a hiss.
Someone help him! I clenched shut my eyelids, but couldn’t block out another image. Micah, pale and whimpering, sprawled on his back in the grass. I tried to back up, but Rina wouldn’t let me go.
“It’s just Gatorade,” I heard Landon say as I sank to my knees. He was next to Rina, his face twisted. I slumped forward into him and Rina. The last thing I remember is the rush of feet as teachers ran toward me.
Just a concussion. Just.
That’s just what happened to Micah.
What was it with lying on a hospital cot that made me relive the worst memories? Because now, in the hospital, I closed my eyes and finally fully relived the championship game.
That day, I had been keeping my mouth shut about what had happened to Mom the night before.
Only Jeff knew, and he sat alone on the bleachers, not even looking at the game at all. Mom, who had been released from the state police barracks that morning, stayed curled in a ball in Jeff’s bedroom. I was hollow inside, nothing more than the helmet and pads and jersey. Landon kept asking what was up, why wasn’t I buzzing like everyone else. “This is the championships!” My best friend grabbed my shoulders and shook until my face made something like a smile.
I looked to the bleachers and saw the empty spot next to Jeff, where Mom was supposed to be. How could she do this to me?
Her face, a cartoon picture of shock with a circle mouth and backdrop of blue lights, flashed behind my closed eyes. Don’t tell them, Noah!
When she went to jail, what would happen to me? She was so selfish. So stupid. So weak. I tuned into Coach Abram’s orders, but I couldn’t shake the fury filling me.
I heard Coach Abrams giving Micah the okay to head out. We were so far ahead, it didn’t matter if the ball slipped through Micah’s slow-moving hands like it was greased. We’d still win. Micah needed Coach’s help getting his helmet on. His grin was so wide as he trotted out to the field that his mouthpiece kept falling out. He wasn’t nervous. Micah never worried about anything at all.
We were on the ten-yard line, poised for another touchdown. The crowd surged with applause as Micah turned and waved to them. Like a favorite pet doing a special trick. My thoughts were cruel. “Simple pitch play,” Coach shouted my way.
Focus! I took the snap and mimed handing the ball to Landon as he rammed his way down the line of scrimmage. Meanwhile, I tossed the ball to Micah, who was hovering just along the outside. He was supposed to cut down Landon’s pass
. It’s the only move he ever had to make. All he had to do is follow the plan. All he had to do is this one job. That’s it!
Mom’s job was to take care of me. (“Don’t tell them I was drinking, Noah!”)
But Micah just stood there, gaping around, doing nothing.
I should’ve stopped her. I should’ve been paying attention to her glassy eyes. I should’ve noticed her wine-stained lips. I should’ve heard the twang in her voice. I could’ve stopped her.
“Go!” I screamed to Micah. “Move! Do something!” But he stared around at the crowd, the ball barely held in limp fingers.
And I wasn’t planning on it. I wasn’t meaning to do it.
Yet, I was moving. I rushed him, about to rip the ball from his hands. My shoulder hit him from the front. The defensive tackle rammed him from behind. Crunch! Sweat flew from Micah onto my face. He pulled back on the ball and I yanked it free, slamming him again. Crunch! His cry was like a squeak. Micah’s helmet slammed against my shoulder gear. But I didn’t stop, I ran, knocking over everyone in my path. Stepping on them, over them. I was in the end zone—the quarterback—scoring the touchdown just as the buzzer rings.
No one cheered. No one moved. Because there was Micah, sprawled where I slammed into him. Not getting up. Not moving at all. Coach rushed toward him, shouting for an ambulance. Landon’s face twisted, looking at me like he didn’t know me. Like I was a monster. Jeff put his head in his hands. Micah’s mom sobbed on the field beside him.
And me, I stood alone.
I sat up on the edge of the hospital cot, waiting for Jeff to get there so we could go home. The nurses were too nice, pushing my hair back to look at my head, asking me if they could bring me a blanket or the remote for the television in the little curtained-off room I shared with an old man. Not sure why the old guy was in the emergency room, except that every now and then he’d moan and fart, making the room smell worse than the time the school cafeteria served roasted cauliflower.