by A. L. Priest
Text copyright © 2014 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Priest, A.L.
Breakthrough / by A.L. Priest.
pages cm — (The red zone; #2)
Summary: “One of them is a natural athlete with no football experience. The other is a football obsessive with no skill. Between these Trojans, there’s one amazing player--but how will they put their talents together?”—Provided by publisher.
ISBN 978–1–4677–2131–8 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)
ISBN 978–1–4677–4650–2 (ebook)
[1. Football—Fiction. 2. High schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J152427Br 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013048813
Manufactured in the United States of America
1 – SB – 7/15/14
eISBN: 978-1-46774-650-2 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-46777-415-4 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-46777-416-1 (mobi)
1/MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9—THE MORNING OF EFRAM’S FIRST DAY AT TROY CENTRAL
It’s one thousand five hundred and eighty-nine miles to Blink, Arizona, Efram thought. But it seems like a world away. All my friends are gone.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder, grabbed the last piece of toast from his plate, kissed his mom goodbye, and went out into the morning light.
His mother placed the plates from their breakfast in the kitchen sink and followed him. As Efram retrieved his mountain bike from the garage, Lillian James called out to her son from the front stoop.
“Wear your helmet!” she said.
“It’s just five miles, Mom.”
“People in this town drive crazy,” she said. She looked up and down the street as if an out-of-control car was going to careen down the block and flatten her son. “Wear it.”
“All right, all right,” Efram said.
“Just because you’re as big as a rhinoceros now doesn’t mean a car can’t kill you,” she said.
“I’m gonna look ridiculous the very first day of school. It’s bad enough we moved here after classes had already started.”
“You’d look more ridiculous dead.” She raised her arms and moaned like a zombie.
“Please, Mom,” Efram said. “Please stop. You’re embarrassing me.”
She looked around. “How can you be embarrassed when there’s no one else around?”
“It’s easy when you act like that.”
“Har de har har. That’s so funny I forgot to laugh,” she said.
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“No,” she said, smiling. “No, you’re not. You’re a giant.”
Efram jogged back inside the house, nabbed the helmet from the front hall closet, and dashed back out to the lawn. He stooped to give his mom another kiss on the cheek as he passed and then fastened the helmet around his chin. There was no arguing with Mom when it came to safety. She was safety crazy.
“It’s first day of school, Efram,” his mom said. “Remember, the impressions you make today will follow you for the rest of the year.”
“Let me put on my tuxedo,” he responded.
“I’m talking about attitude!” she said.
He swung his leg over the seat of his new bike. The largest one the local bike store had had and the only luxury his mother allowed him since their move to Troy, Ohio.
Cycling was the perfect time for Efram to think. Something about the pumping of his legs, the speed, put him in a pensive mood. He took out his iPhone and queued up Brilliant Miscreants, his favorite band. When the pulsing rhythms and electric guitars filled his head, he was ready to ride.
The only good thing about divorced parents is my iPhone, Efram thought. He shoved off and began pedaling.
The move across country had been hard at first. The seasons were different in Ohio. All this greenery was absolutely murderous—trees, shrubs, and grasses that wanted to kill him with their pollen. His mother had forced him to go to the doctor, who prescribed some sort of antihistamine. Mesas in the New Mexico desert had been dry and clean. The air was fresh and devoid of tree gunk. When Efram had hiked or cycled or rock-climbed, the light was almost hypnotizing.
And all my friends are there, he thought.
He was sweating heavily when he arrived at Troy Central. The impressions you make today will follow you for the rest of the year. Those words echoed in his head as he removed the bicycle helmet, tried to un-mess his helmet hair, and locked up his bike at the rack in front of the school.
A group of teens watched him from the shade of a massive oak tree. One of the girls giggled as he fumbled taking off his bike’s seat.
Realizing his earbuds were still in blasting Brilliant Miscreants, he unkeyed his iPhone, turned off the music, and looked at the time.
It was eight o’clock on his first day of school.
Efram James took a deep breath, held it, and then walked up the front steps. He pulled open one of the front doors and walked into Troy Central High School.
2/MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9—FIRST DAY AT TROY CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL
The hallways were a riot of sound and color as students made their way to their classrooms. Boys joked and play-fought, throwing punches at shoulders. Girls chatted loudly, checked their phones one last time before class, and gave boys side-glances. Teachers stood by the doors to their classrooms, greeting their students.
Efram found his locker easily enough and twisted the combination lock until it opened. He dug in his backpack and withdrew the class schedule the school administration had e-mailed him the previous week. It read ENGL 8AM – J. RECTOR – RM 143.
Efram pushed his way through the crowds, looking at room numbers. Many kids glanced at him, noting his size.
Distracted, he didn’t notice the man until he was right upon him.
“A hoss, son,” the man said. “An absolute hoss.”
He was a tight, compact man. Very hairy with a thick neck. He had one of those tightly groomed beards that looked like it took a lot of effort to maintain.
“What?” Efram said, staring at the man. The man stood in the middle of the hall, directly in Efram’s path. He had his hands on his hips, one hand clutching a clipboard full of paper. He studied Efram like a butcher looking at a side of beef.
“You,” the man said. “You are a hoss. You play sports?”
The conversation was moving faster than Efram was prepared for. Kids passed on both sides of him. Efram was very conscious of the fact that they were looking at him. Smiling. Some of the girls covered their mouths. Efram couldn’t be sure, but he had the impression that they might be giggling at him.
“Sports?”
“Yeah, son. Sports. You know, football? Basketball?”
“Back home I hiked. Climbed,” Efram answered.
“Climbed? The walls?” the man asked.
Efram noticed the man had a whistle on a lanyard around h
is neck. His sweatshirt had the plumed helmet logo of the Trojans.
“No. Rock climbing. And I cycle a lot.”
“Tricycle?”
“Bicycling.”
“So, what?” the man asked. “You’re a hippy? You’re only into granola sports?”
“Granola sports? I don’t understand …”
“Listen, hoss. Around here, there’s only one game and that’s football. Understand? And you were born to play it. I want you to come out for the team.”
Efram thought about his mother. His head filled with all the things she might say about his safety.
“I don’t know, sir,” he said. “My mom is kinda safety conscious. She thinks football is dangerous.”
“Heck yes it is, son. And it’ll be even more dangerous once we get you out on the field. What’s your name?”
“Efram.”
“Efram what?”
“Efram James, sir.”
“All right, Efram James. I want you to try out for our team. As big as you are, you’ll be able to do whatever you want to do on the field. That’s if you can move, too. And I imagine …” He looked at Efram’s clothes, his shoes. “You give me a hundred and ten percent for the next couple of years, you’ll be able to go to any college you want on scholarship. How’s that sound?”
Efram thought about the move to Troy, his mother, and her coupon clippings. He looked down at his clothes—secondhand, bought at Savers. His mother had told him that they couldn’t afford new clothes during his growth spurt. So while his body was trying to sort out how big he was actually going to get, he would have to be content with used clothes.
“OK,” he said. “I’ll talk to her.”
“You do that, son.” The man grinned and stuck out his hand. Efram took it. It was small in Efram’s palm, but strong, anyway, and calloused.
“I’m Coach Zachary,” the man said. “I’ll expect you out on the field tomorrow, right after school.” He whipped the clipboard around, yanked a bunch of sheets of paper out, and shoved them at Efram. “Here’s the permission forms and liability waiver. It’s required. You get her to sign, and we’ll be rolling.”
At that, Coach Zachary stomped off down the hall, looking for someone else to recruit.
A bell rang, and the halls cleared of people. A small, wiry kid, dark skinned with a ’fro cut in a mohawk leaned against the lockers. He was wearing a Trigger Disciples T-shirt.
“New here, huh?” he said. “I see you’ve met Sportsball.”
“Who?”
“Coach Zachary.” The kid smiled and then said in a mock announcer’s voice, “Sportsball!”
Efram laughed.
“What class are you headed to?” the boy asked.
“English. Rector.”
“Ah, Mr. Rectum. Me too. Right this way.”
“I’m Efram,” Efram said.
“Just Efram?” the boy said, giving Efram a mischievous smile.
“Efram James,” he replied.
“I know.”
“You were listening.”
“Yep. It’s a bad habit I have,” he said. He stopped and extended his hand in much the same way that Head Coach Zachary had. “My name’s Flick Washington … hoss.”
“What exactly is a hoss?” Efram asked.
“Search me. But apparently you are one.”
“Great.”
“Here we are,” Flick said, gesturing at a door. “Mr. Rectum’s English class. I advise you to turn off your phone. He will absolutely flip out on you if it makes one bleep or bloop.”
Efram silenced his phone.
“You ready, Efram?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, let’s go learn some English stuff,” Flick said, sweeping his arm as if he were a butler inviting a guest into a mansion.
3/MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9—TROY CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL
Efram’s first day of school went by fast. During the course of his eight periods, he shared three classes with Flick. When the eighth period bell rang in Ms. Shapiro’s Algebra class, Flick gestured for Efram to join him in the hall.
“Don’t leave anything valuable in your locker, Efram,” he said. “’Specially your phone. Some of the nerds learned how to hack the combination locks, and they’ll clear you out of everything before you know it.”
Though Flick was small, he walked with a supreme confidence. He had none of the tentativeness that Efram had noticed with other kids who came late to puberty.
“You’re saying Troy’s got a gang of nerd criminals wandering the halls?” Efram asked.
“Pretty much.” Flick leaned in, so Efram had to lower his head. “They’re everywhere,” he whispered.
Efram laughed, and Flick joined in.
It was one thing to be thousands of miles away from home. It was another to be thousands of miles away from your friends. But there was something familiar to Flick that Efram liked. All of Efram’s friends in Blink, Arizona, had their quirks. Flick would have fit right in among them.
The two boys were different, sure. Flick was undersized, and Efram was gigantic. There was the obvious racial difference. Flick was black, and Efram was white. But as slow as Efram felt in this new environment, he realized how much he valued the differences between him and Flick. Or between himself and his old friends. And maybe that’s what he missed most about Arizona. The diversity.
“What’s your phone number?” Efram asked Flick. Flick told him, and both guys put down the contact info into their phones. Efram went to collect his bike as the throngs of teens exited the Troy Central building. Some got in cars, some made their way to the buses.
Flick walked with him. “You rode?”
“Yep,” Efram said, unlocking his mountain bike. Flick wandered down the bike rack until he reached an evil-looking BMX bike. Its frame was littered with stickers and caked with mud.
“Where you headed?” Flick asked.
“That way,” Efram waved his hand in the direction of home. “Fabulous Shamrock Drive.”
“Hey, man, watch it,” Flick said, grinning. “I live two blocks away from there. Don’t diss my turf.”
They rode off together, toward home. “So, where’d you get the black name?”
“What do you mean, black name?”
“Efram,” Flick said. “It’s a great name for a football player, but it’s typically attached to someone with darker skin.”
“Where’d you get a name like Flick?” Efram asked.
“Folks just started calling me that. I liked it better than my other one.”
“Which is?”
“Efram.”
They laughed again.
“No, really,” Efram said.
“I tell you, you won’t laugh,” Flick said.
“’Course not.”
“George Frederick Washington.”
Efram blinked. “George Washington?” he asked.
“You make fun of my name, I will drop you,” the small boy said, looking up at him.
“I can see why you went with Flick,” Efram said.
They rode on until Efram said, “Mine’s a family name. Jewish, I think.”
“Huh,” Flick said. “You Jewish?”
“I guess. Partially. Not really anything, I guess,” Efram said. Flick let the subject drop.
“You play Trigger Disciples?” Efram asked.
Flick brightened. “Of course, man.”
“Well, holler at me. My tag is EframJames.”
“You play PC or console?”
Efram was a little taken aback by the question. “Does it matter?”
“Console players are at a disadvantage. Not as accurate or fast as a player with a mouse and keyboard.”
“Oh.”
“That’s cool, man,” Flick said, nodding his head. “Just means more headshots for me.”
They rode on, chatting about music and video games. Eventually Flick came to a side street, Castleview Road.
“This is me, man,” he said. “You wanna come over? We can
hang out.”
“Can’t today. I gotta go have a conversation with my mom.”
The expression on Flick’s face was unreadable. “About football.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah. She hates violent sports.”
“You think she’ll let you play?”
“I don’t know. That thing the coach said about scholarships …” Efram trailed off. “Money’s tight around our house right now.”
Flick nodded, looking sympathetic.
“But I’ll meet you here tomorrow,” Efram said. “We can ride to school together.”
Flick smiled. “Sounds good, hoss.”
“Wish I knew what a hoss was.”
“It’s you, hoss-man.”
“Very funny.”
Flick held out his hand, open faced. Efram slapped it.
“Toodles, dudels,” Flick said. He turned, popped a wheelie, and rode off.
4/MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 9—EFRAM’S FIRST DAY AT TROY CENTRAL HIGH SCHOOL
“Absolutely not! It’s too dangerous!” Efram’s mother said.
“I’ll be wearing pads and a helmet,” he replied. “Just like when I ride my bike.”
His mother shook her head. Efram had waited until after they’d had dinner to bring up the subject of playing football. His mother was often in a better mood then.
“It’s a war game,” she said. “For people who can’t use their hands or brains.”
“Mom, it’s a game!” Efram said, carefully. “Football is just a game. A game. Might be rough, but look at me.” He patted his chest. “What else am I going to do? There aren’t any mesas here for me to climb.”
She rose from where they sat at the kitchen table and went into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of box wine.
“It’s stupid. Men hitting each other in pads,” she said as she returned. She looked at the liability waiver. “If it weren’t dangerous, they wouldn’t ask me to sign this sheet of paper.”
“Everything’s dangerous. But I’m strong. I’m fast. I’m big,” he said. “And I’m not stupid. I’ll be able to protect myself.”
“No,” she said, but the tone in her voice faltered.
“Mom,” Efram said. “Coach Zachary said that if I give him a hundred and ten percent for the next two years, I’ll probably be able to go to any school I want on a scholarship.”