We'll Fly Away

by Bryan Bliss

  “Annie, I didn’t say you were my girlfriend. That would be ridiculous.” He looked back at Luke and winked. “I said you were girlfriend material. That’s a compliment.”

  Annie grabbed him by the front of his shirt this time. Toby looked weightless in her grip. Luke couldn’t stop watching her.

  “You realize I could fold you up and put you in my pocket, right?” she said.

  That got some laughs. Enough that Luke stood up. It was one thing for Toby to get some needed humility. But this was quickly approaching humiliation. Luke waved his hand in her direction, hoping to make eye contact. The look she gave him was broken glass.

  “And who are you, the fucking bodyguard?”

  Luke opened his mouth, like he had something to say back to her. But he just stood there, frozen and stupid. She stared at Luke, finally determining that he was just as hopeless an idiot as Toby.

  “I am not your girlfriend,” Annie said, turning back to Toby. “Say it.”

  She made Toby repeat it back to her twice, because the first time was an unconvincing mumble. When appeased, she let go of him and—as if suddenly realizing she was in the middle of a crowded cafeteria—looked around, her eyes widening. She scuttled away from the table to a chorus of laughter and cheering. Toby sat down and gave Luke a look like “Whatcha gonna do?”

  Toby opened his milk without a word, downing the whole carton and wiping his mouth before he finally said, “That means she’s into me, right?”

  Luke knew he was kidding, but still.

  “She’ll kick your ass if you even glance in her direction. That’s the only message she was putting out.”

  Toby opened a second milk and shrugged.

  “Well, I’ve been through worse.”

  They didn’t say anything after that, the cafeteria like a wave of sound rising and falling every few seconds. Luke tried to focus on the carrots and celery he had on his plate. Eventually Toby cleared his throat and said, “Here’s the thing. I like me a powerful woman.”

  “God, you’re stupid. You know that, right?” Luke said, shaking his head. “Just plain old stupid.”

  Toby finished off the carton, smiling.

  The next time Luke saw Annie, she was climbing into a shitty compact car at the edge of the school parking lot. Luke was walking to the gym, and actually, he more heard her than saw her. The car sounded like a toy that needed a new battery, and her music—loud, aggressive rock—blared through the open windows. She nearly hit Ms. Hoffman, the ancient English teacher who once told Toby he was nothing when he got caught stealing chocolate milk. Not good for nothing, or even would amount to nothing. Just nothing. As if he was something too low to consider. It still rose up into Luke’s throat every time he saw her. Of course it slid right off Toby.

  Annie roared out of the parking lot, oblivious to Ms. Hoffman’s finger wagging. When she disappeared in the distance, Luke turned in to the gym.

  The freshmen were already rolling out the mats. Once they were taped and wiped down, the coaches would show up to unleash whatever hell was planned for the next two hours. And that was exactly what the coaches would call it—hell. They weren’t too far off. But Luke lost himself in the work, the fatigue. When the younger wrestlers complained, he stared. When they weren’t pushing themselves hard enough, he got in their faces. Coach O told them to leave everything they had on the mat—blood, sweat, all of it—and Luke treated it like gospel. He never left the room anything short of spent.

  The scale stood in the corner of the room, like a silent heckler. Luke ignored it and soon enough was deep in his warm-ups—somersaults, cartwheels, front handsprings—only stopping when Coach O came up beside him.

  “Simpson wants to challenge again today,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Anybody could challenge the A wrestler before the next meet. Tyler Simpson challenged Luke every week.

  “Okay,” Luke said, rolling his neck. He knew the next question would be “How’s the cut?” So he asked, “Is anybody else challenging?”

  Coach O pulled out a well-worn mini notebook from the pocket of his T-shirt and flipped pages until he found the right one.

  “Carter at 106. Phan at 132. Simpson, like I said. And then Fisher at heavyweight.”

  At an actual meet, Luke’s routine began as soon as the 126s started—slowly transforming into a workout probably more vigorous than his coach liked. The object was to hit that mat just as everything in his body really got firing. To drop the jump rope and sprint onto the mat, ready to go.

  For a guy like Simpson—a fellow senior who’d been stuck behind Luke for three years—he could go half speed if he wanted. Last week Luke had pinned him in a matter of seconds. Picked the ankle and boom, it was over. This was the first year they would’ve actually been in different weight classes, had Luke decided not to cut. When Simpson first heard, he lost it. Even had his dad up at the school, complaining to Coach O. The answer they got was the same as it had always been in the wrestling room: work harder and win.

  To make things worse, he had history with Toby.

  Tyler was Patty’s brother, a girl who’d nearly gotten Toby killed last summer. They’d met at the pool and maybe it was the sun, the heat, but she had invited Toby to her house. The way Toby told it, he was in Patty Simpson’s bed—itself inconceivable to Luke—with his pants half off when her father came home and Toby went for the window. Thinking about Toby running bare-assed through the street cracked Luke up, true or not.

  How Tyler found out, Luke couldn’t say. But Toby never had a problem reminding him.

  “You still over?” Coach O asked.

  Luke nodded.

  He didn’t look at Coach as he slipped to the mat, feigning a single leg and then immediately spinning, ready to break his opponent down. Every movement fluid, practiced. When he was back on his feet, Coach O put a hand on his shoulder and said, “You can go 182 for this meet. Call it a tune-up for Herrera.”

  “But how would that make Tyler feel?” Luke said, and Coach O smiled uneasily.

  They’d spent the preseason slowly bringing his weight down, cutting pound by pound until he was light enough to be pushed around by even marginal 182-pounders. He was supposed to be at 170 by now, one match before Herrera. That was the tune-up. Take down whatever fish Bunker Hill put in front of him, just like he’d planned.

  “I’ll make weight,” Luke said.

  “How’s everything else?” Coach asked.

  He was always having Luke over for dinner. Always springing for new wrestling shoes, even as Luke outgrew two pairs in one season. And when Luke needed money to pay the electric bill last year, after days calling it “camping” so the twins wouldn’t worry, Coach paid it without question. If Luke had to count the truly decent people in his life, it would be a short list. And Coach O would top it.

  “They want me to come visit Iowa,” Luke said. “After Herrera.”

  “You should,” he said. “You’re going to be living there for the next four years. I can help you get up there, if you want.”

  Luke nodded, but the trip wasn’t likely. He could barely rely on his mom long enough to get to practices and meets, let alone a trip to a state that seemed halfway around the world. Besides, what would they show him? Yes, Iowa had a great wrestling team. And yes, Luke was excited to keep wrestling—to see how far he could go. But he didn’t need to see the facilities. He didn’t need a free T-shirt or a night out with the team. All he needed to know was that he and Toby would have a place to go once they stepped off that graduation stage in May.

  Coach stood there a few more seconds before popping Luke on the shoulder.

  “Take it easy on Simpson,” he said. “And don’t worry about the scale. Got me?”

  Thirty minutes later, Luke was standing in the middle of the mat, ready. He cleared his mind and dropped his hands—loose, low—and as soon as the coach’s whistle rang out, he smiled.

  Simpson stalked toward Luke, hoping for a tie-up. Before he could do anything, Luke snapped him down
to the mat. The rest of the team was trying to hide their laughter as Simpson got up, wiping his nose and looking for blood. Once he was close, he shot for Luke’s legs. Luke saw it coming—let it happen, even—and sprawled back effortlessly, pushing Tyler’s face hard into the mat.

  Luke barely heard the yelling, the way Coach O shouted instructions to Simpson—to do anything besides sit there as Luke spun around him for two points. He snaked an arm under Tyler’s head, wrapped up one of his legs. All he needed to do was shift his weight and sink the half nelson.

  Seconds later, Coach slapped the mat.

  Simpson went stomping out of the wrestling room, something that happened often after a challenge. Coach O never said a word about it, because that meant they were competing. So nobody thought anything of it when the first sounds came from the hallway—like a stack of lunchroom trays falling to the ground. It was Simpson dealing. But the clattering kept on, followed soon enough by two voices yelling.

  Luke didn’t rush toward the sound with the rest of the team. He dropped down and started doing push-ups, trying to keep these hours holy. Then Fisher yelled for him. Luke reluctantly stood up and walked into the hallway.

  He didn’t quite register what was happening when he first saw Simpson pointing his finger past the two teammates who were holding him back. And there was Toby, leaning against the wall and holding his eye, wearing a stubborn smile Luke’d seen on his face a hundred times.

  “You want your ass kicked a second time?” Luke yelled, trying to push through the crowd. Fisher grabbed him at the last second. But Luke didn’t want to be held back. He wasn’t trying to put on a show for anyone. If you messed with Toby, Luke came for you.

  Tyler didn’t back down. “I’m so sick of his shit.”

  Luke broke away from Fisher and went straight for Simpson. Coach O stepped through the crowd and grabbed him. The man was old enough to be Luke’s grandfather, but Luke couldn’t move once Coach pinned him to the wall.

  “Enough. Everybody back in the room.”

  The rest of the team slowly started moving, but Luke’s brain was cooked. All he wanted to do was make Tyler Simpson hurt, a kind of singular purpose that he rarely felt outside the mat. Of course, when he was wrestling, it was never about causing pain—only winning. This was different.

  Coach O got in Luke’s ear.

  “Get back in that damn room. Right now.” Any other kid, any other day, and that would’ve been enough. Luke tried to take another step as Simpson slipped past. Coach pinned him even harder. “I swear you’ll never wrestle in this school again. State champion or not.”

  Coach had a reputation for two things. You worked your ass off in class and on the mat. And if he made you a promise, he kept it. Luke knew this better than anyone. After his freshman season, Coach had pulled Luke out of the hallway and taken him to the teacher’s lounge. For a long time, Coach O had sat there, working a toothpick from side to side in his mouth, not talking. And then all of a sudden, he’d said, “Do you want to go to college?”

  Luke hadn’t thought about it before. College was a vague thing, a concept he understood but couldn’t visualize in any concrete way. Did he want to go to college?

  “I guess.”

  Coach pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at Luke, eyes hard.

  “You guess? Son, do you want it or not?”

  He made Luke say exactly what he wanted—to leave. Or to be more precise: to escape. It was the first time Luke had really said those words. With Toby, it was a shapeless dream. But once Luke said it, it felt real for the first time. And every moment from then on—whenever Luke started to stray in school or in practice—Coach O would remind him of the promise he’d made.

  Coach stared Luke in the eye. “Are you going to end this or am I?”

  Luke nodded, but Coach wouldn’t budge. “I need you to say it, son.”

  “It’s done,” Luke said.

  Coach held him against the wall a second longer before finally letting him go.

  They ran the rest of practice, until nearly everybody in the room had either puked or seriously considered the possibility. When Luke tried to throw up, nothing came. He heaved in the corner, his entire body trying to expel something invisible inside him. When he stood up to keep running—one of the assistants told him to take it easy—his legs wobbled. But hell if he was going to stop. He pushed back to the front of the group as they circled the mats again and again and again.

  “I won’t tolerate bullshit,” Coach said. “I don’t care what somebody says to you or about you. You. Walk. Away. You are disciplined. You are machines. Do you understand me?”

  Luke was the loudest voice in the room.

  As soon as Coach blew the whistle, Tyler ran to the locker room. Luke sat in the corner, sipping water and trying to will his body up. Before he could move, Coach O came over and sat next to him, mopping his own forehead with a damp towel. They both stared at the room silently.

  “Listen, I get it,” Coach O said. “Simpson can be a little prick sometimes. But . . .”

  Luke started taking off his shoes as Coach O searched for words. Luke could finish the sentence. But . . . there’s so much riding on this year . . . don’t let people make decisions for you . . . you have a special gift.

  “Sometimes you have to let people fight their own battles. I know you and that kid Toby are close, but you aren’t doing him any favors by stepping up to every guy who wants some.”

  Luke leaned forward, once again feeling like he was going to throw up. Like everybody, Coach only saw one part of the story. And Luke had stopped trying to fill them in a long time ago. He nodded and went to stand. Coach stopped him.

  “You understand what I’m saying? You can’t protect him from everything.”

  Luke forced a smile. “Like you said, Simpson’s a prick. I won’t let it happen again.”

  Coach O hesitated. “If you need something, let me know. Okay?”

  When Luke went into the hallway, Toby was still leaning up against the wall. That same shit-eating grin on his face.

  “I really, really hate that guy,” Toby said, pulling tissue from his nose. The blood was dry, almost gone.

  “Just ignore him,” Luke said. “And try to stop being an asshole.”

  Toby looked offended.

  “He grabbed himself and told me to use my mouth for something useful,” Toby said. “I told him I’d stick with his sister.”

  It took a second, but they both laughed. It was enough to make Simpson come after him, sure. But something didn’t add up. Throwing a punch—or a few, if Tyler’s face was evidence—wasn’t Toby’s style. He didn’t mix it up, especially with a guy Tyler’s size.

  “What else happened?”

  Toby tried to laugh off the question, the concern. Normally, that would be enough for Luke to let it go. They both had enough embarrassments; not everything needed calling out. But the longer they stood in the hallway, the more Luke saw past Toby’s I-couldn’t-give-a-damn attitude. Something panicky and feral pulsed underneath every word, every subtle movement. Luke had seen Toby this way too many times to ignore it.

  “You don’t look okay,” he finally said.

  “Shit, man.” Toby didn’t say anything else for a second. But then he looked Luke in the eye and sighed. “When I punched him back, he laughed and said he thought my dad would’ve taught me better. Happy?”

  All the anger, all the rage came flying back. Every piece of dynamite in his body told him to run to Deerfield, where Tyler lived. To pull him out of his house and beat the ever-living shit out of him until he cried, until he couldn’t cry anymore, because Luke was sure that was the only thing that would make this feeling go away.

  4

  TOBY followed Luke outside in the cold, trying not to think about his throbbing lip, or the way Tyler had smiled—like he knew exactly how to hurt him. It wasn’t even the words that shook Toby now as much as his own reaction. Fists flying without a second thought. His dad’s blood, ris
ing up.

  So instead he focused on Annie. That denim jacket, the T-shirt for an obscure band (at least he thought it was a band) he’d never heard of before. The way she stomped through the hallways. And not least of all, the fuck-off eyes she painted on with thick black mascara. Every single part of her cut through his body like a hot bullet.

  That’s why he went to talk to her, why he had told Terrence Guthrie that he needed to meet that girl. Of course, that’s where he should’ve stopped, should have never mentioned anything about girlfriend material. So when she had grabbed him by the collar at lunch—he swore he could still feel the material bunched between her fists—something inside him had been altered.

  “Oh, shit,” Luke said, under his breath.

  Toby barely had time to look when he heard a familiar whistle. And then his dad’s voice, calling out to the new Spanish teacher, a pretty woman who’d almost made Toby toss three years of French in the shitter so he could be in her class. Luckily, she was too close to her car for his dad to offer anything beyond the catcall.

  “You okay?” Luke asked.

  “Yeah,” Toby said, watching his dad walk toward them with his arms spread wide. Like he wanted a hug. Jimmy was thin, but put together like wire cable. The kind of guy who would still be smiling as he punched you, as he went for your throat. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag before saying, “What the hell happened to your face?”

  “I got into it with somebody,” Toby said.

  “Well, I hope he looks worse than you do,” he said. Jimmy faked a punch at Luke. “Damn, son. Look at you. Like a brick fucking wall.”

  When Toby was a kid, he had assumed everybody lived the way they did. Moving from house to house, once even staying in a cheap motel for a few months. The room had HBO and marked the first time Toby saw a naked woman, a late-night soft-core experience after his father had passed out on the bed next to him, both of them surrounded by empty boxes from the five-dollar pizzas they’d been eating for every meal. There was a sense of adventure in the constant moving, the transient life they led. Toby couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it, if only because he didn’t know any better. For the last five years, they’d been in the same single-wide, the result of a landlord who owed Jimmy something.