by Tim Green
Mak stopped his bike at the light in the center of town and looked over at Brock. “But don’t start that kissy face stuff. That is not the way to help the situation. Just be her friend. Get the mom to love you. You’re in a great spot, my friend. You’ve got a path to the top unlike any new kid I’ve ever seen, especially from the Flatlands.”
The light changed and they crossed Main Street on their way to the bridge.
Brock grumbled under his breath. “Kissy face.”
Mak glanced over and must have heard him. “Don’t think you can fool me. I see the way you look at her and I see the way she looks at you.”
Brock pretended disgust, but inside, his heart seemed to spin.
56
Dinner at Laurel’s was a huge success.
Mak couldn’t make it because he had to watch his little sister.
Brock secretly watched his father and Laurel’s mother. They sat close to each other at dinner, on the terrace, and then they took a boat ride alone up the river with the captain silently piloting from the front. Brock and Laurel watched the boat pull away and disappear into the night and Brock thought he just might have seen his father lean toward her mother in the backseat to kiss, although he couldn’t be sure.
Brock and Laurel stood on the grass, cool now in the dark. The moon was settling into the treetops and had decorated the water with bright flickering ghosts.
“It’s so . . . beautiful, right?” Laurel took his hand.
Brock stiffened, thinking of Mak’s words.
Laurel led him to a pair of low chairs on a tuft that jutted out over the riverbank and kept his hand as they sat to watch the light show.
Brock cleared his throat. “Mak says you gotta focus on football if you want to be first team.”
Laurel’s laughter danced out across the water, mixing with the moonlight. “Have you not noticed that Mak doesn’t take his football equipment off?”
“He ate a piece of toast through his face mask this morning.” Brock tried to hold back his laughter, but it squeaked loose and they giggled together.
“I love Mak, though.” Brock sniffed.
They sat quiet for a long time and Brock realized he could no longer hear the chug of the boat motor. “How far can you go up the river?”
“There are locks all the way up to Coshocton. That’s where the river starts.” She laughed. “They could be gone all night.”
“They won’t be gone all night.” Brock didn’t know why he said that.
“I know. I’m just saying, the Muskingum River used to be a major waterway and they kept the locks operational ever since.”
They sat quiet again.
“I think they like each other.” The words jumped from Brock’s mouth without a thought.
“I haven’t seen my mom like this before. Ever. Not even with my dad.”
“They don’t even know each other that well.” Brock wanted his heart to settle.
“I think people like you and people like us . . . they just sense something about one another.” She took a breath. “Good people. That’s all. People who care. People who are kind.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you. You’re the ones who appeared out of nowhere.”
Brock thought about that and he wondered if they ever could become part of another family, let alone part of a community, because . . . if that happened, didn’t you have to tell people about your past? Could you ever really be close with someone and not tell them who you really were, where you’re really from? But then, Laurel hadn’t questioned him anymore about being spooked on the street by the man who looked like Boudantsev.
Maybe people could just cut off their past life and start new.
“So,” she said, “did you start The Fault in Our Stars?”
“I’m almost done with The Titan’s Curse.”
“But you’ll start it before you finish the series, right?”
“I will,” he said, still thinking of Mak’s warnings. “Tonight.”
“Good. Are you worried about school?” she asked. “Everything is so new, I mean.”
“No.” Brock couldn’t help a small laugh. He ached to tell her how many times he’d started at a new school, sometimes twice in one year, and once, three times.
“Yeah,” she said, “you know all the football players already.”
“Not so much.” Brock didn’t want to get into how isolated he felt, but he didn’t want to exaggerate his acceptance into the team either. “Not everyone’s like you.”
“How are they not like me?” She lowered her voice to a raspy whisper and her eyes glimmered at him, stealing his breath.
“You’re just . . . ,” he said in a hushed voice. “So nice.”
That’s when she leaned over and kissed him.
57
The next morning Brock’s eyes shot open, the way they always did on the first day of school. When Mak rode up to Brock’s house so they could bike to school together, Brock didn’t recognize him. Mak’s blond hair was combed over, greased down with some kind of gel, and split by a part so perfect it looked like a crease in his skull. He also wore a stiffly starched white dress shirt with a red bowtie.
“Holy moly.” Brock could only stare at the tie.
“Yeah.” Mak tugged at his shirt collar. “My mom did this. See, my dad says you always let a woman dress you, unless you got style yourself, and my dad says if you don’t know the answer to whether or not you got style, then you already got your answer.”
Mak looked down. He couldn’t see the tie beneath his chin, but he made an effort to straighten it anyway.
“And your hair.” Brock smoothed his own hair down, feeling a bit sloppy.
Mak looked up at the hair he couldn’t see. “I know, but my dad says the first impression is the one that lasts forever.”
Brock thought about Mak riding down his street a few weeks ago, weighted down by his football gear, and crashing his bike. “Your dad’s right. Come on. Let’s get going, or we’ll be late.”
Brock kept his eyes roving wherever he went. He remembered the last new school he went to and a wild kid named Nagel who picked a fight with him on the first day. Even though they’d eventually become friends, Brock didn’t forget the lesson of being ready for anything.
It was odd to see teammates whose faces he’d grown familiar with. They all looked different without their helmets or their hair matted down from sweat. Many acted different too. Declan Carey, a big offensive lineman who snarled and snorted on the field, was soft-spoken and polite. Brady Calenzo, the team’s running back who laughed like a madman and chattered throughout practice, insulting anyone who tried to tackle him, kept his nose in a book and was so shy that he didn’t seem to talk to anyone.
Brock had science class with Laurel, but that was it, and he saw her very little in school. Thankfully, Mak was in his lunch as well as gym, English, and math classes. It was weird for Brock all day, seeing Mak in regular clothes with no helmet on his head. He got used to it by the end of the day, though, and he got along with the other students better than he normally did the first day at a new school.
After science class, he didn’t see Laurel again until after football practice, in the evening. They all had dinner together before the parents took another boat ride. When they were alone, Laurel wasted no time at all asking him how he liked The Fault in Our Stars.
“I like it okay.” Brock tried hard to sound enthusiastic.
“What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”
The two of them were down at the boathouse, dangling their feet off the end of the dock.
“I feel like it’s gonna be sad.” He looked off at the trees over the water.
“Well.” She paused for a minute. “Life is sad when it ends, and it always ends.”
“There’s no sports in it,” Brock said. “I like sports.”
“He used to be a basketball player.” She sounded hopeful.
“Sports action.”
“Oh.”
> Brock looked over. He knew he’d disappointed her, but he thought it was important to be honest. He held out a fist. “Opposites?”
She smiled, then looked at him and he felt the pull of those pretty blue eyes, and bumped his fist. “Attract.”
“Because my dad always says if you don’t love a book, you shouldn’t force yourself to read it.”
“That sounds okay to me. Maybe one day.” She sounded disappointed, but soft-punched his shoulder anyway.
What he didn’t tell her was that when the girl in the book started to like the guy, the whole thing just freaked him out. Exactly why, he didn’t know. Maybe it was because of the way he felt about her, and that she’d kissed him. He felt like reading the book she’d given him would just take him that much farther into the uncharted territory he was afraid of. Also, he’d rather read about spies, pitchers, or alien worlds, places he’d want to be if he could. His own life felt difficult enough without diving into the world of a book that had even more problems.
58
There weren’t too many nights when they didn’t have dinner at the mansion on the river, and it was pleasant for Brock—who still suffered under Coach Van Kuffler’s mistreatment—to plan his football breakthrough once his dad and Laurel’s mom solidified their relationship.
Brock wasn’t quite certain what that meant, or exactly how it would happen, but he felt he’d know when it did. He’d heard of people getting married just months—or even weeks—after they first met, but he didn’t need all that. A simple commitment between them—announcing that they were a couple—was all Brock was waiting for. When that happened, he was going to go right to Laurel’s mom with his problem. It made him giddy to think of her watching his practices day after day from the bleachers and the blowout she’d have with Coach Van Kuffler who would retreat from her vigilance and her wrath like a wounded rat . . . maybe a chipmunk.
Brock wanted to be a football player. Mak was right. He wanted to fit in at Calhoun. He also wanted to win the affections of Laurel, and for that matter everyone around him. Still, he only wanted football the way you might want to win a really good door prize, something like a signed Peyton Manning jersey or an Xbox. When he and his dad went with Laurel and her mom to watch Taylor’s game on Friday night at the Calhoun High School stadium, though, that all changed.
Traffic was thick through town, but when they got to the high school, Laurel’s mom showed a special pass and the policeman let them go straight while all the other traffic had to take a right into the fields of parked cars. Brock didn’t know if it was because she was the president of the Mom’s Club, or that her son was the starting QB, or just because she was so rich, but whatever the reason, they parked right up next to the stadium in an empty spot. Brock’s dad raised an eyebrow at Brock, but said nothing. Parked cars stretched as far as Brock could see, most of them bursting with families decked out in green and gold, many flying Crab Nation flags from folding chairs, and cooking burgers or dogs on mini grills. They too wore green and gold. Laurel and her mom had number seven jerseys—replicas of Taylor’s, and Brock and his dad had Calhoun Fighting Crabs T-shirts. It was a carnival.
Inside the stadium, only half the seats were full, but people started streaming in for real as the Calhoun Fighting Crabs took the field for warm-ups. The crowd cheered at the very sight of them. When Moravia’s varsity came out wearing visitors’ white jerseys with touches of dark blue and gold, the crowd booed like they were villains. Only a small slice of blue and gold in the visitors’ end zone tried to overcome the boos with cheers.
“How many people does this place hold?” Brock’s dad asked Laurel’s mom.
She waved a hand through the air in an offhanded way. “I think twelve thousand. Isn’t it twelve, Laurel?”
“I think so, Mom.” Laurel took Brock’s arm as they weaved their way through the throng, up the middle of the bleachers to their seats on the fifty-yard line.
All around, Brock could feel people’s eyes on them. He didn’t know if it was just because of Laurel’s mom and who she was, or if it was Laurel’s mom and who they were, the new kid and his dad from the Flatlands. Whatever the reason, Brock had to bite the inside of his cheek not to grin when he saw the stupid look on Kurt Wentzel’s face, sitting with what looked like his parents, all dressed up in green polo shirts with fancy gold sweaters tied around their necks like it was a country club party rather than a football game.
From the moment they sat, Laurel’s mom fixed her eyes on Taylor. Even when she spoke or stood to cheer, or order a drink from the popcorn and soda vendor, she looked only at her son. A lot of people looked at her son.
Taylor was all business and obviously in charge of things. He looked back and forth from the sideline to his own players in the huddle and commanded the field like a general. He marched his troops up and down the field, and while Moravia was able to score some points of their own, it wasn’t enough to keep Taylor Owen Lehman from another all-state performance and a big win in the Calhoun opener.
Brock loved baseball, the crack of a bat, the polite applause from a nice crowd on a sunny day, but this was something entirely different. Sometimes during the game, the crowd got so loud that Brock couldn’t hear Laurel even when her lips tickled his ear and she shouted at the top of her lungs. When it all ended, the home crowd began singing a song Brock didn’t recognize. Laurel told him it was the alma mater and that most of the people in the town had gone to Calhoun themselves.
“People from out of town usually learn it too.” She offered him an apologetic smile, like she didn’t care whether he learned it or not.
What struck Brock was the scale of it all. It wasn’t just the colors or the sounds of cheering or when people stamped their feet so hard he could feel the bleachers vibrating beneath his feet. It was the passion people had, the light in their eyes when they talked to one another about their team or their quarterback. As a high school senior, Taylor Owen Lehman was as big a star in Calhoun as Tom Brady was in Boston.
As they walked out of the stadium, people shouting congratulations to Laurel and her mom for Taylor’s performance and the big win, Brock set his jaw and decided that he too was going to be Calhoun’s star. It would take some time, true. He’d need to get over some obstacles—that was always the case in sports. But one day Brock Barrette would be a name the people of Calhoun would come to know and admire. That was his dream. That was his wish.
It wasn’t just a door prize anymore, it was an obsession.
59
On the bus to the season opener at Moravia Middle School the next day, Brock sat next to Mak, who wore his school clothes rather than a uniform because of his suspension. Mak glowered the whole time, but Brock was still thankful for his company and his coaching on what to do. Brock had never played on a school football team before, and the silent grim faces of everyone around him were nothing like the bus rides he’d been on with his travel baseball team last spring. Those rides were festive, with plenty of chatter and a good dose of laughter sprinkled in.
As they pulled into the parking lot next to Moravia’s football field, Brock could hear the grind of gears and the hiss of the bus brakes. Mak nudged him and they stood, following the others off the bus in total silence. The team assembled in two lines, then marched out onto the field and through the goalposts before they split off into eight fresh columns on the thirty-yard line, facing the four team captains on the forty. Wally Van Kuffler was one of those captains.
The entire team barked out numbers, counting out jumping jacks, then an assortment of stretches before running through agilities and some actual plays. Finally, they poured over onto their sideline where an undercurrent of nervousness and excitement filled the air. Coach Hewitt called them all together in a tight group. His trembling face went red. “This is a violent game, boys. I want you to go out there and smash them. You got that?”
Coach Hewitt glared around at them with crazy eyes.
Brock remembered his last coach, Coach Hudgens, who was
nothing like this. Of course, that was baseball, this was football.
“Now you go out on that field and play your guts out. You got that?”
The team murmured that they did get it.
“What? I can’t hear that!” Coach Hewitt screamed. “Say it like you mean it! Are you ready to play your guts out!”
“YES, COACH!” the team shouted right back, Brock included, and he felt the thrill of it.
“Bring it in.” Coach Hewitt held a fist out for everyone to touch. “Three wins. Ready? One, two, three . . .”
“WIN! WIN! WIN!”
Brock yelled with everyone else, then found Mak and joined him on the bench. The two of them stared across the field at the Moravia team, dressed in dark blue and gold and looking much bigger than Calhoun.
Mak leaned close and spoke low. “I hate to say this, because it’s our own team, but I got a bad feeling about this.”
60
Calhoun won the coin toss and elected to receive the kickoff.
The stands weren’t packed for a seventh-grade game, but there were enough fans from both sides to make some noise, and with cheers and jeers that made it hard to hear, the Moravia kicker sent the ball up and end over end, through the air. Brady Calenzo, the Calhoun running back, got under the kick, caught it, and took it right up the middle of the field. He hadn’t gone ten yards before a Moravia defender crashed into Brady like a runaway train.
Pads popped and crunched. The crowd gasped and the ball squirted out of Brady’s hands like a watermelon seed. Players from both sides piled on to where Brock last caught sight of the ball. The refs sorted it out and the one in the white hat flashed his arm in the direction of Calhoun’s end zone, giving Moravia the ball.