Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  “Come on, guys.” Coach Nelson blows into his hands while our team tries to jump-start in the unseasonably chilly morning with some push-ups and jogging in place. Late fall expired sometime last night and now the threat of winter hangs in the air plain as the white vapor coming out our mouths. Despite the calisthenics, I’m still shivering in my dingy gray sweats.

  “This is your chance to show off in front of the whole school,” Coach says, “advertise a little for next season. It’s your moment to shine.”

  “Advertising’s for soulless corporate hacks,” Fisher says, hopping up and down with his hands tucked under his armpits. His nose is red and running from the cold and he stopped wiping at it with his sleeve, so his upper lip is glossy with snot. Coach arches his eyebrows at Fisher.

  “Your choice,” Coach counters. “Complain now or complain next year when they cancel the season because no new recruits came out for the team.” Coach holds up three fingers on his left hand. “We lose Bruce, Gradley, and Jason next year. I’d like the team to at least stay in the double digits.”

  It’s ten A.M. and the home field side of the football bleachers is packed with the entire student body, ecstatic to escape class for the morning even if it is only to attend a pep rally. They get to witness our illustrious homecoming king, queen, princes, and princesses (i.e., jocks and cheerleaders) parade past them on the track circle, paired up in the backs of alumni convertibles. Coach has got us playing court jesters, far as I’m concerned, filler entertainment for the official crowning of the king and queen and the yayrah-rah for the football team—like they need more of it.

  “Okay, we’re up,” Coach shouts above the marching band, which is in the process of forming the letter K on the fifty-yard line. I brace against a strong gust of wind that makes my eyes water, messes up my hair, and cuts through the cotton of my sweatpants.

  “I’ve got severe ball shrinkage over here,” Fisher yaps, opening up his waistband and looking down in his pants. “And I do mean severe!”

  “Sure, Fish, blame it on the cold, buddy,” Gradley says.

  “I’d hate to get wet on a day like today,” Bruce says to Fisher more than the rest of us. “Might catch a cold and die,” he says, and the two of them chuckle, sharing some private joke.

  “Bruce,” Coach calls out. “Lead the way.”

  Without any of us actually getting warm or stretching properly, my teammates and I do about fifty back handsprings on the uneven turf of the football field sidelines for our fellow students’ entertainment. My wrists and ankles are not happy. The wind is swirling, and if anyone is clapping for us up in the bleachers, I sure don’t hear it—especially over the brass horn blurts and snare drum snaps coming from the marching band. What I do hear is Scott Miller and Mike Studblatz taunting us nonstop as we set up the mini-trampoline right next to where all of the homecoming court jerks sit on the field.

  “Hey, Munchkins, the yellow brick road’s that way.”

  “These fairies are short enough to give a dude head standing up.”

  “Bet they get lots of practice doing that.”

  “You think dogs piss on ’em thinking they’re fire hydrants?”

  Most of my teammates do the right thing. They ignore them. Some of us use it as motivation. Menderson—our vault specialist—launches off the mini-trampoline, soaring over Scott and Mike’s heads like a ghost before tucking into a simple front flip and touching down on the mat, easy as if he were stepping over a sidewalk crack. When he lands, I finally hear some applause from the stands. About time.

  “Hey, dickweed.” Studblatz curses Menderson. “Better watch where you’re landing. You touch me and I swear I will pull your fucking arms off.”

  “Come that close again,” Scott adds, “and I’ll shove your scrotum up your ass.”

  Bruce sprints hard and hits the mini-tramp like he wants to bust through it. He flies over the royals while spinning seemingly out of control. He lands on the mat fine but close enough to Chrissy, the homecoming queen, that she jumps out of her seat with her arms folded over her tiara-wrapped head. Laughter and applause reach us from the stands.

  “Try that again, little shit. Try it!” Miller threatens, pulling Chrissy into a protective hug.

  “Relax.” Bruce chuckles as he jogs away.

  I go next. Not wanting any trouble, I do a nice clean layout twist, making sure I land as far from Scott, Mike, and the rest of the royals as possible while still hitting the mat.

  “When did they let junior high kids on the team?” Scott asks me.

  Prick!

  Fisher jogs real slow down the grass lane and clown-bounces off the mini-tramp. He performs a very simple straddle split leap, his bright smile facing the stands and his ass aimed at the king and queen. In mid-flight, he peels off a fart strong enough to rip open his underwear and add a second to his hang time. Scott grabs the crown on his head as if checking that it didn’t get blown off. After he lands, Fisher slaps his knee in a fit of laughter while pointing at the homecoming court.

  “How’s my ass smell?” Fisher asks them.

  “Hey, shit stain,” Studblatz yells. “Go crawl back to your sewer.”

  “I can’t,” Fisher says. “Your mom’s there, sucking off guys for spare change. She ain’t bad. I gave her a quarter last night.”

  “Laugh now, funny guy.” Studblatz chomps. The other royals are actually snickering, though. Fisher steps off the mat to let Leeson fly through the air. Leeson almost lands in Scott Miller’s lap. Scott gives Leeson a shove.

  “You’re, like, a disgusting turd,” Chrissy tells Fisher, which, judging by his widening grin, he takes as a compliment.

  “Weak.” Leeson critiques Chrissy’s dig after righting himself from Scott’s shove.

  Fisher’s in a zone, possibly amped up on a six-pack of Red Bull, and has no fear. He points at Scott. “Hey, king-man,” he says, “last night, after I blew my load on your mom’s face, she told me to remind you to take your steroids today. You, too, Mike.” Every mouth in the royal court drops open as Fisher speaks the unspoken. With the wind and the band noise, our skirmish is too far away from the stands for anyone else to hear what Fisher just said. Still tittering, like even he can’t believe what’s come out of his mouth, Fisher takes a step backward, ready to cheetah his ass to safety as both Scott and Mike stand up like hungry lions, needing to kill. This is when fate turns on Ronnie Gunderson, who has the misfortune and bad timing to be the next gymnast up for a trick. He hits the mini-tramp just as Studblatz crosses the landing mat to chase Fisher. Seeing the big football player in his path, Ronnie, already sprung upward, yelps as his legs and arms spindle, clawing air in a vain attempt to stop his forward momentum. He lands in Studblatz’s chest and arms in a full-on love hug. The crowd in the stands breaks out with laughter as little Ronnie momentarily clings to Studblatz like a scared kitten hanging from the mouth of a beast.

  “Yaaagh!” Studblatz shouts, spinning once with Ronnie glued to him before hurling him onto the mat. I hear the crowd loud and clear now. They’re cheering with full throats. Ronnie bounces off the mat and gets up on his feet as snarky whistles and claps sail out from the stands like unspooling rolls of toilet paper.

  “You little shit!” Studblatz hisses at Ronnie. He must think our little freshman—like crazy Fisher—planned to land on him and make him look like a fool. Studblatz advances on Ronnie, ready to pummel him. Ronnie’s eyes bug out and he scampers toward Coach Nelson, who’s busy scratching his head over on the sidelines. Coach can’t hear us but he knows something’s up. Fisher’s now jogging backward, halfway to Coach if he needs to run for safety, and flapping his arms up and down, encouraging the crowd to stay noisy, keep cheering and laughing. Scott, one hand holding his crown in place, takes a few steps toward Fisher but then stops. He must figure he’ll look pretty stupid running after Fisher while wearing a cape.

  “Numbnuts!” Scott shouts at Fisher instead.

  “Jackass!” Fisher shouts back, then pivots so the sta
nds of students and teachers can’t see him grab his crotch at Scott and Mike and the rest of the royals. That’s it for me. I’m out. So are my teammates. We flee to the sidelines and the safety of Coach Nelson. When we arrive, Ronnie’s face is white as the clouds overhead and tears stream down his cheeks. He’s shaking but I don’t think it’s from the cold. More like he just glimpsed the jaws of death waiting to clamp down and rip out his bones. Part of me wants to tell him to man up, that everything is over now, so relax. Part of me recoils from his naked fear and hurt, afraid his crying is broadcasting our team as “easy prey” to the rest of the student body.

  “You’re okay, Ronnie,” Coach Nelson says, putting an arm on his shoulder, pulling him close to his side, making him face the field so fewer people can see his tears. It isn’t exactly how we want to advertise for new recruits.

  Fisher is staring out at the field with a big smile plastered on his face when Bruce grabs him by the elbow.

  “Come on, man. We don’t have much time,” Bruce says, tugging on Fisher.

  “Where you guys going?” I ask. Fisher, giggling, flashes me the peace sign in response.

  Bruce puts his finger up to his lips and says under his breath to me, “Don’t go anywhere. The real show’s about to start.” Then he and Fisher slip between a seam in the stands and disappear. The hollow space under the stands is an easy way to sneak out to the parking lot without being noticed. Except for Bruce’s mysterious caution, I’m assuming they’re both cutting class for the rest of the day. With a shrug, I turn back to the field and cup my hands to my mouth to warm them up. The stadium’s new sound system distracts me as it announces the starting lineup of the football team in booming volume. I forget about Bruce and Fisher, try to ignore Ronnie, and stop blowing on my hands, deciding to stick them under my armpits instead.

  18

  KURT

  Mr. Brodsky.” Coach pulls me aside before the start of that morning’s pep rally. A freak cold snap has rolled in and sharp winds swirl with a nasty chill for this time of year, nipping at earlobes, noses, and fingertips until they’re pink. The clouds bunch along like floating mountains and the sun hits my eyes with a clarity that stings. “You’ve been selected to wear our team’s new helmet. The sponsors for our new Jumbotron went out and invested in some fancy helmet. Thing cost a small fortune but it gives the fans a player’s-eye view of the game. Also lets ’em hear game sounds from the field brought to them by their favorite potato chip snack.” Coach watches me for a reaction. I don’t have one. I just nod.

  Coach laughs to himself. “Aw, Kurt, I knew I picked the right boy,” he says, then tugs me closer and lowers his voice. “Look, son, between you and me, I’m not too keen on giving the fans all the sights and sounds from the field, especially since most our players cuss like sailors on shore leave. But we’re still paying off that big ol’ TV and those potato chip folks are writing us a nice fat check. So you’re the safest bet I got. You keep doing what you always do. Hit ’em hard and don’t say a word. Or at least don’t cuss up a blue streak. Keep your mouth shut and put your hand over the mic anytime Studblatz starts teeing off near you. Think you can handle that?”

  I nod to him that I can. Coach smiles at me and grabs my shoulder, then squeezes it.

  “You’re a fast learner, my boy. You keep it up.” He jogs out to the field for the pep rally festivities while I climb up into the stands. Homecoming royalty on homemade floats wave from the backseats of convertibles chauffeured by white-haired old duffers.

  No surprise, I guess, that Scott and Chrissy are homecoming king and queen. It’s a snooze-fest except for the troupe of gymnasts backflipping down a whole length of sideline grass like human Slinkies. They’re pretty fun to watch; funner than the marching band and way funner than studying Mike Studblatz’s connect-the-dots face as he and Charline are chauffeured past the stands. Wish I could do those gymnastic tricks. Wish I could whip off a string of backflips in the end zone after scoring a touchdown. How cool would that be?

  Homemade floats dawdle by us. One says HUNT THE BUCKS in big cardboard letters built on the flatbed of a red pickup with a real dear carcass dragging behind from a rope attached to its neck. Another says BLITZ THE BUCKS with the same type of cardboard letters on a blue pickup truck and two girls in football pads standing in the flatbed, throwing candy into the stands. In the cold, the candy hits us like rocks. The aluminum bleachers might as well be blocks of ice, numbing the backs of my thighs and butt.

  Finally they get to the good part and the PA system announces the varsity starters for the game. As each name is called, the new Jumbotron spells it out in flashing letters with digital fireworks popping off around the player’s jersey number. When my name comes over the loudspeaker and the Jumbotron flashes it big as the side of an office building, the students in the stands around me start whistling and stomping their feet. For me. The pom-pom girls even do a cheer using my last name. It feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It feels good. I walk out onto the field to stand alongside my teammates in front of the marching band. We line up in the center of the field, far enough from the bleachers that I don’t feel like I need to hide my face. Scott and Studblatz leave their thrones to join us, Scott still wearing his red velvet cape and gold crown. I am a part of this, I tell myself, a part of their circle.

  Ceremony finished, we head back to our seats. Scott and Mike go back to their royal court and wait for the convertibles to pick them up and take them for a victory lap. The marching band starts up again, playing loud and off-key, while the bass and snare drums chase a beat the horns don’t hear. Doesn’t sound like an actual song. Sounds pretty crappy, but who cares. I got my name spelled out on a Jumbotron. People clapped and whistled when they called my name.

  I’m climbing back up into the stands when students around me point out on the field. I turn around and see two guys on a motocross bike racing over the football field behind the marching band. The bike’s speeding for the homecoming court. The driver and passenger both wear rubber masks of ... George Bush? The driver is wearing a backpack. Ten feet from crashing into the homecoming court, the driver does a wicked one-eighty skid that sprays a fan of dirt and grass across the king and queen. Passenger Bush hops off the bike and stuffs his hands in the driver’s backpack. Passenger Bush pulls out . . . what looks like ... water balloons and starts pelting Scott and Mike, rapid-firing them, the balloons bursting on Scott’s face and Mike’s chest. One hits Chrissy on the back as she turns away. The former president gets off three more pitches, hitting Scott and Mike again, before the last balloon sails out onto the grass. It takes Scott and Mike a second to get past the shock but now they’re raging—and soaked—and they sprint for their attackers, but it’s too late. Both Bushes are back on the motorbike. The rear wheel shreds a thick divot of grass and spits up a shower of dirt as the bike races off the way it came, leaving Scott and Mike wet, dirt-streaked, and grass-stained. The stands are howling again. Studblatz gets down on all fours and I see him punch the turf before grabbing clumps of it and hurling them toward the disappearing motorbike that’s leaving an oily purple exhaust in its wake.

  “How about an instant replay up on the Jumbotron?” someone shouts.

  “First time George Bush got anything right!” someone else yells.

  Guys near me start hollering: “Re-Play. Re-Play. RePlay.” By the time the teachers start dismissing us, the whole field rings with the chant.

  19

  DANNY

  Are you crazy?!” I ask the both of them. “What were you guys thinking?”

  “What was who thinking?” Fisher asks back, trying hard to appear innocent. Then a smirk creeps across his face and his eyes twinkle like I’ve seen when he’s pulled a stunt before.

  “Come on, Fish,” I whisper, glancing from Fisher to Bruce, who’s suddenly really interested in his notebook doodles and won’t meet my eyes. “If I can figure it out, they’re gonna figure it out.”

  “Figure what out, Danny?” Fisher asks,
but he starts laughing and puts a fist over his mouth like he’s coughing but that only gets him going more. I glance around, seeing who else in the library is watching us. It’s study hall for some students, but I’m up here for lunch period, hiding out from football captains on the warpath since the water-balloon drive-by earlier that morning at the homecoming pep rally. Surprise, surprise I find Fisher and Bruce up here as well.

  “I’ve seen your dirt bike before, dumbass,” I say. I know Fisher doesn’t care, but I expect Bruce to be more responsible. “Bruce, do you think they’re going to just let the whole thing slide?”

  Bruce, ignoring my question, keeps doodling until Fisher elbows him. That’s when I see Bruce’s shoulders start jerking with silent laughter.

  “God!” I shake my head. “When they come to kick my ass, I’m snitching you guys out so fast . . .” I start to threaten, but drift off, knowing I won’t. “Doofuses!”

  “Relax, Danny.” Bruce gets hold of himself. “You didn’t do anything. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  I’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ve got nothing to worry about. I repeat Bruce’s words in my head during Mr. Klech’s class. We’re supposed to silently solve all practice equations on pages 63 and 64 of Algebra for Life, but I distractedly wedge the eraser end of my pencil into the textbook’s binding and imagine the freshly sharpened No. 2 is a cruise missile seeking a target, set to launch.

  With our school’s rotating schedule, algebra is my last class that day, and when the bell rings, I sit and wait for everyone to leave first. My plan is to give it ten minutes and let the halls clear before heading to my locker and then go down to the team room. I’ve successfully avoided Miller, Studblatz, and Jankowski all day since the pep rally.