Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  “Whoa!” I repeat, loud, amazed.

  This time, my voice is a hurricane.

  57

  DANNY

  Thanks a lot, Tina!

  Thanks for convincing me to risk my life for the most completely ridiculous, totally stupid plan of all time! How did I imagine any good would actually come from confronting pure evil? And in its own locker room?! God, was I high when I said yes to this?

  Kurt, bad knee and all, is leaving me in the dust soon as we step out of the school.

  “Wait up!” I shout. That’s when I realize I don’t need to shout. The outside is quiet. People are standing around same as before but no one’s goofing around or even talking. It’s spooky weird, like everyone turned into a zombie at halftime. I’m about to ask Kurt if he notices anything when I hear his voice whispering over the stadium sound system. It’s coming at me from all angles. Then a second time, even louder.

  “Whoa!”

  Kurt stops and turns to face me as I catch up. Beneath his helmet I can see his eyes widening in surprise.

  “That sounded like you—” I start to say, except I hear my voice coming over the speakers, echoing across the field. “What’s going on?” I ask him, but my voice, amplified, asks the entire stadium the same question. Both of us stare at each other, frozen, not saying a single word more, wondering how long his helmet’s been on. Then I hear the footfalls coming up on us. Kurt’s eyes shift off me, look over my shoulder as I turn to see Coach Brigs and Coach Stein, tight-lipped, ignoring us as they hurry past, late for their own game. Scott, Tom, and Mike are ten yards behind their coaches, jogging loosely with their heads held high, triumphant, as if they’ve already won the state title game. When the three of them reach us, Scott, barely slowing, points his fingers at Kurt like a gun. Victory makes his smile large.

  “Remember, shitbags, our little secret,” Scott says, ego so huge that the words coming from his own mouth block out the sound of them rolling across the stadium through Kurt’s helmet mic.

  None of them makes it far into the surrounding zombie crowd before the first bags of popcorn dump down on them like snow. Then the first full cups of soda get flipped over on them, dousing them in freezing slush. The two coaches and three captains get corralled together by the mob and raise their arms, trying to shield the onslaught of Family Packs of nacho chips drizzled in melted cheese and cups of ice. Large pretzels sail toward them like Frisbees. As the mob builds, their path is blocked and they get stuck before even reaching the entrance gates to the stadium field.

  The Jumbotron stops broadcasting Kurt’s helmet cam. Instead, one single word fills its entire screen.

  BOO!!!

  The crowd responds. They boo. And boo. And boo. Anything the crowd can get their hands on sails down out of the stadium bleachers—mostly soda cups and more cardboard Family Pack trays but occasional hats and scarves and rolled-up paper programs flying out like snowballs.

  The Jumbotron works the crowd, flashing a new message.

  GET OUT! GET OUT!

  And the crowd takes up the chant. Coach Brigs, Coach Stein, Scott, Tom, and Mike are surrounded, shoved, pushed, and jeered until they get steered back toward the school. Angry adults—men and women—try to get at them, shouting in their faces, reaching out as if they want to rip off parts of their bodies.

  Kurt pulls off his helmet and dangles it at his side. We look at each other, smiling, amazed, guessing what’s happening, hoping it’s true.

  “Let’s guh-guh-get outta huh-huh-here.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Let’s enjoy it for a moment.” I breathe deep. “Whatever’s going on, it’s a beautiful thing.”

  Kurt nods and turns to take in the sight while I start jogging backward around him in circles, delivering a series of shadow punches at the air. “We won!” I shout, jabbing right, left, right. “We beat them. Suckers!” I jab out with two more lefts and a right cross before repeating the offer I made the day I was raking leaves and he came to warn me.

  “Kurt, you can join our team, now,” I suggest again. “Screw football. You’ll be the biggest gymnast in all of recorded history. I’ll teach you.”

  “Muh-maybe,” Kurt says, not making any promises. I’m ready to pester him more, certain my idea is great, when something catches my eye. The football team. More precisely, the entire Knights football team charging toward the two of us, trampling through the slowly parting crowd like rampaging wildebeests, ready to avenge the downfall of their captains and coaches.

  “Ohhhhhh, crap!” My voice rises as I ready to scamper out of there. Kurt grips his helmet by the face mask and hefts it, ready to swing it against the first wave of the attack. He spreads his feet wide, planting himself.

  “Kurt, come on!” I squeak. “Can’t fight them all.”

  “No one’s puh-puh-pushing me around nuh-nuh-no more,” he says. “You guh-go.”

  “No!” I say. Wait! What did I just say? “If you’re not going,” I tell Kurt, “then I’m staying.” Kurt nods but doesn’t look my way because they’re almost here. Kurt crouches, battle helmet ready for the slaying, his free hand braced on his knee as he waits. I imitate him, then scrunch my eyes as they come at us, moving fast, Terrence, their running back, leading the charge.

  As my maiming rapidly approaches, the sound of hoof-beats fills my ears.

  58

  KURT

  Kurt!” Terrence barks. “Let’s go!”

  Terrence, leading the entire football team, pulls up short before steamrolling over Danny and me. As the rest of the team arrives, they surround us, closing in, the white steam from all their panting filling the cold night air. I feel Danny’s foot set in the turf next to mine. He’s covering my blind side.

  “Refs said we got three minutes to get on the field or we forfeit the game,” Terrence explains. “We didn’t work our asses off all season so we can quit the last home game and risk not clinching the top play-off slot. So let’s go. Now.”

  “Yeah!” Rondo woofs.

  “Let’s go!” Pullman shouts.

  “Game ain’t over, Brodsky. Come on!” DuWayne grunts.

  “Buh-buh-but . . .” I start, then Terrence cuts me off.

  “Kurt, those three have been pricks since our Pony League days,” Terrence says. “If even half of what we heard is true—and I don’t doubt for a second it is—they don’t deserve to wear this uniform. If they go after you, they go after all of us. If you can’t trust your teammates no more, if they don’t got your back, you ain’t a team.”

  “Yeah,” I hear Danny whisper beside me.

  “Clock’s ticking, guys,” Warner says. “Down to two minutes to get a team on that field. Kurt, we need you to bring it home.”

  “We’re asking nicely,” Rondo says. “Now, come on!”

  “They’re right,” Danny says quietly to me. “Finish the game.” I glance down at him, see he’s serious. I heft my helmet up over my head, then pull it down and lock the chin strap in place.

  “Good man!”

  “Knew you’d come through!”

  Terrence raises his own helmet to the night sky like a torch. “Who are we?” he asks.

  “Knights!” my teammates answer back.

  “Who do we fear?” Terrence asks us.

  “No one!” we answer.

  “Whose house is this?” Terrence shouts the question.

  “Our house!” we tell him.

  “What’s our name?” Terrence asks.

  “KNIGHTS!” we answer back.

  59

  DANNY

  Coach Gayle, the wrestling coach, has been plucked out of the stands to substitute for Coach Brigs on the sidelines and make the game official in the nick of time. The Oregrove Knights take the field under an umbrella of chants from the crowd led by the Jumbotron—KNIGHTS! KNIGHTS! KNIGHTS!

  I can’t help myself. I start chanting as well, cheering for my school, cheering for my team, and most of all, cheering for Kurt. I’m hollering so loud I almost don’t hear the phone ch
irping in my pocket. I recognize the number, answer it.

  “You pulled it off!” I shout into the phone above the chanting.

  “I told you girls are way craftier than boys,” Tina says back.

  “Why didn’t you tell us the whole plan?” I ask.

  “And take a chance you two would screw it up somehow? Or you’d think about it too much and chicken out?” she asks me. Through the phone, I can hear her giggling. “I’ve found with boys, the less said, the better. The only guy conniving enough to trust is Fisher.”

  “Fisher?” I ask “Are you kidding me?”

  “How do you think I was able to run Kurt’s helmet cam live the whole halftime?”

  “So the crowd saw everything?!”

  “Everything!” she confirms. “This stadium heard every word and saw everything going on in that locker room. No way I’d be able to broadcast the whole thing live without old man Walt out of the booth. So Fisher came in at halftime, told him his car was on fire, and then locked the door when he left. It’s only me and Fish in here at the moment and now Walt’s pounding on the door to get back in. He’ll have to wait. Fish’s helping me run the sound-board now.”

  “You are amazing!!!” I whoop.

  “I know,” she says. “Watch this!”

  The Jumbotron starts flashing.

  WE ♥ KURT!!!

  “Okay, that’s a little much,” I tell her.

  “Danny!” a voice shouts, and I turn to find Coach Nelson and Bruce walking toward me.

  “Gotta go,” I tell Tina, and hang up.

  Coach Nelson’s face hasn’t changed since I escaped him earlier. He looks angry. Bruce looks tired.

  “I’m not too pleased, you running off on me,” Coach starts, “but I guess you had more important matters to attend to.”

  I glance from Coach to Bruce, trying to read either of them, trying to figure out what I’m supposed to say.

  “Why didn’t you boys ... I wish you’d told me, told somebody sooner. There’s no excuse for what they did, you hear me?” Coach Nelson says. Bruce hangs his head like this is his second scolding. “No excuse. They’re going to be in a world of hurt. And so is that dipshit dad of Tom’s. I’ll make sure of that. Of course, I’ll have to get in line, judging from the looks of things.”

  I jam my hands into my coat pockets, wish I’d spoken sooner, but know that at the time it felt impossible, felt like speaking was a death sentence.

  “Danny.” Coach Nelson steps closer and puts his arm around my neck, headlocking me in a hug. “What you did tonight, what you faced down in that locker room, took more courage than most people ever muster. Being a hero usually isn’t much fun. It’s terrifying, most of the time, right up until the point you make it out safe. It’s being scared to do the right thing and doing it anyway. You remember that next time you’re frightened.”

  Coach Nelson lets me out of the headlock and I step back, embarrassed but not really minding the hug. “Now I need you to do one more thing,” Coach says, and this time he grabs Bruce’s neck and pulls him closer so the three of us make our own little huddle. “I need you both to come back to the gym—no more missing practice. You lead by example. Face whatever demons you’ve got about coming into that place and start working hard again.”

  Coach reaches up and grabs my neck, bending down so he can look both of us in the eye.

  “Deal?” Coach asks. I glance at Bruce, who nods his head.

  “Deal,” Bruce says.

  “Deal,” I agree.

  60

  KURT

  There’s less than two minutes to play and we’re up by ten points when Warner takes the snap and feeds me the ball. I follow my lead blocker in the line, Ben Yallese, substituting for Jankowski, and he smashes open a nice hole for me. Eight yards later, I’ve punched through the end zone with my legs charging hard. The referee’s whistle tells me what I already know. Touchdown. My knee still pinches, but adrenaline’s great for dulling the pain.

  I toss the ball to the ref and let my teammates jump on me in celebration. When they finish and jog off the field, I have the end zone to myself for only a moment before we need to kick the extra point. Now’s my chance.

  I lift my arms up in preparation.

  61

  DANNY

  Kurt Brodsky scores a last touchdown to ice the game and the stands erupt as his teammates rush him in hugs and helmet slaps. As the team jogs back toward their sideline, though, Kurt stays in the back of the end zone. He raises both hands high up in the air, pauses, then lowers his arms as if prepping and ... and ... flings himself backward while his legs power his big body up and over. Kurt Brodsky, in full helmet and pads, does a supremely ugly-beautiful back handspring that barely gets him around to his feet again. Awful landing aside, the handspring is still pretty cool. The stadium explodes all over again as the stunt is lovingly captured by Tina in slow motion up on the Jumbotron. He still needs to keep his elbows locked when he throws the trick, but I’ll make sure to remind him sometime before the championship game.

  “He made it!” I whisper.

  “We made it!” a boy’s voice, no longer mine, corrects me before vanishing forever.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Fortunately for me, manuscripts still get plucked from slush piles by dedicated agents and acquired by great editors. Leverage was one such manuscript. To all aspiring writers out there I offer this small bit of advice: Be tenacious! Never give up! Keep the faith! This book’s journey began with the wonderful Catherine Drayton of InkWell Management taking a chance on my manuscript. It continued with that great editor I referenced, Julie Strauss-Gabel, acquiring and further shaping the story. Along the way, Leverage received wonderful support from Patricia Burke at InkWell Management and a very real vote of confidence from two fine gentlemen, Stanley Jaffe and Dan Rissner. A big “Thanks” goes to the hardworking staff at Penguin/Dutton for helping make Leverage even better than I thought possible. Everyone else that I mention here has either supported, inspired, encouraged, or influenced me while I pursued the hard work of writing to get published: Mom & Dad Cohen (this goes without saying, but I’m saying it anyway), Karen Gayle (ditto), Barbara Cohen, Mohammed Naseehu Ali, Charise Hayman, Melannie Gayle, Denise Pinkley, Nathan Trice, the Gayle family, the Colonnese family, the Burch family, David Brind, Kent Frankstone, Michael Jones, Suzanne Lampl, Gary Laurie, Ben Speaker, and Stephen (Mr.) Schwandt.