by David Wright
“Great,” I said, and we hung up. And before I even felt it coming on, I was out cold.
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The sound of arguing in the courtyard filtered up to the window, waking me. The clock on the nightstand read four thirty. Crap! There were five new voice mails from home and a long list of texts; I’d managed to sleep through the pinging. One of the texts was from Juliette, saying my mom had called. It ended with We need to talk.
Double crap flashed across my mind, even though it was inevitable that Mom would figure it out. My backpack was gone from the closet, my passport from the desk…
Another text was from Moose, just minutes before Juliette’s: Am at your building. Concierge threateningcYOU!?!
Crap, crap, crap!
I hit him back: Be right down.
I threw on my clothes and rushed downstairs. The concierge stood beneath the porte cochere, broom in hand, blocking the entrance to the building. Moose and another guy were outside on the street. They wore baggy jeans and red Diables Rouges hoodies, and I could tell that the commotion that had woken me up had come from Moose. Tall and lean, with olive skin and curly dark hair, he was in the little old lady’s face, talking excitedly; the other guy, who looked to be in his twenties, was holding Moose back, trying to calm him.
“They’re with me,” I explained to the concierge. “They’re friends.”
“No trespassers are allowed in the building,” she snapped.
The sharpness of her anger surprised me. “Then why did you let me in this morning?”
She glared at me, holding her broom the way a hockey player holds his stick in a face-off.
“What’s going on?” Juliette said, coming in from the street.
The concierge pointed to Moose and his friend with the end of her broom. “These two, they tried to force their way into the building.”
“We did no such thing!” said Moose. “We’re here to pick up Matt!”
“This is a secure building,” she shouted back. “Visitors must be announced!”
“All visitors,” Moose said, “or just the North African ones?”
“All right, enough!” Juliette said. She turned to the old lady. “These are guests of my cousin, Madame Lafarge.”
“You know full well that all visitors must be announced. This one”—she pointed her broom at me—“as well as those.”
“I know, and I will in the future.”
“Be sure you do.” The old lady stood there for a long moment before finally turning and heading back to her booth.
I ushered us all out into the street. Juliette ignored Moose and his friend and shot me a look—not a friendly one. “I talked to your mother,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t play dumb.”
“Look, Jules, I wanted to explain this morning, but there was no time—you had to run out. Now I have to go with Moose and meet my—”
“Your mother is furious with me. She’s accusing me of encouraging you to come here and a bunch of other things I did not do. I left my seminar early. You owe me an explanation.”
“And I’ll give you one.” Moose and his friend were at their car, a little white Peugeot hatchback, and I moved toward them. “Just not now. I have to go now.”
“Mathieu!”
“Trust me, Juliette,” I said, one foot in the car. “Please.”
Her face was flushed. I could see tears pooling in her eyes, different from the ones she’d greeted me with earlier. Then she turned and entered her building.
MATT
The entire car vibrated as Moose’s friend sped over the cobblestone streets of Juliette’s neighborhood. The tiny Peugeot only had front seats; I was on the passenger side, and Moose was in the cargo space behind, sitting yoga-style, hunched over and head hanging, his friend scolding him. “Your father taught you better than this. And toward a woman, no less!”
But I was hardly listening. I sat there with my heart racing, my stomach churning, remembering the look on Juliette’s face and fretting about whether Moose’s invitation had been serious or not. Because I needed it to be. I needed his team to take me on, I needed for them to find me a place to stay. I needed this to be real or else I was on the next flight back to Montreal, my tail between my legs…
Moose’s friend pulled the car onto a sort of highway called the Périphérique, the ring road that circled the city. Scooters and motorcycles zipped by on all sides, weaving between speeding cars and giant eighteen-wheelers, everyone honking. Moose’s friend was still dogging Moose, and when I looked back, Moose’s eyes were glassy.
And I’ll be honest, I felt like I was about to cry too. “Look,” I said, but neither of them seemed to notice.
“Look,” I said again, only louder, and Moose’s friend settled down. “I’m sorry to have gotten you guys into that mess. I didn’t know. I mean, I just didn’t know.”
I felt Moose’s hand on my shoulder. “No worries, mec. It’s okay.”
We rode in silence, surrounded by revving engines and honking horns. After a while Moose said, “I haven’t even introduced you yet. Matt, this is Yazid, a grand frère.”
A big brother? I thought Moose had told me he was the oldest in his family. But that would explain the reaming out the guy had given Moose.
Yazid freed a hand from the wheel for me to shake; in the crazy Paris traffic, I kind of wished he hadn’t.
“I work security for the city of Villeneuve-La-Grande.” His smile was really warm. “I also coach the Diables Rouges bantam flag team. If all goes well when you meet Marc Lebrun, maybe you’ll give me a hand with them.”
Apparently I hadn’t completely blown it. Well, at least not with the Diables Rouges.
Yet.
“Marc Lebrun?” I asked.
“He’s our club president,” Moose said. “I called to tell him you were in town and interested in joining the team.”
Meeting the club president?
This was going to be like a job interview. I’d only ever had one job—the summer before, I’d worked for my high school’s grounds crew because my dad said that living with Mom was making me soft and too careless about money. There was no interview because my dad is the head coach. I just showed up.
Moose must have sensed my nervousness. “Marc’s really great,” he said, and he clapped me on the back. “Don’t sweat it. He’s looking forward to meeting you.”
Yazid pulled off the highway into an industrial zone: giant cinder-block buildings that looked to be abandoned factories; in the distance, high-rise projects. It was my introduction to Villeneuve, and I thought it looked like a sci-fi set, desolate and gray.
“I didn’t know you had a big brother,” I said to Moose, “much less one who plays and coaches for the team.”
“A big brother?”
Both Moose and Yazid laughed.
“I introduced Yazid as a grand frère, but he’s not my big brother.”
Yazid explained. “We grands frères, me and other guys from the neighborhood, watch out for the younger ones. You know, with all the drugs and gangs, the violence.” He looked pointedly in the rearview at Moose. “We try to steer them away from trouble.”
“Leave it alone, Yaz,” Moose said.
“Why should I?” Yazid said. “You afraid of what your friend’s going to think?”
I glanced back at Moose, hunched over in the too-tight cargo hold. Moose and drugs and gangs? Really?
I realized I didn’t really know Moose. We had gotten close real fast in Montreal. I’d introduced him to Céline and most of my friends, and we’d kept texting after he went back to France. But sitting in this car with him and a big brother who wasn’t his big brother, driving through I Am Legend-land, I became keenly aware of how little I really knew about him. Nearly nothing. Just that he was my age and loved football and that we got along.
Yazid turned toward me. “Moussa got expelled from school today. That’s why we arrived so late to pick you up.”
“On God’s he
ad,” Moose protested, “I didn’t do anything.”
Yazid rolled his eyes.
“Okay, look,” Moose said. “A friend got sick and couldn’t go back into the school. I had to take care of him, so we skipped out.”
“A friend?” Yazid said, staring down Moose in the rearview mirror. “Anyone I know?”
Moose didn’t answer.
“Use your head, jeune! You’re on probation already.”
“On probation?” I asked.
“At school, yes,” Yazid said. “He punched out one of his classmates last fall.”
“The punk stole my bike!” Moose said, but I was thinking, Moose? On probation and a brawler? What else didn’t I know?
“The principal knew who did it,” said Yazid. “You would have had your bike back, no fuss. Instead, the principal called your father. How did that work out for you?”
Moose was quiet.
“Lucky for you, he called me instead of your father today. Getting expelled for two days would be the least of your worries. It’d be back to the bled for you.”
“The bled?” I asked.
“Back to the sticks,” said Yazid, as much for Moose’s benefit, to emphasize the point, as for mine. “Algeria, to his father’s village in Khabylie.”
“No gangbanging there, I imagine,” I said.
“No football,” Yazid said, “no university—nothing to look forward to but tending orchards and sheep. Is that what you want?”
“It’s your choice,” I said, “either gangbanging or the bled.”
“Gangbanging?” Moose said. “Stop, okay. I’m not in a gang. I beat up a kid, that’s all.”
I could see he was kind of pissed at me too, but I didn’t care. I was just relieved to know he wasn’t someone I didn’t know.
“But you’re right, Moussa,” Yazid said. “Let’s not spoil Matt’s arrival. You and I will continue this conversation later.”
Yazid pulled the car into a parking lot in the middle of the high-rise projects. I recognized them as the ones I’d seen from the window of the RER train heading into town from the airport, and they were even worse up close. A sort of metal-and-concrete ghetto, dingy white and gray cubicle apartments one on top of the other, laundry hanging on lines from windows, satellite TV dishes in place of potted plants. There was graffiti all over, on walls and benches. Here and there a gangly, leafless tree.
“Villeneuve, mec,” Moose said, smiling. “Home.”
MATT
Yazid, Moose and I crossed a big cement courtyard with a fountain that had a rusting sculpture in the middle. “We’ll swing by the team clubhouse,” Moose said. “Yaz lives there. Then we’ll take you to the stadium.”
The clubhouse was a ground-floor apartment in one of the high-rises: a long living room with a conference table in the middle and chairs lined up on each side. In one corner was a kitchenette; in another were stacks of boxed gear—hip and thigh pads, jerseys, pants.
A group of guys my age greeted us as we entered. Most of them were black or North African. I rarely noticed that kind of thing, but I did then, and I found myself feeling uncomfortable. Out of place, maybe even a little unsafe. They were all sort of Wu-Tang Clan, straight out of that old “Method Man” video, bandannas around their necks, tuques on their heads. They flocked around me, clapping me on the back.
“This is Matt,” Moose said, and they all settled down.
The first to properly introduce himself was pudgy and dark as coal, and he shook my hand old-school soul-brother style. “Me Mobylette,” he said with a thick African accent. “Me play running back.”
“Mobylette?” I said. It means “scooter.”
“He runs faster than one,” Moose explained.
“And is squat like a Vespa,” another kid added, and everyone laughed.
“I’m Jorge, with a J,” a gigantic kid said. “I’m your center. Moose says you can throw the ball the length of the field.”
“A hundred yards? Maybe not,” I said. “But sideline to sideline, definitely.”
“Moussa says he’d be the starting receiver on your team. Is that true?”
“Ha! I’d make sure he didn’t catch too many splinters riding the pine.”
They laughed and ribbed Moose—although, frankly, he was as good a wideout as any we had at school.
It went on like that, soul-brother handshaking and fist-bumping and me answering questions.
“Have you ever been to an NFL game?”
“No, just the CFL, but plenty.”
“Are you staying in Villeneuve for the entire season?”
“I hope so.”
One of the North African kids said, “Eh oh, your accent is too much, mec!” He started in, mimicking Céline Dion as a way to mock me—“Moé, j’te dis que je l’aime en tabarnak, mon ostie chum. René est peut-être un vieux crisse, mais y’a toujours été là pour moé…”
“Ouèche, mec! Z’y va! Vous êtes ouf ou quoi?” I shot back, mimicking them. “Your accent is pretty unique too.” I found myself feeling defensive, and I wasn’t usually touchy about things like this. “And by the way, my French and yours are as different as UK and US English.”
Fatigue had kicked in suddenly—jet lag. I asked Moose, “Where’s the bathroom?”
He pointed to a door. I locked it behind me and stared at myself in the mirror. “What are you doing?” I asked my reflection. “What are you doing here?”
I recognized that I wasn’t any better than the concierge had been earlier. She’d been suspicious of Moose and Yazid because of the color of their skin, and here I was, reacting just the same with all these guys in this strange place. I felt ashamed, but I couldn’t help it. I put my face under the faucet and let the cold water run, the words echoing in my head: What are you doing here? What are you doing?
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When I walked out, Yazid was talking to a tall guy with salt-and-pepper hair who was dressed in a suit and tie. (He was white, and I hated that I found relief in this.) The others had gone, except for Moose, who sat on a chair in the kitchenette, his head slumped forward. Yazid was telling the older man, “I’ve set up an appointment with the principal at six. If you can join us.”
Moose jumped up when he saw me. “This is Marc Lebrun,” he said, cutting into their conversation, “our team president.”
The man turned to me. “Welcome to France.” His grip hurt my hand. He offered me a chair at the conference table. “Moussa tells me you might be interested in joining our club.”
The job interview part had started. “I love playing,” I said.
“And you seem to be pretty good at it, from what I’ve been told.” Monsieur Lebrun lit a cigarette. “If we can work things out, maybe you’d be interested in also coaching some of our younger players.”
Coaching? I’d watched my dad my whole life. “I’d love to,” I said.
Moose took a seat beside Yazid, who was sitting beside Monsieur Lebrun. Monsieur Lebrun began describing the Diables Rouges organization and the team’s financial sponsors, who paid for player insurance and other related expenses; I wasn’t sure why he was telling me all that stuff.
“You’re eighteen?” he said.
“In three months.”
“So we’ll need your parents’ written permission.”
“Of course,” I said, kind of winging it. “While I’m here, my cousin acts as my guardian.”
“Your cousin?”
“Juliette. I’m staying with her.” The look on her face earlier had made that seem like an increasingly remote possibility, but I had to tell him something. “Well, until I can find a place. You know—a dorm or a hostel or something. I’m sure she can fill out whatever forms need to be signed.”
“We met her today,” Moose said. Then to me, “You’d probably do better to just email the forms to your father.”
Shut up, Moose, I thought.
“And she’s your guardian?” Monsieur Lebrun said. “Your legal guardian?”
“Yes, sir,
” I lied.
Monsieur Lebrun pulled hard on his cig. “But you won’t be staying with her?”
“I could,” I said, “but she’s real busy, you know. Finishing her doctorate. I don’t want to be a distraction. And her place is tiny.”
Monsieur Lebrun looked from me to Moose and back again.
Yazid jumped in. “He could stay here with me. The couch folds out.”
That crappy old thing? I thought. My bed for the next four months?
But I said, “That could be a great option!” You know, to sustain the lie.
The door flew open, and two North African girls around my age came in. Both wore baggy jeans and oversized long-sleeved T-shirts with bright-colored headscarves. They looked anything but traditional.
“So where’s our new coach?” the first one said.
“Mathieu, meet our flag-team captains,” Monsieur Lebrun said. “Aïda and Yasmina.”
“The team’s co-ed?” I said.
“That’s right,” the first girl shot back, “and two girls are the captains.”
“Don’t be surprised,” Yazid told me. “They are my two best players.”
“So you’re the Canadian superstar?” the first girl said, sizing me up.
“I’m no superstar,” I said. “I’m just here to play.”
“Well, why hire him then,” she said to Monsieur Lebrun, “if he’s just average?”
“I’m Yasmina,” the second girl said. “Welcome.” And she got on her toes to kiss me cheek to cheek. “Ignore Aïda,” she added.
Aïda turned to Moose. “So they expelled you, too?”
“Leave it alone, will you?” He dropped his eyes away from Monsieur Lebrun and Yazid. “It’s under control.”
“Under control! Sidi puked all over our living room. My mom’s apoplectic, and Dad’s sure to whip his sorry butt as soon as he gets home.”
The room was silent.
“Come on, Moussa,” Yazid said, “tell us what happened.”
Moose threw his hands in the air. “All right, all right. Sidi smoked some hash with some guys at lunch and ended up pretty bad, okay. I walked him around the playground, but I couldn’t get him back down.”