#3 The Option

by Herman Brown

  Dad put a hand on my forehead, the sliver of it that showed through the bandages, and gave me a look. Was he sad that I was hurt? Was he disappointed I’d acted so immaturely last night? Did he feel bad about my childhood friendship dissolving into nothing? Or was it just that I was missing practice?

  He made me a smoothie and stuck it in the refrigerator before he left for work. He had a big corporate campus to take care of that day. I was glad he felt up for it because I didn’t want to sit around all day with him: two sick, messed-up, pitiful guys streaming nature shows on TV. It was too depressing to think about.

  Surprisingly, the smoothie boosted my spirits quite a lot. I decided to go over and help Devon clean up his parents’ house. After that party, he’d need the help. And maybe doing something positive would help me feel better about myself.

  “Yo,” Devon said when I came in. “Here he is: UFC champion Gary Jayo!”

  “Very funny,” I tried to say, but it came out ggh-ghee huggee.

  “Take it easy, Jayo. I’ll do the talking, OK?”

  We grabbed black lawn bags from the garage and started filling them with cans, bottles, boxes, chip bags, fast food wrappers, and whatever else looked like it didn’t belong there. And Devon did do the talking.

  “You hear about the chicken coop?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “After Shane left here, I guess he went tearing around the streets for a while. Just laying down rubber. Then out into the country. Scary, man.”

  I nodded.

  “So he’s out west of town, past the Conoco, past the corn fields, way out by Higby’s place. You know that old guy, Higby?”

  I nodded. He was a kooky old chicken farmer who once brought his shotgun to a game. He got a little mixed up about where he was sometimes.

  “Well, Shane gets it in his head he’s going to do some damage. Wreck something, you know? So he ran off the road and across Higby’s field and plowed right through one of Higby’s chicken coops. Pow! Feathers everywhere. Wood and nails and eggs flying through the air. Shane tries to keep going, but he gets stuck in the mud.”

  “Ghaing!” I said. Dang!

  “I know, right? Well don’t worry.”

  I looked at him like, What?

  “He called Coach Z, and Coach came to get him and talked Higby out of shooting him or calling the cops or anything. That’s what I heard, anyway. From Orlando, who heard it from Shane. Sounds like it’s all taken care of.”

  “Kaken kay augh?”

  “Yeah, taken care of,” Devon said. “They pulled his Chevy out of the mud and towed it home. Shane’s sleeping it off now, I guess. When he wakes up, it’s life as usual.” Devon looked at his watch. “Assuming he makes it to practice. Lucky sucker.”

  Devon and I piled our garbage bags by the back door. He started squirting glass cleaner on the counters, tables, and linoleum floor. We each grabbed a wad of paper towels and started wiping.

  Lucky sucker, I thought.

  9 / MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23—COACH Z’S OFFICE

  On Monday, I was still wearing the bandages but I could talk. I went to Coach Z’s office before practice to let him know I couldn’t suit up for one more day.

  “I’ll be ready tomorrow,” I said.

  “I appreciate your dedication,” Coach replied. When I didn’t leave right away, he said, “Anything else, Jayo?”

  “Well,” I said. “There is one more thing.”

  He raised his eyebrows, like, Come on, let it out.

  “Well, uh—is it true that Shane crashed through Higby’s chicken coop? That he was driving drunk?”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “I just want to know if it’s true.”

  Coach took a few seconds before responding. “I’m guessing you know the answer to that already.”

  “Here’s what I know,” I said. And I showed him the footage of Shane getting into his car and driving away.

  “Give me that,” he said, reaching for the phone.

  I handed it over. “I already posted it onto a private YouTube channel, if you’re thinking you’ll erase it. I figure I’ll send the link to Principal Donahue.”

  Coach went over and shut his office door and sat on the desk. He lowered his voice. “Why would you want to do a thing like that, son?”

  “You said everyone deserves a second chance,” I said. “One second chance. Fine. But this is his second time drunk driving that we know of. He’s been drinking at school, he’s been late for practice, missing practice. He’s been ignoring the rules for years. When a person messes up, there’s a price to pay. At least there’s supposed to be.”

  “You think Shane’s some kind of golden boy?” he asked.

  “Sure seems like it, Coach.”

  “You think he’s had everything handed to him on a platter?” Coach asked.

  “I don’t know. Yeah, sort of.”

  “And you want to get him in trouble so you can start a football game.”

  “He’s had his chances,” I said. “Where’s my chance?”

  He handed back my phone, and I put it in my pocket. He was staring me down. Challenging me. I chose my next words carefully. “I just want to see the right thing done.”

  “You just want to see the right thing done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me something,” Coach said. “When was the last time you were out to Shane’s house?”

  “We’re not really friends anymore, Coach.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Middle school?”

  Shane lived out near the bus station—the roughest part of town. My family wasn’t rich by any means, but I didn’t find myself over in that part of Troy very often.

  “Why don’t you pay him a visit?”

  “All due respect, sir, but I don’t have anything to say to him.”

  “You’re about to ruin a guy’s career,” Coach said. “You ought to go to his home and look him in the eye. Tell him what the right thing is. Don’t worry about me, Jayo. Your video can’t hurt me—not at this school.”

  He let that sink in for a minute. Then he told me to get out of his office, which I did in a hurry.

  10 / MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23—GARY’S HOUSE

  Mom called me that night. I was in my room doing my trig homework, only not really. Really, I was trying to decide what to do about the video. Part of me wanted to put Shane in his place. Shut him up for once. Show everyone what I could do as QB1.

  But part of me didn’t feel comfortable. Coach had used the words “ruin a guy’s career.” Would that really happen? I was leaning toward deleting the video when my phone started vibrating. Mom’s name appeared on the screen.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said.

  “Hey, honey. How are you?”

  It was good to hear her voice. I missed her a lot. She’d stayed with Dad after she caught him with some other woman. And she’d stayed with him after she found out about another woman. She gave him second chances, even though I could see how badly it hurt her. But after the third time, she left to live with her sister.

  The plan was for me to join her after classes ended last year. Then Dad got diagnosed. Mom and I got tested right away, and we were clean. And I made a tough decision: I couldn’t leave him alone without any support. He was terrified and sick. He needed me more than Mom did.

  Of course, Mom wanted me with her, but she said she understood. I knew she worried about me being exposed at home, even though we were very careful. Sometimes I thought she didn’t want me to be exposed to him—not the disease.

  “Guess what?” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m coming to Troy for the game on Friday.”

  “No joke?”

  “No joke, mister. Daniel is starting at linebacker for Harvest Valley, so Janet and I decided to make the trip. I’ll be there for the pep rally and the game.” Janet was her sister—also a recently divorced mom. Daniel was my younger cousin. />
  “That’s great. Are you staying overnight? Can you come over for breakfast on Saturday?”

  Mom sighed. “You know I can’t come over, honey.”

  “Come on, I’ll make French toast! I’ll hardly get to see you Friday what with the game and everything.”

  “Let’s go out to breakfast,” she said. “You and me. OK?”

  “I know Dad would like to see you, Mom.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry. I don’t want to see him.”

  “OK,” I said. “I love you, Mom.”

  11 / WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25—TROY CENTRAL HIGH

  They knew about the video.

  At least I thought they did. Everyone I talked to seemed to look at me weird. Some kids—Shane’s friends—looked disgusted. Others gave me an extra smile of encouragement. Shane definitely had enemies at school, and I’m sure none of them would mind seeing him get taken down.

  At practice, Shane still got the first-team reps, and I still got squat. If Coach Z thought there was a chance I’d be starting, he wasn’t showing it. He wasn’t hedging his bets at all. It was like he knew I didn’t have the courage to turn that video over.

  As for Shane, he just ignored me. If he knew that I could ruin his career, he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t say anything at all.

  On Wednesday after school, Orlando threw a shoulder into me as we passed in the hall. The hall was nearly empty, so there was no reason for him to pass that close. As I rolled off the hit, Joe Blatnik, middle linebacker, came up and grabbed my shirt. He and Orlando pushed me around the corner, into the darkened science hall. Joe held me against the wall.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Shut up,” Orlando said.

  I knocked Joe’s hand away from my shirt and started to step away. He grabbed me again, harder, and slammed me into the wall.

  “I would wail on you right now,” Joe said. “But for some reason, Shane don’t want me to.”

  “He says you don’t have the stones to do anything with that video,” Orlando said.

  “But if it somehow makes it to Donahue’s office …” Joe said.

  “Ain’t nobody can protect you” Orlando said. “Got it?”

  I got it all right. As they walked away, I caught my breath—I didn’t realize I’d been holding it. I knew what Joe said was true: He’d love to beat the daylights out of me, and not just because of the video. He was that kind of guy. But it made me angry that he and Orlando took the time to threaten me if they weren’t going to follow through.

  As I thought about that, my anger started to boil over. I ran through the other things that had happened that week. Coach Z basically daring me to turn over that video. Shane ignoring me, convinced that he was safe. My dad, who wanted so badly for me to start. And finally, the fact that Mom was coming to see the game—I really wanted to play for her.

  I added it all up like one big math problem, and there was only one answer: I was going to send the video into Principal Donahue. I’d show Orlando and Joe that they couldn’t scare me. I’d show Coach Z he was wrong about me. I’d make my parents proud.

  But first, I had to check the pulse of the locker room. I knew I had a few friends. And I knew some of the guys were tired of Shane’s hotshot act. If I went to war with him, I needed to know who would be on my side.

  I knew one thing: Everyone believed that winning the game against Harvest Valley was more important than any personal stuff. Winning always was. So I’d be safe until after I made the start.

  After practice, while we were dressing in the locker room, I spotted Shane at the end of my row.

  “Yo, Shane!” I called out. “What are those, chicken feathers in your hair?”

  OK, I admit it. As a chicken coop joke, the line was pretty weak. But I knew Shane would get it right away, and so would everyone else.

  Shane looked at me, but he didn’t make a move. Then I heard Ernie laughing in the next row over.

  “Bawk! Bawk!” he called—making a chicken noise.

  A few other guys laughed.

  “Don’t egg him on,” somebody by Ernie said.

  “I’m only yolking,” Ernie said.

  Oh, man, these were some bad jokes. But Shane had steam coming out of his ears.

  Devon shook his head. “Dude. I knew I should never have told you about that.”

  “Seems like you told a lot of people,” I said.

  Shane pulled his shirt on, slammed his locker shut, and hurried out without showering.

  12 / WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25—GARY’S HOUSE

  That night, I sat at my computer to work on the e-mail to Principal Donahue. I wrote it, read it over, deleted it, and wrote it again. I had trouble finding the right words. I wanted it to sound mature. Like a concerned citizen doing the responsible thing—and not like some kid tattling.

  Plus, I was nervous. Once I sent this e-mail, everything was going to change. Mostly the change would be good, but it wouldn’t be easy. Who knew what Shane would do? He’d definitely blow up in some unpredictable way. And he’d sure never talk to me again. Our friendship, what was left of it, would be toast.

  And of course I’d be starting for the Trojans. That would mean a ton of pressure on the field and off. Coach would never forgive me. The guys on the team, some of them would never forgive me either. Orlando and Joe would come at me. I’d have to talk to the press after games, just like Shane did. He loved the attention, but I was more of a quiet type.

  “Hey, Gary, what’s for dinner?”

  That was Dad out in the living room. Things would be different with him, too, of course. I’d have to work harder at football, leaving me less time to help him. And he’d be all over me, wanting to review plays and watch video of upcoming opponents.

  I yelled down the hall: “One second, Dad!”

  Finally I wrote a short and simple e-mail to the principal:

  Dear Mr. Donahue. This video shows Shane Hunter driving drunk. This is a clear violation of district and team policy, which he has already previously broken before. I hope you will do the right thing and suspend him from the team.

  Sincerely, Gary Jayo.

  I pasted in the link to the private YouTube channel where I’d uploaded it and hit Send. Then I made dinner for my dad.

  13 / THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26—MEDIA ROOM

  After the weekly video yearbook meeting, Shane’s girlfriend, Jenny, wanted to talk to me.

  “I heard about this video you have,” she said. We were alone in the media center—the rest of the staff had already left.

  “What did you hear?” I said. The first thing I thought of was the clip of Shane with Shawna. I’d forgotten about it until now, and for a second, I felt awful. If she knew, it would hurt her badly. But then I realized she must have meant the clip of Shane getting into his truck and driving away drunk. It seemed like everyone knew about it even though nobody had seen it but Ernie and me. And probably Principal Donahue by now, too.

  “I heard he was a jerk to you,” Jenny said.

  “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

  “I heard he broke your jaw.”

  “Dislocated it.”

  “And I heard you recorded him driving away,” Jenny said. “Drunk.”

  “So, what’s up?” I asked.

  “Gary, how could you do that?”

  “You just said he was a jerk to me.”

  “So that means you’d let him risk his life?”

  “His life? I thought we were talking about his career.”

  Jenny shook her head. I thought she was about to start crying, so I put a hand on her shoulder. “Jenny, is everything OK? Look, I don’t want to hurt him. Well, maybe part of me does. Mostly I just want a level playing field.”

  “Wow,” Jenny said. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

  And then it hit me. She wondered why I hadn’t stopped him from driving drunk. That would have been the right thing to do.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny, I…” I felt myself getting al
l nervous like I did with Coach Z. I hated myself all of a sudden. “I, uh—shoot, I’m sorry. That was wrong.”

  She was totally crying now. Something else was going on.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” I asked.

  She sobbed and stepped into my arms.

  “Gary, was there another girl with Shane? At that party?”

  “I, uh …”

  She looked me in the eyes. She was really beautiful. “It was Shawna, wasn’t it?” she said. Then she shook her head. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. I’ll ask him myself.”

  “Uh, OK,” I said stupidly.

  She pulled a tissue from a box on the desk and blew her nose with a cute little honk.

  “He talks about you sometimes, you know,” she said. “About when you guys were kids. He’s never had a better friend.”

  “Come on,” I said. “He doesn’t care about me anymore. For years, all he’s done is dump on me.”

  “I guess,” she said. “He’s insecure.” She blew her nose again. “Anyway, I thought you’d like to know that.”

  That night, I drove Dad’s Honda over to Shane’s house. I parked along the curb, trying to decide if I’d go up and knock.

  I wasn’t sure why Coach Z wanted me to pay Shane a visit. I looked at the run-down house, the dangling garage door, and the weeds and garbage all over the lawn.

  I thought about what Coach had said—what it meant to tell Shane what the “right thing” was. Shane didn’t know where his dad was. His father had left the family years ago. His mom was an alcoholic and was into who knew what—all kind of drugs. His little sister … wow, she had to be in middle school these days. She looked up to him. Shane had a chance to make it big. He had a chance to get them away from all this.

  The front door opened up, and Shane stepped out onto the porch to look at me.

  “Gary?” he said.

  I held a hand up to wave.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  I wasn’t sure. What was I doing there? As I let my hand down, his little sister came up behind him in the doorway and looked out at me.