The Accidental Quarterback

by Charles Curtis

  Tuesday was absolutely exhausting. Dad had me on a treadmill while I was connected to hundreds of wires and tubes. At first, I just jogged, and he took readings. Nothing seemed to be happening. Dad pressed a few buttons to force me to speed up, but there was no familiar burst of energy or strength. He tried a few different strategies. Once, he put on really loud, fast rock music while I ran. Then he added videos that looked pretty normal—a dog running down a street, a woman getting into her car—but a scary image like a disfigured face would randomly pop out and scream. That made me jump for a second, but still, even while running on the treadmill, there was nothing.

  “I need just one good reading and we’ll have a better understanding of exactly what’s going on,” he said while I guzzled Gatorade during a break.

  “Why don’t you try something besides a treadmill?” I said between long gulps, still attached to the mess of wires.

  “Your break is over.”

  I said something quietly to myself about how Coach Schmick was easier on me than my dad and stepped back on what had become my greatest foe. Dad set it at a decent pace, and I kept up.

  “I didn’t want to have to do this, but you’re refusing to cooperate, Alex.” Dad’s voice was stern. I heard him click on the keyboard, and an Internet browser popped up on the screen in front of me with a new email window. Dad began typing.

  Sophi,

  I realized I’m too busy to date you anymore. Between my schoolwork and football, life has become too hectic. I hope you’ll understand.

  “Dad, what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to send this email to Sophi right now if you don’t start doing something.”

  The treadmill started moving faster. “What? You wouldn’t!” I yelled between gasps.

  At the top of the screen popped Sophi‘s actual email address. My heart beat faster.

  “Alex, either do what you’re told or I’m sending this.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He typed more at the bottom: I never really liked you. And you’re not as good looking as you think.

  “Dad!!”

  “One last time: do what I want,” he said coldly. I started pulling at the wires but I couldn’t do that and stay on the treadmill at the same time. He wrote a sentence: You are a two-colored-eye freak. The cursor on the screen moved toward the “send” button as the treadmill got faster and faster.

  “NO!”

  Squeeeeeeeee

  I kept pace with the treadmill as I watched the cursor hover over the “send” button. But after a few seconds, my legs began to slow down. I heard Dad say, “Oh no!” as the treadmill threw me back. The wires snapped off me and I landed hard on my back.

  “You okay?”

  “Did you send the email?” I asked, rubbing my back.

  He shook his head. “Nope. I did what was necessary, but I got what I needed.”

  “Great,” I said sarcastically. Dad beamed.

  “It was incredible. I have to go back and watch the video, but I think I saw a spontaneous full-body muscle spasm before you began running at an astounding rate.” He glanced at the monitor, which was covered in numbers. “It lasted exactly 4.73 seconds.

  “That’s plenty for one night. Thanks for being a good sport. In fact, as a reward, your grounding ends after the game tomorrow.” Dad helped me up and began shutting down the equipment. The rest of the night, thank goodness, was just a lecture. Dad sat down with me in front of the monitors.

  “From what I can tell initially, the key to activating the nanobots seems to be increased levels of adrenaline combined with the level of testosterone in your body. Because you’re going through puberty and your chemistry is going to fluctuate over the next few years, it may affect their performance. What I can’t tell is whether or not it’s a combination of other factors that activates them.

  He typed a few keystrokes and up popped a transparent human body. The focus went to the base of its spine. “When I injected you with the nanobots years ago, I programmed them to attach to your spine. Meanwhile, your bloodstream is filled with those respirocytes. When you panic, your heart pumps faster and you secrete adrenaline and other chemicals. When those levels hit a certain threshold … ” More clicks on the keyboard and the spine gave off a glow. Little dots surrounded it, floating in space. “ … the respirocytes storing oxygen gather around your spine, almost as if they’re receiving orders. In an instantaneous moment, they find the muscles that are being used. If it’s just your brain, they’ll head that way, too.” He hit a few more keystrokes. The dots immediately moved to the legs, arms, and head. “Then they release the oxygen into your bloodstream, which is why your muscles react by twitching. It also releases oxygen into your brain, which changes the chemistry up there and causes you to hear tones and smell certain odors. All of that happens in under a second. Whatever you’re doing at that moment, you’ll do it with exponentially improved performance for a small amount of time.”

  “So I have no control over this whatsoever?”

  He shook his head. “Too dangerous. Even if I knew how to control it, I wouldn’t trust an adult, let alone a 13-year-old, to have that kind of power.”

  Before I could respond, I felt a stinging pain at the back of neck and a hiss of air. I leapt up and yelped in pain. “What was that?”

  In his hand was a small gun-like object with a needle. “I implanted a sensor.” I rubbed the spot where he’d inserted it and felt a tiny bump, like a pimple. He turned to the console and grabbed something that looked like a cell phone. “It’s connected to this device.” He turned it on. A green screen glowed the word READY. “Anytime you activate, this meter will register the results so we can further study the process. Try not to lose it, please.”

  He turned back to the console and picked up another small device. It was smaller and held a small red dot encased in plastic with straps attached to it. “This is the most important object I can give you. It’s a panic button. Obviously, we have you protected and watched. But God forbid, if you’re in trouble … ” He trailed off for a moment. “Strap it to your ankle and never take it off. Not even in the shower.” He thrust it at me, and I followed his instructions, putting it on my left ankle under my sock. Surprisingly, it was comfortable; I hardly felt it there.

  “What happens when I press the button?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about that. And don’t even think about testing it,” he said. “There is one last thing you need to know. If you encounter anyone who approaches you and tells you we’re in trouble, or that you need to come with them, there’s a question you need to ask them. They’ll give you the correct answer, and you’ll know they’re one of us.

  “You will ask them, ‘What’s the fastest way down?’ And they will say, ‘Quicksand.’ Got it?”

  “‘What’s the fastest way down? Quicksand.’ Where’d you come up with that?”

  Dad didn’t want to answer. “It doesn’t matter. Any other questions?”

  Too many to count. But after my eventful first date with Sophi, one had been bugging me for days: “Are there other kids living around here with nanobots in their blood?”

  He looked over his glasses at me. “For your safety and for everyone else’s, I can’t answer that.”

  But he didn’t say no.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You gotta find, like … an image or something.”

  After my final class on Friday, I walked to the gym, where I’d disappear into the locker room for a few hours and emerge a football player in full pads, helmets, and spikes. I told Sophi a million times she didn’t have to come. I wouldn’t make it into the game for a single snap, even if we were up 59-0. Still, she insisted on coming. I also made my parents swear they wouldn’t go over and introduce themselves to her.

  Even if I wasn’t playing, I had to be prepared. But there was a huge problem. Dad mentioned that his tests revealed my nanobots couldn’t be used too often. He thought the respi
rocytes needed time to restore their oxygen but wasn’t sure until he got more information from my sensor.

  I opened the door to the locker room, expecting to see that bizarre combination of skin, sweat, and dirt, and hear the sound of nonsensical chatter. Instead, the place was empty. A constant drip from one of the showers made the only sound. I looked at my watch and realized I was at least two hours early. With nothing better to do, I walked down the rows to find my locker and use the time to read over the scouting report.

  When I got to my locker, I found a surprise: a gleaming nameplate with PTUIAC in capital letters. At last, I was officially a member of the Griffins.

  A package wrapped in brown paper sat on the floor below my locker. I opened it to find a brand new dark red and yellow jersey with the number eleven on it. I turned it around to see PTUIAC stitched on the back.

  I put the uniform down and entered the combination on my lock. Dad had created a special lock programmed to work only when my fingers touched it. Anyone else would receive an electric shock.

  I heard a sound nearby that made me jump. I closed my locker walked around the corner to find the source. There, sitting in front of his locker, was Jimmy Claw. He had an empty Snapple bottle in his hand, and a giant lump protruded from his bottom lip. He seemed startled to see me; probably the only time I’d ever seen him rattled by anything.

  But then he got that cool “I’m Jimmy Claw” expression on his face. “Hey, man,” Claw drawled. With whatever was stuffed in his lip, it sounded like, “Heh mah.”

  “What’s up?” I responded. I understood why so many students were in awe of Jimmy. Even when he was surprised by something, like being caught in the locker room, he still appeared confident and laid back. Yet, he exuded this sense of being an outsider, a Southerner who wasn’t used to wearing a uniform in a snotty private school. Headmaster Hoyer, who’d run Strange since 1991, walked around the school and regularly told uniform violators to correct their mistakes. “Tuck in that shirt, Mr. Franks … Ms. Appleton, what have I told you about your skirt? Move it down.” Sophi told me she’d been caught a few times and would ignore his stern orders. But Jimmy had his own style that Hoyer never seemed to correct, or at least that’s what I’d heard. At that moment, his tie wasn’t pulled all the way up to his collar, and he wore sneakers instead of loafers.

  “Nuthin’. Just gettin’ my head in the game,” he said. Claw held up the Snapple bottle and let loose a dribble of something brown into it. Yuck.

  “Same here.”

  “This is mah ritual before games.”

  “What is it?”

  He smiled as best he could through the giant lump. “It’s called packin’ a lip. You take tobacco and stuff it in there. Keeps you calm. Used to do it all the time back home.”

  I made a face of disgust, and Jimmy got defensive. “Well, it ain’t illegal!” he said, spitting again into the glass container.

  “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

  His face relaxed, and he smiled at me again. “You’re a good guy. Thanks. And you got a cannon for an arm.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Just keep workin’ at it and Coach’ll reward you someday. That’s how it was when I was a seventh grader in Texas and he was my coach.”

  “I’ll try.” There was something I had to know, given what I now knew about my, uh, situation. “How do you stay so calm? Besides the, um, tobacco.”

  Jimmy rolled that one around his mouth for a moment before responding. “Being prepared is one thing that helps. But you gotta find, like … an image or something. A go-to moment that keeps you from thinking too much. When I’m on the field sometimes and it’s a big moment, I like to think about … well, there was this view from my daddy’s farm, on the roof, that reminds me of bein’ back home. Try somethin’ like that.”

  Before I could respond, we heard noise coming from the direction of the doors. Our teammates were about to pile in.

  Jimmy quickly put the bottle to his lips and, in one motion, spat out what looked like a ball of mud. He grabbed the Snapple cap next to him and screwed it on. Then, with the doors about to swing open, he spun around on the bench and threw it at a garbage can at the end of the row. Swish.

  He turned back to me and flashed that smile that girls around the school would have paid to see. Naturally, there wasn’t a trace of the tobacco anywhere.

  “Jimmaaaayyyyy! It’s game daaaay!” That was Dan Zewberry, the kid tasked with protecting Claw’s blind side as the left tackle. He was also there the day Flab cornered me by my house. I nodded to Jimmy and walked back to my locker before Zewberry found him.

  An hour and a half later, after warm-ups and stretches outside, we were back in the locker room, which filled with the sound of clapping when Coach entered. We gathered in front of Schmick, and I felt a tug on my arm. Who else would it be but Dex, swimming around in his oversized uniform.

  “You ready?” he said

  “I’m not going to play a snap, right?”

  “You never know.” He was serious.

  “Well, then I’m ready.”

  “Same here. Your parents here?”

  I nodded. “Yours?”

  Dex shook his head.

  Coach blew a whistle and asked us to take a knee. Somehow, I found myself behind the entire offensive line but was able to crane my neck to see Schmick pacing in front of us, his mirrored sunglasses looking even more polished and reflective than usual.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, and I swear I saw him smile for a half-second. “Welcome to game day.” The team roared back in unison.

  “Who’s gonna make a play for me today?” A saw a few hands go up in the front row. Everyone else shouted back at him “I am!” “Me, sir!” “I will!”

  Schmick yelled back, “Who’s gonna make a play today!”

  More of the same yells drowned out our head coach. Then, weirdly enough, he slammed his clipboard down, silencing the entire room.

  “Do you hear yourselves? ‘I will.’ ‘Me.’ ‘I.’ That’s not what this is all about.”

  Coach got quiet again.

  “You are a group of individuals at the moment. What you gotta do is start thinking like team. When I ask you questions like who’s gonna make a play, you’ve gotta start thinking collectively. You’ve got to support each other, think for each other, protect each other, and win for each other. The individuals become one entity.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “This ain’t like what you’ve seen in the movies. This ain’t some football game that’ll change the rest of your life or make you more of a man. No, this is about playing a game the right way. You have to prove that you’re responsible enough as individuals to go out there and make plays TOGETHER before I can trust you. Force me to trust you. Play the right way. Show me who’s going to step up and make a play. So who’s gonna make a play for me today?”

  I heard Jimmy’s voice. “We will, coach!”

  “Who’s gonna make a play?” Coach got up from his squat.

  “We will!!” the entire team shouted back.

  “Let’s go get ‘em!”

  Minutes later, we were out on the field, barely able to hear Jimmy over the crowd.

  “ … It doesn’t matter what we’ve done ‘til now. All that practice was preparation for battle. You need to fight for each other. You need to play like you’re protecting your family. You ready to fight for each other?” Jimmy yelled.

  The entire team howled.

  “Griffins on three! One! Two! Three!”

  “GRIFFINS!”

  Our captains, including Jimmy, ran out to the field to take the coin toss while I walked over to sit down next to Dex on the end of the bench. Before I did, I looked up at the crowd. After a few seconds, I located that shock of red hair, mostly covered by a hoodie. Sophi. About three rows down were my parents. They looked nervous, but they waved.

  “I know we’re not going to play at all, but this is pretty awe
some,” Dex said.

  “Yeah. I still can’t believe we’re a part of this.”

  It was easy to see why Jimmy was such a star. We were playing another local private school, Lansdowne Prep, which had beaten us three of the last four years. They tried blitzing us, with pressure on our right side, but Jimmy moved to his left and made some incredible throws. He led us to a 14-3 lead after the first quarter and didn’t even look like he was tired.

  While our defense was on the field, I jumped in on meetings with Jimmy, our backup quarterback Jesse Jarvis, and Coach Carson, who shouted various instructions about trends he saw from the defense and how Jimmy should adjust (there wasn’t much he needed to do). Then it was back to the bench, where Dex and I tried to dissect how we’d handle Lansdowne’s aggressive defense.

  “If you see pressure from the left side and I’m lined up on that side, you’re supposed to look my way since I’ll probably be one-on-one with space. Just don’t make it obvious,” Dex explained.

  “I understand,” I replied. I had played enough video games to know the rule of thumb most of the time is to throw into pressure. “But they’re probably moving their safeties up, figuring a quick throw is coming.”

  “So if you see that, you wait the extra second, and hit the other receiver, who’s going deep. That, of course, depends on the formation we use.”

  That extra second would mean I’d be pancaked, but that’s how the pros do it.

  Halftime arrived with the Griffins leading 23-6. Coach Schmick gave us a quick speech in the locker room about keeping our focus and continuing to put the pressure on our opponents.

  Just as the band struck up our fight song outside the tunnel, Dex tapped me on the arm. I looked down, and he said something I couldn’t hear. Then he pointed to his helmet. Shoot. I forgot my helmet in the locker room. I told him I’d be right back.