by Tim Green
In the mirror, a boy stared back at him with one of her eyes. Maybe it seemed even more powerful because the other eye now lay hidden behind a knot of swollen skin. He knew the eye was hers because his father’s eyes were green and dry as baked stones. His were like hers, dark brown and moist, almost liquid. His hair might have come from either of them, but his nose was also hers—when it wasn’t bruised—upturned and narrow, nothing like the hatchet blade in the middle of his father’s face.
Brock sighed. “She’s gone, and he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t.”
That’s what Brock said, but sometimes what he said and what he thought were two different things.
It wasn’t hard to admit that he was afraid of his father. How much more obvious could it be than him preparing for school without hesitation even though his dad wasn’t around, even though he knew he would be in trouble at school. Like a trained animal he brushed his teeth, got dressed, and ate his cereal. Even the dread of seeing Coach Hudgens—of maybe being called down to the principal’s office again, or even being arrested, and all the disaster that would bring—couldn’t keep him from fixing his face into an empty mask, and heading out the door to school, a place where he knew things couldn’t go well.
21
Brock began his seventeen-minute march checking over his shoulder as he went, part of him hoping Nagel would appear just to talk to him, part of him dreading it. He saw other students on his walk, especially when he got to the school grounds and of course at his locker and in the hallways. Brock didn’t bother with them. He looked at the other kids the way most people might look at the animals in a petting zoo.
They were alive, some cute, some goofy, some downright ugly. Some were mean, some nice, some just moving about in their own fog. Brock wasn’t a part of their world, though. He was done pretending. He knew his presence was temporary, so if someone sneered at him, it meant no more than a llama spitting at his feet.
He had no intentions of making friends like Luke Logan or Allie Bergman. There’d be no turtle named BoBo. Nagel was different. Nagel wasn’t someone you’d mind leaving behind. Nagel scared Brock, but Nagel was the best he could do.
Nagel wasn’t in homeroom because he’d been suspended for a week, and the teacher went on down the roll call, saying Brock’s new last name twice before Brock remembered that he was Nickerson and answered.
“Don’t be a wise guy.” The teacher scowled over the tops of his glasses. “One suspension wasn’t enough for you?”
After the bell, Brock felt the other kids steering clear of him, as if he’d contracted some contagious disease. He fantasized about skipping gym class, just leaving the school, maybe even going back to Oklahoma, finding his best friend Allie Bergman and begging to stay with her. Her parents just might do it. He knew they liked him and he suspected they might even have felt sorry for Tommy Rust.
When the bell rang marking the end of science class, he started down the hall, away from the gym. He reached the front doors to the school and surprised himself by actually starting down the steps before someone shouted behind him.
“Hey! You got a pass to leave the grounds?”
Brock spun and his heart froze. He’d never seen so many cops in all his life.
“I’m new. I didn’t know.”
“Where you from?” The cop had a crew cut dark as the gun on his shiny belt, and he narrowed his eyes.
“Ohio,” he lied.
“They do things slack in the Midwest.” The cop nodded his head as if it all made sense now. “Get back inside. You can’t leave school grounds during the day. Don’t you have a class?”
“They usually didn’t care if we were a few minutes late. I just wanted to get some air.”
“Get back inside.”
Brock scooted through the front door, the cop holding it open for him, and made his way to the gym. He stopped outside the wooden double doors, took a deep breath, and let himself in just as the bell rang.
“There he is.” Coach Hudgens stood in front of the class with his clipboard in hand. He removed his glare from Brock and turned to the class. “Count off by twos.”
Brock fell into line as the kids counted one, two, one, two, up the line.
“Not you.” Coach Hudgens pointed at him and flicked his finger toward the door. “Wait for me.”
Hudgens told the ones to get against one wall and the twos the other. He dumped a mesh sack of brightly colored balls the size of cannonballs out into the middle of the gym floor. “Dodgeball! Go!”
Coach tooted his whistle and ignored the shrieks of the class as he marched toward Brock like an executioner. He took Brock by the neck and marshaled him outside and down the hall. They weren’t headed toward the office, but instead the back of the school. Coach Hudgens flung open the metal door. Sunlight and fresh air spilled in. He thrust Brock out onto the empty pavement where the basketball hoops were.
Brock spun and looked at the coach’s maniacal face.
“What are you doing?”
22
Coach Hudgens ignored Brock’s question. He took a piece of chalk from the pocket of his sweat jacket and marked a three-by-one-foot rectangle on the brick wall.
He looked from the wall to Brock. “Who was with you last night?”
Brock clamped his lips and shook his head.
“Won’t tell?”
“I can’t.”
Coach Hudgens stared at him for a minute. “I got a pretty good idea anyway.”
He paused, then without speaking, the coach turned and marched off across the basketball court and beyond, taking about thirty paces before bending down and marking a line on the pavement.
“You stand here.” Hudgens pointed to the line and reached into the other pocket of his sweat jacket. He removed a baseball and handed it to Brock. “You hit my shutter on purpose, right? You didn’t break the window? That was the other kid?”
Brock was trembling. The smell of mouthwash filled the air. He looked up at the school windows, wishing someone would save him.
“I said, ‘right?’” Coach Hudgens snarled.
“Yes.”
“Okay, here’s the deal.” Coach Hudgens lightened up a bit. “You hit that rectangle three times in a row and it’s over. We’re even. But, you miss? You pay the piper.”
“Who’s the piper?” Brock asked.
The coach scowled. “The police and the school can do whatever they want with you. It won’t be good.”
Brock swallowed. He took the ball from the coach’s outstretched hand. Coach Hudgens stepped back. Brock hefted the ball in his left hand.
“You’re a lefty?” Coach Hudgens screwed up his face.
“Yeah,” Brock answered automatically, but he was already concentrating on the rectangle. It was a long way. He stepped back off the line, took a hop, and rifled the ball at the mark on the wall.
23
SMACK!
Brock looked up at the coach.
“Okay, now let’s see if that wasn’t just luck.” Coach Hudgens marched toward the wall and scooped up the ball, tossing it underhand to Brock.
Brock stepped back, concentrated, then threw.
SMACK!
His heart soared.
Coach Hudgens grunted, then retrieved the ball again. Brock took it and fired again.
SMACK!
Brock straightened his back and took a deep breath, letting it out with a hiss. He thought of his father, who would now never know the heap of trouble he could have been in, and pumped his fist. “Yes.”
Coach Hudgens picked up the ball and walked toward the entrance to the school. Brock blinked and stood still. Hudgens opened the door and looked back at him. “Well? You coming?”
Brock jogged across the blacktop and slipped through the door. When they got to the gym, a fresh dodgeball game was under way.
“Go ahead.” Coach Hudgens opened the door. “Get in there.”
Brock stepped into the gym and turned. “Coach, I’m sorry.”
Co
ach Hudgens stared at him and Brock had no idea if his face was filled with anger or sadness or forgiveness or hate. Finally, the coach nodded. “I believe you, Brock.”
Brock raced into the action, floating across the gym floor as he bobbed and weaved, nailing people with dodgeballs, nearly invincible, and ending each match faced off with the quiet girl from his homeroom, Bella Peppe. The first time it was just him and her, he beaned her right in the face and sent her glasses and braids flying. Brock glanced at Coach Hudgens, afraid he was right back in trouble again, but the coach hadn’t seen and when he looked back, Bella was stooping for her glasses.
When she raised up, she glowered at him. “Let’s go, new kid.”
Brock grinned and both teams flooded the floor again and it ended with him against her for a second time. This time he dodged her throw, leaping left, and firing his ball at the same time toward her feet. He nicked her ankle, winning again. “You want more?”
Bella set her jaw and pointed at him. “This one’s mine.”
The game began and Brock leaped and threw and dodged, thinking he could play forever, until there they were: him versus Bella. This time, he went right at her, throwing with everything he had, right for her glasses. If she was so tough, let her prove it.
The ball whistled with speed.
At the last instant, Bella brought her own ball up, deflecting his ball even as the shield rebounded into her face. Her head bounced back, but her glasses stayed on. His ball went straight up in the air. She got under it as it fell, and caught it.
Coach Hudgens laughed out loud and blew his whistle. “Nice job, Peppe!”
Coach gave his whistle three sharp blasts and ordered them to clean up. Brock could sense the respect of the boys around him.
One boy, a redhead in a Saints sweatshirt, patted Brock on the back. “I can’t believe you got her twice. No one gets her.”
Brock smiled and picked up a few balls, stuffing them into Coach’s bag while he studied the old man’s face. Coach caught his eyes, but didn’t give away anything. Brock turned as the bell rang and found himself face to face with Bella Peppe.
She held out a hand. “You’re good.”
Brock took her hand and shook it. “You too.”
“I saw your face when Mr. Hunter went over the difference between weight and density in science class this morning. It’s kinda confusing if you didn’t see the experiment we did last week. I figured I could help you with it.”
“Sure,” Brock said. “Thanks.”
“Maybe at lunch?”
“Yeah. Lunch.”
“I sit at the table right by the middle of the stage. See you in a few.”
And then she was gone, leaving behind a set of feelings that Brock never quite had before, not even for Allie.
24
The gym quickly emptied out. Brock stood for a moment, then headed for the door. He was nearly there when Coach Hudgens called, “Hey, Brock.”
“Yeah?” Brock wondered if the coach was going to go back on the deal and he steeled himself not to give away Nagel.
“You a baseball player?”
Brock thought about Tommy Rust, the home run he hit in the championship game and his last at bat, which he never finished. “Yeah. I play a little.”
“I coach a travel team. Liverpool Elite.”
“Oh.”
“We’re not that good, actually, but we got nice uniforms and we travel on one of those fancy luxury buses.”
Brock just stared.
“So, I want you to play.”
“Umm,” Brock said, hesitating.
“What’s the matter? Why wouldn’t you?” Coach Hudgens gave him a defiant look, almost daring him to say something about how he was howling like a madman in the night.
But Brock was more concerned with whether his father would even let him be on a travel team. He doubted it. And, even if his father did let Brock play, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go through what he’d just gone through in Oklahoma. He was sick of starting things without being able to finish.
So, he took the safe way. “I have to ask my father.”
“We start this Sunday. You don’t even have to try out. I’m making an executive decision.”
“I’ll see.”
Coach Hudgens squeezed his lips tight, then sighed. “Listen. I had a kid like you, once.”
Brock studied Coach Hudgens’s face, deathly afraid he’d bring up the dead boy, Mason.
“You ever heard of Barrett Malone?” Coach asked.
“The pitcher for the Tigers?” Brock said with surprise.
Coach nodded. “Lefty, like you. Same arm. Fast. Strong. Big kid.”
“He’s got, like, an unstoppable curve.”
Coach kept nodding. “Yeah, I know. I taught him.”
Brock’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“He sponsors my Liverpool Elite team.” Coach twisted up his lips, considering Brock. “And, honestly, I think you’ve got everything he had. . . . Maybe more.”
25
Brock didn’t know how he got to social studies, but there he was, listening to the teacher read from Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation and trying to take notes as best he could. Of course, it was Coach Hudgens’s words he heard most loudly in his brain. Over and over again, and it got him thinking about Little League baseball in general. Why hadn’t anyone else ever talked to him about pitching?
Brock huffed out loud when the answer came to him.
“Do you have something to say, Mr. Nickerson?” The teacher raised her eyebrows.
Brock shook his head and waited a minute before returning to his thoughts. It was obvious why he hadn’t been a pitcher before. His father never helped coach the teams he played on, and it was the coaches’ sons who always got to pitch. They’d used Brock—Tommy Rust at the time—to play shortstop, or sometimes third because he could make the throw to first better than anyone, but no one ever even talked to him about pitching. What if . . .
The bell rang and Brock stood in line and bought his lunch before finding Bella at the table by the stage. She sat by herself. Brock started to sit down across from her.
“Sit here.” She patted the seat next to her. “It’ll be easier to show you. I got my notes.”
Brock sat down where she said and stuck his fork into a stick of fried mozzarella, dipping it into a plastic cup of sauce, and jamming the whole thing into his mouth. Bella considered his table manners for a moment then snuck a peek at his swollen eye before continuing. “I’m sorry about all that with Nagel. He’s a jerk.”
“He’s not really that bad.” Brock talked through his food, realized how bad he sounded, and hurried to swallow so he could continue the conversation with some better manners.
Swallowing too fast made him choke. He tore open a carton of milk and tried to wash down the mozzarella wedged into his windpipe. Some went down, but more got backed up into his nose and he kept coughing in a muted painful way until he couldn’t hold back any longer. He gagged and heaved and bits of fried cheese and milk exploded from his nose and mouth.
People at the tables surrounding them roared with laughter.
“Jeez, Brock.” Bella wiped some of the mess off her arm with a napkin. “That’s gross.”
Brock felt his face burning with shame and his eyes watered from the pain of having the food exit his nose. He couldn’t speak, even though he was dying to say he was sorry.
“Well, Nagel makes me sick too.” Bella offered him a weak smile and some of her napkins.
Brock wiped himself off, still humiliated by the scene, but slipping quickly into a lofty place of disregard for people he knew he’d not likely see for more than a few months.
“All right, well here.” Bella flipped open her notebook, obviously determined to push ahead and Brock liked her even more for it. “Look at this.”
She began to go over the experiment they’d done in science class to show that mass and weight are different. The whole thing still didn’t make sense to Brock, e
ven with her pictures of same-sized balls with different weights, dropped from a ladder and striking the floor at the same time. She even took out her iPhone and showed him a video of it.
As he listened, he forged ahead with his ham and cheese hoagie and crunched down some carrot sticks and an apple, swallowing with great care.
Finally, he said, “Oh, yeah. I think I get it now.”
“Do you? Really?”
“Yeah.” Brock nodded and smiled. “I think so.”
The bell rang and they got up to throw away their trash and return their trays before heading down the hallway toward the classrooms. Brock took a breath and started talking without even thinking. It was like someone had taken over both his body and his mind.
“So, what do you do after school?” Brock asked. “I mean, sports or anything?”
“Softball.”
“Cool. Maybe I’ll come watch you practice.”
Bella blushed and she looked down at the floor. “Sure.”
“I don’t know, maybe I could walk you home after,” Brock said.
“Sure.” She kept her eyes on the floor, but couldn’t keep the pleasure from her voice.
“You won’t have to tutor me, either.”
“I don’t mind. It must be hard, you know, showing up for the last few weeks of school. Are they going to make you take all the finals?”
“I have no idea,” he said.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
Brock panicked because there was something about Bella that made him want to just tell her the truth, even though he knew he couldn’t. “My dad sells pharmaceuticals. They assigned him to a new territory, so . . . here we are.”
“But where were you?”
“Ohio.” Brock wondered how that sounded to her. They’d never been in Ohio, but that was where they always said they were from. “Belleville.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Small place. Middle of nowhere. This is a good move for my dad, but he still has to travel a lot. Anyway, I gotta go this way. I’ll see you after softball. Thanks for the help.”