by Pearl Love
Tyrell sat back, clearing the space between the bickering girls. He had no interest in getting involved in their verbal catfight, but he sure wished he knew why Cynthia insisted on antagonizing Shaunteé whenever they were within five feet of each other. He watched the squad complete their cheer. Sure enough, when the pairs performed successive dismounts with the topmost member somersaulting off his or her partner’s shoulders, the last girl in the line ended up butt first on the ground. To her credit, she bounced right back to her feet, but the damage was done. Every Winton Yowell student in the bleachers, and not a few Kendall students, catcalled and heckled her. Tyrell felt a twinge of sympathy, though he was impressed the girl never once dropped her falsely bright grin.
“Whatever,” Cynthia said with a roll of her eyes. She sat back and stared at the field, blatantly ignoring Shaunteé’s victorious tittering.
Tyrell glanced at the play clock. The game wouldn’t resume for ten minutes. Resigning himself, he looked back at the field wondering when he could reasonably excuse himself to go to the restroom. He’d have done it already if he hadn’t been afraid he’d return to find Cynthia and Shaunteé engaged in an all-out brawl.
Thankfully, the cheer team soon yielded the field to the next halftime act. As soon as the last tumbling body disappeared into the entrance to the underground locker rooms, the sharp peal of a whistle rang out, cutting decisively through the hot, humid air. The home team crowd immediately broke out into cheers. That first blow was followed by a second, and then a series of four in rapid succession. And then Tyrell heard the drums.
The cadence was furious right from the beginning, and the members of the drumline burst out from beneath the underground tunnel in a blast of frenetic motion. The figures were dressed identically in white uniforms in the quasi-military style common to marching bands the nation over. Their tall white hats swayed precariously as the drummers dashed to their positions, the red feather sticking straight up into the air from the top of the hats waving as they went. The line began a complicated series of maneuvers, snaking between each other in two intersecting lines before separating into two distinct groups. After a few more maneuvers, the lines resolved into a capital K and G.
Tyrell watched the display intently, impressed at the precision of their movements. He guessed they must have been practicing for at least a month already to be so good on the first day of the school term. But it was the driving rhythm of the drums that held him entranced. The players had never stopped while evolving through their complex formations, keeping up a rapid pace that filled the outdoor stadium with sound despite the stillness of the air.
Once they were finally in position, the drummers really got down to business. The drum major materialized from in between the letters formed by his fellows, a whistle protruding from his lips and a long baton held high in front of him at a precise angle. He blew another sequence of whistles and began a series of intricate baton twirls that would surely put any majorette to shame.
“Man, I’d heard Kendall’s drumline was good, but I had no idea.” Cynthia’s breathless tone left no doubt as to her opinion.
“Yeah,” Shaunteé added, “they’re not bad. Their cheerleaders may suck, but I have no complaints about this.”
Tyrell barely heard them. His ears were filled with the pounding beats. His gaze was transfixed by the blur of the snare drummers’ sticks as they drew sharp staccatos from the taut material of the drumheads. He was only peripherally aware that his hands were hitting his legs in an exact copy of the intricate rhythm.
The drumline went through rousing performances of several high-energy pieces, including an all-percussion version of Kendall’s fight song, before bringing their show to an end. By the time the drum major took his bow, everyone in the bleachers was on their feet. Tyrell was no exception, though he was one of the few people around him who wasn’t applauding wildly. He was still lost in the music, the sound of the beating drums on an endless loop in his head. It was only when Cynthia grabbed his left hand that he realized he was still tapping his fingers restlessly against his thigh.
“You okay, Ty? You don’t look too good.”
Tyrell glanced down at her, and at her concerned expression made an effort to shake off his odd mood. “Yeah, I’m okay, but I think that hot dog I ate at the beginning of the game didn’t agree with me.”
Cynthia groaned and smacked him on the shoulder. “TMI, dude!”
He grinned but felt no remorse. They’d known each other too long and had been through too much together for there to be any mystery between them at this point. He did, however, glance over at Shaunteé to make sure she hadn’t overheard their exchange. She was busy refreshing her lipstick, so Tyrell felt confident his moment of candor had gone unheeded.
“I’m going to run to the restroom before the second half starts,” he said by way of a censored explanation.
Shaunteé nodded in acknowledgment, and Tyrell worked his way past her so he could get out of their row in the bleachers. He wondered if he’d just imagined that her hand lingered on his waist when he brushed by her.
Most of the male attendees must have used the facilities earlier during halftime, because Tyrell found the men’s room practically empty with only one other guy finishing up at the sink when he walked in. He hadn’t been completely lying to Cynthia. His stomach did feel a little queasy. Glad that he had the place to himself, he took care of business, and then went to wash his hands. He glanced up at his reflection in the large mirror that stretched across the wall behind the sinks. Leaning closer to the mirror, he frowned when he noticed his pupils were somewhat dilated. It was odd since he’d been in the restroom for a while, and the facilities designers had not skimped on the fluorescent lighting.
Tyrell shrugged off the odd physical reaction, putting it down to his excitement at having spent the past hour and a half sitting so close to Shaunteé. He’d have to thank Ryan for the suggestion that he invite her. Maybe he’d treat his friend to a slice of Chicago-style deep dish from that place they liked in Hyde Park, near his apartment. Whistling tunelessly Tyrell left the bathroom, only half-aware he was still recreating the drumline’s beats against his legs.
The restrooms were located on the side of the field toward the entrance, but since everyone else had apparently returned to their seats, the immediate area was deserted. A bell rang, signaling the two-minute warning before the game resumed, and Tyrell quickened his long-legged stride, not wanting to miss the debut scrimmage of the second test quarterback. He was passing next to a darkened space beneath the bleachers when he was hit with a wave of nausea that nearly dropped him to his knees.
“What the…?” he gasped. Bile rose up in the back of his throat, and he stumbled over to the edge of the bleachers so he could brace his hand against them. They were the only thing keeping him upright as his head began to pound incessantly. This definitely wasn’t a bad hot dog. His slight queasiness from earlier was nothing compared to this.
Tyrell racked his brain, trying to figure out what could have possibly caused him to feel so awful. Though he’d skipped breakfast, too anxious to get to school on time to think about eating before leaving the house, he’d eaten the lunch his mother packed for him immediately after assembly. He’d also grabbed a couple of Hot Pockets out of the freezer when he got home, and after that had been the two dogs he grabbed right before the game started. He knew his mother would probably yell at him later for spending money out on food, but given his appetite these days, he considered all that nothing but light snacks. At any rate, he hadn’t eaten anything that might account for the knives that seemed to be carving gleefully through his stomach.
And now that he was paying attention, it wasn’t only his stomach that hurt. His head was filled with a loud buzzing sound that only increased his dizziness and nausea. The air coming from below the bleachers was oppressive, as though someone had turned on a furnace beneath them. It was already over eighty degrees outside, so the excess heat did him no favors.
; Tyrell squeezed his eyes shut and took a series of deep breaths, praying he wouldn’t embarrass himself by puking all over the grass. No way he’d be able to face Shaunteé after such an unmanly display. Not to mention he’d have to listen to Cynthia’s worried clucking for the rest of the day. Mind over matter, he told himself. That’s all he needed. After a moment, the worst of it seemed to pass, and Tyrell felt confident enough to open his eyes. The air around him still felt far heavier than normal, but he was content to blame it on the fact he hadn’t really had a decent meal all day.
“Okay,” he mumbled, “no more skipping breakfast, I promise.”
He straightened and took a look under the bleachers, curious as to whether there was an explanation for the blast of scorching heat that had seemed to emanate from beneath the metal stands. As he peered into the gloom, the heat returned even stronger than before, only this time it was accompanied by a rank odor that made Tyrell gag. Had some animal crawled under there and died? He couldn’t see anything except blackness, but that was equally strange. It wasn’t even 6:30 yet, and the sun was just then beginning to set. The sky was overcast, heralding the arrival of the rain that was due to hit later that night, but the sun was still shining brightly through the clouds. Light was plentiful, but he couldn’t see more than a couple of feet into the dark space when he should have had a clear view to the other side.
“Is someone there?” he called out. He tensed, ready to run at the slightest hint of danger, but he received no response. Another cramp of pain twisted his gut, and he groaned. “Seriously, what the fuck?”
He placed a hand over his flat stomach, trying futilely to massage away the pain. He closed his eyes and leaned against one of the pillars holding up the bleachers, growing more scared that something was really wrong with him. His ears began to ring, and he winced in anticipation of pain, but instead of agonizing, the sound was pure, like a far-away horn blowing a sustained note. Given where he was, that wouldn’t have been strange except that the marching band had long ago finished its routine.
The soreness in his head and stomach disappeared as suddenly as it had come on. Tyrell took a deep breath as his body set itself to rights. He turned to look back beneath the bleachers, blinking as he noted that everything looked completely normal. Not only had the furnace-like heat vanished, but he could see the grass, obscured only by the shadows cast by the metal risers save for where a beam of sunlight occasionally poked through.
Tyrell stared for a moment, but couldn’t think of anything that might account for the odd shift in reality he’d just witnessed. “Weird,” he said finally, shaking his head. After casting one more glance under the bleachers, he straightened and took a deep breath before hurrying back to his friends.
Chapter SIX
BY THE time Jeremy reached the third floor of his apartment building, his shirt was stuck to his skin with sweat. He usually had no trouble with the five-and-a-half-block walk between his apartment and the Merlo Branch of the Chicago Public Library, but the heat had drained all the energy out of him. He hadn’t once considered going directly home, even though the school day had been truncated. Spending hours at the library was a years-long habit he had no desire to break. Besides, he knew what would be waiting for him when he finally did go home, and he wasn’t eager to deal with the hassle.
He paused at the front door to his family’s unit and took a deep breath before turning the key in the lock and pushing the door open.
“Jeremy? Is that you?”
“Wonderful,” he moaned under his breath. He had hoped his sister might have decided she had better things to do than fulfill her self-appointed role as second mother to her youngest brother. Apparently he wasn’t to be so lucky. “Yeah, it’s me,” he called out. “I’ll be there in a sec.” He detoured to his bedroom on the way to the kitchen to drop off his backpack and the materials he’d gotten at the library. Rock music was blaring from behind the closed door of his brother Andrew’s room, but he didn’t bother knocking. He hadn’t seen Andrew in nearly four days, and he was willing to see if they could stretch their mutual avoidance to a week. He just hoped his brother hadn’t gotten laid off again.
When Jeremy reached the kitchen, Irina was standing at the stove wearing their mother’s apron. Deftly wielding a spatula, she flipped something in the frying pan she was holding with her other hand before glancing at him briefly over her shoulder. “I’m making pierogi. Two potato and two beef.”
Oh great, he thought, knowing his sister only made him pierogi when he was sick or she thought he was in a severe funk. But they were his favorite, so he couldn’t complain too much. “Thanks, sis,” he replied as he pulled out a chair from beneath the kitchen table and dropped into it.
“Tough day?” Irina asked, keeping her attention on the hot skillet.
Jeremy hid a smile. That certainly hadn’t taken her long. “Not really. Where’s Monica?” It was after five o’clock, and his mother usually closed up shop by four thirty unless she had a late appointment.
“Mom’s still at the community center.” Irina was the firstborn in the Michalak family, and back then, their mother hadn’t yet hit her hippie stride in insisting her kids call her by her first name. Irina considered it weird and had never relented on using the appellation. “She asked me to drop by and make you a snack when I left the office since she had some paperwork she needed to finish before coming home.” Irina glanced at the clock over the oven. “She should be here soon, though.”
“Okay,” he acknowledged. He wondered if he could time his stalling long enough for Monica to get home and then conveniently disappear into his room with protestations of fake homework. His mother and sister couldn’t know he hadn’t actually attended any classes that day.
He turned to watch the television that was almost constantly on since someone was always home. If not his semiemployed brother, then his older sister Emelia, or more likely, his immediately older sister Anna, would be there. Emelia was in her last year of nursing school at Wilbur Wright, and Anna was a freshman at UIC. Both had found it more cost-effective to live at home, meaning five of the seven Michalak children had yet to leave the nest. Jeremy couldn’t help including Chris in that number, even though he’d been gone two years already.
Irina, on the other hand, had moved out after graduating from Northwestern eight years before, though she hadn’t gone very far. She, her husband, Nate, and their four-year-old daughter, Cathy, lived less than three miles away in Ravenswood. Gabriel, the second oldest, was the only one to have gone any significant distance away. At twenty-six, he was enjoying the bachelor life in Washington, DC.
Irina angled her body so she could glance at him with a raised eyebrow and, at the same time, make sure the pierogi didn’t burn. “How was your first day? I want a full report, and I don’t care if you have to repeat everything for Mom later.” Her expression softened into something caring and a little sad. “You know we worry about you, Bean.” She’d been using the nickname diminutive for “beanpole” for the past two years since he’d hit his growth spurt in a big way, stretching up five inches in a little over ten months.
Jeremy gave the TV one last wistful glance before giving her his full attention. “Really, sis, it was fine. We didn’t do much today, just attended homeroom and figured out our class assignments.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell.”
Irina groaned in disgust. “Save us from teenage boys.” She flipped over one of the pierogi without looking, and Jeremy was impressed despite himself. “What classes are you taking? What’s your homeroom teacher like? Come on, Bean, I want details!”
Bowing to her implacability, Jeremy relented and gave her a brief rundown of his day, starting with his meeting the vice principal and ending with the opening assembly. “The principal seems like a nice enough guy, though a little scatterbrained. He didn’t even seem to mind that absolutely no one was really paying attention to his speech. It was basically the same one Ms. Simonds had given me this morning, so I’d already heard
it.” He sniffed the air hopefully as the aroma of the nearly done pierogi filled the kitchen. “Oh, and my homeroom teacher, Mr. Crabtree, is also the band director, so that’s pretty cool. Are those done yet?”
Irina chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, they’ll be ready in less than a minute. Keep your shorts on. Why don’t you grab the applesauce and sour cream from the fridge so you can dive in?”
Jeremy heard the front door open and close while he was following his sister’s instructions. Monica breezed in right as Irina set the plate of pierogi in front of him. She pressed a kiss to her oldest daughter’s cheek and then did the same to Jeremy before parking herself in the chair across from him.
“So, how was school?”
Jeremy sighed and bit into a pierogi. Mmmm, beef. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a few moments to enjoy the treat before meeting his mother’s intent gaze. He marveled again at the vagaries of genetics that had given him and his brothers his mother’s green eyes while all of his sisters had to content themselves with their father’s eye color of muted gray. Anna, in particular had often railed at the unfairness of it all and occasionally resorted to colored contacts to correct the situation.
“It was fine—”
“Jeremy,” Irina interjected, “don’t start with that terse crap again. Tell Mom what she wants to hear.”
Dutifully, he recited for the second time the mostly boring details of his day. Monica nodded attentively, but he could tell she wasn’t satisfied with his response.
“I’m glad you’ll be able to get involved in the school band right away,” she said. “I know you were hoping you could. But what about the other kids? Have you made any friends?” she asked bluntly before sitting forward in her chair and bracing her arms more firmly on the table. “Did any of them give you grief?”
Jeremy paused a bit too long before saying no, and his mother and sister pounced.
Irina had claimed the chair next to his, and she reached over and grabbed his forkless hand protectively. “What happened, Bean? Ugh,” she continued, “I was hoping this time would be different. Isn’t Winton Yowell supposed to be the nerd mecca?”