by Tim Green
He could feel her fingers sinking into the flesh of his back and was so flustered he couldn’t speak. A scent like flowers and honey drifted up from her glossy hair. He wrapped his arms around her too, and her compact frame reminded him of Genevieve and his mom. His nose dipped toward the wonderful smell so that it brushed the top of her head.
“Come on, we’ll be late for third period.” Megan released him, smiled up, and turned to go. Landon followed.
As they navigated the crowded hallways, Landon felt himself standing a little taller again, and he noticed that the glances people gave him weren’t full of loathing but of respect, maybe even fear. He wondered if that had anything to do with him overpowering the kids who’d tormented him, or if it was because his mother had those same kids’ parents pinned to the mat and wasn’t letting up. Either way, Landon thought he liked it and that it might lead to other things, other friends, someday.
Megan paused outside Mr. Mazella’s math class. “See you later, Landon.”
Landon’s cheek still burned from the hug, and he said a quick thanks before ducking into class.
Buoyed by the image of Megan looking up at him, the smell of her shampoo, and the touch of her hair, which Landon’s mind replayed over and over in every spare moment, the day flew by. Once he nearly bumped into Xander in the hallway.
“Hey.” Xander’s face was frozen. “I’m supposed to apologize to you, so that’s what I’m doing. Sorry.”
“Uh . . . okay.”
And that was it. Xander coasted right on past, leaving Landon’s heart at a gallop.
By the end of the school day, Mike Furster had also apologized, but the only thing Landon got from Skip was a hateful stare from the other side of health class. When the last bell rang, it felt to Landon like a prison break. He burst out the front doors of the school and breathed deeply.
Outside, the rain had stopped and the sky had rolled back its clouds. The sun sparkled on the wet grass and dying leaves of the trees. Brett and Landon sat with Landon’s dad in the bleachers to watch the girls’ soccer game. They too played Tuckahoe, as did every other fall sport, and the crowd was bigger than normal for a middle school girls’ soccer game. Genevieve scored twice to defeat the big rival 2–1, and Megan was a force on defense. After the final whistle, the Bronxville girls bounced up and down in a giant group hug, screaming so loud that even Landon heard them.
Landon’s dad walked Landon and his sister and Brett and Megan home, distracted and muttering to himself as he sometimes did at his desk when he was writing. The four of them had pizza at the kitchen table. Landon could tell everyone was trying to keep him distracted from what would happen tomorrow, but worry hung like a heavy chain around his neck and his smiles were forced.
When their friends had gone home and Landon’s mom arrived from work, the Dorch family assembled at the kitchen table.
“Well?” Landon’s dad asked. “Where are we at, Gina?”
Landon’s mom had a slice of pizza on a paper plate along with a diet soda for her late dinner. She chewed well, swallowed, and washed her bite down with soda before looking hard at Landon. “Did those boys apologize?”
Landon nodded. “Yup.”
“Really apologize?” she asked.
“Mom, they said they were sorry.” He didn’t tell her about Skip.
“Three apologies?” his mom asked.
Landon looked down. “No, but I didn’t see Skip, so maybe he’s waiting until tomorrow.”
“Well, that’s a good start. Now let’s see what tomorrow brings,” she said before taking another bite.
“I just hope they’ll play if their dads aren’t coaching,” Genevieve said. “Everyone really wants us to win. The whole school’s gone crazy about the game.”
Landon’s mom finished her bite and washed it down before answering. “I spoke to Courtney Wagner on the phone this afternoon, and you know what she said?”
Genevieve just shook her head.
Landon’s mom looked at him, and her emerald green eyes sparkled. “She said we don’t even need those bullies. She said her brother thinks we can beat the pants off Tuckahoe with our run game.”
88
Sometime during the night, in a snarl of bedsheets, exhaustion finally overtook Landon, and he woke the next morning with a buzz in his brain that had nothing to do with his cochlear implants. He went through the motions of getting ready with jittery hands and stomach, passed on breakfast, and strapped himself into his football gear as if he were getting ready for a moonwalk. He even buckled up his helmet because he wanted his ears to be perfectly positioned inside the padding, and then stood staring at his father, who flipped French toast on the griddle until he realized Landon was there.
“Oh, hey.” His father held the spatula upright and with pride, like a scepter, and then touched each shoulder pad. “I dub thee Landon the Great.”
Landon shook his head. “This is serious, Dad.”
His father’s face lost its smile. “I know, son. And you’re going to do great. Want me to drive you over?”
“Think I’m gonna walk, Dad.”
“This early?” His father checked his watch.
“Yeah. I want to be there early. I want to hit the sled a little. Make sure I’m ready.”
“What about wearing down your cleats?”
“One time won’t hurt. I’ll try and walk on the grass.”
“Well, we will be there and cheering you on,” his dad said.
“If I don’t get blown up.”
“You’re not going to get blown up, Landon. You’re going to shine.” His dad shrugged. “It’s just the way this story has to end.”
“End?”
His father laughed and scratched at his chin. “Well, for one story to start, another story always has to end. Today is going to be a new beginning for you. It’s like the sequel to Dragon Hunt.”
“Sequel? Wait, you finished?” Landon forgot about football for a minute.
His father’s cheeks colored. “You haven’t seen me do much else, have you? It’s two hundred and thirty pages, and it kind of wrote itself.”
Landon’s mind snapped back to reality. “This isn’t a novel, dad. Today is real life.”
His father shrugged again. “I know, but I keep telling you, you’re the author of your life.”
Landon sighed. “Okay, gotta go.”
Before he got out the door, he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see that his father had followed him and stood like a fairy-tale giant blocking out the light. “I’m proud of you, Landon. However the story ends.”
Landon peered at his father. In the gloom of the mudroom it looked like his eyes were glinting with moisture. His father pulled him into a hug, and then he turned him around and sent him on his way like a wind-up toy soldier.
89
The clouds above crowded in on one another, piling up high and leaving almost no room for the blue to peek through. The air was brisk and a small breeze found its way through the cracks in Landon’s pads. Still, he felt little, steamy swamps building up in the pits of his arms and the palms of his shaking hands. As he approached the field, cut grass sweetened the swirl of warm blacktop. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. Not even a dog.
Landon tramped down the hillside and put a hand on the blue-padded blocking dummy fixed to the single sled they rarely used. The piston behind let loose a rusty squeal as he jiggled it back and forth. Landon looked around and saw only swaying trees and the lifeless windows of the houses bordering the school grounds. A yellow jacket searched the metal tube of the sled for a home and buzzed right for Landon. He jumped and swatted, filled with panic and anticipating a sting, but the bee ticked off the side of his helmet and sailed away into the breeze.
Landon laughed at himself and looked around. He imagined the stands filled with fans and the sidelines crowded with players. Still caught in the daydream, he hunkered down into his stance and heard Jonathan Wagner in his mind.
“Shoulder-width apart.”<
br />
“Flat back.”
“Power step. Head up. Hands inside. Feet chopping.”
Landon fired out of his stance, and the dummy squealed the high-pitched cry of a little girl on a swing. He chugged his feet, driving and driving with the clock going in his head.
One, two, three, four, five. He stopped, looked around, lined up, and did it again.
Again and again he drove the sled, zigzagging this way and that, all across the grassy field beyond the end zone until he heard the faint sound of a shout. Landon turned to see Timmy.
“What are you doing here?”
Landon shrugged. “We got a game.”
Timmy looked around. “Fat chance. Not much of a game without your quarterback. Thanks to you. I doubt the rest of the team’s even gonna show.”
Landon stuttered and then said, “It’s Tuckahoe. People aren’t gonna miss that. You’re here.”
Timmy scowled. “My mom dumps me off so she can do the Times crossword puzzle at the coffee shop. I’m not dumb enough to think I can make myself better the day of a game just by hitting that stupid thing.”
Landon shrugged again, saying, “It never hurts to practice.” He turned away and attacked the dummy again. When he finished driving, Timmy was right behind him. He pointed at the sled. “That’s pretty good, actually.”
Landon studied Timmy’s pudgy, angry face through the cage of his face mask for signs of contempt, but saw none. “Thanks.”
“Not that it matters. Tuckahoe’s gonna crush us even if we have enough guys to play.” Timmy looked around, expecting an empty field. “Hey, Guerrero’s here.” His jaw dropped. “And there’s Mike and Xander.”
Landon followed the direction of Timmy’s finger and saw that their first-team running back was jogging down the hill, and his parents weren’t far behind, dressed in Bronxville colors with two pom-poms and traveling mugs of coffee. Mike and Xander were at their heels. Another vehicle pulled into the lot. It was the Bells’ Suburban, and out hopped not only Brett but Travis and a fullback named Stewy Stewart, as well as Brett’s dad.
“Looks like you’re the only one who thinks we’re gonna get crushed.” Landon couldn’t help jabbing Timmy. He wanted to knock that smug look off his face.
“We’ll see.” Timmy wasn’t backing down, but for some reason he stayed close to Landon as he pushed the sled around.
Coach Bell dumped a bag of balls on the sideline and began tossing one back and forth with Layne and Stewy Stewart. Xander and Mike took a ball and started their own game of catch. The other linemen huddled up in the end zone and Brett waved Landon over. Timmy followed.
“Hey, guys,” Brett said. “Let’s line up and run through those new plays. We got five linemen already. That’s all we need to get started. Timmy, you play left tackle, ’cause I’m right guard next to Landon today. Travis at center and Gunner at left guard.”
“I’m right tackle.” Gunner stood tall.
Tension sucked the wind out of Landon and he forgot to breathe.
90
Brett shook his head. “Landon has to play there. He’s Double X. It’s in the rules. Play guard, Gunner. What’s the big deal?”
Gunner gave Landon an impatient look and grumbled that it was a stupid rule, but he lined up at left guard all the same. Brett’s dad marched over to the end zone with Guerrero and Stewart and flipped the ball to the center. “I’ll take the snaps and hand off to Layne. Good idea to get some extra reps, guys.”
With seven players and one coach, they began to run some plays. As more players arrived, they filled in at the tight end and receiver positions. Soon they had a full squad and a scout defense to run against. When Torin Bennett, the normal starting left guard, arrived, Gunner and Torin looked at Coach Bell.
“Yeah . . . okay, Torin, you’re starting on defense today, but not offense. Gunner’s got left guard. We’re running a new offense because I don’t think we’re gonna have Skip to pass it today.”
A couple of guys gave Landon dirty looks, but both Mike and Xander stared straight ahead, and the frowns from other guys didn’t last. They got to work with Bryce Rinehart under center. Their backup quarterback was excited to be the starter, and handing the ball off to Guerrero instead of throwing passes was fine with him.
When the Tuckahoe bus pulled into the parking lot above, Landon began to worry that Timmy had been right. Skip, one of their best players and the starting quarterback, was obviously boycotting the game instead of offering his apology to Landon. An army of Tuckahoe players filed off the bus and marched in two perfect columns down the hill and through the far goalposts.
The Tuckahoe team snaked around the field on a silent jog, swishing past Landon and his teammates without a single glance before coming out through the far goalposts again and filing into seven columns of seven for warm-ups. Landon couldn’t keep from watching. When they were all assembled, the Tuckahoe captain, a boy nearly as large as Landon, barked once, and the entire team roared something Landon didn’t understand. Just as suddenly, they broke into jumping jacks, counting them out with sharp sounds that ended in a cascade of clapping.
Landon turned to Brett, who waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Their bark is worse than their bite. If this was a cheerleading competition, we wouldn’t stand a chance, but when we start smacking them in the mouth, it won’t be about cheering anymore.”
Landon wished he could feel some of Brett’s swagger, but as they ran through more plays, he couldn’t help being slightly disheartened by the loud and disciplined nature of the Tuckahoe team.
The lot was swelling with cars and trucks, and the stands began to fill up too. Landon’s family arrived, and he watched his mom with her head held high as she stamped up the center aisle of the stands and took a seat right in the middle of everything like she owned the place. The Tuckahoe stands began to overflow, and their green-and-black-clad fans started to line the fence on their side of the field.
Bronxville’s high school marching band suddenly spilled from the school with blasting brass instruments and clanging drums to take up position not far from where Landon and his teammates stretched out. The air vibrated with the sounds of a military march, which ended abruptly. The Bronxville stands were packed. Landon guessed there were close to a thousand people. Coach Bell kept the pregame going as if he’d been their head coach all along. Brett ran the lineman drills efficiently, as if he were Coach Furster’s ghost.
During warm-ups, Brett’s mom set up a table behind the bench and unpacked a couple dozen bottles of Gatorade for the team to drink. Coach West usually brought the water bottles and carriers, but Landon didn’t think anyone would mind Gatorade instead. He knew he didn’t, and no one would have to worry about refilling them.
On the next practice play they ran, Landon fired out at the defensive end in front of him when he heard a shriek behind him. He spun and saw everything had stopped. Bryce was lying in a heap behind the line. Guerrero stood over him with the ball, saying he was sorry.
Coach Bell jumped forward.
Bryce rolled and clutched his ankle, howling. As Landon watched the scene unfold, he realized that Guerrero had stepped on Bryce’s foot and wrenched his ankle. Bryce’s dad was there now, helping his son off the field along with another parent.
Now, they had no quarterback at all.
Landon turned to Brett. “So . . . what are we gonna do?”
Brett turned and looked toward his dad. Landon turned too, and saw Coach Bell out at midfield talking with the referees and the Tuckahoe head coach. The whole group of men checked their watches together. The head ref said something, and Coach Bell nodded and walked back toward the Bronxville bench with his face in a knot.
The Bronxville players huddled around Coach Bell. “Well, guys, we’ve got no quarterback. They said they’ll give us ten extra minutes to figure something out, but we’ve got to be ready. So . . .”
Everyone held his breath, waiting to see what possible solution Coach Bell might have.
; 91
Brett’s dad exhaled loudly and looked at his son. “Brett, let’s have you take a few snaps and see what you can do.”
“What?” Brett went rigid. “You want me to play quarterback?”
Brett’s father squeezed his lips together. “You know the plays and you know the game as well as anyone. You got a better idea?”
“I . . .” Brett looked around at them. “Okay.”
Gunner eyed Nichols and raised his hand. “But, Coach, if we don’t have Brett on the line, won’t these guys bury us?”
“You’ve got Landon,” Coach Bell said. “Torin, you’re back at left guard, and Gunner, you go to right guard. Come on. Have some confidence.”
“I know, Coach, but it’s Tuckahoe.” Gunner sounded like they’d lost already.
As if on cue, the band struck up a marching tune from the end zone.
“It’s a funny-shaped ball, guys.” Coach Bell looked around at his team. “Lots of things can happen. Brett, take some snaps and let’s get some handoffs going to Layne.”
Brett teamed up in an open patch of grass with Travis to snap, and Layne got behind him to go through the basic mechanics of their running plays. Even Landon had to admit that it looked kind of silly to see a player as big as Brett line up at quarterback, but everyone seemed to be willing to give the whole thing a try.
Landon looked up into the stands. Megan had joined his family along with Brett’s mom in a carnival of black and orange. Landon thought about his father’s words, about writing your own story, but this just wasn’t fair. The whole notion of the team running the ball down Tuckahoe’s throat behind him and Brett just wouldn’t happen if Brett was being wasted at quarterback.
A rumble like thunder from the parking lot made Landon turn his head. Jonathan Wagner’s enormous, gleaming pickup pulled into the parking lot and out onto the grass, the lineman making up his own spot before he hopped out of the truck and hurried down the hill swinging his big bowed legs like backhoe buckets. He arrived out of breath while people in the stands pointed, whispered, and stared. “Sorry, guys, but I made it!”