Over the End Line

by Alfred C. Martino

  "Yes," I said. "We can meet out front."

  "No," she said. "I don't want to have to explain to my parents. Meet me at the dock. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

  ***

  Lake Road was blanketed in a vapor of darkness. My sneakers clicked oddly on the pavement and my ears stood rigid, straining to hear any sounds. I looked around but could see little. On a road where I had lived my entire life, near ponds where I had spent countless days fishing and throwing stones, uneasiness swept through my body. The trees were no longer familiar, the bushes no longer the playful hiding places they'd been when I was a kid.

  I made my way along the path and followed that to the dock. There, I looked out over South Pond.

  A twig snapped.

  I turned.

  "What's up, Jonny?" Stephanie stepped out of the shadows. "I was surprised to hear from you. People were calling about Kyle, offering condolences, wanting to tell us how magnificent he was on a soccer field, how much of a genius he was, how perfect he was in every way possible. But you didn't call for that, did you, Jonny?"

  This is gonna sound crazy," I said. "I saw Annalisa today."

  "Annalisa?"

  "It was her. I'm sure it was her."

  Stephanie shook her head. "Is this supposed to be a joke?"

  "I'm telling you, I saw her. Annalisa. Today."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "Where?"

  "On the rowboat," I said. "Sitting there."

  "You saw Annalisa Gianni, my best friend, the most important person in my life. But you didn't see her at the library, did you? And you didn't see her in the back stairwell near the chemistry labs? And you didn't stand across the street from her house to catch a glimpse of her?"

  I stepped back. "You knew?"

  "Of course, Jonny," Stephanie said. "Now you're telling me she was here today."

  "Yes."

  "This afternoon."

  "Yes."

  "Sitting on the rowboat?"

  "Goddamn it—yes. Have you talked to her? I haven't seen her since—" I stopped myself.

  Stephanie walked up to me. She tugged on my jacket, lifted herself to my ear, and whispered. Her breath, like a feather, caressed my neck. "It wasn't Annalisa," she said, with a peculiar lilt in her voice. "The Giannis flew home to Arma di Taggia yesterday."

  It was as if a hand had suddenly grabbed my throat and squeezed so hard I could hardly suck air into my lungs.

  "Jonny-boy, what's the matter?" Stephanie said. "Something upsetting you?"

  "I gotta go."

  "Why?"

  "You're messin' with my head."

  "I wouldn't do that."

  "You are."

  "Don't go, Jonny-boy," Stephanie said. "Let's spend some more time together. This has been really fun."

  I ran through the woods, then up Lake Road, trying to get away from Stephanie and South Pond as fast as my legs could take me. When I reached our front lawn, I hunched over, gasping for breath. I looked back down the street.

  A girl stepped out from the shadows. I could see her silhouette. A skirt hung limply off her hips. She turned in my direction, then, just as quickly, vanished into the darkness.

  Something hit my bedroom window.

  A pebble.

  Or a pine cone.

  An empty Bic lighter, maybe.

  I sat up in bed, my skin sweaty. A sour odor filled my nostrils. I pulled off my damp long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants and tossed them to the floor.

  The clock read 5:17 a.m.

  It was early. Way too early.

  I should've stayed under the blankets—protected and safe. But I didn't. The air in my bedroom was cold, and when I got up, a chill climbed my spine. I shuffled across the floor and pushed aside the curtains.

  Storm clouds filled the sky, peppering the glass with rain. Trees whipped back and forth, and, on our front lawn, fallen branches were scattered about. My skin puckered, and I shivered.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw someone dart across Lake Road. I leaned closer to the window, my breath fogging the glass. With my arm, I wiped it clear. I wondered if I was still dreaming, but was sure I wasn't. Someone was out there. Waiting for me. I could feel it.

  I grabbed my jeans and a pair of socks. I put on a sweatshirt, then a second, and tied my sneakers. I checked the hallway, then my mom's bedroom, and quietly moved down the stairs. I opened the front door and stepped outside.

  Lightning flashed.

  A few moments later, thunder cracked.

  My eyes darted back and forth. The Saint-Claires' house was dark. So were the others on Lake Road. I jumped off the front portico, crossed the lawn, and hit the street at a sprint, my sneakers slapping the wet pavement. I passed the Short Hills Club entrance, then North and South ponds. They seemed to watch me, step for step, breath for breath.

  Quickly, the ponds were behind me. On a long stretch of Lake Road, I ran hard, with a purpose—like I did on a soccer field. Up ahead, the steel trusses of Redemption Bridge broke through a low-lying fog. But as my sweatshirts and jeans became drenched from the downpour, my legs began to tire and my lungs ache.

  I slowed to an awkward jog.

  Then a clumsy walk.

  When I made it to the bridge's roadway, I hunched over, nearly breathless. Lightning ripped the sky, followed by booming thunder. I looked around. No one was there. I had a sudden sickening feeling in my gut. Below me was where Kyle had died. I walked along the railing and stopped at the metal ladder that led from street level to a small repair platform under the bridge. The fence access barrier had been reinforced. Must've been done this past week, I figured. I looked down. The rusted ladder and its cement moorings had been replaced, too.

  Through the sound of pounding rain, I heard someone say, "Good morning."

  I turned and faced the opposite end of the bridge.

  Out of the fog, a girl walked toward me, wearing a sweater, dirty and soaked, and a plaid skirt that looked vaguely familiar. Matted-down brown hair hid her face. She seemed no more bothered by the rain than if it had instead been the brightest, sunniest summer afternoon. Then she pulled her hair back.

  "Stephanie?" I said.

  She leaned over the railing. "It's a long way down."

  "What're you doing here?" I said.

  "I could ask you the same question."

  I have no idea why," I said. "What's your excuse?"

  "I like Monday mornings," Stephanie said, with a wink. "Monday mornings in the rain."

  "Is that supposed to mean something?"

  She smiled. Wickedly, I thought. "You know."

  "No, I don't."

  "I think you do."

  "Stephanie, what are you getting at?"

  "Come on, Jonny-boy, think," she said. "What is it you really wanna ask me?"

  "I have no idea."

  "I think you do."

  "Tell me."

  "That's no fun," she said, a teasing inflection in her voice. "Oh, okay, I'll tell you. You wanna know where I was a week ago."

  "A week ago?"

  "Last Monday morning," she said. "Right around now."

  "You were here?" I said. "With Kyle?"

  "I had to set the world straight, Jonny-boy." She smoothed the skirt down her legs. "I snuck into Kyle's bedroom. I stood in the corner, watching him sleep. For hours and hours. It wasn't the first time. As I waited there I wished with every fiber of my body that he'd taste the fear and panic and hopelessness that Annalisa did. When it was dawn, when it was time, I woke him up. 'Annalisa's at the bridge!' I cried out. 'Something's wrong with her. She's gonna jump!' I sobbed. I quivered. It was quite a show."

  "You tricked him," I said.

  "Tricked?" Stephanie shrugged. "I suppose. Doesn't matter. Kyle thought he was going to rescue Annalisa; he was so desperate to redeem himself. He ran down one side of the bridge and leaned over the railing. I did, too—just to make it look good. 'Down there,' I said, pointing. Like a good follower, Kyle scaled
the barrier and went down the ladder," she said, with a tone that was maddeningly cavalier. "It shimmied. The cement was crumbling, too. Near the bottom, Kyle's hand slipped. From the rain. He tried to catch another rung, but instead—oops—he fell." She gestured toward the platform below us. "Landed right there.

  "Kyle looked up at me, so pathetically," she said. "He cried, 'I'm in trouble. Do you hear me? I thought you saw her down here? But there's no one.'"

  I watched in bewilderment as Stephanie climbed up to the barrier. "Good thing the town had this fixed," she said. "Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

  "Where're you going?" I said.

  Stephanie tilted her head toward the stormy sky. "I kicked at the ladder ... and kicked ... and kicked," she said, showing how her shoe repeatedly slammed against the ladder's moorings. "A chunk of concrete broke off and hit Kyle." She giggled. "I don't think he was feeling so well after that."

  "You hurt him?"

  "Hurt? Kyle didn't know hurt. I know hurt!" Her body shuddered. "He took something away from me. Something beautiful. Something precious. Someone so vulnerable. 'I didn't mean to,' he said. 'I'm sorry.' Sorry? What good was sorry?"

  "Stephanie," I said in the calmest voice I could manage.

  But it was as if she didn't hear me. "Kyle showed me his hand," she said.

  "Stephanie," I said, louder.

  "He said it was broken—"

  "Stephanie!"

  She stopped, and looked at me.

  "You woke me up this morning, didn't you?"

  "Like I told you last night, Jonny-boy, we never spend any quality time together." Stephanie climbed back down from the barrier. "Now we are."

  This was insanity. I didn't need to be out at this ungodly hour, in this shitty weather. I just wanted to be back home. In bed. Safe and warm. I'd witnessed enough tragedy for a lifetime. I'd seen things that shouldn't be seen.

  I was done with Stephanie's games.

  "I'm gonna go," I said. "And you need help."

  "I need help?" She laughed. "I don't think so."

  Someone walked up behind me.

  I turned.

  And Trinity grinned. Like Stephanie, she wore a plaid skirt and stained sweater. No black hair, no black makeup, no black pants or boots. Not a hint of goth.

  I wheeled back toward Stephanie. "What the hell's going on?"

  "Revenge is so very sweet, my dear Jonny-boy." She held up a pair of panties. "Recognize these?"

  "No," I said.

  "They're Annalisa's. Remember when she was spread out on the ground near the circle like a rag doll, while you hid and watched?"

  "What are you talking about?" I said.

  "Don't try that shit with me," Stephanie said. "I saw you there."

  My throat tightened. "You saw me?" I choked out the words. "I didn't know it was her, God, I swear..."

  "She tried to kill herself, you know," Stephanie said. "She's not the same. The Annalisa we knew is no more. Gone. Can't bring her back. So I made a promise that whoever was part of hurting her would rot in hell and never be able to forget what was done to my beautiful friend. So I ask you, Why didn't you stop them?"

  "I tried to—"

  "Liar!" Stephanie yelled.

  "I wanted to."

  "But you did nothing."

  "I was wasted," I said.

  "So?"

  "I couldn't think straight."

  "Or make a noise? Or get up? Or do any other goddamn thing?" Stephanie said. "Know what I think? I think you enjoyed watching. Bet you even got hard. Look at me. Look at me!" She pulled her fist back and swung through, connecting with my jaw.

  Flash—

  My knees buckled. I reached my hand out to the railing. It wobbled slightly.

  "You're pitiful," Stephanie said.

  I straightened up.

  The two girls stepped closer.

  I wiped my mouth and muttered, "Why didn't you do anything?"

  "Oh, don't pass judgment on me," Stephanie said. "I was there too late, when it was over, when they walked away leaving her discarded in the dirt. I could only pick up the pieces." She reached her arms out like she was cradling a baby. "I covered Annalisa and held her. She didn't stop shivering. She was so cold, so exposed. Her body wasn't hers any longer; it was tainted. She whispered to me, 'Sono stanco ... Sono stanco...' But you, Jonny-boy, you had a chance to stop what happened. Instead, you watched my brother make Annalisa bleed. And still, you never said a word."

  "I was his friend," I said. "His friend. Do you understand that?"

  "His friend," she said, dismissively. "All these years you kidded yourself, following him around school like a puppy dog, wishing you could have half his talent, half his looks, half of everything he had."

  "We were best friends."

  "Silly Jonny-boy, you didn't know Kyle. You didn't know what was going on in his head. You didn't know what he was capable of."

  "I was only trying to—"

  "What?" Stephanie snapped. "Protect him? From the consequences of what he did to Annalisa? He did it, that's all that mattered. Just like you watched it happen and did nothing—that's all that matters. You could've saved Kyle that night in the woods. You could've saved Maako. You could've saved Annalisa. But you didn't save any of them. Look at your hands."

  I did.

  "Her blood is on them," she said.

  I hung my head. "Please let this end."

  Stephanie shook her head. "What, and just forget everything?"

  Kyle paid for what he did," I said, gesturing below us. "You sent him down there."

  "Yes, and he trembled like a scared kitten," Stephanie said. "But there was nowhere to hide. He had to face me. He reached out his hand and stepped up a rung. I kicked at the cement. Again and again. He climbed a second rung. Then another. I gave the cement one last kick." She smiled. "Everything broke apart, and the ladder fell back. Kyle's hand and foot slipped off, and his body swung out wide, beyond the platform. He grabbed for a hold of something—anything..." Stephanie took a deep breath, seeming so pleased. "There was nothing but the wind."

  "So that's how it ended?" I said quietly.

  "Kyle needed to be taught a lesson," she said. "Now we'll teach you one."

  I wiped the rain and tears from my eyes. "Annalisa isn't coming back; you said it yourself. It's over, Stephanie."

  "Over?"

  "Yes, over."

  "It's not over."

  "It's been over."

  "No," she said. "Not yet."

  I looked into Stephanie's deep, hollow eyes. She glanced at Trinity. Before I realized what was happening, both girls grabbed me by the collar of my sweatshirt, screamed like they were releasing the furies of hell, and slammed me against the railing.

  But my body didn't stop. The railing gave way and I fell backwards, my arms and legs flailing wildly. In the chaotic explosion of my terrified mind, I had a final, singular moment of lucidity.

  I heard Stephanie's voice.

  "One more..." she said, a moment before my head—

  High School Copes with Trio of Teen Suicides

  SHORT HILLS—Little more than two weeks ago, Millburn Township celebrated its high school soccer team's victory in the Group III state title game. Today, the affluent Essex County community is reeling from the tragic news that a third member from that championship team has taken his life.

  On Saturday, police discovered Erik Maako, a defensive standout, in the woods behind his home, in a scene described as ritualistic. A toxicology report isn't expected for weeks, but preliminary evidence suggests a self-administered poisoning.

  Maako's death follows that of Kyle Saint-Claire and Jonathan Fehey, who fatally jumped from a local bridge, one week apart. While citing athletic pressure and adolescent angst as possible triggers, school officials were unsure of why these students would have been so affected, and why now.

  "Kyle, Jonny, and Erik had tremendous skill on the soccer field and strong affection for one another that brought success to the team," sai
d athletic director George Meiers in a statement. "They were good students in the classroom and decent kids away from school. We will remember them that way."

  Meiers then announced the creation of an award, named in memory of the three teammates, to be presented each season to the soccer team's most valuable player.

  That, however, is little consolation for a town that has become all too familiar with mourning the loss of its best and brightest. As the first-period bell rang on Monday morning, classmates at Millburn High crowded around an anonymous letter posted in the main hallway that seemed to capture their collective grief.

  It read, in part: "A friend was recently taken away from me. Someone who was loved immensely; someone who loved back just as much. My heart cries out. No one will ever truly understand what my friend meant to me. That is the real tragedy..."

  * * *

  Author's Note

  The latter half of the 1970s were heady days for American soccer fans. In 1975, the New York Cosmos pulled off one of the most important player signings in sports history, luring Pele—the most recognizable athlete, if not human being, on earth—from his native Brazil. Interest in the North American Soccer League exploded, while the Cosmos instantly became the NASL's flagship franchise.

  As a teen growing up a short drive from Giants Stadium, home to the Cosmos, I celebrated the team's Soccer Bowl championships in '77 and '78, and marveled at watching many of the world's greatest soccer players in a Cosmos uniform, including Carlos Alberto, Franz Beckenbauer, Giorgio Chinaglia, Vladislav "Bogie" Bogićević, Dennis Tuert, Johan Neeskens, Andranik Eskandarian, and Americans Shep Messing and Ricky Davis.

  Yet it was the 1978 World Cup finals that elevated the game of soccer to ethereal heights for me. As this was before ESPN and other cable sports channels, the Internet, or any coverage on regular television, I had to wait for my issue of Sports Illustrated to read about Argentina's magnificent 3-1 victory over Holland. I can still remember turning to the cover story and seeing the photograph of Mario Kempes in his céleste and white #10 jersey, arms outstretched, confetti at his cleats, celebrating the first of his two goals. It was an image I would never forget.