Cracking the Bell

by Geoff Herbach

  I put my head down on my desk and exhaled. I think I started crying into my sleeve.

  Ms. Ross, the Human Geography teacher, came over and whispered in my ear. “Wake up, Isaiah.”

  CHAPTER 16

  OCTOBER 3: WEDNESDAY AFTER SCHOOL

  “I’m too ill to practice,” I said to Coach Reynolds.

  He sat behind a big metal desk that had probably been in this particular coaches’ office since Mom graced the halls of Bluffton High School. “Ill how?” he asked. “What is making you so sick? You haven’t been at practice all week.”

  “Flu, I guess,” I said.

  “Flu? You go to the doctor? You know it’s flu, Sadler?” he asked.

  “No. I haven’t gone to a doctor.”

  “If you’re this sick, you better see a doctor. You need to get on meds, you know? You got to take care of yourself. Your health isn’t a joke.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go to the doctor now?”

  “Urgent care,” he said, nodding. “Do that. Get some meds. We need you back on the field, bud. You know that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  I am a liar. I really am. It might be one of my defining characteristics. I’ve known this for a long time. I tell people what they want to hear because I want them to be happy, or to like me, or maybe just not to know the real me. It doesn’t come from nowhere. What I did when I was in eighth grade traumatized me as much as it did Mom and Dad. I don’t want to cause people to suffer anymore. So, I don’t tell the truth.

  Instead of going to the doctor’s office, I drove to Dairy Queen. Maybe to get a Blizzard?

  Probably to see if Grace was there.

  Yes. That’s what I did. I went to Dairy Queen to see Grace—visually, not that I wanted to interact with her. I wanted to see her. That’s all.

  Here’s me not being myself to make people happy. Sophomore year, right after I got my license, Grace and I had begun hanging out again. We’d begun secretly going to movies in Dubuque together and going up Belmont Tower late at night to talk about stuff and sometimes I’d climb the back porch of her house and slide over the roof and into her bedroom window after her mom had drunk herself to sleep on the couch downstairs.

  It was good for me. Grace is my second home. That’s what she felt like. I could be myself with Grace, which made it easier to be “stand-up” Isaiah for Mom.

  But Grace wasn’t in good shape. She didn’t go to parties, but drank in small doses all day long. She’d pretty much stopped going to school. Her stepdad kept coming back and leaving and breaking stuff and begging her mom for forgiveness and there was something else with him, too, something worse, something between him and Grace.

  In early November of that year, she wrecked her car after she closed the store, hit a parked car two blocks from home, left the scene of the accident, was arrested at her house the next day. There was no alcohol in her system by that time, but I know she was drunk. No doubt. Although the cops couldn’t prove it, they thought so, too. She got to choose between giant fines, jail time, and alcohol awareness classes. She chose the last option (as any sane person would), and I’m glad she did, because I know from Grandma Gin that Grace doesn’t drink anymore. Except those classes led her to another program and that program led to our final end.

  She was in Alcoholics Anonymous. Part of that program was apologizing to those she’d harmed, making amends. She’d already apologized to me, even though I didn’t need any apology. And even though I told her not to, begged her not to do it, she went to Mom. Grace told Mom about what happened when I was in eighth grade, while sitting in our living room, while I listened, dying, from my bedroom.

  If I were her sponsor, I would’ve counseled her to leave that crap alone. She didn’t. She confessed it all.

  Boom. The sound of an explosion.

  Nobody knew Grace had anything to do with my bad behavior back in the day.

  Boom. The sound of an explosion.

  Mom snarled at Grandma Gin for harboring a “whore” and a “junkie.”

  Another explosion.

  Grandma Gin loved Grace as much as me by then. No way in hell would she fire her.

  Another explosion.

  Mom made me quit working at Dairy Queen, even though I had been earning money there since I was a little kid. “You will not step foot in that establishment, Isaiah,” she told me.

  Another explosion.

  Mom made me go to Grace’s house, knock on the door, ask Grace out on the stoop, and tell Grace, while Mom watched, that I would never speak to her again and that she would have to stay away from me or Mom would come after her legally.

  Grace cried. Grace said sorry to me over and over. Mom shouted to me from the car to hurry up.

  I chose Mom over Grace.

  No more explosions.

  Dad had moved out. Hannah was dead. Grandpa John was dead. I couldn’t lose Mom. I stayed away from Grace. I went back to weight lifting, running, hitting people as hard as a speeding pickup truck when I was on the football field. But I didn’t go easily. I promised myself I wouldn’t be with any other girl. Grace or nobody. Grace or loneliness.

  Go to bed early, get up early, work out, review homework, shower, get a ride from Riley’s dad for weight lifting, go to school, work out/practice, homework/work, go to bed early.

  But then my cracked bell. And Grace was in Grandma’s backyard. I saw her there. I couldn’t unsee her.

  And my chest ached for Grace. I just wanted to see her again. We didn’t have to talk. I knew she was at Dairy Queen. I looked at Grandma’s work calendar on the wall all the time. I saw who was working and when. I knew Grace was there Monday through Thursday from 3 p.m. to close, Saturday from noon to close.

  I parked Mom’s Subaru in a neighborhood two blocks away and I walked. When I got close, instead of heading in from the front, I climbed up the hill behind the store. There I sat, next to some bushes, partially hidden.

  From that vantage, I could see her. Grace worked the drive-through window. It was a warm day for early October. Lots of moms were bringing kids in after school. Busy. Grace leaned out the window. She turned the Blizzard over (a Dairy Queen stunt) to show how thick the ice cream treat was before handing the cup to the mom or kid. I could see her hands. I could see her wrists. I loved her bony wrists.

  I wanted to talk to her, too, but wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

  I watched the window for probably a half hour. Waited, holding my breath for her to bring the next ice cream out so I could see her again. Waited, still as I could be. Breathed when I could see her. Then it occurred to me that I was acting stupid. Is that what I’d become? Is that what my energy would transform into? Some kind of creeper hiding in a goddamn bush? A bolt of adrenaline shot through my limbs.

  I stood up, shocked at my own behavior. At the same moment, Grace leaned out the drive-through with a Blizzard. She turned it over and saw me simultaneously. She dropped the Blizzard between the window and the car. A small child in the car screamed. Our eyes locked, mine and Grace’s. I froze for a second, then took off at a dead sprint.

  Three minutes later, I lay on the grass in the yard adjacent to where I’d parked Mom’s Subaru. I’d sprinted the whole way from Dairy Queen. The dizziness was as heavy as anything I felt the Saturday morning right after my bell cracked. It was tornadic. Don’t even know how long I stayed on the ground. Got up when a dude walking his dog asked if I needed help.

  I told him I didn’t. That was a lie, too.

  CHAPTER 17

  OCTOBER 4: THURSDAY

  I went to bed after dinner Wednesday night, right after the conversation I’d had with mom where I told her I’d spoken to Coach Reynolds and he understood our decision. “They’ll figure out a way to deal with it,” I lied.

  “You’re such a brave kid.”

  “Don’t tell any of your clients. I don’t want this getting around. Coach Reynolds hasn’t announced anything to the team yet.”

  “The only person I�
��ve mentioned this to is Sarah,” Mom said.

  “You what?” I shouted.

  Mom sat stunned. “I talked to Sarah. Of course. We’re in the office all day together.”

  Sarah Davies, Mom’s administrative assistant, who is married to Bob Davies, a State Farm insurance agent, who is the brother of Carl Davies, a middle school social science teacher and basketball coach, who plays golf all the time with Dave Dieter, the goddamn defensive coordinator of the football team. Sarah has asked Mom why I’m not accepting scholarship calls. Dieter told Carl Davies about the colleges requesting info on me and Carl Davies told Bob and Bob told Sarah and Sarah spoke to Mom and Mom said, “We decided long ago that Isaiah is staying in town for college.” If the information flows that way, it’s going to flow the other.

  “I would appreciate you keeping your mouth shut,” I said. “I have a life.”

  “Don’t speak to me like that, Isaiah.”

  “I have a life,” I repeated.

  “I know that,” she said.

  But she didn’t know anything.

  A ticking time bomb. It would go off. In a small town there’s little distance between a random lawyer and the head coach of the football team.

  I didn’t do any homework. I was broken, exhausted.

  Exhausted? From what? Usually I burn 1,500 calories working out. I run every day. I lift every day (legs one day, upper body the next). And during football season, I practice on top of all that working out.

  This exhaustion was different. I felt my soul start to leave my body again.

  I got up later than usual Thursday morning. Riley showed up at the house to pick me up for weight lifting. I was in the bathroom when the doorbell rang (he’d texted, but my phone was still in the bedroom). Mom answered the door. I ran back into my room, tried to listen while I pulled on my shirt. I could hear Riley talking. I panicked. What if they talked about me?

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it sick, exactly,” Mom said as I ran into the living room.

  “What do you mean? Isaiah’s not sick?” Riley asked.

  “Not super sick. Not too bad. Feeling pretty good,” I said.

  “You okay?” Mom asked. “Not dizzy.”

  “Fine,” I said, and headed out toward Riley’s car.

  “You didn’t bring your gym bag. You not lifting today?” Riley asked while driving. “What the hell? You have to maintain, man. You want to be weak for the Prairie game?”

  “Oh. No. I don’t know. Need to get my physics assignment done. No time to work out.”

  “Me and Twiggs did it last night. Did you get our texts?”

  “Phone died.”

  “Well, that sucks. We probably screwed it up. We weren’t sure about the scientific notation Urness made us do, but you didn’t . . .”

  “I don’t remember what Urness said. Is it different than regular scientific notation?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Riley asked.

  “Was I in class when he talked about it?”

  “Yeah, dude. You were,” Riley said. “Yesterday?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. I felt panic rise again.

  While Riley worked out, I went to the IMC and read the chapter for physics and did the assignment. It was easy enough. Physics went okay, except Riley acted like I wasn’t in the room. He wouldn’t look at me. What did I do to deserve that? I wondered.

  Then, in study hall while I was trying to get ready for my AP Lit course (again, I didn’t do the assignment and couldn’t remember what Ms. Bowen had talked about in class the day before), Coach Reynolds showed up and asked me to come into the hall with him. The panic exploded. Sarah Davies, Bob Davies, Carl Davies, Dave Dieter, Coach Reynolds. You’re quitting football? You’re done with football? Your life is gone?

  I couldn’t be done. I wouldn’t be done. This wouldn’t work. But I couldn’t run away from him in the hallway. I’d tell him something. I’d tell him it was a mistake. I followed him out of the IMC.

  Out there, he leaned against a bank of sky-blue freshman lockers.

  “So?” he said.

  “Hey?” I asked. “Yeah?”

  “Any news?”

  “About? What news?” I asked.

  “News, Isaiah. Did you learn anything from the doctor last night?”

  “Oh,” I said. “No. Not really. I couldn’t get in to see a doctor.” My stomach was dropping hard. My heart pounded.

  “What do you mean you couldn’t get in?”

  “There was a long line at urgent care and I . . . I just didn’t feel good, so I went home.”

  “You went straight home?”

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “I think?” I said.

  “Do you know something funny?” Coach Reynolds asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “My daughter was doing her piano lesson over on Ellen Street after school. You know Ellen Street?”

  “I’ve heard of it, yeah,” I said.

  “Sure you have. Over by Dairy Queen, right?” he said.

  “Yeah. That’s right. Near Dairy Queen.”

  “My daughter—you’ve met Taylor, haven’t you?”

  “I have. Sweet kid,” I said.

  “Taylor said she saw you run right past Katie Lee’s house. Katie Lee is Taylor’s piano teacher. Her place is over there on Ellen Street. Taylor said you ran by there like the devil was chasing you.”

  “Huh. Weird,” I said. By this point my stomach had dropped into my intestines and bounced back up into my throat. I could feel waves of heat rolling across my face, picking up balls of sweat. But I was also relieved. This wasn’t about Sarah, Bob, Carl, Dieter, football. I focused hard, my brain whirred. I wasn’t running from Satan. I was running from ghosts. Focus! I shouted to myself.

  “So?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. I pretended anger. “Fine. Fine, okay?”

  “Fine what, Isaiah?”

  Good liars use the truth. I’m a good liar. Use the truth to make space . . . “I pretty much got knocked stupid at the end of the game last week. You remember that hit?”

  “Yes,” Coach Reynolds said. “I know what you’re talking about. You dropped your head when you hit Dakota Clay. Worried me for a second.”

  “It was bad. I felt really sick driving home from the game, okay? I threw up later.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “And I had to go to the emergency room Saturday morning because I was puking still. I’m sorry. I’m a little messed up. I’ve never missed a game, you know?”

  “I know, bud.”

  “But here’s the deal: the doctor won’t let me play this week. I can’t play. I mean, I’ve got an appointment Friday morning to check in . . . and I hope. I’ve been trying to get better without bringing my damn head injury to your attention, so maybe I could play on Friday. Guess that shit backfired.”

  As I talked, the tension slowly released from Coach Reynolds’s face. He started nodding. He bit his upper lip with his lower teeth. When I finished speaking, he put his big paw on my shoulder. “Okay. Okay. Calm down, Isaiah. But you got to listen to me.”

  “What, Coach?” I said.

  “If you are injured, you have to tell me. Your health is my first priority. I care about you, kid. And these head problems, man, it’s nothing you want to mess with. No way. So don’t worry at all. We got your back tomorrow. Skip practice tonight. Rest up. Make sure you’re rested for that doctor’s appointment tomorrow. We don’t want any false negatives. We want to get you cleared as soon as possible. In fact, as soon as you’re out of that appointment, give me a call. I want an update. The big one is still a week out. Prairie game isn’t for eight days. We’re okay this week. We got your back, but we’ll need you come next week.”

  “Okay. Okay. Sorry I haven’t been straight with you about this, Coach. It just scared me. I don’t want to miss a game.”

  “Understood. You had me very worried. But understood.”

  There was an
awkward pause. Coach looked back and forth between my eyes, maybe trying to see the concussion inside me? Finally, I said, “I have to finish my English homework, so . . .”

  Coach snapped out of it. “Right. Go get ’em, bud.”

  I walked back toward the study hall room.

  “Hey, bud?” Coach called after me. “Can you tell me why you were you sprinting down Ellen Street yesterday?”

  I stopped. My mind raced. It landed fast. “I was testing myself. Seeing if I could run hard and not feel dizzy.”

  “Oh,” he said. “And the verdict?”

  “I’m feeling better. I’m getting better.”

  “Good news. Good news. Go home after school. Rest up.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I reentered the study hall room and exhaled hard. Then I couldn’t concentrate at all. I went into my AP Lit course totally unprepared. I bombed a pop quiz on The Bluest Eye.

  CHAPTER 18

  ISAIAH THE MONK

  On Wednesday evening, two days before I hit Dakota Clay with my head down, I met Joey Derossi after practice at a McMansion on Bluffton’s north side, out by the golf course. It was supposed to rain the next day, and Joey had to finish cleaning gutters on the place before the owner got home from vacation. Joey had klieg lights aimed up at the roof. We worked into darkness on two ladders.

  He was in a quiet mood, which meant he was talking quietly (not in the loud, boisterous way he normally went on), not that he was failing to talk.

  “Sometimes, I don’t think I live right, man,” he said. “You know, I gather all this shit up in the barn to make stuff, make art or whatnot, but I don’t ever make the art, I just keep finding scraps and trash to use when I finally decide to make the shit. But where’s the damn art I’m not making?”

  “In your mind?” I said.

  “I do have the materials. I just don’t know what to do with them because I really don’t know what I’m about.” The old barn on his family’s property was really junked up, filled with weird objects Joey had collected through the years.