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PART 33 After a fun New Year’s Eve with Ricky, then a nice long bike ride together back at school Tuesday, the routine began again Wednesday the 2nd. Crank it up, rock and roll. One thing Tom missed at school was playing chess. Seems surprising, as he had chess class once a day. But the other kids all sucked so badly that it really wasn’t chess, it was more like bullshit. They would hang pieces and miss obvious tactics. The other kids, mixed between grades 7-12, were actually pretty friendly. Tom liked the 11th grader from the cross-country team who had tendonitis the day of the meet he saw. His name was Rick (no ‘y’ at the end). There was also Jeremy, Ricky’s former roommate, who was just about as smart as Tom in class, but was useless at the chessboard. Then there was a gigantic football player named Rex, who Tom nicknamed Barney (dinosaur, Tyrannosaurus, that idea). When Tom beat him, Rex would playfully beat the hell out of the little boy and sometimes throw him out the window (fortunately chess class was on the ground floor and Rex held Tom’s ankles carefully). At the beginning of class, Rex would usually let Tom hit him in the stomach ten times with all his strength. Hurt Tom’s fist more than Rex’s belly. Class was fun, but it wasn’t chess. The teacher, Mr. Merton, was better than the kids but rarely a serious challenge for Tom. He knew some openings pretty well, and didn’t blunder pieces, but he couldn’t see half of what Tom could in the middle game. He’d never come close to beating this 8th grader, and had only managed one draw in three months. But he was a cool guy, never yelled, and in Tom’s teacher rating system, he was tied for second nicest with Coach Prszeczkopowski. Father Ray was of course first. On the very first class day in January, Mr. Merton asked Tom to take a walk outside and explained some competitions that would be coming up soon. The school would have team matches once a week against other schools. Six kids would be on the team, and there were nine schools in the league. Five weeks from Saturday, there would also be a big weekend individual tournament for all ages, held at a big high school in Chattanooga. There would be money prizes for the top finishers in each section. Tom first asked about the team stuff. “Mr. Merton, each team has to have six players?” “Right.” “But, well, don’t take this wrong, and the kids are nice, but…Mr. Merton, they really really suck. I mean they worse than suck. They just drop pieces. They can’t see mates that are staring them in the face.” “Ah, you noticed that, did you? No shit, Sherlock! That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Do you think you can help them get better, help them recognize patterns and reduce the gross blunders?” Tom thought for a second and his mind went back to what Joey said in War Council back in October. “If you didn’t try to act all fucking better than people…” “Mr. Merton, I want us to win, but sometimes when I tell kids stuff it comes out all wrong. Like the kids in chess class are good kids, and I want to be friends, but if I analyze their games and tell them the truth, well, you know, they’ll get mad. Not their fault, it’s mine. I always say things the stupid way. Joey Peroni kicked my ass in October.” Mr. Merton paused before answering. Tom liked it when teachers did that. It made him think they were really listening to him. “Kid, looks like we have to do two things. We have to get YOU to learn how to communicate better with people and we have to get THEM to stop hanging pieces all over the place. I got an idea. Come back inside, and we’ll watch someone’s game. I’ll write down the moves, and you’ll just shut up. Tomorrow, we’ll practice.” They picked Rex vs. a little 9th grader who wasn’t much bigger than Tom. The play was just terrible, disgusting, uglier than Vice-President Cheney’s hairy butt cheeks. Obvious threats were missed, pawns were blundered, simple forks were ignored. It ended in a draw by stalemate; Rex had an extra queen and rook, but even with all that, couldn’t figure out how to mate the little kid properly. Tom had long ago in Argentina trained himself to shut up when other people were playing. Watching this game, he also had to suppress his urge to vomit all over the chessboard. How could he help guys like this, especially without sounding like he was insulting them? It wasn’t their fault they sucked. The next day, Tom and Mr. Merton set up and played over yesterday’s game in a separate room while the other kids played. “How can that kid be so stupid?” cried Tom. “Look, Rex has his knight pinned and he’s threatening to snare it with pawn d5. How come he didn’t just defend, break the pin with bishop d7? I mean, duhhh. What was he thinking?” Then Mr. Merton played Rex’s response, the deaf/dumb/blind move bishop takes c6 check, simply trading his bishop for the knight when he could have won the piece for free. “How could he miss the pawn d5 idea? What’s wrong with him? The knight’s just sitting there, and he gives up his bishop for it? Idiot, idiot, idiot!!” Mr. Merton grinned. “Tom, what do you think would happen if you said that to Rex?” “Uhhh, maybe he’d break my arms and legs, rip them off my body, and beat me upside the head with them?” “Probably not, unless it was on the football field and you were the other team’s quarterback.” “Oh, like that’s really happening! So it’s cool, then!!” “Come on, Tom, don’t get dumb, you know what I mean. What kind of friend would you be if you had that attitude when you tried to help someone understand the position?” “I know, I know, you’re right. But it’s not so easy. Sometimes I just say what I think and I dunno, how are you supposed to do it?” “Let’s try this. You pretend to be Rex and I’ll pretend to be, uh, you. The variations are simple no-brainers, but listen to how you can say things.” Mr. Merton started a long explanation while pointing to and shuffling the pieces. “OK, the black knight is pinned so it can’t run away. White here played bishop takes c6 check, and material stayed even. But look, can’t White find another way to pile up on the pinned piece, to get more out of the position? OK, he can try queen a4, putting another attacker on c6, but if Black defends it again, say bishop d7 or other knight e7. it looks like it’s just two against two, just even. Any other ideas? Let’s see, oh yeah, can’t white pile on with pawn d5? Even if Black defends it again, White WINS the piece instead of just settling for equality.” The teacher continued, “See, Tom? You can say ‘White’ or ‘Black’ instead of ‘you’, or you go through the variations with questions and answers, instead of like ‘that was dumb’. Let’s go through a few more moves, and you try it.” Tom exhaled, sighed, and concentrated. Handling the little plastic chess pieces was a hell of a lot easier than dealing with the people who moved them! PART 34 The team competitions on Wednesdays were kind of fun. Whenever the team visited another school, they got to blow off their last class to travel. They also got to borrow the cool yellow and green satin sweatshirts that the cross-country team wore. In the first four matches, St. Brendan’s went 2-2, which was way better than Tom had thought possible. He’d won all his games, usually easily, though a kid named Jason from Raycroft High had put up a pretty good fight. The other three times Tom finished off his kid quickly and watched his teammates, quietly praying, rooting, and agonizing over their fortunes and misfortunes. His teammates still sucked violently, but fortunately the other schools weren’t exactly loaded with grandmasters, either. Once after they won an away match, Mr. Merton stopped the van at Burger King and the school treated. The individual tournament in Chattanooga would be a much bigger deal, much more exciting. Mr. Merton, Rick, a couple 10th graders, and Tom would play. Mr. Merton entered Tom in the “open” (strongest) section, himself in the under 1800 section and the other kids in the under 1400 section. It was to be one week before the Founders’ Day Race and Mr. Merton warned Tom that the competition in the open section would be almost all adults, and much, much tougher than the weekly league games. Between all the sections, over 150 people were entered, with the under 1400 section almost exclusively teenagers or younger kids. The host school would set up cots in its gym for visiting students to sleep, and they’d open up their swimming pool for a couple hours Saturday night. Tom had never played in a real tournament before. Sounded like a goddamn blast! Tom knew he should have gotten a good night’s sleep the night before, but he was way too excited. He went over with Ricky what openings he’d use. Well, as Ricky didn’t know how to play, mostly Tom rambled on about the Queen’s Gambit Accepted and an early queen g4 against the French Defense, while a sleepy Ricky periodically told him to shut up. Ricky’s requests were pretty much ignored until the bigger boy lost patience, climbed up the bunk ladder and put a pillow over his friend’s head with the intention of suffocating him. Not quite to death, Ricky thought, but let’s make him unconscious til morning, that’ll work. A few 3/4-strength punches in the stomach were added just for good measure. “You gonna shut up now?” Ricky asked, lifting the pillow so Tom could breathe, but keeping it in a threatening position in case it was needed again. “All right, all right, I was almost done anyway!” “OK. Well, good luck tomorrow, Tom. Hey, if you win the prize money, we can go out every Saturday night for pizza til like April, right?” “Unless I think of something better to spend it on! What are you gonna do tomorrow?” “Jenny’s conned those dumbass Pine Ridge teachers to let her escape to the town library to study. I’m gonna ride there and meet her at 11. We might do a little different kind of studying!” “Well, make sure you…” Oh shit, Tom thought, better shut up. Remember respect? “Uhhh, have fun!” “Thanks, and tomorrow you better fuck ‘em up big time, kick extreme ass! You know you can. Go get ‘em, really. Goodnight, Tom.” Ricky climbed down the ladder and wondered if he should ask Jesus to help Tom win the tournament. Nah, that’s not what He’s there for, can’t bug Him about stuff like that. Jenny thoughts crowded Jesus thoughts out of his mind, and after a few minutes of work, he reached a glorious bend-at-the-knees orgasm. It was his best one of the week, and put him right to sleep. Mr. Merton drove the kids to Tennessee in a small school minivan. When they arrived, he reminded them that the three games Saturday would be played at sudden-death time controls, each player getting 75 minutes on his clock to complete the whole game. Sunday’s two games would be much slower, 40 moves in 90 minutes followed by 20 in 30. First-round pairings would be posted in a few minutes. The teacher finally added “Can we get a few hands in here?” Rick and the others knew what that meant, and Tom followed their lead. The teacher and kids circled up, each person put a hand in the middle on top of someone else’s, and they screamed in unison “COUGARS!” Then they hit, slapped, and chest-bumped each other so that everyone was ready to play some chess. Get it on!! Tom’s first opponent was a fat old guy, and he was of course a real chessplayer, not like the kids Tom was used to, but still, Tom didn’t think he was anything special. The guy played a Sicilian Defense, but didn’t really get anything important going on the Queenside. Tom methodically advanced on the Kingside, pried open the h-file, and then saw something. He took a drink of water, as he wanted to calm himself down and be sure. It was a combination that made his whole body tingle, his eyes open wider. He was hyper-alert and concentrating as hard as he ever had in his life. Ooooooo, this was cool. Sacrifice the rook, he has to take it, then check, another check, then ooooooo!!! Nail his queen with the skewer!! Oh yeah, oh yeah, it’s so sweet! Tom took a few more minutes to look at this, not so much because he wasn’t sure, but because the whole position and his idea made him so happy and excited, made his penis hard and long. He played the sacrifice, and kind of rocked back and forth in his chair. One win, nice start. But WHAT THE FUCK??? WHAT?? The guy’s giving up his rook, rook takes c2 check?? What’s happening? Ah shit! Now Tom saw the idea, and he was really pissed at himself for missing it. After Tom took the rook, the guy had a queen check that brought her to safety. THEN he could take Tom’s rook without losing his own queen. When the smoke cleared, Tom was up a pawn, but his immediate threats were stopped. Both players’ kings were dangerously exposed. It was a whole new ballgame. Tom closed his eyes for a minute, tried to retool his mind and get set for a long, nasty struggle. All right, come on, get your head out of your ass and back to the board! Tom did finally win, though it took 35 more moves and his clock was down to less than two minutes in the final position. The old guy resigned, shook the boy’s hand, then looked at his own a bit surprised. Tom suddenly realized for the first time that his face, hands, arms, and really whole body were totally soaked with sweat, and his heart was hammering like he was running sets of uphills back at school. He went into the bathroom, washed off his face, drank tons of water, and tried to calm down. Soon the pairings for the next round were up. He’d have White again against some guy named Alex. Mr. Merton was right. This tournament was gonna be hard, hard work. PART 35 Rick saw Tom looking at the pairing sheet to find out his next opponent. “Hey, man,” the friendly older kid said, “I crushed my guy in 15 minutes! What was wrong with you? I came over and watched your game and that guy was making you sweat like a pig!” “Yeah, well, not so easy in the open section!” “Ah, it’s fun to see somebody fucking you up. ‘Bout time!” “I looked over at your board, that kid you were playing, what was he, in second grade maybe?” “Third! You should have seen it, Tom, I forked his king and rook, I was all over him!” “Yeah, congratulations, grandmaster, busting up that 8-year-old! Way to go!” Both boys laughed. A tournament official announced over a microphone that the second round would begin in two minutes. “OK, Tom,” said Rick, “let’s go. Do it to it!!” The boys touched fists and went to their boards. Tom’s next opponent liked to glare. The guy stared at Tom and breathed hate through his nose like he wanted to rip the little boy apart. Yeah, asshole, thought Tom, you wanna stare? I’ll stare right back. You and your King’s Indian, fuck you! In a way, it was strange that the guy had such an aggressive, angry posture at the board, because his choice of opening, the King’s Indian Defense, was just the opposite. Tom didn’t really know this opening well, but never thought it was a huge problem. It was an opening where Black didn’t counterattack at the start, just peacefully developed his pieces in a certain structure and let White (Tom) occupy more of the center. It was of course against the rules for either player to speak during the game, but often a guy’s chess moves can speak for him, sometimes more clearly than with audible words. It was like Alex’s pieces were silently saying “Do your thing, kid, we’re not gonna hurt you….YET!” Tom thought the position was pretty even. He wasn’t getting much, but the other guy wasn’t bothering him, either. He was more accustomed to sharper openings where things got complicated and risky more quickly. With each of the guy’s moves, Tom kept telling himself a little mantra “Yeah, I saw that. No big deal.” But as the middle game began, though the guy’s moves were no big deal, they were plenty of little deals. Bit by bit, things were getting annoying. In order to save a pawn, Tom had to trade his good knight for the other guy’s nearly useless bishop. Then it seemed that wherever Tom put his pieces, at least one of them would be blocking in another one. His pieces were like stepping on each other’s toes, and had no room to get out of each other’s way. Worst of all, the guy had gotten in the pawn break on f5. His rook was in control of the f-file and his remaining bishop, who for awhile hadn’t been doing anything, was now solidly posted in the center, looking hungrily at Tom’s little pawn on g3. Tom was sweating again and was scared. Just LET ME MOVE!!! Just LET ME OUT!!! A couple years ago, he’d seen a horror movie about someone buried alive in a coffin. It gave him nightmares and he woke up screaming for Mom. It was about the same as having the White pieces in this position. Tom couldn’t even really exhale completely; his lungs wouldn’t do it. And the opponent was sneering and glaring and snarling at him, that faggot. Maybe, the boy thought, I should just turn the whole table over, knock all the pieces into the buttfucker’s face? Then at least I’d be free. But there were three other games going on at the same long table. Nah, not possible. But damn, what can I do?? Tom looked at various ideas of breaking loose, of finding some way to at least breathe, of getting some oxygen to his heart. All of them seemed to lose at least one pawn, and maybe two. He shuffled his rook to b1, which didn’t help, but there was nothing better to do. The opponent pushed a pawn to attack Tom’s queen. Yeah, yeah, I saw that. I’ll just move her up to the fourth rank, he can’t bother her there, all right. Wait a minute, oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Please God, noooooo!!!! Tom saw the death variation. He literally saw himself being killed, blood spurting out, gasping and knowing he was about to die. He loved Mom and Dad so much, but he’d never see them again, or even have a chance to say goodbye. The white queen wouldn’t be able to guard g3 anymore. The guy could just sacrifice his bishop there, then check with his queen, Tom’s king would have to go to the corner, then the guy could just lift his rook to f6, and there would be no way to stop mate on h6. Tom’s other pieces were too blocked in to get over and help. Tom’s clock kept ticking and he had to do something. OK, two choices. I can give up my rook for the pawn, then my queen can continue to guard the key square. But what chance is there to come back if I’m down a rook? None, shit. Or I can move the queen up, and maybe, just maybe, the guy won’t see the combination. Tom for some reason remembered the nondenominational church service at school last Sunday. The 12th grader leading the service talked about small miracles, small things that showed God’s love and grace, small things He helped us out with. The kid said that we should appreciate these little things. Tom thought that maybe this would be a really good time for God to cause a miracle. It would sure be a miracle for the guy to overlook the winning line. But let’s see what happens. He moved his queen forward. Somewhere at that very moment, God probably was performing a miracle. Maybe He was performing a bunch of them at the same time in different parts of the world. However, board 4 of the open section in Chattanooga, Tennessee wasn’t one of those places. Alexander Kharlamov had seen similar positions countless times in his native Russia, and he wasn’t about to miss this. His bishop took the pawn, and once started, the combination couldn’t be stopped. Tom stared for a few minutes at his own king in the corner, the black queen, and the rook at f6 about to mate him. He knew it was over, but he was frozen. He didn’t want to resign. He had never lost a game in the United States since he’d arrived at school, and had he ever lost one here back when he was little, back when he was 7 or 8? He couldn’t remember. He knew he had to go somewhere and cry, but NOT NOW!! Not in front of this fuckhead!! Tom turned over his king, extended his hand to Alex, and said “I resign. Congratulations.” “Thank you. It was a very interesting game,” replied the guy in correct but accented English. Yeah, jerkoff, you’re just saying that to try and fake being nice, Tom thought. You kicked my ass so bad. 25 moves! Yeah, right. “Would you like to go over it?” the Russian continued, with a kind of smile and without the stare and glare. It was actually a polite invitation. Often in tournaments, when a game ended, the two players (usually at the invitation of the winner) would “go over it”, that is, go into another room and replay the moves, discussing the game’s progress--analyzing the mistakes, good moves, variations, and going through what was in their minds at the time. It was a great way to learn, and often players who never knew each other before the game became real friends during these “post-mortems”. But Tom knew that he had to go cry, and besides, he wanted to be far away from this guy he hated. As far away as he could. “Thanks, but I have to do a couple things now. Good luck the rest of the way,” Tom mumbled, and walked fast out of the hall. Then he broke into a run, found an empty hallway, and did what he had to do. He bawled, wailed, pounded his fists and head on the wall for several minutes. When there was nothing left in his eyes to cry, just sank down onto the floor whimpering quietly. This sucked. Why did playing chess have to hurt so bad? Why did I even come here if I was gonna lose? And the worst part was that there were still three games to go. Tom didn’t see for a moment that someone had joined him, and there was a hand on the back of his neck. “Hey, Tom, man, is that you? What happened?” Tom didn’t recognize the voice, but when he looked up, it was Jason, the slightly fat kid from the other school he’d played against two weeks ago. “Whaddaya think happened? I got crushed like an insect. I hate this stupid game!” “Yeah, I saw a bit of your game. Tom, like what did you expect? The guy’s rated 2360. He didn’t get there by accident. You’re not the only one he’s destroyed in his career. Did you think you were gonna steamroll that guy like he was some patzer kid in our league? Come on, get up, next round starts in ten minutes.” Tom felt a small bit better and got to his feet. He didn’t know what to say, but asked “I dunno, it still sucks. I’ve heard about those numbers and ratings, what does all that stuff mean?” Jason was friendly enough to explain. Each player had a rating, which represented his performances in tournaments over his lifetime. In the open section, 1801-1999 was class A, 2000-2199 was expert, 2200-2399 was master, and above that, well, players like that weren’t here anyway. So that Alex guy was a high-level chessmaster, and Jason thought he’d been Tennessee State Champion a couple times. Tom was of course unrated, as this was his first official tournament. Jason was rated 1743, and was in Mr. Merton’s section. “Thanks, Jason. Good luck in your next game. But I’m so tired, man. This hurts so bad. I wish I didn’t have to play right now.” PART 36 Tom was Black in round 3, and played a Petroff Defense instead of his normal Sicilian. He had to will himself to concentrate, as nothing seemed to matter anymore. He barely looked at the other guy, and sometimes even when it was his turn, his mind wandered back to school, back to Ricky, back to the running trails above campus. Not a whole lot was happening on the board, really. The later middle-game became simple and a draw looked likely. Both players had two rooks and a bishop, and neither player had any pawn weaknesses. Tom actually offered a draw (something he almost never did—usually he wanted blood), but the guy politely refused. Then Tom looked at the clock and immediately saw why. Shit! He had been daydreaming so much that his clock was down below seven minutes for the whole game and his opponent still had almost 20. The guy’s idea was to win by just having Tom run out of time. Wake up!! But there wasn’t much to do here. Tom quickly brought his king to e7. There were no mate threats, and eventually he’d need it nearer the center. The guy moved his bishop somewhere. Big deal. Just do something fast, can’t let your clock run. But WAIT A MINUTE!!! WAIT JUST A GODDAMN MINUTE!! Tom suddenly felt adrenaline and noticed that the guy’s bishop and rook were on the same diagonal. Give up the exchange on f2, then bishop e4 check, then get the rook back, and when he takes, he’s got the isolated pawn! King blockades, YES!!! Play it now, QUICK!!! Some people might have thought the variation didn’t give Black any advantage, as no one won or lost any pieces. It was now a rook and pawn endgame with equal material, but Tom knew he had this thing. The opponent now was eating up minutes on his clock, and Tom thought back to Argentina, thought back to that kindly old man Felipe, who used to spend hours staring into his eyes, petting his hair, smiling, and teaching him. Oh yeah. They had gone over dozens of Capablanca’s endgames, and Tom knew exactly what to do here. Blockade the pawn with his king, the guy would have to babysit it with his rook, and then Tom’s rook would be free to roam and threaten things while his pawn majority on the other side rolled. Yeah, he’d have to move quickly as his clock was now under four minutes, but there were really no tough decisions to be made. He could pretty much move instantly the rest of the way. Gracias, Felipe! Gracias por todo, amigo viejo! Me ayudaste tanto, y nunca te olvidare, nunca. Tom was almost crying again, but this was a good-cry feeling. He wished the old man were here with him now to see this position. He wished he could thank him not just for showing him the rook and pawn endgames, but just for being with him, just for the time spent and the friendship. He wished he at least had a phone number or e-mail for the Argentine master, but no, there was nothing. He existed now only in the boy’s deep and loving memory. The rest of the game brought no surprises. The opponent sweated and thought, thought and sweated as HIS clock ran low, but Tom knew this endgame cold and soon had his second win. All right, he thought, all right, still in the hunt. Not for the first-place prize money, but certainly with a shot for 2nd through 4th. He was exhausted, but joined Mr. Merton and the other kids. Mr. Merton went out and brought them back tons of pizza, which seemed to be the dinner of choice for just about all the school teams that were staying over in the gym. Tom tried to get his mind off the chess, talk to people, just gear down. The pizza helped—pepperoni was his favorite topping. Later, he went for a swim in their school’s pool (was a lot warmer than St. Brendan’s!) and used his phone card to call Ricky in Bats and tell him about the day. “You what? You LOST a game?” said his roommate playfully. “Damn, and they said you were smart! I’m gonna have to give you lessons when you get back! Why do you suck so bad at chess? It’s easy, I even beat my father, remember?” “Oh sure, you really did a lot that night!! Yeah, here’s you--‘which one’s the queen?’” They talked and laughed a couple minutes longer. Tom really, really needed to hear Ricky’s voice after this long, intense bitch of a day. The local national guard armory provided cots and blankets for the St. Brendan’s group and about 50 other kids who were staying over at the school with their chess coaches. The gym’s heater was on so it was plenty warm. Kind of weird sleeping with so many people around, some of them snoring or breathing weird, but Tom was so wiped out that he had no trouble. Until it all started. His pawns were about four feet tall and his other pieces were all taller than Dad. All his pieces could talk, and they were all giving him contradictory advice, each piece only caring about himself, none of them really interested in winning the game. Like when he turned to listen to a knight, the pawns started yelling louder. And the other side’s pieces were even taller, and Tom had trouble telling them apart, as they all looked like Alex the Russian Master. Which one was a bishop, and which one was a pawn? They all started chanting in that Russian accent “I SAW THAT!! NO BIG DEAL!!” and they were getting closer and closer to Tom’s king. Tom tried to hide behind his own king, but his king wouldn’t let him, kept dodging away. Black pieces were chasing him, and his own pieces were in his way, wouldn’t let him escape. Tom wanted to run off the edge of the board, but it was like a cliff! HELP!!! Tom sat up desperately gripping the blankets, his heart pounding angrily. It took him a couple moments to figure out where he was and what was up. Daaaammm. That was a SERIOUS pepperoni pizza dream!! Tom smiled. Funny now, wasn’t so funny a few minutes ago. Next tournament, definitely have to have something different for dinner on Saturday night! He took a little walk around the silent gym, with the sleeping kids and their coaches. He drank some water, calmed down, and was able to sleep OK the rest of the night, with no more nightmares tormenting his mind. PART 37 Tom woke up pretty energized. At least he still had a chance for some prize money. Depending on how many people tied for 2nd through 4th, it could be as much as $55. He’d never in his life really thought much about money, as Mom and Dad pretty much took care of everything, but $55, wow, that was a fortune, especially to a boy who had never earned anything. Ricky was right. Multiple pizza expeditions!! He went for a short run in the streets around the school for about a half hour, then joined the rest of the St. Brendan’s group for a nutritious breakfast Mr. Merton provided of leftover pizza and several dozen Dunkin Donuts. He took a quick look at the results crosstable, and one thing was clear. He’d need to win both games today. A loss or a draw in either would put him out of contention. His 4th round opponent was only a few years older than him, maybe 18 or 20, and was if possible even skinnier than him. Wow, did the guy have AIDS or something? Today’s time controls were much slower, so Tom made up his mind not to move until he was sure. He was Black and played his normal Sicilian Defense, with no real surprises until the guy played pawn to c3 in front of his castled king. Hmmmm, haven’t seen that before, Tom thought. After a minute one part of his mind thought of an idea, but it also told him to stop daydreaming and look at a more normal move. But the idea kept coming back, wouldn’t stop bothering him. Why won’t it die peacefully and let me think? Can I really just put my knight on b4? Just put it there, let him take it? If he does, rook check, bishop blocks, take the bishop, then discovered check, then eat up his queen! My knight would be threatening mate and also attacking his a-pawn. Pretty transparent, but how’s he gonna stop both threats? But hanging my knight like that, don’t be stupid! Tom laughed a bit to himself as he remembered TV commercials where the angel and the devil were each hovering over one of some guy’s shoulders, each telling him what to do. Bit by bit, the “don’t be stupid” thoughts got bullied and pushed aside by the “OOOOOOOO!!!” thoughts, until there was nothing left in the boy’s head but OOOOOOOO!!! The boy’s knight landed on b4 with a thundering crash. Well, not an audible one, but thundering enough anyway. Oh, this was nice. The opponent tried to keep a poker face but it was obvious from the way he sat up in his chair, squirmed a bit, breathed, that he hadn’t seen it and was in agony. Minutes passed, and lots of different people wandered by the board, wondering what the hell that knight was doing there, just sitting there naked, when it was White’s turn. Spectator after spectator’s face turned from ??? to !!! Alex the Russian Master Who Tom Hated even looked at this for a few minutes, then walked a couple yards away and whispered to someone in his thick accent, “The kid plays an interesting attack.” Tom liked how he said the word “interesting”. Pronounced all four syllables, and really accented the first one. EEN ter est ing. EEN ter est ing!! What a nice guy he is, really, the boy thought, he’s my friend now. Tom was having serious fun as the other guy continued to stare desperately, looking for a resource. Cool when it’s the other guy suffering, no doubt! After 25 minutes, he made an escape route for his king, but Tom took the a-pawn with check, and then just kept on pounding. No mercy. The White guy tried to bring pieces over to do emergency repairs to his shattered queenside, but Tom was all over him. In only eight more moves, Tom was threatening mate again, which the guy could only stop by walking into a deadly fork. Ballgame!! Tom accepted congratulations from the skinny guy and a few people who were around, but knew he had to get out of there, had to get his mind calmed down and ready for the next and last game, the one where all the money would be on the line. He’d just played probably the best game of his life, but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing unless he could do it all over again. Worthless unless he could win once more. It would be over two hours until the last round would start. He wandered over to the same quiet hallway where he’d cried his eyes out the day before, and just lay down on the floor like some drunk in a gutter. He closed his eyes and went over all the winning variations in his 4th round brilliancy, then opened them for a moment, closed them again, and willed himself to wipe the chessboard out of his head. He lay there, not sleeping but in a kind of trance, until 20 minutes before the last, decisive, World-Ending Armaggedon. He wasn’t wearing a watch, but just sensed when it was time to get up. He stretched his calves, hamstrings, and Achilles tendons, then trotted up and down the empty hallway a few times, and finally did a few quick sprints til he felt he was really ready. OK. Now’s the time. Good against Evil. Let’s go! Tom was shocked when he saw the pairing sheet. His final opponent was rated only 1842!! Damn, that’s easy!! Tom had been crushed by Alex (2360) but had beaten guys rated 2022, 1935, and 2048. Shouldn’t this guy suck? But he reminded himself not to get stupid or overconfident. 1842 or not, the guy had also won three of his four games, same as him. Mr. Merton and Rick said a few things to him, but Tom didn’t even hear them. He went to the table, and could hear nothing at all, really. Only see the board, the clock, his scoresheet. He looked at his opponent, who looked back emotionlessly. Both players, of course, were naked. Clothes were on their bodies, true, but their lives, their hearts, their souls were raw and exposed for each other to see, to grope, to probe. The guy started Tom’s clock. The guy’s skin as well as his pieces were Black, and he played a French Defense. Tom played his early queen g4 variation (the one he was talking about right before Ricky tried to suffocate him), and things were working out as he expected. Tom had more space, more elbow room, and had to figure out a way to open things up in his favor, but not let the guy free himself, either. Yes, Tom’s d4 pawn was weak and would need babysitting, but Tom had it under control. All right, this bishop isn’t doing anything here, d4 is still protected enough, let’s see if it can be more active, where, where? OK, there. At that very instant, when his hand let go of the bishop and was less than half an inch away, violent electric shocks ripped through his young body and stopped the beating of his heart. No human being deserves this, but every chessplayer knows the feeling. It’s as though the physical releasing of the piece triggers the shock torture. Tom knew he’d blundered, and could do nothing now. Nothing. His misplaced bishop just stood there helpless while the other guy looked impassively. The guy could just play knight takes that stupid pawn on d4, threatening two of Tom’s pieces, and when Tom took the knight, then queen takes e5 check, with a fork to recover his piece and ending up with two extra pawns. Pretty obvious. Yet the guy thought and thought. Tom wanted to cry again, but knew he couldn’t. Five minutes, eight minutes, twelve minutes. This waiting was the worst. Just take the damn thing!! he almost screamed at the guy. Don’t make me sit here and wait for it!! Black’s clock kept going. Tom began thinking terrible, hateful, racist thoughts. Why don’t you go back to the jungle with the monkeys, you goddamn nigger! Yeah, big-lip asshole, go back to your kind in Africa. What are you doing at this tournament anyway, how’d the Klan miss your mother??? Tom was so ashamed of himself, ashamed of his blunder, ashamed of his nasty sick thoughts, ashamed of about everything. Finally the guy did play the combination, and when the bloodshed was over, Tom stared sadly at what remained of his position. Two pawns down, his once-proud center destroyed, his king uncastled and exposed. He considered resigning, considered it long and hard, but he was so mad, he just determined I WON’T RESIGN TO YOUR UGLY BLACK ASS!! He knew a win was now out of the question. The best he could possibly hope for (and a slim hope at that) was a draw, which wouldn’t be good enough anyway, but he was so full of hate, so angry, that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. He wouldn’t resign. He didn’t care if the other kids and Mr. Merton were ready to go home, in fact at this point he barely knew they existed. He brought his other bishop back in front of his king to stop a possible attack and kept going. Tom’s opponent had played very well throughout the tournament and indeed in this last game, but he was rated only 1842. As the game went on, he missed a subtle opportunity to win another pawn, then later didn’t take advantage of a clear chance to simplify things into an easy win. He finally got a complicated endgame with queen and two separated pawns against Tom’s lone queen. A master could win this, though it would take a lot of work. But this guy knew he was no master. He’d have to find a way to escape Tom’s queen checks and advance at least one of his pawns to the 7th rank. Sure would be nice if the little guy blundered again and walked into a cross-check. Kid must be getting tired, maybe he’ll make it easy for me? But Tom’s will was iron. He took his time and kept finding the right checks and pins. Bit by bit, he was gaining more energy, more intensity, while Black was just making moves, just continuing on inertia, making no progress toward the difficult win. After another 45 minutes, more out of frustration than anything else, he deliberately let Tom take one of his pawns so the other could take a step forward. But it was still three squares away from queening, and with only one pawn left to worry about, Tom’s king had the luxury of time to get back and help defend. There was nothing here, and the man knew it. He moved his king away from yet another of Tom’s checks, and just before pressing his clock, spoke to the boy for the first time. “Would you like a draw?” Tom breathed deeply and extended his small hand to the guy’s big beefy one. Both players got up and Tom didn’t see hate or race or an enemy anymore. His arm found its way around the big man’s back and squeezed his ribs through some middle-aged fat. He spoke to the man, also for the first time. “But now neither one of us wins anything! We both have 3 and a half points, we’re both out of the money.” “Don’t blame ME for that, kid!!” said the guy, laughing. Tom smiled, but didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, be happy, collapse on the floor, or what. He just knew that it was over, that there was no more chess, no more variations, no more endgames, no more nothing. He went over to Mr. Merton and the other kids, who had been waiting not so patiently for close to 90 minutes for his game to finish. Where was Ricky, where were Mom and Dad, where was Father Ray, where was Felipe, where was everyone? The boy said nothing, just hugged Mr. Merton hard, actually left his feet and hung on his teacher’s neck. Some people around were laughing, and of course Mr. Merton was like “What the hell?” But Tom wasn’t climbing down until he was good and ready, until Mr. Merton finally petted the back of his head and said “Great tournament, Tom. You ready to head home?” Yeah, he was. PART 38 At the time on Saturday that Tom was being humiliated, abused, and raped (uhhh, at the chessboard) by that Russian master, it was night in Belarus, and Dad was ready for the big, long-promised discussion with Mom. A lot had happened in only seven weeks. The work had gotten harder and the hours much longer. A physical checkup by an American doctor found that his blood pressure was way higher than it should be, perhaps due to the work and stress. He had to start taking medication and being monitored. Dad had also done lots of research on possible schools for Tom, and had discussed his own personal situation in depth with the Secretary of State when she was in Moscow and he’d traveled there to brief her on his negotiations with various bad people. Dad was the logical member of this husband/wife partnership, the one who thought in plans, contingencies, positives and negatives. Mom was the emotional one, the lover, the dreamer, the screamer. “Darling,” Dad started, “I’ve been thinking about what you said back at Christmas, and I’ve been talking to people, thinking of options, making plans. You know, you were absolutely 100 percent right. We have to make a change. I miss Tom as much as you do. We have to be a whole family again. It’s the only way to live. Now I’ve thought of two scenarios, two possible ways we can work this. Now please hear me out, listen to everything, before you start getting all crazy. I’ve thought this all through.” “Well, Marty, I’ll do my best to shut up and listen, but you know how we Latina bitches are. I’ll get crazy when I feel like it. Can’t help it! Anyway, seriously, let’s talk.” Dad kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Solo hay una chica guapa I’m interested in, and yeah, after 24 years I guess I’ve gotten used to her. OK, here’s plan A. Please really listen. I talked to Condi and told her pretty much everything. She says that if I finish my tour here, even though she probably won’t be Secretary then, she’s sure that she can get me my next and maybe last posting somewhere civilized. I may be able to go back to Washington, or at the very least she promised me the British Isles—London, Edinburgh, or Dublin. Yeah, there are still security issues there, but at least we could then live much more normally. And I’d retire with full pension, everything set, everything fine. Condi can be a tight-ass bitch, but she’s always been honest with me, she’s always done whatever she’s promised. Now in this place here, the Brits run a small school mostly with English or American kids where they teach in both languages, English and Russian. There’s also the best chess club in the city only ten minutes from here by car. The school’s got a great reputation, and of course we’d have Tom here with us. You know that us being all together would make life better, you know that. Yeah, my work would be as tough as ever, but having Tom with us, I could manage, and I think you could, too. It’s not forever. Less than three more years.” “I TOLD YOU!! I WON’T!!!” Mom then started to cry a little, as she knew she was being a little selfish, and Dad was really trying. “I’m sorry, love, I know how much you’ve worked and sweated and how much you want the best for all of us. But I’m sorry, I just can’t stay in this city, in this country, living like a prisoner, with no social contacts, no life outside the walls of this compound, I can’t. And this is no place to raise Tom. It wouldn’t be a normal life, no way for a boy to grow up. OK, before you start in with plan B, I’ve got a plan C. How about if Condi transfers you to somewhere in Britain or Ireland NOW? We could bring Tom over, we’d have many choices for where he could go to school, we could speak English, we could walk the streets, we could be humans again. Yeah, it’s cold there, but I could be OK with three years there, maybe even more.” “I asked her about that. Sorry, no way. When they say a three-year assignment, they mean it. Right now all posts over there are filled, and anyway, they won’t release me from my post here before my three years are up. If they did it for me, she said, everyone in the State Department all over the world who was in an unpleasant place would start complaining. She’s firm on the three years. All right, here’s plan B.” “Basically, dear, we chuck it all. We pretend we’re a couple of 1960’s hippies, tune in, turn on, drop out. I’d just quit, and we’d go back to America. Do whatever we feel like, be with Tom as much as we feel like. Maybe I could work again in the future, but no guarantee. But darling, you have to realize something. I’d only be getting half pension. We wouldn’t starve, we wouldn’t be on foodstamps, but you have to realize that we’d be in a whole different economic situation. Remember, we’ve been living free in government housing for almost fifteen years now. We’d need a home, we’d need a car, we’d need to totally retool our lives. Now I’ve talked in detail to my financial guy back home who manages my portfolio. If Tom is happy at St. Brendan’s, we’re fine for his high school education. For college, well, we’d have to see. The whole thing would be like leaping into an unknown, Maria. It would be a bit like jumping into a swimming pool but not knowing how deep the water is.” “I don’t care. I’ll jump into any swimming pool, I’ll jump off any cliff, as long as it’s in the United States, and as long as I have my husband and son with me, holding my hand. As long as we’re together, I don’t care about the fancy furniture, the luxuries, the anything. Like I said at Christmas, we’ll make the money work out. Let’s do it.” “Well, why don’t you think over the choices and we’ll make a decision, say, next week.” “No we won’t, Marty. Decision’s made. Plan B it is. I’m sure. No hay nada mas que decir.” Dad was used to analyzing things, to weighing options, but he knew from his wife’s tone that nothing would change her mind. She was right, the decision was made. “OK. All right, then, let’s start getting specific. We have a lot of planning to do. If we’re gonna do this thing, let’s get this party started!” Deep, deep, deep into the night they talked, argued, hugged, kissed, argued some more, and planned. It was well after midnight when final plans were hammered out and agreed. Mom would head back to America on the first available flight (via Warsaw, London, New York, and Charlotte). She’d stay with her parents to start, but keep an open mind about Washington (where she had a friend from college she was still close to) and Austin, Texas (where her sister lived). She would find them a home, be it house, apartment, whatever. She would deal with getting a car, with getting furniture, with health insurance, with basically preparing everything for their new lives. It would be a very expensive deal, but it had to be done. Hard work, but Mom was energized for it. Dad would stay and continue working, but he told Mom to hurry her ass up, as he was as excited as she was. Also, he just couldn’t imagine living without her for more than a short time. Ideally, she could do what had to be done in no more than two or three months, and then he could give a month’s notice to the government of his intention to quit. Ideally, he’d be back in America in time for Tom’s summer vacation. Mmmmm, it had been so long since they’d had pretty much unlimited time together with him. Ohhhh, what a time to look forward to. He said he wanted to take at least six months to not work at all, just to reconnect with Mom and Tom, to de-stress himself, to just savor things. After that, perhaps he could work again in some government agency, or perhaps university teaching. No guarantees, that was part of the jump into the swimming pool, but it was an idea. Both parents agreed that tough as it would be for Mom, they wouldn’t tell anything to their son until everything was finished, ready, and Dad was home. They wanted to make this a gigantic surprise for him. Mom knew that it would be tough being so close to him geographically, but unable to talk to him or see him. But it was for the best. And maybe, God forbid, things could go wrong, and plans would have to change. Best to keep the whole thing a secret until everything was perfect. At almost 2 in the morning Belarus time, they finished, and Mom made a long, emotional, phone call to her mama and papa in North Carolina. At that moment, Tom was shoveling pizza into his mouth after his third game, and his parents were looking forward to and dreaming about a new life, a kind of life they’d never known. Jumping into that pool. PART 39 Today, Saturday, was the big one. The chess tournament had been quite an experience, but Founders’ Day Road Race was something Tom had circled on his calendar and circled in his mind for many months now. So many miles, so much sweat, so much training had gone into this. On the advice of Coach P, he’d only run a few miles very gently on Wednesday, and nothing at all Thursday and Friday. On those days, he just went swimming during PC class and did lots and lots of stretching. He even let Ricky teach him a little Tai Chi at night, though it didn’t seem to loosen him up any. In a way, he was sure he was going to win. No way had anyone else trained as hard as him, he knew that much. But then again, even if the Kenyans and Ethiopians weren’t going to be there, were there other fast people? How could you be sure how good everyone was, if you didn’t know them? Remember Alex? Before leaving campus with Father Ray (who would drive him and a few other little kids who were going to run), Tom must have pissed about five times in the early morning. The other kids in the small school van were Jeremy, Carlos, and two other kids Tom didn’t really know. None of them were really runners, but they all figured it was something to do, get off-campus, something different. Of the other kids, Carlos was probably in the best shape, being the soccer star. No kids from the cross-country team were going. They weren’t really that interested. On the ride down, the other kids were chattering and laughing and pretend-farting. Tom was quiet and wished they would shut up, too, so he could get his mind ready and concentrate. Coach P had given him a map of the race course. In a way it was like St. Brendan’s cross-country course, though it was all paved road. The first part would be a couple flat loops around the streets of downtown Clarendon, then there was a long, long, uphill stretch for well over a mile, then a very steep downhill drop into town, and finally a shorter loop in town where everyone would be watching and yelling. Even though he’d never seen it, Tom went over the race course in his imagination while he fingered his race number and the safety pins he’d used to pin it to his shirt. When they got there, it was pretty cool. Kind of a festival atmosphere, with music playing, lots of food vendors, lots of laughing, lots of runners and their families milling around, warming up. There were way, way more people than Tom expected. Looked like hundreds were actually going to race, and it was a bit scary, but then again, when Tom looked harder, he noticed that the majority were either women, old guys, or tiny elementary-school kids. There were some guys who looked serious, though. They were grownups who were really skinny and seemed to just glide over the ground as they trotted along to warm up. The weather was perfect for a race. Cloudy, chilly but not bitter cold, no wind. Tom had to piss again, and got in line at the port-a-potty. He’d bragged that he’d win this thing for Coach Prszeczkopowski and for St. Brendan’s. For himself, too, of course. But there were sure a lot of runners. THEY probably all thought THEY would win, didn’t they? A microphone voice announced 10 minutes til race time. For the mass start, Tom squirmed and jostled his way toward the front so he could start at the real starting line, not several rows back. Behind him, he could hear the other runners laughing and joking, but no one in the front row was doing any of this. The front row people were just stretching and concentrating. Everyone crouched, and BANG! Showtime!! What happened next Tom never expected. My God, these people were fucking flying!!! Dozens, seemingly hundreds, of people just exploded past him, running much, much faster than the boy had ever trained. And this was to be 5 kilometers, more than 3 miles? There were even about ten WOMEN far ahead of him after only a couple minutes. Chicks, for God’s sake!! He panicked a bit and sped up. But fortunately, a lot of these people were total posers, and did fall back. Tom settled back into the pace he’d planned, breathing hard but normally, and prayed that he could get back into the race on the uphill. There was a big sign in the road that said “Mile 1” and Tom could see the uphill looming ahead. He knew he had to do something there, because it looked like there were still easily 100 people ahead of him. In the boy’s mind, there were 100 or more people ahead of him, but in reality, at the mile mark he was 33rd. And he was making serious progress on the uphill. It hurt, hurt bad, but he had trained so much on uphills, and knew it hurt everyone else even worse. He was reeling people in, including the last two women who had been ahead of him. He knew he was moving well, but damn, there were still so many people ahead, and lots of them were far off in the distance. He was going at a solid pace, catching some people, but how, how, how could he make up the ground to get up there with the leaders? Don’t look at them, don’t think about them, just work your form, just drive your knees on the uphills, breathe, breathe. Dammit, this hurts!! Tom passed two more runners, but the next guy was still probably more than 30 yards ahead, and the leaders were long gone. He couldn’t see them and thought maybe they had crested the hill and were on their way down. He ran almost as fast as he could, almost at an uphill sprint, figuring if he didn’t make up ground now, nothing would matter later, and he could catch his breath on the downhill. No sense saving anything, gotta do it now. You idiot, you told Coach and everyone you were gonna win this race, and there are guys way the fuck ahead of you. Come on, find something!!! He reached the top and started down, trying to lean forward, get parallel to the hill so gravity could help, and exhale fully. Let your legs just stretch forward, faster, faster. He’d made up a lot of ground on the uphill, but other runners were still way out there. Tom lengthened his stride and suddenly just lost his balance and CRASHHHHHH. SHIT, YOU STUPID FUCKHEAD, GET UP!!! Tom was up instantly and running as hard as ever. No serious damage, though he could see he’d really scraped up his knee and shoulder. Quite a bit of blood. No pain from the scrapes, just the burning in his lungs, the tingling in his upper body, and the overall pain of the race. And he wasn’t really gaining on the far-off group of runners. He was closing on the one guy in front, but that was only one guy, and there were so many others. Tom’s arms spread out more away from his body as he fought himself for more speed, but tried to keep his balance on the steep downhill. He soon caught and passed the one guy, a skinny nearly bald guy with a beard. They were just about back into the flat part of town, and though Tom could see tons of people lining the streets and see their lips moving as they yelled, the boy could hear nothing. Please, please, find some speed here, please, you gotta win this, but you can’t, yes you can, only a half-mile to go! With less than two city blocks to go, the bearded guy caught back up to Tom, and they fought shoulder to shoulder. Tom willed himself to forget about the leaders, there was no chance to get them, all right, forget the win, but just like with the chessplayer in round 5, get this motherfucker next to him. Get him, you have to!! At the amateur level, when two runners are together at the finish of a road race, it isn’t so much about who has more top-end sprint speed. It’s really about who wants it more. Who is willing to push back the pain for a bit longer, reach deeper inside, and just break the will of the other guy, even though neither will actually win the race? Who is willing to win the game of chicken with the agony in his lungs and limbs? Who’s more stubborn? Tom’s sprint speed was just ordinary, but there were few people in this world who could beat him in a contest of stubbornness. A block to go, and both of them were lifting their knees, using their arms, getting anaerobic for one last final stretch. It was the bearded guy who just couldn’t will himself to stay with the little kid and broke off the challenge. Tom at least had this guy. He sprinted three yards past the finish line, fell down, got up, fell down again, and someone herded him into a chute area with ropes as he retched, vomited, and struggled to breathe. The bearded guy was walking right behind him, trying to shake his hand. Tom had no control of his muscles, and let people guide him where he was supposed to go. Someone pushed him to an official’s table where someone else tore off a tab from his race number. Tom didn’t know what to think. He’d pushed and fought with every fiber of his being, with all he had and all he was, but he’d lost, and badly. He walked and fell, walked some more, and still couldn’t really breathe. Someone told him to look up and took a picture of him with a big camera. Someone else got really close and asked him his name, but Tom couldn’t speak. His lips couldn’t form words. He was so grateful to see Father Ray there. Father Ray guided the man away from him, talked to the guy for a moment, and then went over to the boy, giving him a towel to wipe off the sweat and the puke from his face. Tom just leaned on his teacher, just let Father hold him. “Don’t talk, Tom, it’s OK, you don’t have to do anything now. Come on, pal, I got you,” the priest said soothingly, gently moving him away from the crowded finish area towards a quieter alleyway. “You ran like a champion, Tom. You ran like a true Cougar. Look, kid, just lie here for awhile, here’s a sweatshirt, I’m gonna wait for the other kids to finish. No one will bother you here. Easy, easy now.” Father found a tiny grassy spot at the end of the alley and put a hand under the boy’s back as he gently laid him down. Father Ray’s words helped, and Tom’s breath was coming back. It was only now that he realized how much blood had dripped down the left side of his sleeveless shirt from his shoulder scrape, and how gross his knee and shin looked. Eventually the other kids and Father Ray helped him into the van and they went back to school. The other kids were all silly and happy, laughing and eating donuts. They’d had a great time, and Tom was glad for them, but couldn’t really speak, couldn’t really think of anything but how his best just wasn’t good enough. Could I have battled any harder? Was there a part of the race where I gave up? He thought and thought, replayed every segment of the race. Not really. He knew he’d left everything on the race course. OK, nothing to be ashamed of, but still. Let’s just get back to school, just try to rest, don’t think anymore. For the rest of Saturday, Tom was pretty much in a fog. He thanked Father Ray for taking him to the race and for helping him after. He put on warmer clothes and took a long, slow walk on the trails above campus where he’d spent so many happy hours on his chill runs. He cried a bit, then felt better for a bit, then cried some more, then just told his mind to think about nothing. Ohhhh, this race was so hard. So hard. Was so easy in practice, but how could he go through this again? He had dinner quietly with Ricky, not eating much, and didn’t tell his friend much about the race. Ricky was originally really curious and wanted to know everything, but when he saw that Tom’s face was pretty blank, the bigger boy respected and left his friend alone. Both Tom and Ricky slept late on Sunday morning. Physically, Tom felt OK now, and was hungry again, which he supposed was good. And really, he figured, I shouldn’t feel so bad, I gave it everything I had. He felt more talkative, and told Ricky more stuff about the race. But it still sucked that he’d lost. Soon there was a knock on the door. Who could this be? Father Ray always had to take care of Mass stuff on Sunday mornings. There was old Coach P, all 6 foot 3 of him, filling up the doorway. “All right, Tom, how are you feeling today? Pretty tough finishing kick you showed to take care of that bald guy!” “Uhhh, I dunno, I guess I’m OK, but how did you know? I don’t get it.” “Oh, I didn’t want to let you see me, but I wasn’t gonna miss watching a Founders’ Day Race!” “I gave it everything I had, Coach. I thought I would win. But those guys are just too fast, I don’t know, I guess I’m just not good enough. I don’t think I could have gone any faster.” Coach grinned. “Have you seen the Clarendon newspaper this morning? I got a copy right here. There’s something you might be interested in here, something about a certain little Cougar!” Ricky was up in a flash. “Something in the newspaper about Tom? Gimme!!!” He snatched at the newspaper, but Coach held it behind his back. “Young man, is that the way your mother taught you to ask for something?” Ricky tried again. “May I please look at the newspaper, sir?” Coach handed it over, and when it was within reach, Ricky again yelled “GIMME!!” and made a smartass face at Coach. Then he smiled that smile of his. Even on the rare occasions when Ricky was crazy or wiseass with an adult, he had that certain smile, certain grin, that said “Oh, come on, you don’t want to get all mad at me. Can’t you see I’m just playing?” Worked with every teacher, every time. Tom wanted to see, too, but Ricky hid it carefully from his roommate’s gaze. “Let me see, here, sports section, OOOOO GROSSSS!!! Who’s this disgusting ugly rodent? I’m surprised the camera didn’t break!! How come you weren’t smiling, Tom? What the hell’s your problem?” Finally Ricky showed Tom the paper (though without letting go of it), and sure enough there was a picture of him, all ugly, with the big caption “RECORD BREAKER” and small letters underneath “St. Brendan’s 8th grader Tom Klein”. “What the hell? Smiling? Screw that, I was more like puking. And I didn’t know the guy was taking my picture til after he did it. Huh? What’s up with this record? No one told me.” “Well, Tom,” said Coach, “you guys didn’t stay long enough for the awards ceremony. But someone had to, and I thought I’d pick something up for you. Hey, I got it in a paper bag right outside the door here. If you don’t want it, I guess I’ll keep it!” Coach disappeared for a second, then came back with an 18-inch trophy, a golden runner, with the words on the bottom plaque “FIRST PLACE, BOYS 14 AND UNDER”. “OOOOO, cool, Coach, you could have given it to me!” said Ricky. “Hey, I wanna read the whole thing, OK, here goes. Look, headline, ‘284 people in Founders’ Day Race’.” “284 runners came out to show their speed and courage in yesterday’s 53rd annual Founders’ Day 5-kilometer Road Race. Last year’s winner, Clarendon native and University of Georgia 1500-meter runner Brett Horowicz successfully defended his title, completing the course in 15 minutes and 7 seconds. He was challenged during the first part of the ….ah, who cares about this stupid shit, bla, bla, let’s see, let’s see, OH YEAH!!! HERE’S WHAT I’M TALKIN’ ABOUT!!!” Ricky continued, reading slowly but excitedly. “However, the real surprise of the race was the shocking record-breaking performance of St. Brendan’s School 8th grader Tom Klein, who shattered Matt Roland’s 1992 record in the boys’ 14-and-under division. The former record was 20:11, and Klein lowered the mark by almost three full minutes, blazing through the course in 17:28, finishing in 9th place overall. Since the race was divided into divisions in 1974, no 14-and-under runner before Klein had ever cracked the top 15 overall.” “Hey Coach!!” Ricky shouted. “You know, I taught him everything he knows! I trained him, ya know, I whipped him into shape! I own this kid!! He was NOTHING before I got hold of him!! How come they didn’t put that in the newspaper??” Finally, finally, for the first time in over 24 hours, Tom could laugh again. About time. “But Coach, I dunno, I didn’t know anything about all this record stuff, or what place I was in, I was just so hurting, just running so hard, I wasn’t thinking about anything. I guess winning races against grownups is a lot harder than I thought it was, but I guess I’m happy. Guess I sure stomped on the other kids in the race, at least. Track & field season starts pretty soon, right?” “You bet, pal. Rest today, Tom. You need it, you deserve it. This track season, we’re gonna get you to suffer some pain, get you to kick some ass, get you to have some fun! I’m so proud of you, kid. You’ve got the toughness, and you’ve got the talent. Ricky, you train him good, boy! Tom, I’ll talk to you in a couple weeks.” Coach petted Tom’s good shoulder and left. Ricky smiled at his roommate. “Hell of a race, Tom!! Just cause you’re famous now, doesn’t mean I can’t still bust you up!!” He climbed up onto Tom’s bunk, tickled him til he screamed, and punched him in the face a few times. Yeah, Tom could laugh again. PART 40 Sometimes, things happen that can’t be foreseen, that no one can plan for. Lives change in a split second. Everything seems ordinary, the way it’s always been, and then it’ll never be the same again. It was a regular Saturday like any other. Ricky was out riding, and Tom was on top of big Bobby, in a four-team water chicken fight in the pool. There was normal yelling, and Tom was trying to push down on Jeremy’s shoulders, while someone else was pulling him backwards, and yet another top kid was pushing Jeremy the other way. Lots of young pubescent noise and laughter. Things were about as normal as possible. Bobby and Tom kind of became a Leaning Tower of Pisa until under the pressure, the whole tower fell sideways, and someone lifted up Tom’s foot. Neither the big nor the little boy knew exactly where he was in relation to everyone else. The tower collapsed, Tom went head straight down head-first, and there was a godawful sickening CRACCCKK noise. Those who were there, those who heard it, would never forget that awful sound as long as they lived. Instantly there was blood, lots of blood, tons of blood, all over the cement edge of the pool and in the water. Tom sank to the bottom of the pool, his head split open on its left side. The other boys yelled in confusion, and it took a couple instants, perhaps 10 seconds, maybe 15, before they figured out to fish Tom out of the pool, to lift him up from the bottom, and lay him on the side. The teacher on duty grabbed a towel, put it under Tom’s head and told Mike Lavalliere to call the nurse on the pool phone. Within seconds, 911 was called. The teacher got the other kids to back off and he did the only things he really could at the moment, cover Tom up to keep him warmer and try to stanch the bleeding. The paramedics arrived within seven minutes. They did their thing, immobilizing the boy’s neck and head and getting him ready to go into the ambulance. Tom had done some small involuntary convulsions after being fished out of the pool, but for the last few minutes had done nothing. Someone, crying, asked the paramedics on their way out if Tom was dead. “We don’t know anything now!” shouted the paramedic as he walked fast out the pool door. One kid, who had gotten dressed quickly while the ambulance was on its way, jumped into the back as they loaded Tom in, and the paramedics let him stay, as maybe, just maybe, someone who knew him could help things. Word of what happened spread through the campus quickly. Headmaster was away for the weekend at a conference in Florida, and was also there to recruit some potential students for next year. Coach P was the highest authority at the school at the time, and he was in contact with the hospital, trying to find out what the situation was, and also trying to calm down other frantic kids. Ricky, for his part, was still out riding, still wandering the late-winter dirt roads, daydreaming and singing, knowing nothing. About a half hour later, Ricky rolled through the school gates, put his bike away, and found his old roommate Jeremy running after him. “Oh man, Ricky, I don’t know how to say this, but we were swimming and Tom smashed his head open on the side of the pool. Ricky, I’m sorry, but I gotta tell it to you straight.” The black honor student stopped for a minute, trying to think of how to say this. “They took him away in an ambulance, but he wasn’t moving and I don’t even think he was breathing. Ricky, I…I…oh man, I think Tom might be dead.” Even though Jeremy had moved out of Ricky’s room, he’d always liked the big kid, and they had stayed friendly. Jeremy didn’t know what to do at the moment. Hug Ricky? Stay with him? Leave him alone? Say something nice, but what? Ricky didn’t say a word, just squatted down on his haunches, then dropped down to one knee. His mouth was open but his eyes were blank. Jeremy just stood there. He knew a lot of stuff in class, had the right answer every time, in fact was just about as sharp as Tom. But what was he supposed to do now? No books or worksheets or A’s on tests would help him here, this wasn’t like in class. Jeremy then knelt down next to the big kid, put his hand gently on Ricky’s back for a minute or two, and then figured Ricky would need some space, so walked away quietly. Ricky couldn’t cry, couldn’t think, couldn’t really move. Less than two minutes later, Mr. Conroy found him and said there was an important call for him at the Battell first floor phone. Ricky walked the few yards to the building in a trance. He picked up the phone and the voice was his mother’s. “Ricky, dear, something’s happened. Just this morning. Ricky, this is going to hurt, but we’ll get through this. We thought maybe we’d tell you this later, but we have to tell you now, and whatever happens, we’ll work it out together. Ricky, Fluffy is gone.” Ricky never said a word and Mom continued. Fluffy was crossing the street when a car going much too fast hit him head on. There was nothing anyone could do. The vet said that he died instantly and didn’t suffer. There was a long silence on the line, and Mom finally asked, “Ricky, dear? Are you still there?” “Yeah, Mom.” The boy couldn’t really hear or understand his own voice as words came out. “Yeah, thanks for telling me right away and not waiting.” He hung up without waiting for any more words from his mother. The tall blond boy walked out of the dorm and for some reason began planning. His mind could only focus on the immediate, only focus on what he needed to do that instant. He’d have to leave, have to go where no one could find him. He couldn’t think of the deaths of Tom and Fluffy, that would be too much. He just thought of concrete things like what clothes he’d need, and how he’d fit his stuff as well as a big jug of drinking water in his backpack. He thought of where he’d hide, and where he could buy some food at night when he could emerge from his hiding place. He thought of a couple locations that he knew of from his weekly bike rides in the countryside. Surely no one would even know he was missing until Sunday night. He walked slowly back to the storage room, got his bike out, and rode away. There was a dirt road that started a bit beyond the black church Ricky used to visit sometimes. Ricky liked riding there as there was hardly any traffic. He’d explored a little path off the dirt road before, and noticed little half-underground areas that people had dug. They might have been forts that kids had built. He could cover up his bike with a plastic ground cloth he had, and no way would anyone find him there. He’d be safe. He still couldn’t think about his friend and his dog. There was only what to do now. The place was about 10 miles away, and would take almost an hour to get there. He knew he’d need water much more than food, so he stopped twice on the way to drink some of his 5-liter jug. Just about the time when Ricky was halfway to his place, Coach P reached Headmaster Carlisle on his cell phone. Headmaster broke off what he was doing and began the long drive back to north Georgia. He asked Coach to not call the boy’s family yet—he needed to do it himself, and wanted to know more details first-hand. Only once during his time here had there been an emergency anything like this. A student had been run over by a car outside the mall. The kid had died a couple hours later. It was seven years ago, and the man remembered every awful gut-wrenching detail, every word he’d said to the boy’s parents, every word coming back to him and sticking into his stomach like a knife. Night began to fall. Ricky was settled into his small cave with bread and sandwich meat, along with plenty of water to drink. Headmaster was on the long, long interstate highway, and the campus was eerily quiet, with no one really knowing what was happening or what were the right words to say. PART 41 Ricky was cold, but not as cold as he thought he’d be. Finally that he was settled, he could begin to think. Everyone who was important was being taken away from him. There was Matthew when he was tiny, then Tom, then Fluffy. He tried and tried to figure out why. He knew he’d done bad stuff—his grades still sucked and everyone knew he only passed because of Tom’s help. Tom, who was dead. Ricky knew he’d been nasty, taunting those stupid kids back home at Christmas. But wasn’t Jesus supposed to forgive me? I mean I still pray and talk to Him all the time. Ricky went over in his mind the four people who still mattered to him. Mom, Dad, Jenny, Father Ray. He didn’t put them in any particular order. But he wondered whether if and when he decided to get out of this little hiding place, if any of them would still be alive. Three people he loved had died. Didn’t seem to matter all the good stuff he did, everyone died anyway. For awhile he was even considering coming out and calling school, home, and the Malones to see if the people were still there. But he was just too scared and tired. He ate up most of his food and tried to sleep. Headmaster Carlisle finally arrived at the hospital late at night after nine long, lonely hours behind the wheel. Tom wasn’t at the nearest hospital—the paramedics had decided to drive him further away to a larger hospital that had a much more state-of-the-art trauma center. Mr. Carlisle was absolutely exhausted, bone-weary, spent. But he had to be there, had to know. He saw Tom lying there, head all bandaged, stuff connected to him. The kid who’d accompanied him in the ambulance was still in the room, buried under blankets on a small cot they’d put there for him, with various snack food wrappers next to him. The attending physician was compassionate and took the time to explain everything. The good news, if that word could possibly be appropriate, was that Tom was stable—he was out of any immediate life-threatening danger. He was heavily sedated, and the priority now was to reduce swelling and internal bleeding. However, the doctor didn’t sugarcoat the situation. In a trauma like this, brain injury was very often profound or at least severe. There was no way to know anything about his prognosis until the boy woke up. No way to be sure if the boy lying there would ever be Tom again, or would be just a shell of Tom, or would be a whole different kid. Nothing to do but wait. Headmaster asked whether Tom was in a coma. The doctor said no, and they did expect him to regain consciousness, though there was no way to know exactly when. He said that they were letting the other kid stay with him as long as he wanted, so that he could talk to Tom and perhaps stimulate him to wake up a bit more quickly. Headmaster drove the 40 miles back to school and knew what he had to do next. No way to avoid it, and he couldn’t delegate it to Coach P. He had to tell the boy’s family. He thought for a moment of first calling the grandparents in Greensboro, but no, he had to talk to the boy’s Mom and Dad, had to reach them in Belarus. When he arrived at his office, he found their number. Could he say this phone call would hurt him as much as it would hurt them? No, but it still wouldn’t be good. He wished his wife was still with him. They’d divorced seven years ago. No kids, all clean. But he wished there were someone with him, wished he had her now. It was morning in Minsk, and the phone rang a few minutes before Dad was scheduled to meet with the Defense Minister, one of the few people who was for the most part trustworthy. Dad didn’t immediately recognize the voice. “Mr. Klein, this is John Carlisle, headmaster of St. Brendan’s. Sir, I wish there were an easier way for me to tell you this, or that I had the right words. Tom has been in a very serious accident. He hit his head on the edge of the swimming pool deck earlier today. He’s right now in the Trauma Center of the university hospital.” Mr. Carlisle stopped speaking for a moment, and there was silence on the other end of the line. “Mr. Klein, are you there?” “Yes, Headmaster.” Dad couldn’t think of what to say. “Please, continue.” “He is now stable, and is in no immediate life-threatening danger. He’s sedated. He’s in the best possible hands at this point. However, sir, at this moment the doctors have no way of knowing what, if any, long-term brain injury he’ll suffer.” Headmaster didn’t really know where he’d come up with the two words “if any”. The attending doctor hadn’t used them. But they’d just come out. Maybe just to bullshit the boy’s Dad with a hint of optimism? He didn’t know. “I wish I could tell you more, but the doctors say all they can do is wait for him to regain consciousness.” There was again silence. Dad was not used to making snap decisions. Where, where, was Maria now, the moment he needed her? Where’s my wife, she’d know what to say. “Headmaster, I have to think for a moment. May I call you back in ten minutes?” Dad put down the phone and mechanically dialed the number of the right person to cancel his meeting with the Minister. Who the hell cared about weapons and terrorists now? He wondered if he should tell his wife or if he himself should get out of here to America, right this minute. As was his way, he turned over a couple scenarios in his mind, thinking about options and possibilities. He called the school back. “Headmaster, as I’m sure you can imagine, I’m in pretty bad shape right now. You know, you’re talking about one of the two things in this world that mean the most to me. Back in early October, I entrusted you with my only son, and I still trust you now. I’m going to ask you for some advice and please, please, be straight up with me. Mr. Carlisle, my wife is back in America now, and we’re going through some changes as a family. She’s also the emotional one in the family and, well, this would put her in quite a state. She’d have a hard time taking this. But she or I will do whatever we have to do to take care of Tom. Headmaster, do you think that either she or I belong at Tom’s side right now? He of course has his grandparents, too, but they’re elderly and this wouldn’t be easy for them either. Do you feel from what you’ve seen that Tom needs either me or my wife physically there now?” “Sir, it’s totally your call. All I can say is that everything is being done that can be done, repeat that he’s out of immediate life-threatening danger, and at this point we are just in waiting mode. I of course will call you the instant I know more.” “All right. Then we’ll hold off seeing him until we know more information. I’ll probably be calling you every few hours anyway. Mr. Carlisle, oh hell, I’ll call you John now,” Dad’s voice was beginning to break. How long had it been since he’d cried? “John, you’ve got my boy’s life in your hands. God bless you, and I’m just going to trust you now to take us through this.” “Thank you, Mr. Klein, and we’re here for you at any moment. We’ll do what we have to do together. Goodbye for now.” Headmaster wandered out of his office into the cold night air. In a way, he was too tired to sleep. Nothing, nothing in life could possibly be tougher for him than harm coming to one of the children in his care. Without really thinking, he turned in the direction of one of the two faculty housing buildings, walked up to the second floor, and knocked on Father Ray Lemelin’s door. Father had been trying to sleep, but he kind of figured out who this might be. He opened the door, and let Headmaster in. Father Ray didn’t really know much more about what was happening than the kids, and he knew that rumors tended to fly and anything could be true. He was in almost as bad shape as his boss. Mr. Carlisle told him what he knew, and told him of his conversation with Tom’s dad. Headmaster wasn’t a religious man, really. He was Catholic, but hardly ever showed up at Sunday Mass. But tonight, he asked if Father Ray would open up the chapel for him. The two men walked through the freezing night, across the silent campus to the simple but in its way elegant chapel, and Father opened the door and turned on the lights. Father Ray knew every inch of the place, every painting and sculpture. Mr. Carlisle just stared at the big cross up front, and at the big painting of Virgin Mary behind. “Headmaster, how can I help you right now?” Father asked. “What would you like from me?” “Ray, please just say nothing. Please don’t speak. Just….sit with me. Just let’s sit here until one of us decides to get up. Please just don’t leave me alone right now.” As the night wore on, Ricky alternated between dreaming and waking. Now he was getting much colder, as his coat wasn’t all that warm. He went over to his bike and removed the plastic covering, instead wrapping it around himself. He remembered that in his Bible, Jesus got kind of mad for a minute when He was up on that cross, and he asked God, “Why have you forsaken me?” Back then, he didn’t know what the word “forsaken” meant, and Preacher Cal had told him it meant left someone alone when he needed help. Well, Jesus, You’re not the only one. He sure screwed me over, too. Ricky didn’t know what to do to get revenge on God, or really what to do at all. He had enough money for at least a couple more days’ worth of food, and he figured he at least could make things tough for everybody else. Yeah, let ‘em try to find me here. Cops, school, whoever, get ‘em all bent outa shape. Fuck ‘em. Anger coursed through his veins, and his breath caught as he almost sobbed in the frozen night air. He couldn’t cry, but almost sobbed. Let ‘em try. PART 42 It was Sunday morning, about 9:15. Joey Peroni heard some groaning noises from the bed next to him, and saw Tom’s eyes open and blink a few times, then close and reopen. “Hey, you ugly piece of shit, bout time you woke up!” said the New Yorker. “What’s your fucking problem?” Tom was only dimly aware of anything, and the sedatives were heavy on his mind, but he knew that his head hurt like all hell, and that obnoxious voice could only be only one person. “I don’t….what? Joey? Ohhhhh, my head hurts. What time is it? I’m really tired.” Joey reached over and lightly grasped Tom’s hand. “It’s Sunday morning, Tom. You’re in the hospital. That was a hell of a hit you took on the pool deck, man. They said I could stay with you as long as I wanted til you woke up. Hope you don’t mind, I ate up all the food they brought you. Didn’t seem like you wanted any. Hey, Tom, I gotta tell you something. It was an accident, man, it was just….everyone was playing and it all happened so fast. Wasn’t on purpose, no one tried to hurt you. Shit, we were all so scared and worried. We just want, we just want you to be OK.” Joey noticed that Tom’s eyes were closed now and he wasn’t moving at all. “Tom, can you hear me?” “Ohhhh, yeah, I guess. My head’s about to bust open I think.” Joey laughed a bit. “ABOUT to bust open, man? WRONG. It already did, back at the pool! Was so gross, too bad you couldn’t see it! Look, Tom, the nurses told me to tell them as soon as you woke up, and they’re gonna want to do stuff to you. I’m gonna go tell them now. I’ll be right back, Tom, I promise. I’ll only be gone a minute.” He squeezed Tom’s hand a little tighter and left. Back at school, there were two issues now. When Headmaster called the hospital at 10, they told him that Tom had woken up, and that was a good sign, but it was still way, way too early to know how serious the injury really was. They were going to do various tests to see how his brain was doing. And there was still definitely serious swelling and bleeding inside his head. They were going to keep him sedated, and just have him awake for certain short periods of time. They said that the other kid had been a great help, but he was ready to go back to school. They asked if Headmaster could come in mid-afternoon, and there was one thing he could help with. They’d wake Tom up to see him, and they asked if Headmaster could bring him some sort of toy, game, or even a bit of homework. They wanted to see if Tom could concentrate on something, and they’d measure his brain activity during this. Headmaster chuckled to himself a bit. Well, this would probably be his only chance to win. Mr. Carlisle called Belarus again and told Dad the good news, but he also told him that there was no way at this time they could claim the boy was or ever would be completely OK. But it excited him to be able to tell Dad something positive, give both of them something to hold on to. Headmaster mentioned that he was supposed to bring Tom a toy or game to play with in the afternoon. Obviously, it would be chess. Headmaster owned a small wooden set. Dad, for the first time, almost smiled, almost laughed a little. “John, I guess we’ll know more soon. If you beat him, we’ll know we have big problems!” Dad thanked Headmaster again for everything, and said he knew that he shouldn’t get his hopes up too much, but hope was the best, really the only, thing he had at this time. The other issue, of course, was that Ricky was missing. This had been noted an hour or so ago, and after Mr. Conroy interviewed everyone, it was clear that Jeremy was the last person who’d seen him, and this was close to 22 hours ago. Mr. Carlisle delegated everything about finding the boy to Coach P, as all his energy was involved with dealing with Tom. Coach called Ricky’s home, called neighbors around the school, but no one knew anything. His parents told Mr. Prszeczkopowski about Fluffy, and that obviously the news about Tom, combined with the news about the dog, had been too much for the boy. Mom was really upset and emotional. Coach called the police, and talked to the county sheriff. The two men had known each other forever, it seemed. In fact, the sheriff had originally been Rose’s boyfriend, before she was Mrs. Prszeczkopowski, back in those early, early times. But for many years now, the two men had been friends, and their competition over the “girl” was now only a subject of laughter. The sheriff said that officially his hands were tied at this moment. By policy, they couldn’t launch an official missing person’s search until the boy had been gone for 48 hours. The sheriff wished he had more discretion, but there was nothing he could do publicly. But he said he would ask around and go out on a patrol himself. He asked if anyone knew where Ricky usually went, where he could have run away to. Coach had no idea, and when he asked other kids and teachers, no one else knew either. All they knew was that he usually went for bike rides. It was February 24, and the nights were bitter cold. Worse yet, snow was forecast for tonight. Ricky bought more bread, more boloney, more water, and some raisins at a different convenience store, because he was worried that people at the first might recognize him in case anyone came looking for him. He was also worried that his hiding place was too close to the road. But it provided at least some shelter from the cold, and he figured if he wanted, he could cover himself and the plastic sheet in leaves or snow. Maybe it would be best to look for somewhere higher up from the road during the day, and come down to the tiny “cave” at night. He completely forgot about how to hide his bike, though, if he was using the plastic tarp for himself. The boy didn’t realize it, but even though it was now daytime, he was in an early stage of hypothermia, and not thinking totally clearly. Ricky was mad, and felt ashamed of what was going on in his mind. He tried to think about Fluffy or Tom, but it hurt too much, knowing they were gone. So the only thing he did was try to figure out how he could make it as difficult as possible for people to find him. To be as much of a pain in the ass to as many people as he could. Nothing else to do. Headmaster arrived at the hospital when they told him to come, and recognized Joey as the kid who had been on the cot buried under the blankets the previous night. They let Mr. Carlisle wake Tom up, and a doctor connected tons of wires and Frankenstein electrodes to the kid’s now bald head. They took off some bandages, and Headmaster could see a huge gross gash, way bigger than Harry Potter’s, at the left upper corner of the kid’s head. Tom was tired, and said he still felt a lot of pressure inside his head, but he was clearly awake and glad to see his headmaster. Certainly a tremendous improvement from last night, and Mr. Carlisle’s spirits soared. The doctor said he wanted to see if the boy could stay awake and concentrate on something mental for a few minutes. Tom grinned when he saw the chessboard. His voice was weak but clear. “Guess they want to see how brain-dead I am!” he said softly. “All right, Headmaster, guess you’re going to crush me this time. Since I’m all retarded now, can I have White? But Joey’s on your team, I don’t want him to mess with me and give me stupid ideas.” Joey said chess was for faggots and went out for a little walk. Headmaster wasn’t really concentrating on the board. He was just looking at his student, hoping to see alertness, hoping to see that Tom was still Tom. The game began, and Headmaster was holding his own. In fact, he even saw an idea. Tom’s bishop was pinned to his queen, and he could win it by attacking it with a pawn. Well, it didn’t matter. The kid was clearly sleepy. The good news was that he COULD wake up, speak, be coherent. Oh yes. Thank God, thank God. Last night, he was clearly worried that the boy would wake up retarded or maybe even, God forbid, a vegetable, a Terry Schiavo. Headmaster pushed the pawn and smiled. Tom sat up in bed a bit. “Mr. Carlisle, I know I’m brain-damaged, but I’m not blind! Did you think I wouldn’t see the bishop check and the fork?” “Huh?” Tom’s fingers began pointing as he spoke. “Bishop takes h7 check, then king takes bishop. Queen h5 check, and when your king goes back, knight g5 and next move it’s mate or he chops your queen. And if you go to the corner instead of taking the bishop, queen h5 anyway, bishop g6 next, even if you get your rook out of the way it’s mate in three. I’m really tired, Mr. Carlisle. Can I sleep now and we’ll play another time? Thanks for coming to see me, sir. And it was really nice of Joey, too, you know, staying here with me last night.” Tom’s voice was getting softer and shakier toward the end of this long speech. The doctor had been monitoring the machines during this, and he heard this conversation and laughed. It was the same guy who had attended Tom the night before, and who had been so worried. The two men went out of the room and talked for a bit. “Headmaster, this is one lucky, lucky kid. I can’t be 100 percent positive yet, but it sure looks like there’s no permanent damage. I think he remembers how to play chess! Look, we still have plenty of work to do here. There’s still major swelling, and he has no balance yet. We tried taking him for a little walk earlier and he couldn’t even stand up without help. But that’ll come. He’s still going to be groggy from the sedatives for quite awhile. I’m hoping he can be released Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. I’ve seen people who have been in similar accidents become severely or profoundly retarded, or at least lose serious brain function. And when I talked to you last night, I really thought that would be the case. I wasn’t optimistic, sir. But I guess someone or something was watching out for him. We just have to keep him from having any further trauma or concussion risk.” “Well, doctor, I guess I won’t let him play running back on the varsity football team!” “Didn’t think he was going to do that anyway!” “Doctor, he does love to run and he’s a very accomplished distance runner for his age. He set an age-group record at a road race last week. Can he continue that activity?” “I don’t see why not. We’ll know more in a couple days. He said his parents are out of the country?” “His father works in Belarus, and my next phone call to him when I get back to the office will be one of the happiest ones I’ve ever made in my life.” PART 43 The snow began in late afternoon. Ricky had originally gone higher up the hill, but there was really nowhere sheltered there, so he covered up his bike with leaves and crawled into the small hole in the ground where he’d slept the night before. His coat was getting wet inside. For awhile he was freezing cold, but later as night moved in he felt beyond cold, not physically so uncomfortable. He was sensing less and less. But he felt more and more hate, hate piled upon more hate. Matthew, Fluffy, Tom, and maybe the other four people too. All gone. He tried to make himself feel a bit better by thinking of good times he’d had with Tom and Fluffy, and though he didn’t remember Matthew, he tried to imagine the pictures he’d seen of him back home. Each time his mind thought of something good, though, the anger came back. Nothing mattered. Fuck everything, fuck Jesus, fuck everyone. He ate what remained of his food and drank more water. Was anyone really looking for him, or did no one even care anymore, now that everyone else had died? Ricky was becoming dangerously hypothermic as the night wore on, though of course he didn’t know it. He was losing control of his muscles and his thinking and judgment were way off. Hypothermia is a sneaky condition, that can sometimes come on gradually. He slept on and off, and sometimes when he was sure no one could hear him, he just yelled stuff at his parents, at Mr. Conroy, at asshole Jesus, at anyone. Back at school, it was now obvious that this was a serious thing. Headmaster Carlisle and Mr. Prszeczkopowski were racking their brains, interviewing pretty much every kid and teacher, trying to figure out any clue to Ricky’s whereabouts. They were considering asking Tom, who would likely know best, but the attending physician was clear that the smaller boy should rest more and not get stressed out. Ricky’s frantic parents were demanding action from the police, and the sheriff was doing what he could, but the 48-hour period wasn’t up yet. The sheriff did come to the campus and took a few samples of Ricky’s clothes, so that when the time came, the dogs could get a scent. Would be tougher in this snow, though. The sheriff decided that even though Ricky had been seen on campus around noon, he wouldn’t mention that to anyone. He said he’d begin an official missing persons protocol first thing in the morning. Get things moving a bit earlier. There probably wasn’t much that could be done at night, anyway. The thermometer read 24 degrees, and long night hours passed with no one able to accomplish much but try to rest and pray that morning would hurry up. Ricky, of course, even though he was shivering and in serious danger, knew exactly where he was. He was off the country dirt road off route 74. He was about 10 miles west of campus. The first hints of dawn’s light weren’t coming through yet, but he just felt like doing something, doing anything besides sitting in that stupid little snow-cave depression in the earth. But not back to school. No way, he hated everyone there. Fuck ‘em all. He got up and walked around, though he still felt tired and not fully in control of his movements. Now he was scared. He knew he was in trouble, but he was still too mad and embarrassed to just give up. He decided to ride the long way, the dirt road way, where there was less chance of being seen, to Pine Ridge. Jenny might be dead, but maybe she was still there. If only he could sniff her hair, see her face, feel her tits push against him, and hug her. She was the only one he wanted to see. Ricky didn’t realize it, but the trip would be almost 20 miles. The dirt road was covered with only a couple inches of snow. Ricky’s mountain bike had excellent traction, and could usually handle that easily, but the tall boy’s coordination was bad and he fell many times. In his confusion and grief when he’d left school almost two days ago, he’d forgotten to bring his warm gloves. The falls scraped up his hands, and he decided to take off one of the pairs of socks he was wearing and put them on his hands. Didn’t help much for warmth, as the cotton was pretty frozen. He didn’t really feel pain or cold any more, just a dullness. He rode and rode, for almost two hours on that silent country road. He knew where he was. The problem was that he’d have to get back on the main state highway a couple miles before reaching the girls’ school. Also, Pine Ridge was near a much bigger town than Ripton. He wasn’t wearing a watch, but guessed it must be around 7 AM. There was a chance people would see him, but he’d come this far, may as well risk it. No other option, really. Pine Ridge Academy was smaller than St. Brendan’s, though enrollment was coming back as more and more families felt that single-sex, all-girls education would be good for their daughters. Unlike St. Brendan’s, just about half the kids there were day students who came from the nearby town. Every morning, buses rolled in, and the day students would have breakfast in the dining hall with the residential girls like Jenny and her friends (sometimes called rezzies, and the day students called them lezzies). So early morning was a busy time there, with buses entering, girls heading to the dining hall, everyone going every which way. Normally a lone boy on a bike, especially one as scruffy and crazy and disoriented as Ricky, would have been intercepted by the security guards at the gate. But in the morning confusion, no one bothered him as he rode his bike toward what seemed to him to be where everyone was. Ricky had never been on the Pine Ridge campus, but just rolled toward where the girls seemed to be gathered. Even though he was exhausted from the ride and from the hypothermia, he could kind of control the bike. However, when he put it on the ground and walked into the building, he didn’t realize that he was swaying like a drunk and shaking badly. Now his entrance was quite a scene. A BOY on campus??? And at this hour?? And a really strange boy at that. Eating and talking stopped. A few teachers approached him, not angrily as he seemed to pose no danger, but very curiously. “JENNY!!!” Ricky shouted with all his flagging strength. “JENNY?? Jenny, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know where else to go, everyone’s dead, I just had to know you were still here.” He then started crying and wailing, falling down on his knees. One of the teachers sent a girl to quickly find the school nurse. Jenny had been waiting in line and she rushed up to him, though she had of course no more idea what was up than did anyone else. The teacher closest to Ricky let her approach, as she obviously knew the boy, but made everyone else stay back. Everything was really confused, all freaky. “Ricky, here I am!” Jenny said right close to his ear. “Ricky, we’ll take care of you. What happened? It’ll be all right, we’ve got you now.” “Tom and Fluffy are dead, you’re the only one I have left!!” Ricky moaned through his tears. By now the nurse had arrived, and Jenny couldn’t give her much information. She didn’t remember Tom, and who was Fluffy? She did tell the nurse that Ricky was from St. Brendan’s. They got the boy to the infirmary, laid him down, and while Jenny held his still icy and still bleeding hand, the nurse called paramedics and the boys’ school. The paramedics determined that his body temperature was dangerously low. He’d have to be warmed up quickly and hydrated. They let Jenny ride with them to the hospital, as even though she didn’t know much about what was going on, she sure knew more about this mysterious kid than anyone else at the moment. Mr. Prszeczkopowski immediately called the boy’s parents, then headed right for the hospital. Ricky was glad that Jenny at least was still alive, and for some strange reason remembered to ask her “Jenny, please tell someone to put my bike somewhere safe?” Even though he was in the warm ambulance by now, he was actually shivering worse than before. By the time Coach P arrived, they were already treating the boy, and he was sedated. Coach introduced himself to Jenny, and asked what she knew. She didn’t know much, had no idea what Ricky was talking about when he screamed stuff about “Tom” and “Fluffy”. She said that Ricky was the only boy she’d ever loved and started crying herself. Mr. Prszeczkopowski was an old-timer who had begun his career before the days of the pedophile hysteria, and he was a toucher. He didn’t understand the whole thing about “never be in a room alone with a student” or “never touch a student”. How could you be a human being and not, sometimes? He put a gentle arm around the girl’s back and walked her to the hospital chapel. “Jenny, here’s what I know. Tom is his roommate and his best friend.” Now Jenny remembered him from the concert. “On Saturday, while Ricky was out riding his bike, Tom had a really serious accident at the pool, smashing his head on the edge of the cement pool deck. At the time, no one knew for awhile if he’d live, or if he’d ever recover. And from what I understand from Ricky’s parents, just a few minutes after Ricky heard the news about his friend, his mother called him and told him that his dog Fluffy had been run over by a car and killed. I guess Ricky just ran away then. When he wakes up, I’ll tell him that Tom is going to be OK. The doctors here tell me that Ricky will be, too, at least physically. Though if he’d stayed out in the cold much longer, who knows? Hypothermia is dangerous and he was in big trouble. Jenny, he’s a good and a sensitive kid, and he’s had a lot of shock. I’m glad you’re here.” The girl sniffled and then cried louder. She asked if she could stay until Ricky’s parents arrived. Coach said he’d call Pine Ridge and ask if it was possible. Phone calls were made to the girls’ school and to Mrs. Malone, and eventually Ricky’s mom and dad arrived at the hospital. There were thank-you’s all around, and Mom gently explained to the awake but groggy Ricky what the news was, and that Tom was alive and getting better. The hospital said that Ricky could be released in the afternoon, and Mom and Dad said they wanted to take him home then first, rather than having him go right back to school. Things seemed better, but though no one really knew it at the time, Ricky was no way better. He wasn’t even close. PART 44 Tom’s balance and walking came back soon, and he was to be released Wednesday morning. About 7 AM, his father was able to reach him and talk to him by phone. “Tom, you had us pretty scared there. Things weren’t looking so good for awhile, you know.” “I sure didn’t know much. I just remember falling backwards or sideways and then like a flash of black, then nothing, and when I woke up here my head hurt like all hell, thought it was going to bust open. I guess I’m OK now. They say I can start running again no problem. They told me to only go to like two or three classes a day for the rest of this week and I don’t have to do homework. That much is cool!” They talked for a couple minutes more and Dad told his son something important. “Listen, Tom, I know we’ve always told you to be honest with us and no secrets. But kid, I want to make one exception this time. Your mother doesn’t know yet about what happened, and neither do abuelo and abuela. Tom, you know how emotional Mom gets, and now that you’re pretty much good as new, I really think it’s better that we keep this just between us. I don’t want Mom to get herself all upset. Understand?” “Sure, Dad. Just between us, I got it.” “I love you, Tom. Please, please, don’t ever forget that.” Dad then hung up quickly, without waiting for the boy’s reply, as he didn’t want his son to hear him break down or cry. Mr. Milroy was assigned to bring Tom back to campus, but when they arrived Tom was upset and devastated because Ricky wasn’t there. No one seemed to know that much, and that got his smaller roommate even more mad. How could they not know what was up? Mr. Conroy wouldn’t say anything specific, just that Ricky was with his parents. Tom hated this teacher more and more these days. Mr. Conroy was oh so goddamn cool and icy and perfect, and he was always fucking right. Tom had permission to blow off some of his classes, so he found Father Ray in the classroom where he taught the older kids. It was in the middle of a lesson. Some of the 11th and 12th graders, including big Rex, had heard about what happened to him and made little jokes about his nearly bald head and the weird bandage over the entire left side of it, but were overall pretty welcoming. “Tom,” said Father, “let me finish trying to teach these cement-heads something until the end of the period.” The kids laughed, and some of them banged their heads on the metal desks. “Why don’t you hang out here in class, and I have a free period right after this. We’ll talk some more then.” The lesson was pretty tough to understand, something about the French Revolution and why some of the rebels were as bad as the king. Tom knew, but never really thought much about the fact that Father Ray worked hard all day teaching the big kids. To Tom, he was pretty much just his best adult friend, around just for him, Ricky, and the other kids who liked him. It was after lunch, and there was just a hint of the upcoming spring’s warmth in the sunny afternoon air as they walked alone towards Riley’s Field. “Oh, Tom,” Father Ray said, “wasn’t your fault or Ricky’s these last few days, but you guys sure put us through some tough, tough times. You know, kid, these were by far the toughest few days I’ve had here. I felt that I couldn’t really do anything but pray and pray. People might treat you a little differently for awhile, just because we didn’t really know if we were going to see you again. Tom, that’s no exaggeration. We really didn’t know.” The man put his arm around the small kid and Tom held tightly onto Father Ray’s arm. “But where’s Ricky? No one else will tell me. I don’t want to be here without him. Will you tell me everything? I can’t….” Tom couldn’t say anymore, and just hugged the priest around his waist. Father Ray normally would have hugged back hard, shared his affection with the boy who was so needy now, but in the back of his mind there was still the memory of what Jerry Conroy had said. Who knows who else he’d talked to? Father just made the boy sit down on a bench and took his small hands into his own. “Tom, I don’t know everything. All the information I have is kind of pieced together from different people, from different accounts of the story. Evidently when you were taken away to the hospital, Ricky was out somewhere. He got back and Jeremy told him that you were in that bad accident. Just by a terrible coincidence, right that minute, his parents called and told him that his dog had been run over by a car and killed.” “Fluffy’s dead?” Tom wailed and began to cry, falling down on the ground next to the wooden bench. Father picked him up and held him close for just a minute. “I’m afraid his dog is gone, Tom. And I guess Ricky ran away right then on his bike. He was out in the cold and snow for almost two full days. No one knows where. On Monday morning, he showed up at Pine Ridge to see Jenny, a girl he likes. Do you know her too? He was kind of disoriented and crazy, and was really, really suffering from hypothermia. Tom, if he’d been out there in the cold one more night, maybe he wouldn’t have made it. His parents took him home after he was released from the hospital. That’s all I know, pal.” “But when’s he coming back? Is he coming back at all? How come he doesn’t call?” “Tom, I just don’t know anything else.” Father hated himself for what he did next. Instead of just immediately holding the crying boy in his arms, he looked all around to see who might be watching, looked 360 degrees. There were a couple kids and one teacher wandering in different directions way, way over by the north goal of the soccer field. What a world, and why am I afraid of these people if God is with me? Ray, you’re such a damned hypocrite. Give the boy some love, what’s your problem? Instead, he just petted the kid’s neck, no hug, no cuddle, not enough warmth, and said quietly “Tom, I miss him too. I miss him too.” Ricky didn’t miss anyone. His parents told him time and time again that Tom was going to be OK, and that he could call him at school if he wanted, but Ricky didn’t. He didn’t know whether to believe them or not, and there was no doubt that Fluffy was gone, dead, as dead as Matthew. Ricky spent hour after hour just lying on his stomach in his room, still full of hate, still not wanting to talk, stand up, or do much of anything. He didn’t even eat anything for over 36 hours, and on the few occasions when he did emerge from his room, he was just silent, blank-faced, sullen. He knew it wasn’t Mom and Dad’s fault, but he just didn’t want to talk to them or anyone. One evening Dad made him come for a walk outside and talked to him so gently, with so much understanding, did everything he could to make his son realize that he had to snap out of it, that life had to go on. It was the first time in Ricky’s life that he’d actually wanted to be away from his Dad, actually wished Dad would leave him alone. Everyone should leave me alone. This all sucks. When Dad asked him stuff, he would just grunt one-word answers, would purposely not communicate. He wasn’t nasty or rude to his parents, and he went through the motions of doing his little chores, separating the trash for recycling and stuff, but didn’t want to talk or get better, and certainly didn’t want to go back to school. Both parents knew this was getting ridiculous. On Thursday morning, Mom asked if he’d like to see a counselor, someone who didn’t know him, someone maybe he could share stuff privately with and maybe feel better. This suggestion was the first time Ricky showed his anger outwardly. “I don’t need to see some goddamn shrink! They’re all faggots! They’re all a hell of a lot crazier than me! I’m fine, just leave me alone!” “But Ricky dear, you know you’re not fine. You’re just lying there all day, missing school, missing life, you know this isn’t the way you always were. We just want to see you OK again.” “Then shut up about the shrink and stop messing with me!” Maybe, Mom thought, someone else, someone else, but who? Maybe his old friend Preacher Cal could help? Now that Ricky was at prep school, they didn’t see much of him or his wife, and actually hadn’t seen them at all since Christmas break, when they’d all gone out to dinner together. They were nice people, but so weird with this fundamentalist Christian stuff. But Ricky likes him, and the man has been so good to him. Can’t think of anyone else. We’ve got to get Ricky back into the world of the living. Let’s see what Cal says. It took her a few minutes to find the business card Cal had given them. It had his phone number at work, at the trucking company. Mom reached him, and Cal said it was best that he call her back when he had a couple minutes free, around 10 AM when he had a break. When he called, Mom told her everything she knew and asked if there was a way he could please come see Ricky as soon as it was convenient. “Carla, I’m no professional at this, I’m no miracle worker or anything. I’m just a guy who bangs the Bible like a crazy man in his spare time. But tell you what, I get off work today at 3, why don’t I stop by your house a bit after that. Maybe it’s best not to tell him I’m coming, that way he’ll be less resistant. I’ll do my best to listen to him and hope we can work something out. This must have been an awful time for all of you. Gloria and I care about him very much.” PART 45 Preacher Cal arrived in the afternoon as promised, and Mom said she had to go out and do some errands. Ricky was alone with Cal, and felt a little embarrassed. So instead of some shrink, this is who Mom brought to try to screw with my head. Ricky didn’t have anything he wanted to talk about, but he knew Cal meant well, and had come all this way to their house in the middle of a workday. They talked about small unimportant stuff for awhile, and Ricky figured, well, the guy won’t leave and Mom won’t get off my back until I at least try to talk seriously with this guy. Probably have to talk to him about God or Jesus or someone. But once they started, the boy loosened up. “Cal, I thought you said that Jesus was supposed to forgive us for all the stupid and wrong stuff we do. Well, I didn’t do anything all that bad in the time since Christmas, and I prayed to Him at least a couple times a week. I mean if He was really there and listening, why did He still kill Fluffy and almost kill Tom? I mean, them on top of my brother Matthew, like why? There are plenty of kids at school who do a lot worse than me and nothing bad happens to them. There’s this kid Justin who’s a total jerkoff, and he gets away with everything.” Ricky was lying down on his bed, flat on his back during this speech. Cal reached over and stroked his hair. Hmmm, the boy thought, is he a fag like Father Ray? Can’t be, I guess, he has a wife and grownup kids. But in any case the affection felt nice, and Ricky didn’t resist. He even snuggled closer to the side of the bed where Cal was sitting. “Ricky, do you think the bad stuff that happened was some kind of punishment for you?” “I dunno, why else could it have happened? Fluffy was only 4, you know, that’s not old for a dog.” “Well, boy, some people say that God runs everything from up there, that He decides who does what and what happens every day. I don’t know, Ricky, I’m not smart enough to know all that. Maybe He just started things rolling and lets us decide how to live our own lives. Bad things happen to good people, bad things happen to good dogs. Always have, always will. As bad as things can hurt, trust me, Ricky, other folks have known hurting too, in fact, a lot worse than you are now. All I really know, deep down, is that God has provided this beautiful world for us, given you things like your music, your parents, and pretty much everything else you love in this world. And I really know, deep down, that Jesus is listening to you when you call on Him, and that knowing about His love and forgiveness is going to be a comfort and a rock for you for your whole life. And Ricky, kid, I know one other thing, maybe even more important for you right now, right this day.” “What?” Preacher moved his hand from stroking Ricky’s hair to stroking his cheek and neck. “I know that you’re a part of this world, and you can’t just withdraw, Ricky, you can’t just run away and hide. People depend on you, and you depend on them. You gotta get back into the world, kid. Maybe one day you’ll get another dog…” That got Ricky mad. He sat up angrily, jerked free from Cal’s hand, and shouted “BUT HE WON’T BE FLUFFY!!” “I know, Ricky, I know. You loved that dog as much as you loved anything in your life. And that’s great. You have the capacity to love, and that means you’re gonna get hurt sometimes. But like I was saying, people need you. I’m not mad at you or anything, but your parents are worried sick about you. Don’t you think you should help them out, make them happier? They do so much for you. And back at Christmas, you mentioned that geeky kid, your roommate, who’s your best friend. Now he suffered a really bad accident, don’t you think he misses you and needs you around? Don’t you think he’s having a tough time now without you? And how ‘bout that hot sexy girl Jenny you told me about? Mom says after you ran away, she was the first person you went to see. Don’t you think she wants to know how you are, hear from you again?” Ricky knew the man was right, but he was so embarrassed, how could he just go back to the way things were before? Preacher kept talking. “Kid, the Bible says in Ecclesiastes that there’s a time for everything. A time to cry, a time to laugh, everything. Ricky, your time to hide and drop out is over. No one’s mad at you, but so many people love and care about you. I want you to snap out of this and get back into the world. Now, kid. Today. Please, Ricky. Look, I’ll leave you alone now. You know what you gotta do, boy.” Ricky let the old preacher out and went back to his room. Oh, man. He’d really screwed up this time, have to REALLY beg Jesus tonight. As he was thinking, he realized something for the first time. He hadn’t jerked off in over five days! Just in all the craziness, hadn’t felt the normal need. Weird. He lay down and started to work, and his penis snapped to attention. In less than three minutes, his long-overdue orgasm ripped through him with an intensity he’d NEVER known before. Five days, he sure was physically ready! His legs kicked wildly, and his hips actually bucked so hard that he was up in the air off the bed a couple times. He groaned as the sperm flew out all over the place, blast after blast. Errrrrrrrrr…… It felt to Ricky that his sperm was cumming out from all parts of him, cumming from his ears and his thighs and his stomach and his elbows and his balls and his heart and his nose. Oh God, it’s cleaning me out, getting rid of all the mad, all the poison, all the bad stuff. More, more, don’t leave anything in there, make it all better. Mmmmm. Bit by bit, the boy’s breathing returned to normal, his dick pumped less and less and softened. Wayyyy intense, that was. Oooffff. Oooffff. After the sexual feelings subsided, Ricky did something he hadn’t done since that awful Saturday when he’d heard the news. He cried. Kind of let everything go in a bit similar way as his orgasm, but it was more relaxing and peaceful. Wailed and wailed for Fluffy, for Matthew, for everything and everyone. But the crying wasn’t sad. Though Tom had never told this to Ricky, when he was little he had his “bad cries” and “good cries”. Ricky didn’t know the terms, but this was a good cry. It was gonna be all right now. He left his room and found that Mom was now home. He didn’t want to make a big scene, didn’t want to start crying again, or have anyone worry or freak out. He just wanted to tell her that he was ready to go back to school, ready to get his head out of his ass. He remembered that chicks dig romantic, Jenny sure did, and well, Mom was a chick. So he just slowly walked up to his mother and gave her a nice, long, gentle hug from behind. Unannounced, pretty much unplanned for, that was the best kind. The boy was now much taller than Mom, and the top of her head was kind of near Ricky’s nose. “It’s OK now, Mom. I know, I know, I was pretty crazy there for a few days. I was so scared. But it’s all over now, right? Can I go back to school tomorrow?” “I think so, Ricky. Dad has to work all morning, but I bet he can get some of the afternoon off and have you down there by dinnertime.” Mom was about to get all lovey-dovey gross, but she figured just let there be some silence or some small talk. Heavy words wouldn’t help anything at this point. Ricky was right, it was OK and over now. “None of this was easy for anyone. We’re gonna move on now.” “Mom, can I call Jenny’s parents? I wanna talk to her but at that stupid school they never put through calls to the dorm if it’s a boy. I just want to tell them I’m sorry for being so freaky, for getting everyone there all worried. Maybe they’ll tell her, I know Jenny talks to them all the time.” Ricky knew the phone number by heart. He reached Jenny’s mother, but he hadn’t really thought out what he’d say. “Hi, Mrs. Malone, this is Ricky.” “Oh, Ricky, how are you? We’ve been thinking about you so much, you know. Jenny told us a few things but it’s still pretty confusing to us. You were really pretty sick there from staying out in the cold for those days. Where are you now?” “I’m home here in Asheville, but I’m going back to school tomorrow. Mrs. Malone, could you please just tell Jenny that I’m sorry and…” Ricky was about to ask Jenny’s mom to tell the chick that he loved her, but that would have been wicked embarrassing. He hesitated and Jenny’s mom bailed him out. She was so good at stuff like that. “Ricky, Jenny cares about you very much. You don’t have to be sorry, everyone’s just glad that you’re OK now.” Mrs. Malone was still very much in the dark about all the wild events of the week, and she figured that Ricky wouldn’t be the best source of information. “Is your mother home now, Ricky? I’d really like to talk to her if that’s OK.” Ricky put his mother on the phone, and the two women started blabbing, blabbing, blabbing, gossiping about their favorite subjects, their kids. Ricky was discreetly trying to listen but Mom first waved with her hand for him to get lost, and then faked a kick to his shin. Motherly gossip was no suitable thing for a teenage boy to hear, after all. On and on into the late afternoon they talked, each one naturally complimenting the other on what a sweet and angelic and perfect child the other one had, while their own could certainly be a serious pain in the neck and ass. The same conversation that mothers have been having with each other for centuries. On the long ride back to school the next day, Ricky and Dad were both pretty quiet, each figuring the other didn’t need to hear any long speeches or lectures. There was one thing Dad definitely wanted to do when they arrived at school, though. When they arrived, they found Tom and Ricky made all sorts of stupid jokes about Tom’s strange bald head with the white bandage still on top. Conehead, Martian, Alien, stuff like that, ragging on his friend like they’d never been apart at all. “Ricky,” Dad said, “why don’t you get settled in the room for a bit. I want to talk to Tom for awhile. Tom, any chance we could take a little walk, talk about some stuff? I guess you guys still have almost an hour before dinner.” They walked up past Riley’s to the farthest reaches of campus, with Tom’s arm around the man’s back, holding him tightly. Dad told Tom about everything that had happened with his son, how all the bad news at the same time had overwhelmed him and caused him to go over the edge. It took him quite awhile to tell everything, but Tom listened quietly and patiently. “You know, Tom, when I heard back in October that you were going to be Ricky’s roommate and you guys were good friends, I had a feeling that Ricky’s success here and yours were going to be tied together, that you were both going to need each other and rely on each other, though maybe in different ways. I know now that I was right. Tom, your accident really scared the hell out of Ricky. He seems better for now, but…” Dad had to stop for a bit to think of the right words. “Tom, I’m going to ask you to really, really watch out for Ricky in these days and weeks. You know, he sometimes seems all happy and silly and making jokes, but he’s not as emotionally strong and tough as you might think. He’s really a pretty sensitive kid.” Tom felt a flush of pride go through him. Was kind of like the feeling he had so long ago, when Ricky was all mad about getting Triple S and Tom had to make him feel better. If he had the responsibility of watching out for Ricky, it meant that he was important. He told Dad that he could count on him. Dad was grateful, and said he wanted to talk to Headmaster for a moment before heading home. After dinner, the kids told each other about the week, each boy filling in the holes in the story that the other hadn’t known. And when they finally got tired and were ready for bed, Ricky climbed up onto Tom’s top bunk. Tom hadn’t invited him there, he just climbed up on his own. The last time they’d slept in bed together seemed so long ago. Well, on the calendar it was the previous year, that time at Ricky’s house when they’d gotten all wild and horny and humpy with each other. This time was in some ways similar, in some others different. They hugged hard, insistently, each boy’ |