|
PART 12 Within ten more days, it became obvious. The St. Brendan’s Cougars and the Carsonville Rebels were the class of the league. No one else had a realistic chance. Both teams were undefeated, and no one else had come close to them. After Brendy’s initial non-league loss to the defending Noga champions, they won their next nine meets, not once having a score higher than 22, even in tri-meets. Once they’d even managed a perfect 15, taking 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th. The St. Brendan’s kids had a sign posted up in their section of team locker room counting down the days, hours, and minutes til the showdown with the hated Rebs. It was a actually a fine piece of art work, a realistic color drawing of a guy in a gray confederate uniform having his throat ripped open by a wild-eyed cougar. Plenty of blood. Underneath the picture, there were little paper dials where you could turn the numbers, with spaces for days, hours, and minutes. Pretty creative. Tom’s sadness about Bobby’s situation began to go away. He still thought about the big kid occasionally, but, like most kids his age, was involved in his own life, and had things to do. Bobby was pushed towards the back parts of his head. One highlight for Tom was Wednesday’s meet against another overmatched opponent, a home meet where the team managed their perfect score. It was another pouring rainy, muddy day, yet another godawful mess. The other team’s guys were pretty friendly, and knew that they had no chance. After the race, members of both teams had a playful group mud wrestling session in a low-lying almost swampy area near the starting line, an area that over the years had became known as the Pig Pen. Tom had put his running shoes and glasses carefully to one side before he got into the slop, and members of both teams rolled around grabbing each other and squealing like piggies. In less than two minutes, you couldn’t even differentiate the teams by uniform color. Both teams were basically slime. But for Tom, the best was yet to come. The other team eventually headed to their bus, and the Cougars headed inside to the team locker room. In this 21st century, the locker room showers were pretty much never used. Kids were too shy, and too afraid of being called gay if they actually got naked within the view of another boy. But today Tom was totally taken by surprise. The Scottish brothers were silly, crazy, shouting in a dialect Tom couldn’t understand, with voices that may as well have been speaking Korean for all he could figure out. And then Tom saw something. Both of them took off every item of clothing they were wearing and walked into the shower room, still yelling, but NAKED!!! Nayyyy keeeeddddd. Tom’s heart was pounding wildly, and he decided that this was maybe the only chance to witness the spectacle. Kevin, oh my God Kevin. The water was warm, the kids were playful, and Tom marvelled at his one and only chance to see his fantasy boy actually there, actually see him. Kevin’s long, lean legs alllllll the way up there, crowned by a glorious, long, skinny penis and a crowning patch of golden-brown pubic hair. Tom had no desire to get out of the shower, there was plenty of time before dinner. Before the next break of day, Tom had to jerk off three times, fantasizing intensely and bucking wildly. Once after study hall outside in the ampitheatre, once at his normal time before sleeping, and once before the wakeup bell went off. Three times—a new personal record, just like his 15:26 on the home cross-country course. But he knew he’d eventually break 15:26. But three orgasms in nine hours? That was a personal record he was very proud of, and thought he’d probably never break in his life. That Saturday, Tom went for his run in the early morning, finishing before 7:30, but by the time he got back, Ricky was already gone somewhere. Where? Tom had no idea, as Ricky hadn’t said a thing. But it kind of sucked not knowing where he was. No way there’s gonna be another tornado, but I wish I knew where he was. I’m such a pussy, though, he’s fine, I should stop worrying. For awhile, Ricky didn’t exactly know where he was either. When he’d visited the hospital with Tom before, Bobby’s father had said that Bobby was being transferred out of there in a couple days, and would go to a rehab center in a whole different county, somewhere way north of school, within two miles of the Tennessee state line. A long ride, with plenty of uphills and downhills. and Ricky had to stop a few times and ask directions. But he found the place around 10 AM and soon enough found Bobby. “Look who showed up!” said Bobby, pleasantly and with a big smile. “The shot-blocking machine! Hey, Ricky.” Bobby outwardly looked quite a bit better this time. He wasn’t harnessed into the bed, his right arm and hand were loose and not bent unnaturally, and he only had a cast on his left arm. There was a wheelchair next to his bed, and he was in a larger room that also housed two other people, with curtains that could be drawn in between the sections. “Hi, Bobby. Looks like you got a little more freedom to move around at least part of you now.” “A little. They make me do tons of physical therapy, at least three times a day. Sometimes they put me in this little hot pool so my back can get stretched out a little. And my right hand still isn’t all that coordinated, I’m practicing writing and doing other stuff. The toughest part is when they make me move from here into the chair, that’s a bitch. But I don’t want to get into all that now, tell me about the freshman team. You guys got anything this year?” “We’re 4 and 5, though we should have won a couple more. Dwayne’s our leading scorer. I’m averaging 4.8 blocks per game. When we play zone, I’m down in the paint, I like it that way ‘cause all I have to do is concentrate on anyone coming inside and snuff him. I hate when we have to play man defense, someone’s always setting a screen in my face, or I’m late picking up my guy, I’m way better when we’re in zone.” “Yo, Ricky, that’s all well and good, man, but what about at the offensive end?” “They don’t run a lot of plays for me, I wander around down low a lot, and once in awhile I pick up some garbage off the offensive glass. Sometimes I can get out on the break ahead of people and Manuel finds me, that’s fun. But I’m only averaging a little under 6 points a game.” “That sucks, Ricky, you should have way more. You gotta take the same attitude on offense as you do on D. You gotta love it, and WANT the ball down there. You gotta stick your nose in there, TAKE what’s yours, ain’t nobody just gonna give it to you.” Bobby kept talking about basketball and what Ricky should do to get better. Ricky was glad to see him upbeat, but really didn’t want to hear much more about hoops. Ricky was curious about how Bobby was getting along. He wanted to know stuff like how do you piss and crap, and does anything hurt, and how do you jerk off? Do you even need to anymore, have urges? Ricky had a kind of morbid curiosity about details, but figured that the stuff was private, and asking would definitely embarrass the paraplegic boy. So Ricky let Bobby talk on and on, and all the time held the huge young man’s right hand. It was quite awhile before the conversation shifted gears. The topic changed, but Ricky never once let go of Bobby’s hand. “Bobby? Will you be coming back to school?” Bobby sighed a little, got serious, and paused a bit before answering. “No. My dad talked about it with me and with Headmaster. The problem is that school isn’t really set up for someone in a wheelchair. Like to get across the grassy places to buildings, the ground’s all bumpy, and it would be even tougher in the rain. And how would I get upstairs to classes and stuff? Would just be too embarrassing, having to have people do everything for me. Just too tough. No, I’m going back home to Maryland in about 10 more days, going back to public school. They have handicapped access to most things, and they even have a high school wheelchair basketball league. Eventually my arms and hands will be fine, I can do it. Dad’s really good at carpentry around the house. Even before all this, he always had to build little extensions for beds and desks, mess with stuff so things would fit guys like us. And he’s getting stuff ready now, he’ll be down to get me the week after next. My little rodent brother’ll help me out, too.” “Yeah. But I wish you could come back to our school again.” “You know something, Ricky? Last summer, I asked Dad not to send me to Brendy’s again, I wanted to go to public school. Nothing against you guys or Brendy’s, but I wanted to go to school where there’s a more intense hoops program. Shit, I didn’t mean for it to happen this way, though. I wonder if Dad’s mad at himself for not listening to me back then. I hope not, none of this was his fault, nobody’s fault. But this sucks, it sucks, man.” Ricky didn’t answer, just squeezed that hand a little tighter and looked right in Bobby’s eyes. Bobby was in a talkative mood, though, and kept going. “Roach Clip came to see me a couple days ago.” Roach Clip was the kids’ nickname for Dr. Durocher, a kindly older man who had retired from his regular psychiatric practice and now lived quietly at St. Brendan’s with his wife, teaching a couple classes but mostly serving as school shrink and guidance counselor. Most of the students liked him. He had a rare gift of making teenage kids feel at ease, making them feel like he was on their side, and most kids gave him their trust if they needed him for anything. Ricky had never actually met the man, just knew him by name. “What did he say? Did he try to make you feel better?” “I dunno about feel better, Ricky. The only way I’d feel better if I could just walk the hell outa here, but I gotta deal in what’s here and now. He told me to just focus on little stuff, just try to win at one small thing at a time. Like it’s only been a couple days that I’ve been able to handle a fork normally, before I’d always drop stuff. He said that there’ll be tons more small victories, like when I can transfer from bed to chair with no problem, when I can wheel myself around, when I can use both hands on a computer, when I can learn to play wheelchair hoops, I dunno, lots of stuff. He was cool. I mean he’s doing the best he can, I am too.” “The guys on varsity, your roommate, the guys on your hall, people must be here to see you most days?” “You tripping, Ricky? Since I got to this rehab place, you’re the only kid who’s showed up to see me. You’re it.” Huh? Ricky was silent, surprised, and his eyebrows came together in his confusion. He figured people would have been by Bobby’s side all the time. I’m the only one? No way. How come no one else ever shows up? “Roach Clip told me to expect that. He said looking at me like this really scares a lot of guys. He said that in their heads, looking at me makes them uncomfortable, like something like this could happen to them. They think I’m like a different person, and it grosses them out. He said that after the first shock, after the first few days, people were just basically gonna get on with their lives and forget about me. He said it wasn’t their fault, just the way things were. But hey, you’re here and that’s cool. Anyway, you’re a head case by now, ain’t your fault, you’ve had to deal with Tom fucking with your brain for a year now! Ah, just kidding, man, it’s really good to see you out here. Thanks, Ricky, I mean it.” “Can I come see you next Saturday, too? I guess it’ll be your last weekend here.” “You mean it? Sure, man, you bet. You coming for real or just blowing smoke?” “For real, Bobby. I’ll be here.” Ricky didn’t have that much more to say, and he had a lot more miles to cover today. He originally hadn’t planned to ask Bobby one more thing, but he figured he’d give it a try, at least see how he reacted. “Bobby? You wanna pray with me?” “I’m Catholic, man, I’m not into all this weird Jesus Freak shit of yours. But hey, if you feel like it, let’s go for it. Whatever chokes your chicken, Ricky. Guess it can’t hurt.” A little while later Ricky was on the road again. The long, long road, having to work hard up the twisting uphills. All the way back towards school, then in another direction towards Pine Ridge. It had been three full weeks since he’d seen Jenny. Too long, too damn long, when she was so close. But with the disaster and other stuff intervening, it really had been 21 days. This time, of course, Ricky didn’t have any of his musical instruments with him, that would have been way too much to carry for all the riding today. But he didn’t have the desire to play, just to see his girl, just to hear her voice, sniff her hair, taste her lips. With stops to rest, drink water, and call the girl with his cellphone, it took him the better part of three hours to get there, but it was worth it. There she was, in her jeans and sweatshirt, mostly lying down, but propped up on an elbow to read something. My God, she’s so hot. For the first couple minutes they just hugged and held each other. “Ricky, Ricky, I missed you so much. I was so worried, everything was so terrible. Here we had a tornado watch, but it never got to a warning. Just thinking of you over there, not knowing, I was feeling so awful. What was it like?” “You sure you wanna know, Jenny? I felt stuff, I saw stuff, nobody should have to be around what I was that day. I mean I can tell you about it now, I guess, but are you sure? It was just intense.” “Ricky, I want to know everything. If it was about you, I want to know.” “OK, well, remember you said you had to do that class project in the morning? I figured that before I rode down to see you, I’d go into town with some of the guys, play some ball, you know, we’d just hang for a couple hours…” Ricky told Jenny pretty much everything he’d told Tom. Jenny said she wanted to know everything, and Ricky obliged her. But he added what he knew about Bobby, and his visit to the rehab center today. “I didn’t know his name, but do you mean that giant kid? He has black, kind of spiky hair? I’ve seen him at the last two school dances. Oh, no, I’m so sorry. He was nice.” “Yeah, that’s him. He’s 6’8” now. Well, hate to say it, more like he WAS 6’8”, but not really anymore. He can’t stand up anymore or walk or anything. I just…Jenny, everything was so terrible, like I said, I saw people pulled out from under stuff, people who looked dead. I’m never gonna forget that day, it’s like burned into my head.” They stopped talking for a few minutes and things got physical. They hugged and kissed and rolled around, Jenny’s hand finding its way inside Ricky’s sweatpants and underwear, finding its way just where he liked it. Mmmmm. But this time was different. Three weeks of not seeing her, the emotions all bottled up, plus the fact that Ricky had been too sleepy this morning to wake up and masturbate a second time. Within a few minutes, things changed fast. What started as love cuddling turned into out of control animal passion. Out of control, heading over the cliff. Ricky’s hips bucked into Jenny’s grasp, his mind went somewhere else, and suddenly he knew he was in trouble. SHIT!! Open your mouth, find some words, you idiot! MAKE HER STOP! “Jenny! Jenny!” Ricky groaned. “Please, Jenny, stop for a minute, I can’t help it, please, just chill, just…” Oh no. Oh no. Oh sweet Jesus NOOOO!!! Jenny was nibbling on Ricky’s ear with her front teeth when Ricky lost it. Over the edge, off the charts, and out of this earthly realm. Ricky couldn’t do anything anymore to stop himself, couldn’t control his legs anymore, and couldn’t control the sounds coming from somewhere between his throat and his chest. He blasted and blasted, and Jenny still wouldn’t take her hand out of there. Shit…..!! Ricky couldn’t do anything but let nature run its course, couldn’t stop until his entire body flowed out of him. He lay there dying, wondering if there was any possible way to disappear, dig a hole, go to any place in the world besides right here. Jenny massaged him much more gently for a few seconds while he lay helpless, then withdrew her hand. Oh no, this is the worst moment of my life. She’s always told me I’m a gentleman, and I usually am, I just couldn’t help it this time. Shit, what’s she gonna say, this sucks this sucks this sucks. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to. Jenny looked at her hand, now covered with maybe two tablespoonfuls of Ricky’s glop. She narrowed her eyes and looked at the ashamed boy. Some of the material slowly formed a droplet that tumbled down onto the moist grass. Ricky looked like he was about to be sick. Oh no, oh no. Why did I do it, I’m such a jerk! “Ricky!” Jenny cried. “Jenny, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen, please, Jenny…” Jenny looked around her, looked for a place to wipe her disgusting hand, tried the grass, but it was a little muddy and dirty. Then she smiled, wiped her hand several times on Ricky’s pant leg by his shin, and began to giggle. “Ricky!” she repeated, and then the giggling got more intense, until her whole body was shaking with laughter. Ricky was half sick, almost nauseous, but he watched Jenny laugh and then kind of giggled just the tiniest bit himself. This is so gross, but maybe she’s OK with it? Damn, what is up with this chick. She’s so weird, but I love herrrrrrr. “Ricky!” Jenny repeated the boy’s name for a third time, then leaned her body into his for a semi-hug. Ricky was going to put his arms around her, but things inside his underwear were getting itchy from the effects of what happened, stuff beginning to dry, so he had to adjust some parts first. “Ricky, it’s OK! I know what boys are like. It’s OK! You think I’m just some sort of a sweet innocent Southern girl, I don’t know how things are in the world?” Ricky said nothing, just thought for a second. Sweet, ohhhh yessss, that you are, Jenny, sweeter than any maple syrup on Mom’s pancakes, but innocent? Nooooo, not by a long shot. “I know all about boys, and I know that you get excited. It’s OK. And you feel better now, you feel all relieved, right?” “Uhhhh,” said Ricky. I’m supposed to talk and explain stuff now? Wonderful. “I guess.” “And what we did, that was all safe, nothing bad happened, and sometimes that’s necessary, I know that. Look, Ricky, we talked about all this in our religion class, there’s a really nice nun who teaches that for 9th grade. We read about all this in class, and just like the Pope says, we’re going to save ourselves til the time’s right, we’re not going to have sex until we’re married, we’re…” “Til we’re WHAT???” Ricky asked instantly. Hearing that word Jenny said so easily, his penis shrank and shrivelled to less than half of its extended size. “Til we’re married, silly.” Jenny next began talking faster, all excited. “That way, when we finally do it, it’ll all be right, it’ll all be sacred, and it’ll be so much better that way. Don’t you think so? You see, if we do it before, then it’s like, well, no big deal later, and if we do like we’re supposed to we’ll know our love can be truly forever, and…” “Uh, Jenny, we’re only in, like, 9th grade?” “That’s right, Ricky, so we have all the time in the world, we don’t have to rush into anything we shouldn’t do yet. That’s what makes everything so beautiful and so perfect, we don’t have to feel any pressure. My mother and I were talking about this last summer, she really, really likes you, and this way is the best. What does your mother say?” At this moment Ricky discreetly reached his hand inside himself, as after those last couple speeches by Jenny, he wasn’t sure he even HAD a dick anymore. OK, it’s still there, but it’s tiny and hiding and sore, oh, man. What is up with this chick? “Jenny, uh, guys don’t exactly talk to their mothers about stuff like this.” “Oh, I get it. Ricky’s embarrassed in front of his mother, oh yeah, well some men are like that, it’s OK.” “You know, Jenny, would it be all right if we, can we just not talk about this right now?” “Oh, so you want me to shut up?” “I didn’t mean like that, Jenny, it’s just that boys, we don’t really talk about all that, we don’t get into all this heavy stuff, let’s just, you know.” Jenny had that special look in her eyes again. Nothing innocent anymore. All mischief and horny teenage girl hormones. “Well, if you want me to shut up, you think you can figure out how to make me?” Good idea. Ricky put his arms around her and they swallowed each other’s faces again. Deep-throated kissing and adoring. Oh yeah, this is sooooo better, when I’ve got her face in my mouth she can’t talk and be all gross, mmmmm. Yeah, this is more like it. Yeah, Jenny, push your tits into me, that’s right. She’s so good, she knows just what to do. Ricky was indeed much happier with this arrangement. Every couple minutes he had to come up for oxygen, quickly repeated the phrase “I love you, Jenny,” and dived back into the girl’s face for more. They rolled around for a while longer, then disengaged lips and actually fell asleep in each other’s arms until well after 4:00. Eventually Ricky was pedaling back towards St. Brendan’s. Girls, oh man, what’s the deal with them? She’s into this forever and ever stuff, she won’t get off that. But I can’t help it, I love her so much. I don’t want any other girl, they’re all nasty bitches, Jenny’s for me, she’s so, I dunno. This has been a hell of a day, I’m so tired. Gonna sleep wayyy late tomorrow, hell, I don’t care if I miss brunch, if Tom wakes me up I’ll kick his ass, I just want to sleep til I die, it’ll feel good. The last two miles of the trip back to school were mostly uphill. Ricky strained against the pedals, and felt a burning ache in his calves and the back of his thighs. Breathe, suck it up, come on, not far to go now. Oh man, that was a lot of riding. He finally rolled through the iron gates of his campus. I wonder how many miles I rode today? His bike had no odometer, so he really couldn’t know. But the truth was, he’d gone 71. FALL, PART 13 For several days after the horrible tornado, Father Ray had been too absorbed in the crisis, too much into what he had to do, to think much about himself and his situation. Since that special, frightful rainy day with Tom, outwardly things seemed OK. Classes were going well, he had new little 7th graders in his Flock of Geeks, and Tom still seemed fine. Tom, who basically controlled whether Father would work, would live free, or would receive life without parole. Tom would still run up to him when they saw each other crossing the campus, would still jump on his back just like old times. A few times when the little kid was with Ricky, they even tried the old kneel-and-push trick, where Tom would quickly get down on all fours behind Father, Ricky would start a conversation, then push Father backwards so he fell over the kneeling Tom. The kids howled. Father saw the trick coming every time, that was an old trick even back when God was an altar boy, but he always played along. But still, Father knew that Tom was growing up so fast, changing every minute. Would just take one slip of the tongue, one instant when the kid felt regret, embarrassment, or anger. Since that September afternoon, Father always had an uncontrollable paranoia about him. Any sharp noise, anyone calling his name, made his head swivel around, made his heart start racing. Would be so much better, he thought, if I could be invisible when I felt like it. And the worst thing was, he wasn’t sure if the tension or the paranoia would ever go away. He wished so much he could talk to his friend Father Rennard about it, or talk to Roger. He was pretty sure they’d both understand, but the conversation could never be. Certain things can’t be brought to the surface, too dangerous for both parties. In his conscious mind, Father knew that he simply had to keep on keeping on. Do his work, be professional. Never, never again like on that rainy day at the cabin. But he’d told himself before that he’d never fall into that temptation, and it happened anyway. What guarantee was there that with Tom or someone else, well? Jerry Conroy pretty much just glared at him a lot, but left him alone. He just wished the whole thing would go away, but it never could. At night, he was sometimes tortured by dreams of being led away, being handcuffed, or listening to a crying, vengeful Tom testifying against him. Pointing a finger just like on TV, saying “He’s right there,” and then some smug lawyer saying, “Let the record show that the witness indicated the defendant.” He wondered if he’d be able to deal with the situation with grace. On this Sunday, Father was having a late afternoon nap, a nap that simply happened for no reason at all. His lessons were pretty much planned, and he wouldn’t even be on duty that night. Not much to do but wait til Monday morning. The wooden door to his small faculty apartment took a hard pounding, and Father Ray woke up sweating. “Hey Ray!” shouted Roger, his neighbor in the building. “Hall phone! Fa yoo-ew!” Ray bolted to his feet and staggered out to the phone mounted on the wall. He shook the sleep out of his eyes. No one ever calls me here. “Ray!” came the cheerful voice of Mr. Carlisle. Oh my God, is this how it ends? “Ray, I need to see you about something. I have to go out for awhile, but could you please stop by my house right after dinner?” “Uhh, sure, Headmaster, I guess,” said Father, while his mind raced and tried to focus. “Anything I can help you with now, what’s happening?” He tried not to let his voice show desperation. “It’s a long story, Ray, I’d really rather get into it later. Let’s make it 7:00, see you then.” And then there was nothing. Father walked back into his small apartment and looked at the desk clock. 3:24, then it mercifully jumped to 3:25. Three more hours and thirty-five more minutes. Why is he making me wait, why is he making me wait? Why couldn’t it have happened suddenly? He tried to convince himself to look for anything positive. Headmaster’s voice sounded friendly. And if the worst happens, you have three and a half more hours to savor this campus, to breathe fresh air, to enjoy what you have. And remember what you used to say to yourself? God, if You’re with me, who else have I got to fear? But three and a half hours, just let them pass, let me know. Father Ray considered trying to find Tom or some other kids. But then again, that could make stuff worse. Or could it? If it’s bad, it’s already as bad as it’s gonna get. He turned everything over in his mind again, then decided against the idea, and wandered up to the breezy ampitheatre, focusing on small things like the crackling of colored fall leaves under his feet or the ever-changing patterns and shapes of the clouds. Arriving at his destination, he sat down, leaned back against a tree, and closed his eyes. Is this how it ends? How am I going to tell my parents, how am I going to deal with everything, how about all the stuff I own, I never really thought about the details of how I’d prepare for this. Time moved slowly at the beginning, but as Father Ray got more wrapped up in his thoughts, he felt less of a need to stare at his watch. The afternoon grew cooler, the light and shadows sharper, and it would be dinner time soon. The Last Supper? He didn’t know. He remembered Tom’s words to him on that unplanned Saturday. “I’ll never betray you, I promise.” Never is a tough word for a 14 year-old. Easy one to say, tough one to live up to. He decided to eat in the cafeteria instead of cooking macaroni on the stove in his place. Maybe see some of the kids, maybe get some sort of clue what the deal is. Maybe Tom will be at dinner? We’ll see. Father’s watch kept moving. Tom wasn’t at dinner, but then again, a lot of kids didn’t show up that early. The line would stay open until 7:30. Finally Father looked at the numbers again, numbers that said 6:37. OK, it’s time. Let’s walk. Try to face whatever this is with grace. What is grace, exactly? Is that just an act? Fake it til you make it? Maybe I’m about to find out. Night was closing in fast as he walked along the quiet dirt road to the house. The only sound was a light breeze moving through the dry leaves on the trees and the ground. There were no other lights visible, so Father could see the lights of the house as soon as he rounded the last small bend in the road. Here goes. But where are the police? Maybe everything’s fine and I’m being stupid. Headmaster likes me, right? Or maybe they want to do this quietly, at night, not make a scene. “Come on in, Father!” said Karen as she opened the door. Most faculty members knew all about Headmaster’s new love woman by now. It was cool. Most people figured that she was good for him, and anyway, no one wanted to get too much into other people’s business, no one felt like being the first to bring up any questions. “Ray!” said Headmaster in the same tone he’d used on the phone. “Right on time! You want a beer?” Father told himself to just deal with what was in front of him, one thing at a time, don’t try to jump to conclusions. “All right, Headmaster, if you’re offering, I won’t turn you down.” “Come on into my study, Ray. There’s been some stuff going on, I want to hear your take on everything before I go further.” Headmaster’s study wasn’t large, but it was beautiful. All brown wooden walls and floor, a huge desk with tons of mementos all over it, large bookcases with classic literature in them, this room could only be the study of a headmaster of an old-time prep school. Nothing else. Mr. Carlisle motioned for Father to sit down, and Ray took a long pull at the bottle. Headmaster sat down himself, and got down to business. “Ray, you’re pretty good friends with Roger Mayne, right?” This got Ray into full panic mode, made his heart pound angrily. NO, NO, NO! No WAY am I gonna say anything about Roger, no way will I get him involved in this. He’s never done anything, he’s a young man, a good man, he’s just starting out in life. NO, don’t let anything happen to him. Ray just nodded, mumbled, “I guess. He’s a good guy.” “Well, I’ve heard a few things, seen a few things. Remember in those two days of faculty orientation at the end of August? Remember when I said I was going to be involved in people’s lives this year, I’d have my nose to the ground, I’d be much more hands-on with people and situations? Anyway, Ray, something’s not right here. I like Roger, too. I know he’s committed to this place, and I know he’s got a lot of potential. That’s one of my long-term goals, you know, getting and keeping young teachers here, getting them to make this place a career. Guys like Kevin Milroy, Bob Merton, you know what I mean?” Father actually had not the remotest idea what his boss was talking about. He tried to keep his face blank, but couldn’t help giving away some hint of the fact that he was confused. “Look, Ray. I promoted Roger to Residential Director of Humboldt Hall, and I’m really worried about how things are going. Not an easy bunch, those 9th and 10th graders. At that age, a lot of the kids just like to rebel, just like to push, just like to see how far they can get, how big their muscles really are. It’s not their fault, it’s just natural for their age. And Roger’s having all kinds of problems dealing with them. Maybe he started too soft, you know the cliché, start tough and you can relax later. Easier said than done of course, but whatever, the dynamic in that dorm isn’t good. Roger’s trying to keep them in line, but he’s doing the kids’ dance. They’re pushing, he’s trying to find where the line is, then something happens, then Roger loses his temper and it’s a whole discipline thing. Things aren’t great now and I sense them getting a whole lot worse really fast. And I can see the toll this is taking on Roger, I can see the tension in him. It’s affecting him, and he can’t be at his best when he’s like this.” Father was listening carefully, but his brain was split into two separate thought channels. I knew Roger wasn’t having things easy in Hummer, but how does this involve me? And Headmaster, aren’t you going to mention the day when I sucked off little Tom Klein? The thing was in my MOUTH, for God’s sake. Uhhhh, isn’t that just a tiny bit more important? But come on, just deal with what’s in front of me. “I’m sorry this is tough on Roger, Headmaster. Being an RD, it’s never easy.” “Well, that’s why I asked you here tonight. I have a proposal for you. I’ve thought about this, and I have confidence you’re right for this. I think you can handle those 9th and 10th graders. Would you be interested in a promotion? How would you feel about taking over as Residential Director of Hummer? Would be a nice little salary bump for you, about a 9% increase.” Focus, focus, focus. Speak, open your mouth. “Well, John, I really appreciate you considering me for this. A few things are coming into my mind now. I’m really glad you have confidence in me, but I’m worried about Roger. That money he’d be losing, that’s significant for him, you know. On a 2nd-year man’s salary, that would be a big cut for him.” “Oh, don’t worry about that, Ray. Roger’s RD work is part of his contract, I’d never cut a man’s pay to make this kind of a change. I couldn’t do that. I’ll find other extra work for him, I’ll make sure he stays at the salary I’m paying him now. Probably make him coach something in the winter or develop some weight-training club to prepare the spring athletes. Also, there’s never any shortage of 11th graders who need SAT tutoring. Roger won’t lose any money. You’ll just gain. 704 students, I have that kind of financial flexibility this year.” “703 students now, Headmaster.” “Oh, you’re right, Ray.” Headmaster looked across his desk with a pained expression. “I know, I know, I can’t get Bobby out of my mind either. That figure 704 just came out, I’m accustomed to it. But you’re right, whether he’s in this school or not, we can’t forget Bobby. But what do you think, Ray? I know I’m laying a lot on you. Talk to me.” “John, like I said, I’m kind of shocked at this, flattered, really. But you know, I just don’t know if I’d be comfortable as an RD. The extra money would be nice, I can’t deny it, it’s just…Headmaster, the RD has to be the tough guy, the bad guy, the discipline guy. If he isn’t that, things fall apart. You know that. But me, well, I’m the priest who hears their confessions, I’m the one they’re supposed to go to with personal issues, I just…I kind of see a conflict between that role and the discipline RD role. The whole trust thing, mixed with the punishment/consequences stuff, I just don’t think you’re picking the right person here. I do pretty well, I think, controlling my own classes, I can discipline when I need to, but an RD has to be involved in that 100% of the time. But I have another idea, a different possibility, if you’re interested.” Father Ray was amazed that he could think so clearly now. Amazed, but happy. Mind on autopilot, seems to be flying OK. “What about this, Headmaster? Look, I know Roger, I’ve seen him work. You’re right, those freshmen and sophomores need a tough guy. Not that Roger isn’t, but…anyway, a bad dynamic has started in Humboldt and these things rarely get better by themselves. I think Jerry Conroy would be brilliant at handling those kids. He’s had most of them before when they were smaller, and he just has a perfect knack for control. When he whistles, those kids jump, and when he says jump, they ask how high. I think he’s who you need. So why don’t you simply switch Jerry and Roger? Roger could be a great RD for the little guys in Battell. With the little guys, you still have to be an authority, true, but not quite so upfront and hard about it. The 7th and 8th graders still have some fear in them, they usually don’t go out of their way looking to challenge authority like the Hummer kids do. The little kids like him, he teaches some of them in class, and I think that’s your solution. You wouldn’t have to change anyone’s duty schedules around, you could save the money for, well, I’ll think of something!! And my duty schedule is with the little Bats kids, I could help Roger get himself oriented. I think this change would be a win-win for everyone.” Headmaster opened another beer, and took a deep, satisfying gulp. “Hmmm. Hmmm, I never thought of that possibility, but I like it. On first hearing, it feels right to me. Look, Ray, here’s how I’ll do this. Let me talk this over with Karen…” Ray grinned. He was relaxed now, though he knew he’d never completely lose his paranoia over the Tomsex thing. “Karen? Oh, you mean the Executive Assistant to the Headmaster?” “Nice title for her, Ray! I call her other things, and it’s true that she damn sure assists me, but we don’t need to get into that here! I’m going to talk this over with Karen, and I’ll call you back at your place within an hour. If we’re going to make this change, I’ll ask both you and Roger to come back here around 9 or so, and we’ll talk in more detail. I like what you’re proposing to me.” Both men stood up and walked back into the large den. Ray quickly downed a second beer, then walked back through the darkness to campus. The second meeting eventually finished, and both teachers hung out for awhile in Roger’s apartment. “Apartment” was perhaps too grand a word for the St. Brendan’s teachers’ faculty housing. More like one bedroom, a desk, and a tiny kitchen. Both Ray and Roger were slightly buzzed from the beers and the excitement of the new situation. “Now, Ray,” the younger man began, pointing a playful threatening finger at the priest. Mr. Mayne was beginning to lose his special accent in normal conversation, but he could still of course put it on to make the kids laugh. “Now you’re working for me, and you should know, I run a tight ship! I don’t want to heah any stories about you mistreating those pawah, helpless children in Bats! Maybe you got away with stuff when Jerry was there, but there’s a new sheriff in town! Don’t make me have to discipline you!” “Oh yeah, Rog, discipline, that’s sure your strong point. Right. I’m supposed to be afraid of you? I’m one of God’s helpers, hell, I’m almost as big as the Pope! Don’t you mess with me! I’ll bring a lightning bolt flying down here on your northern yankee ass, just you watch. Oh, and by the way, don’t mix metaphors with ships and sheriffs. I mean you didn’t get a St. Brendan’s education like I did, but do you have to be so obvious about it?” The men laughed stupidly with each other til almost midnight. Huge weights had been removed from each teacher’s shoulders. No more Jerry Conroy to stare, glare, and growl, no more 9th and 10th grade attitudes to deal with. In the coming months, things were indeed very different in Battell Hall. Almost every night, one of the two men would gather one hallway of boys, about 20 kids total, into the common room to tell them a special bedtime story. The chimney of the building was cleaned out and sometimes on the cold nights they even made a fire for the kids to enjoy while listening. Occasionally, hot cocoa or cookies were included. Sugary treats that made the kids hyper before they were supposed to go to sleep. Not the greatest idea, really. In fact, study halls and bedtimes in Bats were a little rowdier than they really should have been, certainly a lot noisier than they were when Mr. Conroy was there. Most of the problem was that often, when a boy needed to be bitched out or punished for some evil act or indiscretion, Father or Roger would begin laughing, and couldn’t manage to put the hammer down on the kid’s head. At such times, the worst punishment the men could come up with was tickling. For month after month, there was far more 12, 13, 14, 23, and 35-year-old giggling ringing through that stone building than was necessary, traditional, or perhaps even appropriate. FALL, PART 14 When the team finished their very light practice Wednesday, the countdown clock in the team locker room was down to 0 days, 21 hours, and 25 minutes. Tomorrow--the Rebels. Probably for the league championship, as both teams were undefeated in the Cherokee League, and after this meet, both teams only had a couple dual meets left against much weaker opponents. Tomorrow was pretty much it. It had been a lot of years since St. Brendan’s had beaten Carsonville in cross-country, and Coach P didn’t think the Cougars had ever been champions of the league. After tomorrow, all that would remain was those two dual meets against bottom-feeders, then League Individual Championships (where no team score would be kept), then the Noga Championships, where teams from all the different leagues would gather at St. Brendan’s for the huge meet. The St. Brendan’s kids were as ready as they could be. Jeremy had looked really impressive in the last tri-meet, finishing only 48 seconds behind Rick. Tom, of course, was obsessing over tomorrow’s race, but knew he had to find a way to calm down and at least sleep well. He decided that after dinner he’d do his homework extra carefully, maybe even go a section ahead in a couple of the books. He was hoping that would make him tired and bored, and maybe he’d even take a sleeping pill when it was time. He’d brought a few from the pharmacy at home. He was a little worried about the pills being bad for him, or getting dependent on them, so he very rarely took them. But this night, he might need one. Ricky had escaped from study hall after the first 15 minutes, bringing his guitar with him. The kids knew nothing yet of the switch from Mr. Mayne to Mr. Conroy that was at this moment still in the planning stages, and would take effect over the coming weekend. They did know that it was fairly easy to escape study hall when Mr. Mayne was supervising. As long as no one made much noise or got stupid, Mr. Mayne didn’t really keep track of the Hummer kids’ locations as carefully as he should have. Time crept forward very slowly, all the pages in Tom’s textbooks seemed to run together in his mind, and he still wasn’t sleepy. He stared for a few minutes more at the letters which were circling around his head, and figured enough was enough. He looked out the door, saw no sign of any authority figure, and was out the building door quickly and silently on his way to Riley’s Field. As usual, he heard the soft notes of Ricky’s guitar well before he saw his friend. But this time, something was different. It didn’t sound anything like a guitar, and Tom thought Ricky had left his violin behind. The guitar seemed to be blending with another sound. The other noise was nice, but kind of haunting, like weird and mysterious. But cool. Tom was really curious. How did Ricky play two things at once? Or maybe he has a recording of something? Tom passed the north soccer goal and saw Ricky sitting there with another kid. The sounds kept coming. Hey, it’s Kevin. All right! Tom said hi and sat down next to them. Kevin had a couple empty Budweiser Light cans next to him, and when the music paused, the Scottish boy took a sip from a third. “Oooohhh,” Tom started, about to make a stupid joke in an obnoxious singsong voice. “Kevin’s got beers, he’ll be in deep shi--it when someone finds ou--out.” “And hew in hell’s gonna make anyone find out, ye’d be riskin’ a painful death. Besides, this is nectar of the gods. You want some, Tom? Maybe it’ll cure you of your homosexuality!” “Fuck you, Kevin. Uhh, I’ll try a little.” Tom took a quick sip and involuntary shook his head back and forth at the bitter taste. Yuck, but I guess people get used to it. “I was just kidding before, Kevin, you know I don’t rat on people. But that instrument you’re playing, it sounds really cool. What is it? Did Ricky teach you how?” “A set of Uilleann pipes. Na, they’re mine, Ricky’s doesna know how to play ‘em. I also got an electric guitar back in my rheum.” “You mean bagpipes? Awesome! But aren’t guys who play bagpipes supposed to wear those like dresses with plaid designs on them, I think they’re called kilts?” “Ye’d like that, wouldnya, bury your ugly face inside, yer so sick. And anyway, thayse are different from what you think, with this kind you don’t have to blow into anythin’, you work the bag with your elbow. And thayse are way smaller. Ricky, how do you put up with this ked?” “Ain’t easy, man. And you only have to deal with him in cross-country practice, I got him 24/7! But hey, Kevin, Tom thinks he’s so smart, he says he can spell anything, I bet he can’t spell Uilleann!” Both other kids started laughing. “Of course I can, jerkoff! Let’s see, “i-l…” Tom paused for a moment. This has to be a trick question, it can’t be like illin. Think, it’s a different kind of bagpipes. Any Latin word root I can grab onto? Shit, I can’t think of anything, OK, here goes. “Eye—ell—ell--eye—ay--en?” “Ricky, you said this kid was smart! What’s his problem, he canny aven spell Uilleann, why don’t we kick his ass, that’ll be fun.” Ricky got up and stretched his long arms and legs. “Not a bad idea, Kevin, but I’ll let you go for it if you feel like. I’m actually getting a little tired, I’m gonna head back. Hey, Tom’s messed up my head so much, maybe I’ll even try some homework. I didn’t used to be such a nut case, you know. All right, catch you running freaks later. Goodnight, Kevin. See you in a bit, Tom.” Ricky and his guitar disappeared into the night and Kevin played some more music. Tom was mesmerized by this sound. It wasn’t like bagpipes he’d heard on TV like when someone died, this had a different tone. Instead of blaaawwww, it was more like a mellower bleeeeeewww. Nothing he could describe, and he didn’t recognize any of the tunes. The instrument was small in Kevin’s hands, and the kid was very good at it. Tom asked him to keep going, and Kevin did another song, a slower one which was really, really beautiful. It started to make Tom sleepy, but there was still time left before the kids had to go in, and Tom wanted to be around his sexy and friendly teammate. Kevin finished the tune and the final beer. “Ya thinkin’ about tomorrow’s race, Tom?” “Yeah. It’s gonna be a bitch. Carsonville always is. Faggot-ass motherfuckers!” “I heard some stuff that this is a real rivalry, guess both skeewls don’ like each other. D’you think they railly fuck their sisters or their cousins an aw that? That’s so disgusting!” “I don’t know, Kevin, it’s not like I’m in their bedrooms at night, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Ignorant rednecks in that town, wouldn’t put it past them. I want this meet so bad tomorrow. You think we can win it? They’re assholes, but they got serious runners, tons of ‘em.” “We got what it takes, Tom. Hey, mostly thanks to yeew, you brought Jeremy to the tame. He’s sure gettin’ it done these days. 48 seconds from Rick last meet, great job. For someone who’s never done any runnin’ before, he’s been brilliant. And you and me, Tom, we’ve been getting faster together week by week. I just have a guid feeling about this thing, Alan does too.” “Mmm. OK. Will you play me some more music for a little while? We still have about 10 minutes before we have to head back. I like that music you play, it’ll help me get to sleep later.” “Yeah, why not?” Kevin picked up the instrument, cradled it a certain way in his arms, and brought forth more sound. Tom lay on his back, his head upright, but leaning one ear against the denim material of Kevin’s pant leg. He looked upwards at the stars. On this part of the campus, not many building lights were visible, so it was a sweet star show, almost unreal. Tom knew he had to relax, and was beginning to. Put your brain where it belongs, he thought. Rest now, get calm, you’ll need everything in your legs, your heart, your soul, and your balls tomorrow. Fuck those Rebels up. But be smart and for now, take it slow. PART 15 Tom knew classes would be like this. He’d carefully planned his day. He decided to pig violently at breakfast, pounding extra bowls of cereal and tons more toast and orange juice, but eat pretty lightly for lunch so he wouldn’t feel heavy in the big race. He knew classes would crawl along, and seem to take three times as long as normal. He brought his hand-held chess toy with him to class, and discreetly looked over a couple positions he remembered from Chess Life magazine, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate. The only thing to focus on was the meet. Classes, teachers, examples, let them all be far away somewhere. Tom thought awful, disgusting thoughts about the Rebels, and fantasized about what he and the other guys would do to them on this day. He imagined a final score of 24-31. The fantasies were deranged and sickening, much worse than he used to think about Joey Peroni. They involved blood and other body fluids being beaten out of the Carsonville runners. Tom also imagined himself and his teammates standing over their broken bodies, taunting them with clever insults. Who’s league champs NOW, cocksuckers? Tom was terrible at drawing, but in a couple classes he drew little stick figures in his notebook representing the team he hated, clenched his teeth, and bore down as hard as he could with his pencil as he scratched them out. Just as he planned, Tom didn’t eat much at lunch. He wasn’t that hungry. He just wanted the last two classes to be over, and for everything he’d worked so hard for to finally arrive. The next-to-last lesson of the day was freshman American History with Mr. Ostrander. Tom didn’t like Mr. Ostrander, but he had no good reason for this. Mr. Ostrander had never been mean to him or done anything bad. Tom couldn’t put his finger on it, just that this teacher never made any mistakes, and always did stuff the way it should be done. Way too perfect for Tom’s liking, and he never got silly or laughed at himself. Never was playful with people, just always got down to business. And he was always right, just like Mr. Conroy. Tom looked at the wall clock whose second hand was moving, but not really fast enough. 34 minutes and 45 seconds left, OK, come on, 34 minutes and 30, please, let’s go. 34 minutes and 15. Tom decided to count in 15-second increments, and figured that there were 137 more of these increments to go until this class was over, then we got math, then finally, outa here on the bus to Carsonville. ONLY 137 more? There was a gradual noise in the background to somewhat bother Tom’s deep thinking. Tom heard words, but didn’t have the desire to put them together. So the boy had no real idea that Mr. Ostrander was discussing part of the Constitution, how the Electoral College was designed to elect presidents back in the Founding Fathers’ day, and how the traditions and use of the electoral vote system is different today. “So, in the 20th and 21st centuries, this has pretty much evolved into a winner-take-all system in each of the 50 states and the District of Colombia. In effect, now we have 51 different elections, one in each state plus DC. Jeremy, you know California has the most electoral votes, but do you remember how they determine exactly how many?” Jeremy wasn’t exactly thrilled to be in this class at this time either, wasn’t exactly creaming his boxers with excitement, but he was able to put enough of his brain to work and come up with the right answer. “Uhhh, well, they add up how many senators a state has, each state has two, with how many representatives the state has, and that’s determined by the state’s population.” “Good, Jeremy.” Mr. Ostrander kept going with his Socratic method of teaching. Tom stared again at the wall clock, which had only 124 more 15-second bites of time remaining. Getting there. “Tom?” That was another sound, but this one was his name. Tom’s mind jumped down from its shelf and turned around 360 degrees. Zzzooop. The boy was surprised and not pleased at being interrupted. He looked from the clock to the teacher. “Uhhh, yeah?” “So Maine does things a little differently, and there’s been a recent proposal to make a somewhat similar change in California. Can you explain the difference, and what effect this might have?” Shit, we got the Rebels in a couple hours and this guy wants to play guessing games. “Uhhh, Maine, I dunno, that’s in the northeast corner and California’s out west, and California’s bigger.” “That’s true, Tom, but we were discussing something different from just geography. Our topic this lesson is….” The teacher stopped and kept looking at Tom, wanting him to finish the sentence. Tom rolled his eyes and tried to come up with something. Why me? I don’t know. Something, anything, please, make him leave me alone. “Freshman American History?” Mr. Ostrander tilted his head in disappointment. “Tom, have you been listening for the last few minutes?” “What do you think, you jerk? Stupid shithead, leave me the fuck ALONE!!” Tom snarled. For whatever reason, whatever cosmic coincidence, all the oxygen and nitrogen molecules in the room must have gone somewhere else at that very moment. What else could have caused almost every other boy in the class to stop breathing and open his mouth, but have no words come out? There didn’t seem to even be enough air in the classroom to transmit sound. Tom thought something had happened, but he didn’t know what. Was that my voice? He remembered words spoken seconds ago, but though they sounded like him, he knew it couldn’t be him. No way. I didn’t just say that. Words hung in the air and in his memory, but they couldn’t have been his. Most other kids looked back and forth between Tom and their teacher. Joey did a couple circular fist-pumps and high-fived the kid next to him. Justin was the first to actually have enough breath to speak. The big football player put both hands in front of his chest, palms facing outward in denial, and shook his head repeatedly. “Wasn’t me this time, sir! Not me!” Mr. Ostrander slowly opened a drawer in his desk and began writing something on a 5 x 8 inch blue pad. This was a blue Disciplinary Report. It had space for a boy’s name, a teacher’s name, a few boxes that could be checked, and a few lines on the bottom for a short explanation. The forms hadn’t been changed in close to 50 years, and long ago, back in the long-hair era when We All Lived In a Yellow Submarine, the kids had coined a certain nickname for the pieces of paper. They were called Blue Meanies, and the term had stuck. “Tom,” said the teacher, purposely not losing control, “I want you to take this Disciplinary Report right now to Mr. Stone’s office. He should be there.” He approached Tom’s desk and reached out his hand with the paper in it towards the boy. Tom stood up, took the note, and mechanically walked out of the room, not really feeling any earth or floor under his feet. Not feeling, hearing, or sensing much at all. St. Brendan’s School had its policies. The school realized that kids would be kids, and there was a lot of stuff the school could tolerate, or at the very least overlook. Beer, weed, parties, well, in a perfect world maybe they wouldn’t exist, but as long as the kids didn’t do the activities right in teachers’ faces, the authorities could look the other way. Pranks were part of school life, and if one got out of hand, the situation could usually be dealt with privately and quietly. Smuggled townie girls in the woods, well, sometimes it was best to let things go, if the guys didn’t bring the young ladies back to the dorms. Kids getting silly in class or doing a lousy job on homework was forgiveable, if the offenders made an effort to do better next time. But there was one thing where the school was completely hard-ass, and with very, very good reason. Headmaster Carlisle, like other headmasters before him, was very into formation of the students’ characters. He wanted and demanded that kids be gentlemen. Especially in this 21st century, when many public schools had just as good academics and facilities as prep schools, there had to be something to set St. Brendan’s apart, to make parents want to spend the large amount of money it took to keep this place running. That something was discipline and values. Most public schools, and pretty much all private schools, could teach the subjects and pound the curriculum. But Mr. Carlisle was determined that his school would be the number one, best in the country, bar none, at caring about students as individual human beings and making them gentlemen in a very rude world. In addition, if one kid was allowed to get away with being nasty to any teacher, word of the situation would spread like wildfire, and the whole school atmosphere would quickly descend into hell. For this reason, when a Blue Meanie had the box “Personal Disrespect to Faculty” checked, it was a serious, serious offense. Big-time ugly. Tom had never actually visited Mr. Stone’s office down on the first floor, and had certainly never held a Blue Meanie in his hand. Just outside the door, he closed his eyes and physically shook his head violently. This HAS to be a dream, please God, let me wake up. NOW! No luck. Reality was biting the kid in the ass. He knocked on the door, and Mr. Stone’s voice told him to come on in. There was a short silence while Mr. Stone observed what Mr. Ostrander had written, and he then looked right into Tom’s face. “Tom, I really didn’t expect this from you. You have your good and your bad points, but I never, ever, thought you were capable of disrespect.” Mr. Stone kept looking at the boy, waiting for some sort of response. Tom broke the stare, and looked down at the wooden floor. “Mr. Stone, I…I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I can’t even believe it was me who did that. Please, sir, I’m so sorry.” “Well, Tom, you know the deal.” Actually Tom didn’t. “The first consequence for this type of Disciplinary Report is a two-day suspension from sports and extracurricular activities. After that, it’s the teacher’s decision what to do next, and you’re free to talk to him about it.” Tom felt his knees begin to bend. Oh no. This isn’t it. No, God. No. Speak, come on, say something. “Mr. Stone, we have the meet against Carsonville today. I’m really sorry, I know I did something terrible, but can I please begin the suspension tomorrow?” “No way. I’ll ask Mr. Prszeczkopowski to stop in, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a class now.” Mr. Stone picked up the phone and Tom couldn’t hold his emotions in any more. He fell on the floor and started crying, then pounded the floor with his fist and his forehead. He pounded again and again, somehow hoping that something, something could change, but knowing it really couldn’t. Without me the team has no chance. We’ve worked so hard for months, and I’ve screwed it up. Forever. For Alan, Kevin, Rick, and Jeremy. I want to fucking die. There was a painful tightening of Tom’s chest, as he knew now that everything as he knew it was pretty much over. The chances of getting let off were less than slim and close to none. Coach P had over the years become accustomed to surprises, often bad ones, from the kids, but this one was over the top. But he knew that there was no way Tom’s suspension could be delayed or overturned. None. As second-in-command at the school, he knew that he couldn’t ask favors, because he had to set the example. Tom wasn’t the only student over the years who’d missed a big game. Didn’t matter if it was cross-country, football, basketball, wrestling, a Disrespect Blue Meanie was a Disrespect Blue Meanie. Didn’t matter if it was Carsonville or a state finals. St. Brendan’s did things a certain way. Tom crawled into a chair and waited for Mr. P to show up at the office. He was crying and sniffling, and there was no salvation. Coach arrived and at first, didn’t even acknowledge the boy sitting in the corner, but just talked quietly to Mr. Stone. It was only after a couple minutes that he even looked at Tom. “Please, please, Coach,” begged the little boy, looking even smaller in the deep padded chair. “I’m sorry, I apologize, I just was thinking about the meet and I lost it, I’ll never do this again. Please, can we just make whatever punishment I have to take wait until tomorrow?” “Nope.” Coach didn’t speak another word at the moment, just looked hard at his runner. Tom buried his face in his hands, pounded the chair’s armrest, inhaled some snot into his nose, then looked halfway up and asked another question. “Do you want me to come to the meet and watch?” “I’ll leave that one up to you.” PART 16 On this day, the minivan that the team usually travelled in when they had away meets was being used, so the Cougars would ride to Carsonville in one of the three large buses that the school owned. Ancient vehicles, patched up and repaired many times. They were the traditional yellow color, but had large green St. Brendan’s lettering painted on both sides. Mr. P wasn’t licensed to drive these big things, so a maintenance man would do the driving, and Coach could use the ride for, well, coaching. Tom slowly approached the field house parking lot, and saw most of the guys gathered around the outside of the bus. Most of the guys in their uniforms, with the satin sweatshirts. Most of the guys ready to compete. Tom was really scared to actually approach and board the bus, but in another moment all the other eight guys were there, and it was now or never. All conversation stopped when he got within about ten yards of everyone, and people just glared at him. Tom heard Alan mutter something very quietly to the ground, something he couldn’t understand, but that didn’t sound good. As soon as people saw Coach P heading out of the building towards the bus, they climbed aboard, and Tom followed them, but at a bit of a distance. At least it was one of the big buses. At least he could go to the back and be somewhat invisible. “Guys, gather round up front with me for a minute, please.” said Coach as the bus wheezed its way out the school gates. At this moment, Tom figured that the word “guys” that Coach was using didn’t include him, and he was right. “All right, people, you know the importance of this meet, and you know that this Carsonville team is serious. I’m gonna tell you one thing now, one St. Brendan’s tradition that we’ve always followed, and as long as I’m here, we always will.” The kids were silent and listening hard. Even the four slow guys, the big football team rejects, the guys who were many minutes behind most people in races, weren’t joking or screwing around anymore. One of them would have to score today. Derek, Eddie, Trey, and Ben were into this every bit as much as the four fast runners. The only noise was the rumbling of the bus, which was drowned out by Coach’s clear, loud voice. “It’s a St. Brendan’s tradition that in any sport, we compete using the people we have on that day. We don’t complain to anyone about injuries, absences, whatever. We don’t make excuses. We put whatever athletes we have out there, and we run with pride. We have eight runners today. Our focus today is on the eight guys who ARE running, and not on anything else. You know what we need to do today. We’ll be there in a little under a half-hour. Relax the best you can for now.” Tom’s sharp ears heard every word, even from his seat way in the back. He looked down at the bus floor, at the black metal scuffed with dirt. Eight guys matter today, and I don’t. He tried to think of which of the slow guys would be the one to be in the top five today. He couldn’t think of anyone as the fastest. “Least slow” would probably be a better term. He didn’t think any of them had ever broken 23 minutes on St. Brendan’s home course. Also, he didn’t think any of them had ever run more than 4 or 5 miles in training, and their running was what most people would consider crawling. At least Derek was kind of athletic, if that meant anything. He was a bit chunky, but strong and muscular too. The other guys were just big lazy slabs of meat. As the runners took their pre-race tour around the course, Tom was grateful that no one had anything to say to him. Better that way, there wasn’t anything he had to say to anyone else. No words would make anything better. After stretching and more advice from Coach, an official called runners from both schools to the line. Tom closed his eyes. Sometimes when he had bad dreams, right at the worst part, when he was dying or falling or something, he’d be able to tell himself that it must be a dream, and he’d wake up. But he’d tried that before outside Mr. Stone’s office. This was all real. On the Carsonville race course, the runners would disappear out of view very early, then come back out of the woods around the one-mile mark. The rest of the course, various loops around the school and sports fields, could be seen by spectators. There was really only one tough hill, but only about 100 meters long, that appeared around the midway point of the race. About five minutes and ten seconds from the start, Alan came out of the woods, running with all his passion, soon followed by a closely-packed group of four Rebels and Kevin. Rick and Jeremy were well separated, but had 7th and 8th place. There was quite a long wait for anyone else. Tom was down on his knees, hoping with all that was in him to see someone, anyone, in yellow and green. But he’d wait a long time, too long. Three more Rebels went by him, seemingly moving very slowly, but faster than any other of the St. Brendan’s guys. Finally, finally, there was Derek, his black skin glistening with sweat, his eyebrows furrowed in pain. Tom found his voice. “Please, please, Derek, you CAN! You CAN! Get that thing, you’re our guy! COME ON!” Tom ran a few steps next to the senior, but quickly remembered that it was illegal for any spectator to run along with anyone in a cross-country race. It was called “pacing”, and could cause the runner to be disqualified. Tom remembered, and stopped himself. Oh, that would be wonderful, that would just top everything off. Tom watched the runners get smaller and smaller, doing their loops of the fields. Watching Derek get slower and slower. Watching a couple more Rebels pass him. Derek did want this thing. He was trying. His lungs and legs were burning with pain and he wasn’t going to give up. But in distance running, there’s a naked, cruel truth that says you can’t give what isn’t yours. If a guy doesn’t have the endurance, that mixture of talent and training, nothing will help him. The race will expose him for what he is. Derek was a handsome, friendly young man, a pretty good student, and a varsity baseball player in the spring. He played 3rd base and sometimes came in to pitch in relief. But he was no runner. Nothing he could do would matter on this day, in this place. Tom trotted over to the finish area, hoping for what he pretty much knew couldn’t be. Alan won the race by 17 seconds, and the others came in bit by bit. Kevin, 3rd. Rick, 6th. Jeremy, 8th. And eventually, Derek in 15th. Final score, Carsonville 27, St. Brendan’s 33. The still-undefeated Carsonville Rebels 27, the losing St. Brendan’s Cougars 33. Runners from both teams lay gasping for breath on the grass. The Carsonville runners were actually pretty good sports. Most distance runners are. They know what it takes to race balls to the wall for close to three miles. They know what it takes during the race, and more importantly what it takes on those lonely roads in training when no one’s watching. After the race, there were no taunts, no hate, between the actual runners. There was never a handshake line in cross-country, but kids wearing gray and others wearing yellow did go over and pat each other, talk to each other, and praise each other’s efforts. The crude shouts about things like rich faggot, go home loser shit, suck this Brendan’s, etc. came from spectators and kids who just happened to be passing by. The real runners respected each other. Tom didn’t hear or participate in any congratulating or taunting. He was on his knees most of the time, butt in the air, face to the ground, hands behind his head gripping his black hair. Didn’t take a math class genius to figure out that if he’d raced, he’d have been somewhere in Kevin’s neighborhood, and the team would have finished with a winning total of 24 or 25 points. But Coach P had told the kids that Cougars don’t whine or make excuses. The “if” part means nothing. You run with who you have, and the runners that the Cougars brought weren’t as good on this day as the runners the Rebels brought. Tom wanted to cry, but nothing would come out. The guys slowly picked up sweatclothes and bags, and headed toward the bus. Coach P and the Carsonville coach stayed behind a couple minutes to double-check and verify scores and times. Tom walked about five yards behind the last one of today’s real runners. Alan, Kevin, Rick, Jeremy, Derek, Trey, Ben, and Eddie. The real runners today. As they walked, they were followed by a few jerks from Carsonville who had plenty to say, but who the St. Brendan’s guys ignored. In the parking lot, only a few yards from the visitors’ bus, there were four more kids with beers and cigarettes in hand. One of them had a new comment. “Hey, look, man, something new! Look, St. Brendan’s gay faggots found a couple niggers to do their work for ‘em!” No more ignoring. All hell broke loose. Derek dropped his bag and quick as a cat, whaled the kid in the face, jumped on him, and started pounding his head into the asphalt. Alan, Trey, and Eddie jumped in instantly. There wasn’t any pushing or shoving, this was all real, all fists and kicks and blood. Everything went from 0 to 60 within seconds. Four on four, a vicious skin-on-skin gang fight. Jeremy heard the word that the redneck kid used and was ready to get into this, all 5’6” and 108 pounds of him. He felt none of the Martin Luther King spirit of nonviolence and didn’t know or give a damn that he had no business in this ferocious violent brawl with 16, 17, and 18 year-olds. I’LL SHOW YOU A NIGGER, MOTHERFUCKER!! Rick jumped forward and grabbed hold of the younger boy before he got into this and would get badly hurt. “Jeremy, get back!! We got this, we got this thing handled, four on four! Stay back, we’re all over this, kid.” Jeremy was snorting and crying, struggling against Rick’s grasp, but Rick was doing the right thing protecting the little freshman. Tom didn’t know what to do, knew that he’d be less than useless in a fight, but wanted to do something, anything. He took a few steps closer but Rick shoved him violently away, then pinned him to the outside of the bus. “Just back off, you’ve fucked us up enough for one day!” Alan was actually the smallest man in the fight, but he had the most spirit. He was magnificent in his fury, and wasn’t as weak physically as most distance runners. He was giving as good as he was getting for the first few seconds, even though he had a bloody nose. Plenty of spirit, until he turned one way, and from another direction someone’s boot came up and kicked him right in his unprotected crotch, full-strength. His unprotected crotch that was wearing only underwear and nylon shorts. “UUUUHHHHH!!!” he gasped, breath knocked out of him, and he doubled over in agony. A kid jumped him instantly and began working over his face with punch after punch after punch. Derek broke loose from someone else, grabbed hold of Alan’s attacker’s neck, and tried to choke the life out of him, holding him down and again smashing the back of the guy’s head into the black asphalt. Small sections of the parking lot were literally red with various people’s blood. Both coaches, along with the St. Brendan’s bus driver, came racing across the parking lot, Coach P running faster than just about any 63 year-old man could. They screamed and shouted, getting in the middle and throwing kids off each other. Kevin and Rick also helped separate people once things began to calm. There were a lot of shouts of it’s over, it’s over, no more, mixed with other shouts about cocksuckin’ nigger-lovers and white redneck trailer trash. “ALL OF YOU, JUST GET! IN! THE! BUS!!” shouted Coach P. “Just get in the bus, NOW! NOW, I SAID!” The Carsonville coach managed to get his students away from the fight zone, and had them stand against the wall until he was ready to deal with them. Show was over. The three men, none of them youngsters, caught their breaths, looked at each other, and the Carsonville man was the first to speak. “Oh, man, Karl, I don’t know what to tell you here. Damn, kids these days, you leave them alone for a few seconds and this happens.” “Mel, this wasn’t just any jawing and talking trash, these guys were hurting each other. I mean, you can see blood stains all over the place.” “Look, Karl, remember that thing at the basketball game last winter, with the cops, when the whole crowd emptied onto the court? Karl, if anyone finds out about this thing, if this gets out to the newspapers or the athletic directors’ association, we are both seriously screwed. Team suspensions, that could be the least of it. And this was racial, that makes it ten times worse. Guess we’ll never know whose fault this was, the witnesses aren’t exactly unbiased. Look, we gotta keep this quiet. One good thing, if anything’s good here, is that it doesn’t look like anyone else saw this thing. Are you with me?” “Yeah, Mel. You’re right, this day and age, with the history between these schools, you’re right. Look, seems to me like the best thing is you discipline and deal with your guys, I’ll do it with mine. We don’t want this thing going any further than right here. I wish today didn’t end like this, Mr. Crossley, but anyway, congratulations again on your win. See you at Noga.” “Yeah, Karl. No further than right here. We do the best we can, that’s all anyone can ask of us.” The two men shook hands and went their different ways. Coach boarded the bus and the engine groaned to life. Kevin already had the bus first-aid kit out, and was gently tending to his older brother’s face, trying to stop the bleeding and put the ice pack where it would at least calm some of the swollen parts. The boy had been very badly beaten, and would obviously be heading right for the county hospital emergency room as soon as the bus got back to school. Coach went next to them to help. Alan, tough as he was at age 17, was still crying and moaning, half-bent over, and holding onto his aching genitals. Kevin talked to his brother softly, tenderly, telling him that it was over, and he’d be better. The two brothers did mess with each other a lot, and fought once in awhile, but deep down, they had a good relationship and loved each other very much. Jeremy was in the back of the bus, in a window seat, snorting fast through his nose. Derek was next to him. Yeah, the two black guys in the back of the bus. Yeah, the South, but this was the 21st century. Jeremy couldn’t get the word out of his mind. Nigger. Nigger. Got niggers to do their work for them. In his whole life, all his 14 years and 3 months, the word had never been said to him or about him. Not once. Since he was very small, he was always the award-winning kid, always the top student, always the best boy. That word was something from old movies. Until today. Jeremy finally stopped snorting with anger, and let himself cry. He cried loudly and freely. Nigger! I didn’t do anything to those guys, I don’t even know them, and I still can’t escape being a nigger. Derek saw the little guy’s tears and pretty much read Jeremy’s mind. He gripped the freshman’s shoulder, rubbed and massaged it hard, then moved across the strap of his uniform jersey to hold onto the boy’s neck. “Jeremy, we got you. Jeremy, everyone in this bus, we got your back. Forever, kid. We got you.” The two other seniors who had been in the fight were also hurt, but nowhere nearly as badly as Alan, the team’s leader. They had a few small cuts and bruises, and one of them had a split lip. Coach said he’d give them the ice and some band-aids as soon as he was done with Alan. They sat together sadly, quietly, and patiently. Miles of rural Georgia rolled beneath the bus wheels. The bus that held a broken, whipped, miserable bunch of Cougars. A bloodied, hurting, losing bunch of Cougars. An exhausted bunch of losers who had no strength or fight in them anymore. And one Cougar, the one who wasn’t even wearing a uniform, was obviously the worst loser of all. PART 17 Ricky had of course heard about everything. In 9th grade, everyone hears about everything. He had dinner right after basketball practice, and waited for Tom in their room. Why does Tom get so over the top about stuff? The kid’ll be freaking out by now. It’s only a game, or I guess in cross-country they call it a meet. But that’s the problem, it’s not just a game for him, Tom takes this stuff like life and death. Why did he have to do that in class? I usually just sit there and smile if I have to, and no one bothers me. Tom soon arrived, right around when study hall was beginning. The bus had gotten back in time to catch the tail end of dinner, but Tom didn’t eat anything. His face was pure exhaustion, and he didn’t really even look at his friend. He climbed up to his top bunk, lay face down, and gripped the pillow hard with both hands. Ricky climbed up the first two steps of the bunk ladder. He didn’t really know what to do or say, but just put his hand on the back of the smaller kid’s head and started talking. “Hey, Tom, I heard what happened. I know you probably don’t want to be bothered now about it. I’m sorry about everything. Look, I’ll leave you alone now. Can you help me a little later, tell me the answers to that science stuff we have to do for tomorrow?” Tom made a grunting noise and shook his head, without raising his face from the pillow. Ricky climbed down and began looking at his homework, but hadn’t any remote clue how to do it. Usually Tom told him everything. Shit, if he doesn’t snap out of this there’s no way I can get this done. Ricky spent about a half-hour staring alternately at pages he couldn’t understand or at Tom in the top bunk, who was in the same physical position, but was now crying quietly. This is useless, I may as well just lie down. No, not yet. First I’ll play a little soft guitar music, I’ll play that classical Bach piece, Tom likes that one. Ricky played that tune and several others, once in awhile looking up to see if Tom was at least sitting up, at least listening, at least looking alive. But there was no change. Lights-out would be in about another half-hour, but Ricky had nothing else to do, so he took off his clothes, climbed into his own bed, and turned off the lights. He began talking to Jesus about Tom, and hoped Jesus would forgive the kid, make him better. But that’s not the way it works, is it? I can ask Jesus to forgive him, but I think Tom’s gotta believe and do it himself for it to work. Shit, that sounds prejudiced. Preacher Cal said to respect whatever religion people are. Tom maybe has his own Jewish god, like the Catholic kids have their own god, something about that virgin chick. Her picture is up in all the classrooms. But the Catholic people use a cross, too, Father Ray always wears a little metal one. And Asif in science class, he’s Muslim, they must have their own god too. Whatever, it’s all cool. But still, did Jesus die for people who believe in someone else, the same as He did for me? Damn, I dunno. I guess I could call Preacher Cal, he’d know, but it’s late now, don’t bother him. Ricky hadn’t actually read much of his Bible for the past several months, so he wasn’t exactly expert in the deep theological questions. All he knew was that he wanted Tom to be OK. Just OK. The sound of the lights-out bell interrupted his thinking, and he climbed back up the ladder again. Tom hadn’t moved a muscle for the last hour. Ricky called the boy’s name but got no answer. Then he gently pulled on the pillow to try to see Tom’s face. Tom didn’t resist, but wasn’t sleeping either. The kid’s eyes were open, looking straight ahead at nothing. “Tom? Are you OK now?” Ricky asked again, but Tom didn’t answer. I guess he just wants to be left alone. I can’t do anything more for him now. All right, sleep now. Ricky did sleep deeply and peacefully until he had to get up to piss. He barely opened his eyes as he staggered out the door and to the bathroom a few yards down the hall. He knew the way well enough so there was no real reason to make the effort to open his eyes and wake up. He opened the door to his own room again and for some reason focused on the gentle green LED light from his desk clock. 12:53. OK. Is Tom at least sleeping now? He took one step up the bunk ladder and saw only rumpled blankets and an empty pillow. Oh, what the fuck, now the kid’s run away somewhere. Wonderful. All right, let’s go. Ricky shook the last bits of sleep out of his eyes, turned on the lights, got dressed, and put on his warm coat. Early November, and the nights were getting seriously cold. He saw Tom’s coat on the closet floor. Great, the kid is so crazy he forgot his coat. Ricky put the garment in his arms and walked into the quiet night. He’s probably up by Riley’s Field, Ricky thought. The campus was deathly silent, as it usually was at night. There were night security guards, but they pretty much only patrolled near the gates, rather than inside the campus. Ricky didn’t want to risk waking people up by shouting his friend’s name, so he just moved his head systematically from side to side, searching. As he walked away from the school buildings, the outside lights became fainter, but his eyes were getting used to the darkness and the moon gave off some light. It wasn’t that difficult to see. When he reached Riley’s, he did quietly say Tom’s name. Tom? Tom? You here? There was no answer, and Ricky took a full lap of the big meadow, but couldn’t find his friend. All right, so much for that idea. Where else? How about the ampitheatre? It’s quiet there, he probably thinks no one will bother him there, and it’s where he always goes running. But to get there, Ricky had to go through some trails, deep into forest where it was much darker. It was kind of cool, kind of mysterious, except for the fact that he wasn’t out here just to hang out and explore, he had to find Tom. He tripped over things a couple times, then decided to go slower, using his hands as much as his eyes to find his way. It took him almost twenty minutes. The ampitheatre was perhaps even more beautiful than ever at night. Ricky could see a little better, as the area was all cleared. He could even see the part at the far end where the tornado had taken down some of the trees. Tom’s gotta be here. He couldn’t have left campus, the security guards would have seen him. Ricky called his name again and again, walking up and down the earth terraces and searching. Finally he saw his friend, not in the actual ampitheatre area but at its edge, right where the trees started again. Tom was lying on his belly, with his arms around a small sapling. Ricky approached and Tom gave no response. “Tom? Didn’t you hear or see me? Shit, Tom, you’re such an idiot, you must be freezing, why didn’t you bring your coat?” Tom was wearing only his pants and a sweatshirt, but showed no signs of shivering or discomfort. But he did let Ricky put the warm coat over him and tuck him in a bit. “Tom, you can’t just stay out here forever, man. Come on, let’s head back.” Tom shook his head. Ricky pulled at him gently, but the boy clenched his hands together around the small tree and obviously wasn’t planning on going anywhere. Ricky tried to pry Tom’s hands apart, but had no luck. Little Tom was getting stronger. Finally Ricky moved to the other side of the tree, reached his fingers in, and use leverage to separate the clenched arms and lift him up. Tom’s coat fell to the ground during all this, but Tom bent down and put it on. “Come on, Tom. I’m bringing you home now.” Tom spoke for the first time all night. “We lost.” “Yeah, I know you lost, I know all about it. Let’s go inside.” Tom’s muscles did soften a little bit, and he allowed Ricky to lead him slowly through the darkness back through the downhill trails and the open areas towards Humboldt Hall. The boys silently entered their room. They took off their coats, sneakers, and pants, but kept sweatshirts on, as they were both still really cold. Tom began to climb up the ladder, but Ricky grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. “No way. You’re staying with me now. You go up top, I go to sleep, and you’d probably just disappear again.” Ricky kept his firm grip on Tom, and lay him down on the bottom bunk, jammed into the wall. Ricky covered both of them with the blankets. “OK, Tom, it’s over now.” “It’s never gonna be over. We lost, Alan got beaten up so bad I think they took him to the hospital, and it’s all my fault. Everyone knows it.” “Tom, just shut up now, will you? I told you, I know the whole deal. Just shut up now, go to sleep. Shhhhh, I’m really tired. Please?” Tom did shut up, but no way he’d go to sleep. Not this night. His heart kept beating hard and his jaw wouldn’t release its tight grip. He let Ricky put his long arm around him and grip his hand, but no way would he go to sleep. He just lay there waiting long hours for the wakeup bell to ring, and when it did, he jumped up, quickly put on his clothes, and instead of going to breakfast, headed quickly to the classroom building where teacher’s class schedules were posted on a big bulletin board. For some reason, Tom wasn’t sleepy at all. Still depressed, mad, and stressed, but not sleepy or hungry. From there, he walked fast to the cafeteria and found Mr. Stone. PART 18 Alan’s father, as soon as he heard what happened, drove through the evening from the Georgia Tech campus to the county hospital where Alan was taken. On the way, he called his superiors on his cell phone and got permission to take Friday off to deal with his busted-up older son. Mr. Laird knew this could happen, and it was at least the 50th fight Alan had been in during his time. But this wasn’t like when the boy was little, and no one could do real damage. This was a beating, a real one. Alan was groggy and pretty incoherent from the pain medicine when Dad first saw him, but was awake enough to know that Dad was here for him. The hospital had already finished treating him, and said that he could go back to school, but he’d obviously need to spend a couple nights in the infirmary, resting and healing. Dad slept on a neighboring cot in the school infirmary, and Alan woke up a bit past 4:00 AM. He was still in pain, but could communicate. Father and son talked for about an hour about the events of the day and how the boy came to be like this. Then Alan was given some more medicine, which would put him to sleep for most of the upcoming day. Early in the morning, Mr. Laird found Coach P and they had a long talk. It was the first time they’d really gotten to know each other. They’d only met very briefly when Dad dropped off both kids at the school for training camp. “What a day that was yesterday, Mr. Laird. The nurse says she’ll evaluate him this afternoon or evening, see if he can be up and around a little bit on Saturday. Did he wake up at all and talk to you, tell you what happened? I didn’t really witness the main part of the fight, I just came and helped break it up, but by then the damage was done.” “Yeah, we talked a lot earlier. He said there were a bunch of redneck kids in the parking lot and one of them made a crack about some of St. Brendan’s kids being niggers. That set off his friend Derek, and then within seconds he and a few other guys got stuck in good. Reet now I’m not sae worried about his facial injuries—thank God, the damage was only cosmetic, but he says he really got kicked full-force in the balls and the kid was wearing boots. That’s the serious part. I dunnae what to say, I guess he just decided to defend his teammate.” “It was terrible, Mark, a really vicious brawl. But then again, was it defending his teammate or just losing his temper when some idiot made a dumb comment?” “Who’s to say, Coach? Depends on point of view, I guess. And it wasn’t just him, the fight went four a side. But I believe what Alan told me, he’s an honest boy, never let lied to me. What happened, it’s part of his personality, you know. I can’t count the number of fights he’s been in since he’s been little. He has this maybe exaggerated sense of honesty or right or duty or whatever the hell ya wanna call it, but if he sees something that he doesn’t think is right, if he feels he or one of his friends has been messed about, he jumps in with his fists first and asks questions later. Later, if at all. Peaceful conflict resolution isn’t one of me older son’s strong points. He’s gotten somewhat better as he’s matured. Somewhat better, but he’ll be always be a fiery lad, it’s just his nature. I love him so much, but I canna change what he is dayp inside. Kevin’s more easygoing, more adaptable with other kids.” “Thanks for the insight. Maybe part of what makes him such a great runner has a downside. What are your plans now?” “I think I need to be here through at least tonight. I’ll either slayp again in the infirmary or take up Headmaster’s offer of one of the guest rooms in the admin building. Then tomorrow, we’ll see. My wife is goin’ crazy, we baith agreed it was better if she didn’t come, she’d just throw fits. We’ll know more about Alan’s condition this evening. For today, if it’s OK with yew, I guess I’ll just wander the campus, maybe do some online work in your library, and hang out with Kevin. Maybe attend a couple of his classes, if that wouldn’t embarrass the poor kid too much.” “Yeah. Well, talk to me if you need me, and don’t forget to get enough rest yourself.” “Coach, those of with kids, they drive us up the walls, but what can we do? Can’t stop loving ‘em.” Mr. Stone had given Tom permission to blow off his 3rd and 4th period classes, as long as he was responsible for making up any classwork or homework. Mr. Ostrander had 3rd period free, so Tom could talk to him. The boy also asked to see Alan later. Obviously Tom was a little angel during his first two lessons. A lot of people were staring at him, but he had no intention of making anything even worse than it already was. In the middle of 2nd period, however, it was like he was hit over the head with a baseball bat. With all that had happened yesterday, and all the stress, he hadn’t been sleepy at all for the whole night, and was wide awake and still anxious all morning, until halfway through math lesson, when his head drooped and he almost passed out then and there. The sleep instinct caught up with him, and he had to use all his energy to keep awake and alive through the last few minutes of math. He then dragged himself upstairs to Mr. Ostrander’s classroom, exhausted but knowing he had work to do. He looked in the window and saw the teacher sitting at the desk in the empty classroom, appearing to write stuff in some sort of booklet. The whiteboard still contained information from the previous lesson, stuff that Tom knew he damn well better learn later today. He threw his head back for an instant and shook his head to clear his mind, then walked in quietly. He walked up to the desk, and Mr. Ostrander looked right back at him. “Mr. Ostrander?” “Yes?” Tom wanted to sit down, wished Father Ray were there, but stood there in front of his teacher. There was nothing in between him and the teacher’s desk. Not a podium, not another desk, nothing for protection. He almost felt like he wasn’t wearing any clothes. He was breathing hard, but was at least too proud to cry. He at least had that much dignity, though not a whole lot more. “Mr. Ostrander, you remember yesterday?” “Yes, Tom, I remember it well.” “Look, I just wanted to say I’m really really sorry about what I said and did. I…I never act like that, it just came out. We had a big cross-country meet coming up and I was thinking about that, I was so psyched up that, well, I wasn’t really listening to your lesson. I know I should have been, and if I wasn’t paying attention it was my fault. That was terrible what I said. I’ll never do it again, I promise, please, I just….I just want to get back on the team.” “So you’re coming to me now so that when I talk to Mr. Prszeczkopowski this afternoon, I’ll say everything’s fine and it’s all over. Your goal is to get back on the team. Is that right?” Tom was confused and sleepy. His mind wasn’t as sharp as usual, and he wasn’t in the mood for any debates or head games. “Well, no, I mean I do want it to be over, but I didn’t mean just about the team. You know I really am sorry, I’ve never been like that before.” “That’s true, Tom. But just because you’re normally a good kid, just because you had a cross-country meet later that day, that doesn’t excuse anything. What do you think would happen if I was thinking about something else during a lesson and I acted like that?” Tom looked at the floor and tried to come up with an answer, but couldn’t manage to say anything intelligent. He was smarter than most of his teachers, but stress and fatigue dulled his brain this morning. He wanted Mr. Ostrander to at least tell him where things were at, what the deal was. He had no idea what would happen if a teacher went off on a kid like that, and didn’t really care at the moment, though he knew it must be tough for them to always act right, even if kids were jerks like Tom was the previous day. “I don’t know, Mr. Ostrander. I wish I could tell you more, but I just don’t know. That was so wrong what I said, I didn’t mean it about you. Yesterday and today have been I think the worst days in my life, maybe. I’m really sorry about everything.” Tom for a minute thought he should shut up at that point, but had to know something. “What happens now?” “I have a meeting at 5:00 with Mr. Prszeczkopowski and after that, I’ll have a decision to make.” That was all the teacher was going to say. The two people stared at each other for a minute, then Tom let his head droop towards the floor and walked outside. The school infirmary was at the far edge of campus, just beyond the faculty housing buildings where Mr. Mayne and Father Ray lived. It was staffed by a full-time nurse, Mrs. Allard, and the school had a doctor on call in town. Tom didn’t know Mrs. Allard that well. She was old and seemed nice, but he’d only dealt with her last year, after he’d busted his head open, when he was released from the hospital and she’d checked on him a few times in the following days. She wore skinny classes and always seemed to know which kids who came to her were really sick and which ones were faking it to try to get out of something. She was usually the only woman on campus, but people had long ago gotten used to her presence. She’d been working at St. Brendan’s more than 20 years, and always said she was about to retire at the end of every year, but somehow never seemed to get around to it. “Mrs. Allard?” Tom said quietly. “How’s Alan? Is he here?” “He’s here. They treated him at the hospital last night as an outpatient. We’re keeping him pretty drugged up today to make him rest. But I think there’s a chance he could be up and around tomorrow, with some limited activity. That was a bad, bad beating he took. He’s not great, but when I first saw him last night, I thought things would be even worse. He has a lot of stitches in his face and head and has a bruised and swollen testicle.” Ewwww. Tom’s hands involuntarily went down in front of his pants, as though to protect himself from the sound of a lady saying the word testicle. It was like the sound of the word coming from an old lady was attacking the boy’s own important, fast-growing parts. Gross. “Can I see him?” “Sure. Sit with him for a little while, but don’t wake him up. Actually, he’s so sedated I doubt you could even if you tried.” Tom went into the inner infirmary room, where about ten beds were side by side. Alan was the only person in there. Tom looked at his senior teammate, looked at the 17 year-old who was clearly the team’s leader. Wow, Alan’s never quiet like this, he’s usually intense and working hard, or cracking jokes and stuff on his brother and us. Shit, his face looks so gross, parts of it are all swollen and purple. He went right in the middle of that thing as soon as that redneck kid called Derek and Jeremy niggers. But damn, what’s it like to have a bruised and swollen testicle, that must hurt worse than, I don’t wanna think about it. One of Alan’s hands was outside the gray blankets, and Tom gently picked it up and gripped it by the fingers. Tom rubbed the hand with his own thumb, and listened for awhile to Alan’s slow breathing. Tom knew that if he’d only controlled his stupid mouth in class, he’d have finished at worst only a few seconds behind Kevin. Maybe the final score would have been 24-31, just like he’d imagined. Whatever, St. Brendan’s clearly would have won, stupid jerks from Carsonville wouldn’t have had anything to say, the fight wouldn’t have happened, we’d be on our way to being league champs, and Alan wouldn’t be lying here with his face busted up and an injured ball. Tom let himself cry quietly and wondered what the rest of his teammates were thinking about him now. If they really are still my teammates, if I’m not kicked off the team for good. Tom’s face and eyes were smeared with exhaustion during the rest of his classes. He was so tired from lack of food and sleep that he didn’t even notice whether people were staring at him or not. The last lesson of the day was American History with Mr. Ostrander, who at least ignored Tom and didn’t call on him. At least the teacher didn’t try to make a big deal or get revenge by embarrassing him in front of everyone else. That was something, a small something at least. More than I deserve, Tom thought. Tom knew he couldn’t go to practice, so at 2:30 he just wandered back to his room, took off his clothes, and climbed up into bed. He hadn’t eaten hardly anything for 32 hours, hadn’t slept for 33, and hadn’t masturbated for 41. He took himself in his hand, and soon finished what he had to do physically. He cummed angrily and violently, without feeling his normal real pleasure. He then figured there was nothing more he could know today, no one else he could talk to or apologize to anymore. He finally let himself be taken over by the sleep instinct, and didn’t wake up, not even to piss, until the next morning’s breakfast. PART 19 “Hey, Tom, easy there,” said Ricky. “Food ain’t going nowhere. Damn, you’re a pig this morning!” Ricky made a couple snorting noises and shoved his friend’s head down into the plate. “I’m hungry,” Tom answered, his voice smothered by a third pile of pancakes inside his little mouth. “Last time I ate much was breakfast Thursday before all this shit happened.” “Yeah. Makes sense. Look, Tom, are you back better now? Is your head finally screwed on straight?” “I don’t know. All I know is Mr. Ostrander I guess talked to Coach yesterday, but I don’t know if I’m kicked off the team forever, or what the deal is. I told everyone I was sorry, and I really am. Wasn’t Mr. Ostrander’s fault if my head was somewhere else that day. I dunno. But what I did, that was big-time. No one’s told me anything yet.” “You’ll be fine. I mean it would be one thing if you were always like that, always dissed teachers to their faces, but you and Jeremy, you’re the school geniuses, goddamn angels. You fucked up once, you already took your suspension, they’ll let you back. World doesn’t stop turning, ya know. You’ll be all right. Just slow the hell down with the pancakes and oatmeal and eggs, Tom, you’re gonna bust your stomach open.” “Maybe. Thanks, Ricky. All I know is there’s always optional practice Saturday at 11:00. I’ll show up, see what happens. I hope you’re right.” Ricky soon took off on his bike to see a certain young lady, and at 10:55, Tom was standing outside the door to the cross-country section of the team locker room. Standing outside the door, listening and hiding. The guys were definitely in there, and he heard two strange Scottish voices. Cool, all right, at least Alan’s up. “Sho’ up, Kevin! Shut up or I’ll pound your teeth so far down yer throat ye’ll bite yer ain baws off!” “Sure, you’ll do just that. Just like you did to those Carsonville guys Thursday! Yeah, you focked ‘em over good, didn’t ya? I was worried that maybe your nose was injuring that poor ked’s fist! Maybe yer eye socket mighta bruised the guy’s knuckles, yeah, you’re a bad man!” Tom also heard sounds of bodies being slammed into lockers, and voices of Derek and Trey, who were playfully pounding on people. Those guys were slow, but strong. They never come to optional Saturday practices. Maybe they will from now on, if I’m gone from the team. All right, Tom figured. Can’t hide anymore, just walk in and you’ll find out what’s up. Now or never. Let’s go. Tom opened the door and walked in, which caused all noise and voices to stop. Six guys glared at him with fire in their eyes. Tom kept his head down, and was way too scared and ashamed to make eye contact. He opened his locker, took off his sneakers and pants, and put on his black nylon shorts. He was pulling his T-shirt over his head when the voice of Coach P broke the strained silence. “Gentlemen, get dressed and I’ll see you in the wrestling room in two minutes. Got a few things we need to talk about.” Each teacher had his own special techniques of manipulating the minds and actions of teenage boys. Each teacher had his mind games, his ways. Nothing evil about it, they were just techniques, methods of making these boys do what the adult wanted. One of Coach P’s techniques, carefully molded and honed over many years, was to set up situations where he’d let the boys decide on what course they’d follow. Let them pretend it was THEM making the decision. Let the adolescent boys feel proud, let ‘em feel that they had long penises. But Coach carefully set up the situation and the parameters beforehand, carefully chose his words and the options beforehand, so that the only possible outcome was the one that he wanted anyway. People might call Coach’s methods manipulative or inappropriate, but people who taught in prep school understood. The guys piled into the wrestling room, and all of them but Tom stretched out on the soft high-jump pit in the corner. Tom sat on the floor a few yards away. There was another man in another corner of the room, a skinny guy with graying hair that Tom barely noticed. “Guys, here’s the story. Unfortunately, unless about four or five of their runners have heart attacks or get run over by a bus, Carsonville’s gonna stay undefeated and take the league championship. Wish I could tell you otherwise, but you know I’d be lying. Here’s what we have left. We have two other dual meets against teams with losing records, teams we should take care of pretty easily. Then we have League Individuals, where there’s no team score, just personal results. Then finally, two weeks from today, we have the last meet of the year, Noga Championships on our home course.” The guys were quiet and listening hard. “I’ve been thinking about this, and I want to know your opinions now. I don’t see any reason to even enter us in League Individuals over at Calhoun. We’ll have already competed against all those people in dual meets. I’m wondering what you guys would think about skipping that thing and basically training through it, looking to peak at Noga.” Alan spoke up first. “Ya, yer right, Coach, we got nothin’ to prove as individuals anymore. Runnin’ against the same losers we take on in the reg’lar mayts, there’s no point. There’s only one meet left that means anythin’. Noga’s what we need.” The other guys on the high-jump pit voiced agreement. “All right,” added Coach, “I guess we’re all on the same page as far as that’s concerned. Now we have to start deciding who we want to have represent us at the big one. Which men in this room do we want to be our people at Noga?” “OH, I GET IT NOW!!” shouted Rick. “I know what you’re thinking, Coach, I’ve been with you four years, I know how you mess with us! You’re talking about that piece of shit freshman sitting there. That piece of shit who cost us our league championship! MY league championship, after training like a dog for four months, the most I’ve trained in my life! Fucking Tom, he gets all up in a teacher’s face, gets his ass suspended, and screws up this whole team! And we’re supposed to say, all right all right, let’s forgive him, it’s all cool now? All of a sudden it’s all cool? Not so goddamn simple, Coach. Not after what we’ve been through.” That got everyone quiet. Tom bent his head downwards, staring at the white stripe in the black rubber wrestling mat next to his feet. He knew Rick was right. What I did, you can’t turn stuff off and on. Four people put everything they have into this, and it’s all gone. Tom didn’t look up, but heard Alan’s voice, this time softer than usual. “Rick, we got nae other choice. I know what yer sayin’, and yer right, but guys, we’re goin’ nowhere without Tom. We got no chance to deew anythin’ at Noga without him. Let’s tell it the way it is, we all know it.” Alan then remembered something, and kept talking. He held out his hand to the big black kid next to him. “Derek, I mean no disrespect, it’s just that, well, five men score, you know…” Derek took Alan’s hand and smiled. “We’re good, Alan, I know where we’re at. Look, man, I had your back in the fight, and I’ll have your back next time and however many next times, but I mean, it’s pretty obvious. I mean you could have me running 23 minutes and something on our course, or you could have little freshman meat over there running low 15’s. No contest. We want this Noga, and look, all of us know I’m not the man who can take you there. I know what you top guys have put into this. All summer, then you guys at training camp, then all season so far. Don’t worry about me, it’s Tom who you need. I can’t help you at Noga.” Tom looked up at Derek and around at the others. They weren’t looking back at him, but were talking quietly amongst themselves. “All right,” said Coach slowly. “Anyone here disagree with what Alan and Derek just said?” Silence. “Rick? You OK with this?” All the runners, including Tom, stared at their fourth runner. Tom remembered that Rick was the first kid on campus except for Ricky who’d really been nice to him. Rick was the one who introduced him to the sport, the one who explained the rules and everything so long ago, on that day after Tom himself had taken a beating at the hands of Joey. Rick looked down at the green soft pit, then back at his coach, and nodded. Tom scooted his butt over a little closer to the high-jump pit. “Yeah, Coach. All’s said and done, it’s the way we have to go. Can’t look back, we gotta focus on what’s in front of us. I guess we have work to do today?” “I guess we do. OK, people, seven of you here today, here’s what we’ll do. Derek and Trey, I want you guys to do the Mill Road loop, and this time, RUN up the hill. I know you walk it most of the time, I want you to run it this time. That’ll be four miles. Alan, I’d like you to try two laps of the cross-country course if you can, only six miles, but I want you to take it very easy. No pushing it, just get your legs going gently. If you feel ANY discomfort, Alan, you just stop and you’ll begin training Monday. You guys know the deal?” Alan nodded and the three guys headed out the door. “Now Jeremy and Rick, you guys are with me. I have something special for you two.” “No no no no no!!” shouted Jeremy quickly. “We don’t need anything special, Coach, we don’t like special, we’ll take just ordinary, that’s cool with us!” “Did I say anything about liking? Since when did I mention relaxation and pleasure? You two wait for me outside, we’re gonna get you up two up close and personal with some hills! You know you have fun when you suffer!” Rick looked at Jeremy, and neither one quite understood Coach P’s warped concept of having fun. “Tom and Kevin, I want you two to go with Mr. Laird, you guys are gonna do some fartlek, the eight-mile course behind Brayton’s Hill. Then he’ll help you with a few straight-curve repeats on the track.” Huh? Then Tom realized who that other man was in the corner was. He was dressed in running clothes, but Tom hadn’t made any connection in his mind beforehand. He got up, and went over with Kevin, who was now smiling and seemed to have forgiven him. “Hey, Tom,” he said, “this is my old man, he’s gonna take us for our run, I guess.” Tom shook hands with Kevin’s father, but was really confused. My father can barely run four miles, and when he does, he’s like a three-toed sloth. Kevin’s father’s gonna take us for a run? I have to get back in real shape, I haven’t run hard since Tuesday. I’m gonna run with someone’s father, that’s weird. The three of them walked outside into the cool November day to stretch out. Tom knew nothing about Kevin’s father. Had no idea that their dad, who was now in the biochemistry research department at Georgia Tech, had competed in three separate Commonwealth Games, and once represented Great Britain in the Olympics. Sometimes the man had run the 5000 meters, other times the 3000-meter steeplechase. Tom had never heard of him. After all, in the one Olympics he’d qualified for, Mr. Laird was eliminated in the first round. But still, that didn’t mean that the guy was some sort of Galapagos turtle. He was now 43, and had competed in elite meets until age 38. Two years ago, he had also set a Scottish 40-and-over record in the 5000, a record which still stood. No, Mr. Laird wasn’t slow. Maybe getting old, but far from slow. Tom, however, knew none of this. Fartlek, the word Coach had used to describe the workout they’d do, was a Swedish word meaning “speed play”. It involved going on a run and constantly changing speeds, mixing hard bursts with more relaxing parts. St. Brendan’s cross-country team usually used it on the roads, having one person lead a charge to some point a few hundred meters off in the distance, some point like a faroff telephone pole or house. The kids took turns leading the “farts”, and no one was allowed to pass the kid who was leading the burst. But the guy leading had his pride, and busted serious ass. The kids, however, were often so exhausted after the 200-600 meter fart that they stopped and walked or caught their breath for a few seconds afterwards. Tom wondered how they were going to manage today, with Kevin’s old man joining them. Dad and Kevin were talking in some strange tongue that Tom couldn’t understand as they all ran out the school gates together. Hmmm, he’s not as slow as my father, he runs at normal speed. After about a mile, it seemed to Tom like a little more than normal speed. Damn, he figured, three days not running much, have I lost something, lost a bit of my endurance? “OK,” said Dad, “little fartlek today, kids. How ‘bout it, Kevin, where’s our first one headed, let’s have you!” Kevin got his long legs moving smoothly, increasing the turnover and speed bit by bit until he reached the fencepost he mentioned, the edge of the pasture with those cows. Maybe a bit more than a quarter-mile, and by the end, Tom’s body was on fire with pain. He looked to his side, and Mr. Laird was right there. He ran this whole thing? Wow. Kevin and Tom slowed to walking pace, heaving and panting. “What’s wrong with the two of ya?” shouted Dad, who seemed strangely to be not out of breath at all. “Kevin, Tom, is this a fartlek run or are we gonna just lay here and wank each other? Let’s go, we recover by running! Let’s move, this is cross-country!” Dad made the two boys alternate leading the farts for the next four miles, and Tom gave it everything he had on his, hoping to break free of the others. For God’s sake, he thought, the guy’s hair’s turning gray. Kevin and his father, I can’t get rid of them! The actual worst part wasn’t the farts, painful as they were. It was trying to recover from them on the run, not being able to fully catch his breath, and then having to speed up and get intense again, way too soon, with nowhere near enough rest. He was hurting badly, but knew he needed the pain. Inside three miles to go, he knew he could survive anything for that long. He did remember an old movie he saw once about a black guy who was a diver in the Navy. The guy’s commanding officer, a jerk and a racist, once said, “Be careful what you wish for, Cookie. You might get it.” Well, Tom knew he wanted more than anything to be on this team, on this team getting ready for Noga. But this stuff hurt. Hurt like all hell. “All right, boys, I guess I’ll take the last few intervals for you. Here we go, let’s work it hard til the seventh telephone pole.” Dad began to stretch out his stride, and the two kids struggled to keep close. Struggled hard, but the Scottish boy’s father was disappearing, farther and farther away, despite the kids almost sprinting the last 200 meters. Dad actually turned around, trotted back to where the boys were, and finished the interval again, this time telling the kids encouraging words. After five more agonizing farts and three more miles, they were back on campus, Tom and Kevin’s dead, brutalized bodies lying next to each other on the infield of the track. They didn’t know where Mr. Laird had disappeared to for the last couple minutes, but they didn’t much care either. Dad reappeared soon, with Rick and Jeremy at his side. “What’s the problem hair, did the tew of ya think we were fenished or somethin’? We got straights and curves yet to run, you know the routine, we sprint the straights, jog the curves, let’s get some speed in yer legs, get op!” Tom and Kevin rose to all fours, and bit by bit, with serious effort, somehow got vertical. “Uhh, Mr. Laird,” asked Jeremy, himself looking none too energetic after his special fun with Coach P. “How many straights and curves do we have to do?” “Let’s start with sixteen, that’ll be two miles, then we’ll see how you feel.” Rick didn’t expect any number remotely resembling 16. “Uhh, Mr. Laird sir, I can tell you right now how we’ll feel after just one. Why don’t we forget the science experiment part of this deal, we’ll rest til Monday? I think this is called child abuse.” “You guys know ya love it, don’ gimme these weak excuses. Rick and Jeremy, you two can aych have a one-second head start on every straight. Anyone finishes more than a second behind anyone else, the whole group repeats it. This team says they wanna dyew something at Noga? Let’s line up, let’s kick this pig.” Tom didn’t exactly know how he survived the 16, but Jeremy was clearly hurting even worse. Tom’s legs just didn’t seem physically able to turn over anymore, they just didn’t obey him. But somehow the killer training sesson ended. Tom did a half-mile trot with Kevin to cool down, and they both went inside. Just like a few weeks ago, Kevin did take off all his clothes, and brought his beautiful sexy naked body into the shower. Tom joined him, but was actually too exhausted and beaten down that he couldn’t even get his mind to get excited or horny about his teammate. Very strange, as his gay horniness could usually kick in no matter what. But not this day. Now he just wanted to let the sweet hot water flow over him, and then go take a serious nap. Both kids stayed in the beautiful steamy shower for close to 20 minutes. They did eventually emerge, and Tom looked at Kevin while the taller boy was putting on his shirt. “Kevin, I can’t believe what we just went through. What the hell is up with your dad?” “Yew should say him when he’s no’ slowing down to let us catch up to ‘im!” PART 20 Of the top five guys on the team, only Rick had ever participated in a Noga Championship cross-country race. Wasn’t something that could easily be described. It was gonna be a complete zoo, as 51 teams had signed up for the boys’ race and 48 teams for the girls’. Add coaches, parents, fans, reporters, TV people to all this, the campus was going to be overrun. They changed the starting time of the football team’s home game to a strange 9 AM so that scene could clear out before all the cross-country people arrived. The school had rented out a farmer’s empty field off-campus for parking. The boys’ race would have over 300 guys, and St. Brendan’s had to make a couple changes in the course, changing the starting line to a much, much wider area to accommodate the mob, and also making the runners go about 200 more meters before they entered the woods to reduce the bottleneck as the trail narrowed. They’d reduce the finishing stretch by the same distance. The finish line and timing devices would be all computerized, unlike normal meets where coaches simply wrote down people’s times as they finished and added up the scores. As Coach Prszeczkopowski had mentioned so many times, St. Brendan’s had never won a Noga cross-country championship before, and had never once even finished in the top 3. He’d gone over everything with the kids the previous night, even taking them off-campus (for pizza!) so he’d get their full attention. Two teams, the Carsonville Rebels and the defending champion Dalton Wolfpack, were undefeated coming into the meet. Two runners from other schools were so far undefeated as individuals. Coach stressed to the boys that there would be literally thousands of people on campus tomorrow, including most of their parents, but it was paramount to not let any of that outside stuff distract them—the kids knew what they had to do, and they’d have to be concentrating fully. “Look, guys, we’ve come a long way this year. 12 wins, 2 losses, plenty of ups and downs. I’m proud of you as runners and proud of you as young men. Tomorrow, well, this may be the biggest challenge some of you guys have had in your lives.” Coach looked around at the five boys he knew so well, boys that he’d been all over since the end of August. They were listening to everything, and Coach noticed something different about Jeremy and Tom. Different, though nothing unexpected. “Hey, Tom, Jeremy, you guys scared?” The two smart kids looked at each other, and their expressions changed just a bit. “I dunno, Mr. P,” said Jeremy. “Maybe a little. I mean by now I’ve been in plenty of races, but nothing like this. I mean you’re talking all these people, reporters, TV, and we’ve gotta beat everyone, not just one team. We’ve all worked so damn hard, and Tom, he’s like crazy obsessed with this…yeah, I’m scared. Not scared in a bad way, but it’s just, I dunno, I’m like all hyper and can’t get this out of my head. And you know, we don’t have a sixth or seventh runner as backup. If just one of us has a bad race, we got no chance. My stomach feels weird.” “You guys know it’s because of me, that day when I got stupid, that we’re not league champions,” added Tom. “I just wanna make it up, just get this thing tomorrow. I know we’ve all done what it takes in training, no way any team has put in the hurt that we have, I guess we’re ready and all. I just want the race to get here, this waiting for it really sucks. Thanks for the pizza, Coach, but my stomach still can’t calm down.” “Well, kids, we used to call that ‘butterflies’ back in my day. It’s good, it’s good. Means you want this thing badly, means you really care. All right, guys, I guess I’ve fed you your pizza, done all I can for now. Let’s head back to school, sleep as best you can, and all we need is tomorrow.” Ricky was patient that evening as he listened to his hyperactive roommate describe everything about what would happen Saturday. Saturday would be Ricky’s 15th birthday, but like Tom, Ricky didn’t like to tell people or make a big deal of it. Ricky knew that Jeremy was right when he always said Tom was way too wound up about all this, but then again, hey, if anyone deserved a championship, Tom did. Ricky had seen a couple of Tom’s track races the previous spring, but had never watched a cross-country race, as he almost always had basketball practice when they were going on. But of course he’d go see this one. Jenny and her tongue and her sexy tits would have to wait til next week, unless she could sneak out Sunday. “Coach said a key tomorrow is that me and Kevin can’t let anyone get between us. The way to win a big meet with tons of schools is to pack your runners together, have as little space as possible between runners one through five. I’ve beaten Kevin, uh, twice I think, though usually he finishes ahead of me by maybe 5 or 10 seconds. He always starts fast, goes out hard, kinda the same way as his brother, though not THAT wild. In most races I can always see him up there, bring him back closer to me bit by bit. But here, I guess I’ll have to pick my way through a whole lot of other kids, I won’t really know where he is until I get back near him. And Rick has to stay as close as possible to us, hopefully only about 30 seconds back, and Jeremy’s maybe the most important guy of all. I mean if he’s not in the top 100, we’re screwed.” “All right, all right, Tom. Well, I’m not supposed to pray to Jesus for stuff like winning hoop games or for you to win races, but maybe tonight I’ll cheat a little, ask what He can do for ya. I mean He made blind guys see, made dead guys live, a Noga race sure seems doable if He feels like it. Are your parents coming?” “Yeah, so are everyone’s but Rick’s ‘cause he’s from Pennsylvania, too far away. But Coach said he doesn’t want us to see them til after the race, doesn’t want us to get distracted. He’s right, it’s better that way. All right, Ricky, I’m gonna shut up now…” “Halle Goddamn Lujah!!! ‘Bout time!” “Fuck off!” Tom giggled. “OK, Tom, get some sleep, and you know I’m with you tomorrow. All the way, man. Goodnight.” Ricky thought for awhile, but decided not to pray to Jesus for the Cougars to win the championship. Wouldn’t be fair, like what if some of the guys on the other teams were Christians and they were praying the same thing for their schools? Not like Jesus is supposed to play favorites or pick the most holy team or nothing. And He’s got way more important stuff to do, like make people stop killing each other in Iraq and other places. But I bet He’ll be watching the race. I’ll just pray that He lets Tom and the other St. Brendan’s guys do their best, no one gets hurt, and at the end everybody’s happy and proud. Yeah, that’ll work. And the blond boy’s lips began to move as he spoke silently. The early part of Saturday passed in a sort of blur for Tom. He wasn’t hungry for much breakfast, and Mr. P had asked the team to gather in the sports complex at 11:00. He wanted the guys under his control, where he knew where they were, well away from the confusion and distraction of thousands of people arriving on campus, well away from their parents for now. They did some stretching out together, went for a little swim, tried to sleep a bit while lying on the soft high-jump pit, and listened to Coach (who was as nervous as they were) tell them stuff that they already knew. “Look, Tom,” the old man said, “I know you usually go out pretty conservatively, your style is to come from behind, hunt people down as the race goes on, and I don’t expect you to change that for today. But it’s not going to be so easy today with so many guys in the race. Every time you pass someone on those narrow trails, you’re using a bit more energy, maybe breaking your stride just a tiny bit, maybe you’ll have to work getting around two or more guys at a time or wait for a wider part of the trail. I don’t want to see you trying to weave your way through 70 or 80 runners. 30 or 40 kids maybe, but not more. You’re not going to go out with Alan or Kevin, of course, but I want to see your first mile about 10 or 15 seconds faster than usual. You’ll have the energy, you’re in shape and you’re excited. Today, don’t be quite so conservative in that first mile.” Coach gave other kids some more individual advice, and he asked if everyone was ready. There was no big scream, no big talk from a guy like Teddy Bear, no hands together in the middle of a circle. Just everyone staring at each other, staring and glaring, breathing a little bit harder. Coach petted Jeremy’s neck and nodded. The guys walked from the dark wrestling room out into the bright late fall sunlight, out where thousands of people were already gathered. Tom had completely forgotten that his parents and his dog were there. To him at that moment, there were only four other people in the world. No one else mattered or existed except his teammates. Gotta put up or shut up, this is it. Each |