Stick Page 10

  “What don’t you know, Preston?”

  He shrugged. “It’s all public record.”

  We sat in the dark, the silence comfortable as we watched the late-night traffic go in and out of the store. Preston wasn’t one for small talk, and after a few minutes, he buried his nose in his phone.

  “Bored?” I said.

  He kept his eyes on the phone. “No. A man in a blue Accord just parked on the side street across from the place. I’m looking up his license plate.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s sitting there doing what we’re doing, and there are only two reasons for that. I somehow don’t think stopping crime is on his mind.”

  “Maybe he’s just stopping to get something.”

  “Across the street? When the parking lot is nearly empty?” he said, tapping his phone. “Connor Tatum. Thirty-one years old. Convicted of shoplifting, theft, grand larceny, and strong-arm robbery. Get ready.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No.”

  A thrill went through me as I watched the car. I felt like I was on some sort of reality show like Cops, just with a hundred-and-seventeen-pound kid dressed in a costume instead of fully trained officers who knew what they were doing. “So what do we do?”

  Just as he put his mask on, the Accord’s door opened and a man got out. “We see what happens.”

  My heart raced as the man pulled his hood over his head and strode across the parking lot to the front door. “No, I mean, do we go in now? Stop it?”

  “We wait until it’s over, then detain him. Statistically, interrupting a crime like this in progress endangers the victim more than the crime itself does.”

  The man reached the building and went inside. We watched as he spoke to the cashier. Then all hell broke loose.

  Just as the man took his hand from his pocket, the cashier literally launched himself over the counter, tackling the guy and driving him into a rack of Hostess doughnuts. Blood pounded in my ears and I tightened as the two men went down and out of sight. “Preston…”

  “Change of plans,” he calmly said, dialing 911 and opening his door. “Yes. Robbery in progress. Fourth and Stevens.” He hung up and threw his phone on the seat.

  In the next moment I was out of the car, running after Preston. His cape flapped in the night air. As we neared the store, there was the crack of a gunshot, and I slowed, fear stabbing through me. “Preston! NO! He’s got a gun!” I screamed.

  Preston kept running, and when he flung the door open, this exciting little adventure stopped being anything but terrifyingly real and ugly. This wasn’t a game, and the reality that Preston wasn’t playacting at being a superhero hit me square in the stomach. He was willing to risk his life for what he believed in. For his guilt. For his father.

  Something in me snapped, and I sprinted again. Not to the car, not away, not to my home and my bedroom and my safe life. I ran after my friend. My crazy friend.

  I hit the door and saw the blood. Dark and thick, pooling from underneath the body of the cashier. The floor was strewn with doughnuts, candy bars, beer cans, and bags of chips. A stainless steel pistol gleaming in the fluorescent lights caught my eye. The remnants of pepper spray stung my eyes.

  Preston was struggling furiously with the robber. They were next to the condiment section, and bottles of mayonnaise, catsup, and mustard were flying everywhere. He’d somehow disarmed the man, and as I jumped to help him, two little girls and a woman, all in nightgowns, rushed from around a corner at the back of the store and began shrieking and screaming at the sight of the cashier lying in a pool of blood.

  Preston, now sprawled on top of the guy, and with what looked like catsup and mustard smeared on his face, frantically reached into a pouch on his belt and took out his Taser. “Z-z-zip ties,” he stammered, looking at me as he jammed the Taser against the man’s exposed belly.

  I blinked, not understanding. The man suddenly stiffened, a silent scream frozen on his face.

  “Zip ties! GET THE FUCKING ZIP TIES!” Preston screamed, and I was jolted out of my frozen terror.

  Yanking at the pair of white plastic zip ties on Preston’s belt, I knelt over the still-being-electrocuted guy and grabbed his wrists, sliding the ties over his hands and cinching them tight.

  Without a breath, Preston heaved himself from the guy and scrambled through the mess to the cashier. He leaned over the man and ripped open the bloody T-shirt. “Help me. It’s through the chest.” Blood pumped from the wound in tandem with the heart, spilling his life away. Preston jammed his finger into the hole. “It went all the way through. Reach under his back, find the exit wound, and stuff your finger in it. He’s bleeding to death.”

  I did so, feeling the sticky, slick texture of the blood. I gritted my teeth. I almost retched. “It’s big. Bigger than my finger.”

  “Use two fingers. Just get it plugged.”

  Sirens howled closer, and as the woman and two girls crowded around, Preston looked at the woman. “No morira.”

  She gazed back at him, then nodded. “Eres valiente. Gracias,” she said, then cupped her husband’s head in her hands and kissed his brow. “Gracias.”

  —

  Two hours after the paramedics took Manuel to the hospital and the police had interviewed us, with Preston blithely telling them he’d been at a costume party and happened to be in the store when the shooting occurred, I sat in my bedroom. Picking up my phone, I Googled “No morira.” It meant “He won’t die” in Spanish. Then I looked up “Eres valiente.”

  “You are brave.”

  BRETT PATTERSON, STAR RECEIVER

  FOR THE HAMILTON SAXONS,

  TRANSFERS TO LEWIS AND CLARK

  I read the sports section headline on my phone as I sat in the parking lot before practice. Word traveled fast. There wasn’t anything in the news about the shooting last night, and it didn’t escape me that a father of two could almost die in an armed robbery and it was ignored, but me switching teams made headlines.

  I’d left before my dad woke up, thanking heaven for an early getaway, and as I got out of my car and headed toward the gym, I pushed him as far out of my mind as possible. I was here for one thing: playing ball.

  I knew a few guys on the team, but the two I needed to know, I didn’t. One was the quarterback, a six-foot-five beanpole named Ben Lynch, who was known for passing long balls better than most. He had a hell of an arm, but he couldn’t run worth anything. The other was Jordan Appleway, their star receiver.

  Tension filled me as I neared the doors, and I stopped, taking a few breaths.

  “Patterson.”

  I turned, and a guy stood up from a bench by the entrance. Ben Lynch. He smiled, the Adam’s apple on his long neck bobbing as he talked. “Coach told me to meet you. Show you around.”

  We shook hands. Dressed in faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and work boots, he looked like an incredibly tall farm boy. He talked like one, too, drawling his words like a weathered ranch hand. I nodded. “Thanks.”

  He laughed. “You might as well have set off a nuclear bomb in this town. Shit hit the fan, for sure, and it’s just going to get worse.”

  After what had happened at the convenience store, the meaning of “shit hit the fan” was forever changed, and it didn’t include a football game. “Things change, huh?”

  He showed me inside. “Whole team knew it by ten last night. You see the news this morning?”

  I held up my phone. “Yeah. Sort of stupid, huh?”

  He led me down the corridor, laughing. “It might be a game, but people take this crap seriously. You do know that three thousand Saxon fans hate your guts right about now? And that doesn’t include every guy in town that went to Hamilton for the last fifty years.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, pretty well aware of that one.”

  He opened the door to the locker room and showed me my space. He pointed to the locker. “Suit’s inside. And no worries. Coach says you’re a Tiger, you’re a Tiger. We got your back long
as you got ours. Even if you did play for Hamilton.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. I’d seen my friends turn on me in the course of a weekend, and besides an overriding anger toward Tilly and Killinger, no matter how much I didn’t want to admit it, it hurt. Especially Mike. “Thanks,” I said, sitting on the bench and unlacing my sneakers.

  He paused, then went on. “You got anything to tell me about their defense?”

  “Yeah. They play it well.”

  He grinned wide, then pointed to his face. “Know what this is?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s a shit-eatin’ grin. Test passed. Coach told me to say that. Welcome to the Tigers.” He clapped me on the back, then wandered off down the aisle, laughing.

  I opened my locker. The orange and black of the Tigers greeted me, and I looked at the shiny new uniform, thinking of Preston. I could do this. If he could walk the ledge, so could I.

  As the locker room filled, a few guys came by to introduce themselves. All nice guys, and the locker room was just like usual. Guys jabbing each other, throwing out good-natured insults, talking shit about hot girls. Nobody called me Stick until a black kid, black as midnight and with a swagger to his walk, came up to me. No handshake, no smile, just a neutral stare. He looked me up and down. “My oh my. I bet all the girls love you.”

  I had no response to that.

  “They call you Stick, right?” His voice was high, and his words tumbled out smooth and fast.

  “Yeah.”

  He sat down on the bench, straddling it. “You ain’t Stick here.”

  I laced my cleats. “Okay.”

  “I know you,” he said. “I watch your tapes, read the articles, hear everybody talk. You’re good. Better than me.”

  I straightened from my cleats, turning to him, ready for the usual. First-string wide receiver Jordan Appleway, the guy I was gunning for, didn’t seem to be a nice guy. More like an arrogant prick, which reminded me of Lance. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, oh yeah. But that doesn’t mean diddly. You’ve got to earn it. Nothing free, and you ain’t walking on that field without walking over me first.” He stood up, smiling even wider. “You ain’t Stick till you earn Stick. I play for this team, not for me. You do the same, you got first spot. Plain and simple, babyface. Play for the team. My team.”

  I stood up, and he did, too. “Yeah.”

  He put his hand out. I shook it. Jordan Appleway wasn’t the person I thought he would be. And I would—I would play for the team. And I would kick his ass in the process.

  He laughed. “You think you got me, babyface. You manage to kick me down, I’m all butt-hurt, right? Naw.” He shook his head. “I’ll still be first string, just right side.” He pointed down the aisle to a brown-haired kid suiting up who was glancing at us uncomfortably. “Dillon Yance, otherwise known as Sponge. He’s all we got besides me. He’s the one you’re going to kick down to second string. Got horseshoes on his feet and clay in his head, but we ain’t got nothing else, and he’s a good guy.”

  I smiled. Jordan Appleway was a different person, and I liked it. “Got it.”

  Practice was grueling, as usual, and even though I struggled with new plays and players, I reminded myself why I was doing this. The right way. My way. And any coach who didn’t put you on the brink of heart failure getting ready for a game wasn’t a coach. Coach Larson was well aware of it, and had no trouble breaking the new guy in.

  Though I was awkward and uncomfortable being on the Tigers’ field, thoughts of betrayal and retribution disappeared, and I smiled as we drilled through plays. The old feeling was back. I was busting my ass because it was fun.

  Thirty minutes into practice, I noticed that the attitude of the Tigers was different. Definitely competitive, the guys slung challenging insults back and forth constantly, but there wasn’t an edge to it. Then I realized why. Coach Larson could bellow and rage with the best of them, but he never made it personal. He didn’t belittle players like Coach Williams did, and for every time he raked somebody over the coals for a missed step or bad play, he slapped a back or clapped for a good one. He also laughed.

  I didn’t know that football coaches were capable of laughing.

  While Coach put me through the cycle, Ben Lynch, tall, gangly, and seemingly uncomfortable in his body, was actually much more disciplined than Killinger. Every step was calculated, every throw was timed perfectly, and he had a natural feel for the motion of the game. He wasn’t as talented as Killinger, but he made up for it with precision. He was also a nice guy.

  Jordan Appleway, on the other hand, called me babyface no less than a dozen times, and trash-talked me up and down, all with a smile. By the sweat on this face and the hustle he gave Coach, he was holding true to his word. He was fighting hard for top position.

  I was, too.

  —

  At lunch and while searching for my new classes, I found it nice to be mostly anonymous. Lewis and Clark didn’t live and breathe football, and I guessed that not even ten percent of the students knew who I was. Just a new kid. It was almost like I’d moved to a different city, really, and it didn’t take me long to notice that the whole vibe at LC was different. There were cliques, sure, but they weren’t as rigid here. I saw skaters hanging with jocks, punks walking down the halls with drama geeks, and teachers talking casually with students.

  I decided I liked it, even though my stomach squirmed whenever I thought of my old team.

  By fourth period, I had fourteen texts. By fifth period I had twenty. By the time I left school, thirty-five texts told me I was a traitor, an asshole, a faggot, a turncoat. Two of them, one from Killinger and one from Tilly, said I should watch my back.

  Every player on the Hamilton team had texted me, some more than once. Except for one person. Mike. He called me.

  I picked up, and he didn’t wait a second. “You really did it, huh?” he yelled. “You couldn’t just quit. You couldn’t just ruin our season, huh? You had to do this? The Tigers? You are the biggest dick in the world, Brett.”

  I listened, heard the anger and hate in his voice, and took a breath. I realized also that when the Tigers played Hamilton, Mike would be covering me as a defensive end. “I take it we’re not friends anymore, then?” I said.

  “Friends? You’re kidding me, man. Friends don’t do this.”

  “When did football become more important than us, Mike?”

  “Listen, Brett, I don’t know what we are, but I know you ruined any slight chance I had at playing college ball. You get that—right? I know I’m not good enough to go pro, but scouts were noticing us, and if we had bagged another championship, I would have had a shot.”

  How many nights had we sat talking about college? About playing together? About scholarships? We’d talk for hours, dreaming about stadiums and crowds, but never this way. “I’m sorry about that, Mike, but I’m not playing ball for any of those reasons now.”

  “And you call yourself a friend?” he replied, acid on his tongue.

  “Yeah, I do. And a good one. But I’m not responsible for you. You are.”

  “So you dump on me. And the team. Great.”

  “You do know that Coach Williams watched Tilly and Killinger gang up on Preston?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And I’m not playing for a man like that. He’s the kind of coach that ruins this game. And you know what? Even after my first practice this morning, I see that, and I don’t know how I was so blind for the last three years about it. I love this game, Mike, and I’m not going to let other people ruin it for me anymore. If you can’t understand that, I’m sorry.”

  His voice softened. “Tilly and Killinger—hell, half the team—are after you now. And it’s not just you. Killinger has a major ax to grind with your new little buddy.”

  “Preston doesn’t have anything to do with this, Mike. And besides, you have no idea what he is. Who he is.”

  “Yeah, well, you tell that to Lance. The kid is open
game as far as the team is concerned.”

  “Including you?” I said.

  Silence. “If there’s anybody I’d like to beat the crap out of, it’s you.” He paused, then sighed. “We had state in the bag.”

  “This isn’t about football anymore, Mike, and you know it,” I said, then hung up.

  I called Preston three times after talking with Mike, and a surge of panic rose in me when he didn’t answer. I had visions of destruction rolling through my head as I got in my half-convertible car. I’d seen Killinger and Tilly work their magic on unsuspecting nerds and geeks, and I knew full well that they weren’t going after Preston to humiliate him.

  They were going after him to hurt him.

  Tracking Preston down was becoming a habit, and I ground my teeth in frustration as I drove to his place. I buzzed his apartment, and his mom answered.

  “Hello, Mrs. Underwood. It’s Brett. Is Preston home?”

  “Brett, I don’t think this is a good time…,” she began, and then I heard a male voice in the background tell her to buzz me up. A short conversation, muffled, followed. “Come on up, Brett.”

  When I reached the top floor, I knocked on the door, and it swung open so quickly that it startled me. Tom stood there, dressed like a glorified used-car salesman. He smiled, leaning forward, but there was ice in his eyes. “Well, if it isn’t Brett Patterson, in person. Come on in!” he said, the tone of his voice like a viper ready to strike.

  “Is Preston here?” I said, but it went unanswered as Tom walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open.

  I stepped in, quietly closing the door behind me, and Mrs. Underwood came in from the kitchen. She smiled, but the lines around her mouth were tense. “Preston is in his room,” she said, nodding pointedly down the hall.

  I turned to head down to his room, but Tom’s voice boomed from the living room. “Things sure change quickly, eh, Patterson?”

  I stopped, the hair on the back of my neck standing and my scalp prickling. “They do, sir.”

  He came in sight, raising his arm and leaning his elbow against the living room entry. “Three thousand dollars,” he said, then shook his head and grinned again. The glint in his eyes sharpened, and he reminded me of a laughing hyena ready to go in for the kill. “Three thousand dollars on a game you aren’t going to play.”