Crackback (9 page)

Twenty-three is my favorite number. I've always liked it, but last year when I chose it as my football number, I began to
be
23. It isn't a double number, like 33 or 44, which are so popular. It's not divisible like 24 or 32. It's prime.

Once I became 23, I noticed the number more. I got my first interception at Deer Rapids on the twenty-three yard line. I got 23 out of 25 on my algebra quiz three times in a row. I started setting my alarm for 6:23. Waking to 23 made it easier to start the day.

Often, when 23 is present, things go well. When 23 isn't there, things go bad. In August on jersey day, I was set for 23. Starters choose first, but when my turn came, Coach Stahl said, “There's no 23. You have to pick another number.”

“Who got 23?”

“Nobody. We didn't get a 23 this year.”

Coach Sepolski should have made sure we got 23. That's my number. That's me.

“You have to pick another number, Manning.”

No other number comes close to 23.

“How about 24?” Stahl asked.

That's even and divisible by a ton of numbers. “No, not 24.”

“Pick something then. You're holding up the line.”

“How about 29?”

“No 29, either. Here's 42. We have to keep moving.”

I examined 42. It's divisible by 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, 14, 21, and 42. It's an even number. The 4 feels too straight and rigid. After everybody finished, I went back. “Coach, I don't think 42 is right. Are there any numbers left?”

“Only this.” Stahl held up 94.

A lineman's number. That's worse. “I'll stay with 42.”

Some people don't believe certain numbers are better than others. Some people think the whole idea of having a favorite number is weird. But football players know there's a right number for them.

I tried to get used to 42, to adjust to it. But when Coach Stahl told me there was no 23, I should have known that was a sign of how things were going to go this season.

Lucia's kneeling at her locker, and I'm excited to see her.

“Hey, Lucia, how you doing?”

“Good, Miles.” She's rolling a purple mat and stuffing it inside a black mesh bag.

“What's that?” I try to sound relaxed.

“My yoga mat. I take a class through Community Ed.”

“What do you do?”

“Basic poses, balance, flexibility, strength. It might help with football. You should try it.”

“Maybe.” I'd like to watch Lucia stretch, but I can't imagine myself standing on one leg in a yoga class.

I want to ask her if she was watching practice, but I'll be embarrassed if she wasn't. I need to know, though. “Were you at football yesterday?”

“Yes. I wanted to see.” She pulls her hair back and wraps a turquoise band around it. I like it when she does that. She looks good in that black sweater.

“What did you think?”

“It's hard to tell who's who with those pads and helmets.”

“Could you figure out who I was?” I kneel down beside her.

“Yes. They kept calling you Man. That's short for Manning?”

“Yeah.” I'm glad she noticed.

“I like that.” Lucia stuffs her English book in her backpack.

“I like the name Lucia. I like how it slides out of the mouth, Loosha.”

She smiles. “It means ‘light' in Italian.”

“That's cool. Does Lombrico mean anything?”

Lucia scrunches up her face. “It means ‘earthworm.'”

“Even
earthworm
sounds good in Italian.”

“You think so?” She closes her locker.

“Lombrico, Lombrico, Lombrico. Sounds great.”

Lucia laughs. “I saw you intercept that pass and run all the way down the field. I could see your joy.”

Joy. That's a word coaches never use. That's exactly the feeling I had. Joy. “I'm glad you saw it.”

“Then I got self-conscious,” she says. “Nobody else was watching.” Lucia stands, so I do, too.

I take a piece of paper and a pen from my pack. My mind's jumping. “Lucia, what's your phone number?”

Her cell phone ends in 23. That's a very good sign. At her dad's, the number ends in 5, which is 2 plus 3, and at her mom's the first digit is a 2 and the last is a 3. She's giving me all her numbers. She must want me to call.

“Those are good numbers.”

“You're into numbers?” Lucia slings her pack over one shoulder and lifts her violin and the bag with her yoga mat over the other.

“Yeah, certain ones I like a lot.”

“You're different, Miles.” Those green eyes dance and I wait for more. “I like that.”

Watching a football game on the sideline in the rain is a drag. Keaton's playing okay, but I'd do better. I hope he screws up or gets injured. Nothing broken, just enough so he'd have to come out. I know that's not right, but I wish I was out there. I'd sure be warmer than I am standing here.

In the fourth quarter, with the game tied 7-7, a Downsville receiver catches the ball in front of our bench. Keaton dives for his legs. The receiver skips over him and runs into the end zone.

“What kind of tackle is that?” Stahl shouts. “A cheerleader could do better. Keaton, go to the bench.”

I snap my chin strap to go in.

“Baker, get in for Keaton on the extra point.”

I'm stunned. Baker's a sophomore who's never played varsity. I can't believe it. It doesn't matter what I do; Stahl's not going to play me. The rain falls harder.

It's third and seven at the Downsville twenty with 1:13 on the clock. Fox hands off to Monson, who follows Tyson. Downsville defenders slip and slide, but Monson churns ahead.

“Dig, Monson,” Zach hollers.

Tyson rumbles downfield and flattens two guys with one block. Monson splashes into the end zone. Touchdown.

It's 14-13. We're down by one. Stahl calls Fox over.

What would Sepolski do? He'd kick the extra point for the tie and go to overtime.

“Go for two for the win.” Stahl taps Fox on the butt. “Run the reverse pass.” What kind of play is that to run in the rain?

“Down, set, hit.” Fox hands to Monson on a sweep. Downsville defenders pursue. Monson hands to Brooksy on a reverse. Brooksy runs left, but defenders close in. He slips, regains his balance, and flips a pass to the end zone. Fox is wide open and makes the catch. The referee raises his hands. Confluence wins: 15-14. The few people who are left in the stands scream and hug each other under their umbrellas.

Guys swarm the field and tackle Fox and Brooksy. Zach points at me. “Gutsy call by Coach Stahl. I told you he could coach.”

I'm glad we won, but I didn't contribute anything. My jersey's clean. No dirt. No blood. No grass stains. As if I weren't here. As if I weren't on the team. I stand off to the side watching everybody else congratulate the stars.

“You ever been shining?” Sam asks after the game.

“What's shining?”

“You starters with your single-minded worship at the altar of football have no idea how many aspects of the full high school experience you're missing. C'mon, we'll introduce you to the wide world of shining.”

I don't feel like going to Izzy's after not playing, so I'm happy to be invited. At Taco King, we meet Toilet and Cooper. Toilet's real name is Jeremy Bohl, but he's been called Toilet forever. Both he and Cooper start on the soccer team. They both call Sam “Gatherer” rather than “Hunter.”

“Can you run?” Cooper looks me over.

“Yeah, sure.”

“You know those football players,” Toilet says. “They like a rest every play.”

After Jumbo Burritos, we drive south in Sam's van to Oxbow Lake. “The two elements in a successful shining operation are surprise and creativity,” Sam says. “Come to think of it, those are two essential elements in most things.” Sam's drumming on the steering wheel as he
talks. “I've got an idea for a double barricade, but first we need to show Miles a basic procedure. Let's call it Shining 101.”

Sam knows the park like his own backyard. He points to a car at the end of the road. “Parker on the overlook.”

Sam pulls the van behind some trees. “Here's a flashlight, Miles. We'll sneak up. When Toilet gives the signal, shine your light on the happy couple. No telling what you'll see.”

I can't believe they're doing this—that I'm doing this. Because the leaves are wet, it's easy to stay quiet as we move from tree to tree. When Toilet waves his arm, we jump out and shine our lights. A couple break their embrace in the backseat and blink at the lights. It's Troy Gratz and Claire Hudson. Troy reaches for his glasses and Claire buttons up her shirt. Troy's a puny junior in chorus. I've always thought Claire was hot. What's she doing with him?

“All clear, Throckmorton,” Cooper says in a deep voice. “It's not your grandmother. Carry on, you two. Sorry for any inconvenience. We had reports Throckmorton's grandma was out here.”

“This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine,” Sam sings as we walk back to the van. I feel a mixture of embarrassment and excitement, like I'm playing a game and don't know the rules.

We pile into the van and Sam drives past the empty beach. “Double barricade time,” he says. “Twice the fun.” He slows on a hairpin curve. “Here's the first spot. Let's collect a bunch of stuff and set it beside the road.”

The rain has stopped and it feels good to move after standing on the sideline. Toilet brings in an old section of wooden fence. Cooper rolls a cedar log. Sam's found two tires. I've got a couple of small branches.

“You've got to do better than that, Miles, my Man,” Sam says. “We're building a barricade. Pretend it's the French Revolution.”

I find a dead Christmas tree in the ditch and drag it back.

“That's better,” Sam says.

We pile stuff behind lilac bushes at the side of the road.

“Hop in, men. We're going, men, to the lower spot, men. Nothing less, men, than total commitment, men. Don't be the seventeenth loser or the nineteenth loser. Remember, men, altitude plus bad food equals altitude sickness.”

Toilet and Cooper look confused, but Sam's got Stahl's voice and gestures down. I'm laughing so hard, I'm afraid I'll piss my pants.

“Shining is for reactors, men. Brain surgery, men, is for thinkers.” Sam taps his head. “If you're doing brain
surgery, men, don't react. If you're shining, men, don't think.” He claps his hands.

Cooper shakes his head. “Aren't you glad you don't play football, Toilet?”

Sam parks and we all gather more brush and branches. “Here's the plan,” he says. “We'll make a wall of this stuff. A couple out for a drive will be shocked to see a barricade. They'll turn around, which will take a while because the road is so narrow. While they're doing that, we'll build another barricade back at the first spot. They'll be trapped.”

“Good plan, Gatherer.” Cooper starts pulling stuff, and we join in.

After the barricade stretches across the road, we go back to the first spot. We stand together and wait. The woods smell of pine and wet leaves. We hear a car.

“Showtime, boys,” Sam says. “Make sure you're hidden.”

I duck behind an old oak and feel the bark with my hands. A red Expedition drives by. “Perfect,” Sam whispers.

We scramble to make the barricade. Past the curve, I hear the SUV turning around. All four of us lift the section of fence on the barricade, then duck behind trees.

The SUV comes around the curve, races up the hill, then slams on the brakes. Toilet and Cooper are already laughing.

“Lambert and Carlson,” Sam whispers. “Beautiful.”

Jason Lambert's a senior swimmer who's a complete jerk. Courtney Carlson's even worse. They both look scared.

“Ouuuuuuuuuuuu, ouuuuuuuuuuu.” Toilet makes owl sounds.

“Caaaaaaaaaa, caaaaaaaaaa.” Cooper's a crow.

Lambert panics and punches through the barricade on the side. Branches scratch against the side of the SUV as he gets hung up. He drives back, forward, back, forward, before he's free.

“Ayyyyeeeeeeeee, ayyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee.”

“What's that?” I ask Sam.

“A hyena.”

“Why would a hyena be out here?”

“That's what makes it so scary.”

I can't help laughing.

“I'd love to be there,” Sam says, “to hear Lambert tell Daddy why the Expedition's scratched up.”

After hauling branches and running through the woods, I feel like I've had a workout, as if I played a game.

These guys are different. They're seniors, but they're not into partying and trying to be popular. They don't care about fitting in or what other people think. How different from Tyson's party two weeks ago.

Sam drops me off at my house. “Thanks, Sam. That was fun.”

“Yeah, Beyond. That's a good initiation.”

I don't get it until he's driven off. A new name. Miles Beyond. I like it.

I get up at 11:30 Saturday morning. Downstairs, I find a note from Mom on the kitchen table:

Miles,

Martha's at Kelsey's. I'm going to the mall. I'll be back for lunch.

Mom

I unwrap a breakfast bar and hear the mailbox slam. I go to check. Bills, credit cards, and a magazine in a brown cover. Addressed to me. What's this?

Inside,
Testosterone Extra
has a glossy close-up of a bicep: “G
ET THE
M
USCLES
C
HICKS
D
IG
.” Where did this come from? Then I remember clicking that box for a trial issue.

One headline asks, “D
O
Y
OU
W
ANT
M
USCLES
L
IKE THE
F
INEST
T
HOROUGHBRED
?” The small print says a product developed for horses is now available to “hard-core
athletes interested in peak performance.” Developed for horses?

Another article describes turning steroid pellets into powder to prepare them for injection. “Pick up pellets dirt cheap at livestock stores.” Some guys will do anything. The article also recommends drugs to get “hard wood” when you're experiencing “equipment failure” from taking steroids.

“O
RDER
N
OW
—R
ISK
F
REE
.” I don't think so. Taking drugs developed for horses or livestock isn't risk free. I bury the magazine deep in the trash. That's the last thing I want Mom finding. She'd totally freak.

I've still got those steroids from Zach. I hurry upstairs and take the packet from the drawer. I don't need these. I dump them in the toilet and flush. The pink pills whirl around the bowl. One bobs back up. I flush again and it disappears.

Mom's car pulls into the driveway. I check the toilet once more to make sure all the evidence is gone, then wash my hands.

“Miles, I'm back.”

“Okay. Just a second.”

I want to ask Mom about that information Drew mentioned. I pick up the family tree that I printed out from his
Web site. He's got names and dates for six generations. I'll get loads of credit for this.

In the kitchen, Mom slices an apple into quarters, then hands me two.

“Here's the family tree from Drew.” I sit down next to her.

“That's great.” Mom glances at the pages as she crunches her apple.

“Yeah, but Drew said you had some information that I need.”

Mom takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. She looks tired.

“What is it?”

“I don't know.” Mom stares straight ahead, like she's seen a ghost. “I have to talk with your dad. I'm not sure.”

That night my parents argue in the kitchen. I hear the rise and fall of voices, but not what they're saying. Then one word bursts clearly from Dad.

“Faggot.”