Haze (7 page)
“Dude. It's not your problem. You have to take it to the police.”
I shook my head. “The minute I do that, Coach's career is over. You said it yourself. And it might be for nothing. They're looking for a green car. Coach doesn't even have a green car.”
Droid bit his lip. He looked up at his Mexican flag.
“Promise me you won't go behind my back,” I said. “Just give me a chance to figure out what to do. Okay?”
He promised. But he didn't look happy about it.
I lay in bed, staring at hairline cracks in the ceiling. Droid was asleep. I had taped the picture to the wall behind my Michael Phelps poster, but I saw it every time I closed my eyes.
It would ruin Coach's career, no question. He had been at a party where underage students were drinking. Students he was directly responsible for, as a coach and a faculty member. And one of those boys had died later that night. The press would barbecue him.
I punched my pillow into a different shape. How had the Sharks all worked out their cover story? There must have been some kind of investigation. Had the Sharks all agreed to lie to protect Coach? Had some of them, maybe Jeremy, been forced into it somehow?
The room was too hot. I kicked off my covers and stared at the ceiling again.
My cell phone rang. I jumped to grab it. “H'lo?” my voice croaked.
“Hey,” Abby said.
It was late. According to the glowing red numbers on the clock, it was 1:26. My pulse pounded. “Is he all right?” I asked.
There was a pause. “Oh,” she finally said. “You thoughtâno. Jeremy's fine. No change, but they'll try letting him wake up tomorrow. We'll know more then.”
My hands were clammy. I pinned the phone against my shoulder and wiped them on my bedspread. “That's good, right?”
“It's good,” she said. “Probably. Sorry for scaring you.”
I felt what had to be a big stupid smile spread across my face. Jeremy was okay. She had called anyhow. “Sorry for crashing into you,” I said.
She laughed, low and quiet. Something tightened inside my chest.
“I forgive you,” she said. “But my bike is still holding a grudge.”
“I'll stay away from your bike then,” I said. “Nothing worse than a bike with a grudge.”
Across the room, Droid mumbled something and rolled over in his sleep.
We were quiet then, Abby and I. Maybe each waiting for the other to say something. Now was my chance to tell her about the picture. If I waited any longer, it would be too late.
“Bramâ”
“Abby, Iâ” I started.
“Go ahead,” she said.
I shook my head. “No. You first.”
“I just wanted to say, it's not all about Jeremy,” she said. “I mean, it is. He's all I'm thinking about right now. Butâ¦I would want to hang out with you anyway. You just have to be patient, okay?”
It wasn't the time to tell her about the photo. I didn't want to fight with her about turning Coach in.
“Okay,” I said.
Wednesdays, we had classes in the morning, sports in the afternoon. I'd had trouble sleeping the night before, so I dozed off after lunch and woke in time to rush to the pool. The other guys were already there, standing in a pack around Coach. I made my way to the back of the group. Water lapped at the sides of the pool and threw squiggly reflections up on the ceiling.
Coach made a mark on the sheet and winked at me. “Okay, boys, let's see what you've got. Front crawl, ten lengths to warm up. Nice and steady. Go.”
Like always, the Sharks were first in the water. We lined up behind them, pacing ourselves a few body lengths apart. As recently graduated pond scum, and because I had been late to the pool, I was one of the last in line, just behind Red Cap. The tile floor was dry and gripped my bare feet. It only felt like that when the pool had been empty for a while.
My turn. My toes grabbed the rounded edge of the pool. I dove in, shallow and easy, then broke into a measured, even front crawl, pacing myself to the rest of the group.
The pace was too slow for me. I wanted to work harder, to push ahead. I forced myself to keep it steady and to focus on form. But thoughts kept creeping into my head.
Steven wasn't likely to tell me anything. But what about the other Sharks? What if I asked one of them about the party Marcus was at three years ago? Nothing that would scare anyone off, just a little prodding. I could pretend I was nervous because of our own upcoming party.
Which Shark though? I ran through them in my head. Most of them did whatever Steven asked. And Nate hadn't even made the team that year.
But maybe he had heard rumors. He had less at stake than the others.
At the wall, I dove under and turned.
I had my plan.
After practice, I waited around for Nate outside the athletics building. He had his hands in his pockets, and he raised one eyebrow when he saw me. “Don't tell me you want backstroke pointers.”
I grinned and fell in beside him. “I wanted to ask you about the initiation party,” I said. “Someone said it was at your house.”
“Unlikely,” he said. “I'm not sure who's hosting this year. Whoever's parents go away first, right?”
“Ha.” I scuffed fallen leaves with my sneakers, trying to work out how to lead the conversation where I needed it to go.
“So who shows at these things? Do we bring dates?”
“Pond scum don't,” he said. “Not unless you want your dates to see youâ¦well, let's just say you probably don't want that.” His turn to grin.
“Ah. You fill me with confidence. So, will Coach be there? Is it best behavior until he leaves, or what?”
Nate shook his head. “Coach is cool. He'll show, but he won't stay long.”
“Is that what happened at the party three years ago?” I asked.
Nate stopped walking. I winced. Too blunt.
“Who told you about that?” he asked.
“The guys.” I shrugged. “I was just wondering if Coach was there.”
Nate straightened. I'm not exactly short, but he towered over me. He took his hands out of his pockets and didn't look so easygoing anymore. “You don't want to go asking questions about what happened that night.”
Something in my face must have worried him. He let out a phony-sounding laugh and clapped me on the back. “Relax. It's just, no point digging up bad memories, right? Anyhow, Coach wasn't there. Not by the time things got going.”
“Right,” I said. So Nate didn't know. Maybe it was time he did. I studied him, deciding whether to trust him. “What if he was though? What if I have proof?”
Nate's eyes lingered on my face. “Then, for the good of the team, I suggest you lose it.”
Abby and I had plans to meet for a run after she finished school. I had the photo with me, tucked into the pocket of my windbreaker. It wasn't too late, not really. I had only found out last night. I could say I hadn't wanted to upset her in the middle of the night. She would forgive that.
So why was I nervous?
I paced outside Wallingford as I waited, then leaned on the iron fence bars and stretched my calves.
Abby finally appeared, wearing a tight-fitting black hoodie. Any other time, I might have stopped to appreciate it.
We started off at a light jog. “How's Jeremy doing?” I asked. The edge of the picture prodded my stomach.
“He's slow to wake up,” she said. “But they say that could be a good thing. Like his body's just taking the time it needs, you know? Mom promised to call me if there was any change.” She tripped over a bump where the sidewalk squares didn't meet up properly. “Want to go to the road?”
“Sure.” The roads around Wallingford and Strathmore were pretty quiet. Not a lot of traffic, even at this time of day, when people were coming home from work and school. Road running was better for the shins anyhow.
I tried to work out a way to bring up the picture. I needed to come clean, but also make her see reason. We would wait and see what happened with Jeremy, and let the police figure out who had been behind the hit-and-run. If it was Coach, then yeah, we would produce the picture, because it mattered. But if Jeremy's accident was just some random hit-and-run, or if it was Steven, there was no point destroying Coach's life over a mistake he made three years ago.
We passed Nate's house, where the party had been, just as a dark-green Mercedes pulled out of the driveway. I nudged Abby's arm. Despite the tinted windows, we were close enough to see inside the car.
A tall man was driving. Nate's dadâI recognized him from the pictures. He waved us to go ahead.
“Come on,” Abby said. She smiled at him as we jogged past the driveway. I followed her, stiffly. My knees seemed to have forgotten what to do.
The car turned left and passed us. I kept my eyes on Abby. We were on the shady side of the street, but I was pretty sure that had nothing to do with the goose bumps on my arms. “A green car,” I said.
“Just keep jogging,” she said. “Act like nothing's wrong.”
But the green car was a link to the swim team and Jeremy's accident.
“Are you going to tell the police?” I asked.
“What, so they can pat me on the head again?” She frowned. “We don't know that it's the same car.”
I took a deep breath. “There's something I have to give you,” I said.
The following day we had no official practice, but Coach usually opened the pool early Tuesdays and Thursdays so we could fit in a before-breakfast swim if we wanted. Today was Thursday. And man, did I need the pool time. I hoped it would be quiet.
Droid was still sleeping when I made my way across the dark, still grounds. Frosty grass crunched under my sneakers, and my breath fogged the air.
A couple of Sharks were there before me. Not Steven, not Nate. Coach was in his poolside office, doing something on the computer. He nodded when one of the Sharks spoke to him, but he seemed distracted. I didn't speak to anyone, just nodded hello and got ready to swim.
Abby had the picture. She had promised not to do anything with it until we decided on a plan together.
I got a lane to myself so I could set my own pace and swim slow, focusing on kick form, or swim fast, just for the feel of cutting through the water. I liked the rush of water past my ears, the smell of chlorine. I liked the reach and follow-through as I pulled myself forward. I liked the pattern of my breathing every fifth stroke, and the way the water held me up just a little, just enough.
When I was in the water, things made sense.
I swam until the other guys started getting out of the pool. The clock read
7:30
. Time to go, if I wanted a decent breakfast.
I dragged myself up on the ladder. My legs shook. Maybe I'd overdone it the past few days. I took a moment on the pool deck to stretch. It was rare, having the place to myself like this.
Stretching felt good. So good that I headed into the sauna. I could rush breakfast. I sat sideways along the lowest bench and peeled off my cap and goggles, letting the heat soak into my muscles. I leaned forward to grab my ankles, bending at the waist, feeling the pull along the back of my legs. Good. I closed my eyes, starting to count to thirty. It smelled of warm cedar and something metallic. And it was quiet.
Then the door rattled. I jerked my head up, but the door stayed closed.
I tried to relax into my stretch again, but something felt wrong. I swung my feet off the bench and onto the already-dry tile floor. I reached for the door.
It stuck.
I pushed again, turning the handle as far as it would go. The handle moved freely, but something was jamming the door. The outside lock was fastened. I tried again. Suddenly the air felt a thousand times hotter. There was no temperature control inside. I shoved at the door, throwing my shoulder into it. Nothing. I wasn't going to be able to open it myself.
I sat on the bench. This was a joke. It had to be. I took deep breaths. Tried to make myself relax. Then, after a few minutes had passed, I tried again. Nothing.
Blood pounded in my ears. Someone had locked me in. One of the Sharksâit had to be. I pounded at the narrow glass window, but there was no sign of anyone else on the pool deck. Not that I could see. I wanted to believe it was a joke, but after what happened to Jeremy, I couldn't be sure.
“Let me out!” I shouted, slamming against the door again. It didn't budge. I banged on the window. “Coach! Are you there? Let me out!”
Moving in the heat made me dizzy. It was hard to breathe. The air scorched my throat. I dropped onto the bench, head in my hands. Forced myself to think, to breathe slowly. There had to be a way out. The door was stuck, but the windowâcould I break the glass? Once the window was broken, I could reach through it and unlock the door.
A sliced arm was better than death by pressure cooker. At least I'd be free.
I stood, tensed my body, aimed my shoulder at the glass window and slammed into it.
Nothing.
I drew back, tried again. And again. My shoulder throbbed. I squeezed my eyes shut, leaned my head against the hot glass and pounded at the door with the heel of my left hand. “Someone. Please. Let me out.”
I made myself think. I needed to break the glass. Slamming my shoulder against the window hadn't worked. There was no room in the tiny sauna for a running start. I needed a smaller point of impact. More force in less space.
I turned, slowly. The wooden benches sat behind me, three rows of them, each higher than the one in front, like seating in a stadium. From the back wall to the door was maybe six or eight feet. If I jumpedâ¦
This was going to hurt.
I climbed onto the second bench. From there, I had a good chance of hitting the window with my outstretched hand. I pulled in a deep breath that burned all the way down, then coughed the hot air out and breathed in again with my hand covering my mouth and nose. My face, my hands, every part of me was slippery with sweat. Salt dripped into my eyes.