Kid Owner (19 page)

This startled me. “I . . . I can control it?”

“Yes, you very well may,” he said.

I looked into his smile and realized the bluish-white teeth were entirely porcelain, not his own in any way.

“Okay,” I said, waiting.

The stadium announcer welcomed everyone and began to announce the visiting team. Boos and catcalls erupted in a good-natured way.

“I like you, Ryan.” He spoke clearly over the jeers.

I glanced back at my mom and friends, who stood holding plates piled with food.

“Thanks.”

“Yes, you're a good kid. Less spoiled than I imagined.”

I could only guess that I outscored Dillon in this category by double digits and I nodded politely and without reply in an
attempt to seem
very
unspoiled.

He sighed heavily and removed a letter from his inside breast pocket and unfolded it. “I should have known things wouldn't be that simple with your father.”

“What do you mean?” I scowled at the letter.

The booing grew louder as he held it out. “You can read it if you want, or I can tell you what it says.”

“You can tell me.” For some reason, I didn't want to take the letter. The paper was heavy and cream colored with legal lettering and a seal stamped into the bottom.

Mr. Dietrich laughed at that and gave me a little shake. His eyes twinkled. “It's from your father.”

“My . . .” I was shocked and scared and confused.

Mr. Dietrich glanced at the letter. “He directed his lawyers to wait until after the will had been read before sending it to me. He wanted the maximum impact, I think.”

“Maximum impact on what?” Now I was totally confused.

Mr. Dietrich grinned. “Your father liked to stir things up. He liked competition. For example, he enjoyed having a coach and a GM who couldn't stand each other. Vicious competition interested him.”

“Why are you saying this?” I asked.

“Your father
knew
Jasmine would contest his will. He
knew
that—as his wife—she could break it by asserting her right to half of everything. He also knew that she'd want
her
son to be in the spotlight. He
knew
I would then hold the swing vote, enough shares to support one side or the other to give you control.”

I didn't like the look on his face. “And you're choosing Dillon?”

He laughed. “
I'm
not choosing anyone. All he asked me to do is set up the competition. He's given me total discretion in that. He only asks that it be a clear and fair competition.”

I shook my head, thinking of crazy things. “What? Like, arm wrestling or something?”

He nodded. “I guess, although I hadn't thought of that. I think he meant possibly a standardized test or a game of chess. Maybe how much money you could raise for a charity?”

I felt relieved, not because I was certain I could beat Dillon at chess, but because I was certain I couldn't beat him in anything physical.

Mr. Dietrich bit his lip and tilted his head. “It's almost like he knew, but he couldn't have known. His death surprised us all.”

“Knew what?” I was sick of the guessing games. I wanted to know what I had to do to get my hands on the NFL football team that was surging out onto the field below to thundering applause that made me have to shout to be heard.

“That the competition is already in place!” Mr. Dietrich shouted back, the crowd so loud now that it hurt my ears.

“What competition?” I yelled.

“A football game! You versus Dillon! Next week. You're playing
head to head.
Mano a mano. I love it, and the media? Ha-ha! One winner. One kid owner. It's all about
football
!”

I stood there in shock.

The stadium went silent for the national anthem.

Mr. Dietrich acted like the song didn't matter to me and him. “Did I ever tell you I played the game? Sure, back east. Williams College. Oh, football was a big deal at Williams.”

I had a wad in my gut. Immediately, all I could think of was educating Mr. Dietrich on the fact that Dillon's team hadn't lost in the last
five
years, to
anyone
! I imagined Dillon, standing with fists on hips, eyes black-painted like a death mask beneath his football helmet with muscles bulging under a skintight uniform. Behind him I envisioned a handful of coaches who were like superheroes, each with an amazing skill set, ready to match wits against me and . . .

Coach
Hubbard
.

Was this what it would really come down to? Was there no
punch line? No back slap? No chortling with my friends about the way Mr. Dietrich had played me?

“That's not fair.” The words dribbled from my lips.

“Oh, it's entirely fair. It's the most fair thing I could ever come up with,” he said.

“What if I don't even
play?
” I tried not to choke on my words. “I mean, I'm not the starter and if Jack Simpkin gets cleared, I might not even be involved.”

“If you're not good enough to play, certainly you're not good enough to win,” Mr. Dietrich scoffed.

I studied his face. He was dead serious.

I don't know if my mom snuck up on us on purpose, or if she was just trying to get a better look at Dustin Lynch singing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Whatever the reason, she must have heard what Mr. Dietrich had said and she pounced.

“
What
do you think you're doing, Eric?” She got right up in his face, and I'll give Mr. Dietrich credit, he didn't flinch.

“Talking to your son,” he said, then added, “to Thomas's son.”

“Thomas.” If ever a word was spit, that was it. “Thomas had a son on paper. That's not a son.”

“In any event, I've been given a job.” Mr. Dietrich seemed bored. He held the letter up briefly before tucking it back in his pocket without showing her.

“Yes, you always did his dirty work.” My mother sneered.

I took hold of her arm. “Mom.”

She shook free. “They're
twelve-year-old boys
! You want to play with them like this? Win a stupid
football game
? To own the Dallas Cowboys, just win a
middle-school football game
? If
it wasn't you saying it, I'd laugh. I know it'd be a sick joke, but not with you, Eric. I think you really mean it.”

“And I do mean it.” Mr. Dietrich stayed dead calm. “It's fallen on me to determine which of these young men will run this team. I have my instructions. This isn't about me. Thomas knew that I'd take what he wanted with complete seriousness. It was his team. This is what he wanted. I'm fine with that. It's not my place, or yours, to judge.”

“Do you know the kind of
pressure
you're putting on these boys?” My mother could barely talk she was so mad.

Mr. Dietrich smiled wide. “You think if your son ends up running this team, he won't feel pressure?”

“You expect me to believe that? My son's not going to run this team, even if he wins. Not really.” My mother snorted.

“Do you know when I formed my plan for Dietrich Die Molding? I was
twelve
, Katy.
Twelve.
I had no parents and no home. I lived on the street, but I had a plan. I got a job at
twelve
sweeping shavings from a factory floor to earn enough money to eat. Don't tell me about twelve. Twelve is plenty old enough,” he said. “What do you want him to do? Quit? Run away? Is that what you want to teach him?”

My mom's face shook. I thought she might hyperventilate, but she slowly calmed herself by breathing deep.

“No,” she said. “I guess I don't.”

And she walked away.

To my mom's credit, we stayed to watch the whole game. She glared and glowered and snarled, but we stayed. The Cowboys won the game and spirits were high. Fans cheered for each other and tugged at their shirts to more fully display their John Torres jerseys. As we crawled behind our police escort out of the stadium, other drivers honked merry tunes on their cars' horns.

“Well, it's nothing I shouldn't have expected.” My mother shook her head as she drove.

“We have a
police escort
.” Jackson's fingertips clutched the headrest of my seat and his head peeked into the front in order to feast his eyes on the flashing lights.

“Technically, it's not our escort.” My mom shot a quick glance at Jackson to make sure he understood. “It's for the TV announcers, so they can get to the airport.”

“Are you gonna get this every week?” Jackson nudged me, winking.

“Right now, it's up in the air whether I'll even be allowed in the stadium,” I said, annoyed that Jackson hadn't put two and two together. I'd told him and Izzy everything Dietrich said as we sat watching the game.

Jackson's eyes never left the cop car, except to take brief note of a motorcycle cop holding back an artery of traffic and saluting us as we swished by. “All we have to do is win—and I got you covered on that front because we will beat Dillon's backside. Besides, even if a miracle happened for him and we didn't win, you're still gonna own
some
of the team. That's what they said on
SportsCenter
, anyway. Right?”

“I told you what Dillon said. If he runs the team, we are not going to be welcome here.”

“Well, I know Izzy's gonna be welcome.
Riiigghhhttt, Izzzzyyy?
” Jackson let go of my headrest to flop back into his seat and torment Izzy.

I can't say if I was more sad or surprised when Izzy slobbered on her pointer finger and wiggled it into Jackson's ear.

“Gross! A
www!”
Jackson frantically tried drying his ear canal with a corner of his shirt. “What'd you do that for?”

“'Cause you asked for it.” Izzy sat looking mad and straight ahead as if she'd done nothing.

The police escort sprang us out onto the open tollway and my mom beeped her horn to thank them as we swished past before she stomped the pedal like she always does.

“Did you ever think it might have been a compliment? That guy liking you?” Jackson kept screwing a pinkie into his ear as
he watched the fading police lights over his shoulder.

“Who?” My mom looked at Izzy in the rearview mirror. “Dillon?”

“He was kind of a jerk,” Izzy said.

“Yeah,
but.
” Jackson let his ear alone and folded his arms across his chest, smirking at Izzy.

“But what?” I asked, turning in my seat so I could see Izzy's face.

When she blushed, my stomach sank to the bottom of its tank.

“Go ahead, Izzaroo
.
Tell Ry-Guy what you did.” Jackson had no idea the pain he was causing me. To him it was all fun. He didn't get it.

“I didn't
do
anything.” But her face was burning cherry-red and she was definitely
not
looking at me.

“Do what?” I asked, both afraid and desperate for the answer.

“Didn't you see?” Jackson laughed and then answered his own question. “Oh, no. I forgot. You were too busy with the
cheer
leaders.”

“I wasn't busy with anything. What are you talking about?” I scowled at Jackson to signal that this was no time for joking around.

“It's not a big deal. Dillon asked me to friend him.”

“
Friend
him?”

“Well, just to accept his request. On Instagram.”

“
That
guy?” It felt like a trapdoor opened under my feet and I was dropping into a bottomless pit. “You didn't,
did you
?”

“Ryan, he was standing right there on top of me and I had my phone out. I felt rude.”

“Rude!
He
was rude! He, like, grabbed your hair and you slapped him down!” I wanted to pull my own hair out of my head. This was unthinkable.

“I know.” Her lower lip disappeared beneath her teeth, then she turned mad. “Just stop talking about it already. I friended him. No biggy. I didn't feel like I could say no.”

“Well, you can unfriend him, right?” I said.

“He'd know. It's rude,” she said.

“Who cares?” I said.

“My mom says a polite person is polite to everyone, Ryan, not just the people it's convenient to be polite to.” Her tone said she wasn't going to budge.

My mouth must have looked like a fish desperate for food. I gurgled, choking on any words that might have come out. I looked at my mom. She glanced over and some knowledge tugged half her mouth upward by an invisible string. She shook her head ever so slightly, signaling for me to let it go, and that she'd try and explain, later.

“Whatever,” I mumbled. I folded my arms across my chest, but when I stole a look into the backseat, I saw that Izzy sat the same way as me.

Everyone got interested in his or her phone and my mom turned up the Highway
.
Keith Urban sang “Tonight I Wanna Cry,” but I tuned it out.

We dropped Izzy off at her house, an enormous modern building with lots of glass, before skirting the edges of Highland, where Jackson got out in front of a clapboard three-story structure in a small army of other clapboard three-story apartment houses with white plastic railings and shutterless windows.

He poked his head back into the truck before closing the door. “Yo, Ry-Guy, this was amazing. Just unbelievable. Thanks, man. And thank you, Ms. Zinna.”

“You're very welcome, Jackson. I do appreciate your manners. Please give your mother a hug from me.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Jackson nodded and closed the door with more perfect manners before sneaking me a crazy face with his tongue sticking out sideways and his eyes crossed.

I was in no mood to laugh, and I canceled out his puppy dog smile with a grimace before turning to my mother. As we pulled away, I asked her in a state of complete confusion if she knew what in the world was going on with Izzy.