Living with the hawk (3 page)

Rufus was a good two inches taller than Blake, and I knew he was going to pulverize my brother. When Nickerson stood up, he was breathing hard, his mouth hanging open, as if he was in shock or something. “Who gives a shit about either one of you?” he said. Backing off three steps, he turned around and walked away. Slowly. So everyone could see he wasn't scared at all.

After that, Rufus used to give me the hip whenever he passed me in a crowded hall at school, always just enough of a shove to remind me that he could flatten me anytime he chose, but he never pounded me again and he never crossed my brother. Frankly, I think that Nickerson could've beaten up on Blake too, but he'd never done it before, and when Blake clobbered him with that broom, it knocked just enough doubt into that thick head of his that he didn't want to risk taking a chance and finding out he might be wrong. Blake had a way of raising doubts in people's minds, and for a long time I thought he'd stand up to anybody.

In grade nine, though, I had to wonder.

Although my brother was the quarterback, there wasn't any doubt that Jordan Phelps was the best player on the team. I was standing on the sidelines, watching the offence and defence scrimmage. My equipment still felt awkward, especially the cup at my crotch. Otherwise, it was much like watching football games from the bleachers when my brother was in grade eleven, except now he was out there all the time, handing off the ball, dropping back to pass. All he had to do was get the ball somewhere in the vicinity of Jordan Phelps and it would be caught. Throw a long looper and Jordan would run under it. Drill it over the line and Jordan would snag the ball between defenders. Anything he touched he caught, and he was fast enough that he could touch almost anything that wasn't knocked down.

I watched a defensive tackle break through the line, forcing Blake to scramble out of the pocket. He was in trouble, running for the sidelines, his receivers covered, until Jordan charged back, giving him a perfect target for his throw.

A hand fell on my shoulder. Hard. “Let's see what you can do out there,” said Coach Ramsey. He had a smirk on his face. “Give Ackerman a rest.” Morris Ackerman was the cornerback trying to cover Jordan Phelps.

“Coach says to take a break,” I told Morris when I trotted out to his position.

“Good luck,” he said. “You'll need it.”

Blake must have noticed the substitution. The first play he ran was right at me, Jordan charging me as if he were a blocker, me back-pedalling as fast as I could, till he made his move, cutting so sharply that his feet almost went out from under him, the ball already in the air as he stumbled, and I was close enough to get a hand on it, knock it away.

He caught up to the ball as it bounced over the grass, gave it a boot toward the line of scrimmage, then turned to me, a frown on his face. “You were lucky,” he said. “But watch out, I'll be back.”

I went with him again on the next play, my eyes on him and the quarterback too, but it was okay, the pass to the other side of the field, the ball beginning to wobble — and I was flat on my ass on the ground.

“Clumsy there, rookie,” said Jordan.

“You tripped me.”

Jordan laughed, no humour in the sound. “Stumbled over your own feet.”

On the next play, he came right for me, faked to the left, slammed his fist into my stomach, and went by me so fast I didn't even know I was winded. While I was sucking for a breath of air, I saw the pass was a short one to the other slotback. Someone hauled him down before I could get started in his direction.

I did no better on the next play. Jordan charged me once again, cut to the right when he was almost on me, came back fast, his shoulder in my chest, another fist in the stomach, and he was gone, the ball looping over my head and into his hands as I stumbled backwards, off balance, my feet moving, but not as fast as my body. Then I was on the ground, heaving for air. Bugger nailed me right in the breadbasket. Twice in a row.

“Hey,” shouted Blake, “that's my brother.”

“You think I don't know that?” Jordan trotted back, glaring him. “Pussy needs to lose some flab.”

“Screw you,” I said, but I could barely whisper.

The next time he ran at me, I saw his fist coming and chopped his arm away, hard — it had to hurt him — and I was staying with him, but he rammed me, his head down, shoulder slamming into my stomach, my head snapping forward, and down I went. Again. Then another easy catch.

This time when he trotted back towards the huddle, he stopped beside me, reached down, grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “You're okay, Blair,” he said.

And I said, “Thanks.” Just as if he wasn't the guy who'd been laying dirty moves on me. That was the thing about Jordan Phelps. He could find more ways to treat you like scum and somehow in the end you'd be the one apologizing to him.

That wasn't the worst of it either.

T
WO

W
e won four games in a row against easy opponents. Before the first game Arnie had quit football and Evan had been cut, though Coach Conley, our head coach, told him to come out again next year, he'd make the team for sure. I hated to see Evan go, but he just said, “I guess it's up to you now, buddy.” Yeah, only grade nine on the team, it was going to be tough. In each of those four games I got onto the field for a few plays as the clock was running down, but that was all. I was about as valuable as a water bottle full of pee, but at least I got to play.

Our fifth game was against Douglas High, a top-notch team, and we beat them 28 to 17. I had a good view of the action, standing on the sidelines, but I never made it into the game. My brother played the best I'd ever seen him play, throwing three touchdown passes, but the other offensive captain, Jordan Phelps, was the real star, catching two touchdown passes and running back a punt for another score. Every time he caught the ball, he brought the fans cheering to their feet as he ran and cut, shifting direction at full speed, tacklers sprawling behind him, awkward hands grabbing at a space he'd just vacated. That day he also added something new. Each time he scored, he ran behind the goal posts and did a forward flip, his hands never touching the ground. The fans loved it, but I thought he was being a hot dog. Coach Ramsey — he was the assistant coach and not a teacher — wouldn't say a thing, of course, but I wondered if Coach Conley would tell him to spread some mustard on it. In fact, when he had us huddle up after the game, he did say something.

Everybody was sprawled on the grass near our sideline, most of the players covered with sweat, their uniforms grass-stained and dirty, a few of them with scrapes and gashes, bloody badges they displayed with pride. I felt like a virgin, not a spot on me or my uniform. I dropped down behind Ivan Buchko, the biggest lineman on our team, crouching low, out of sight.

“Listen up,” said Coach Conley. Everybody was so excited with the win, he had to say it again. “We beat a good team today. You deserve to celebrate. No doubt about it. Exuberance after victory's the most natural thing in the world, but anything that looks like taunting of the opposition means you've gone too far. Understand that! We won out there today, because we worked hard to win. We had the right game plan, and we stuck to it — made it work. Good for every one of you.” He paused, looked as if he was considering something more, then turned to Coach Ramsey. “Anything to add?”

“Damn right. You guys keep playing like this, you're gonna whip every team in the league. This year is something I been waiting for — this year for sure, we're going to Provincials.” Coach Ramsey pumped his fist in the air as he said it, and everybody cheered. I might have cheered too if Ramsey wasn't such a dork.

They were still cheering in the locker room, but now the subject had undergone a sudden change.

“Party-Time tonight!” yelled Vaughn Foster. A huge running back, muscles on him like a teen-aged Arnold Schwarzenegger, he'd scored our other touchdown on a screen pass. Some of the kids said he must be on steroids, but I'd never seen any evidence of that — except for all those muscles — and he did work out with weights in every spare moment. “At my house. The whole team.”

More cheers.

“What about your parents?” The question came from Ivan Buchko, sitting in just his jockstrap at the end of the bench. His thighs were massive, a roll of belly fat hanging over them as he slouched forward, his elbows on his knees. He looked like a sumo wrestler waiting for a nine course meal.

“They're going to a dance. Won't be home till two or three. Hell, if they do get home before we're done, no problem, you could flatten my ol' man.” Vaughn smiled. He had the kind of smile that made all the girls quiver.

“Yeah, and then you can sit on him,” said Jordan Phelps. “Flatten him good. All that weight, he won't be able to do a thing.”

Cheers and laughter too, Ivan laughing with everybody else, though you could tell from the glum look of his mouth he didn't think anything was funny.

“Eight o'clock at my place,” said Vaughn Foster. “1124 Warren Crescent.”

“Okay, you guys.” Jordan had something more to say. “This is a team event. We win together and we celebrate together. That means everybody shows up.” He looked around the room as if he was the principal handing out detentions to a bunch of frosh. Like King Shit is what I thought, but if he's King Shit, then this is Turd Island, and I didn't much like that idea. Besides, Evan wasn't on the team. There'd be no one to go with me.

Later, after most of us were finished in the showers, Neil Tucker, who was a rookie in grade ten, edged toward me. “You gonna go?” he asked.

I noticed Jordan drying off at his locker, the towel on his hair like a hangman's hood, dark eyes staring out from underneath. Watching us.

Neil was waiting for an answer. A party with Jordan wasn't my idea of a good way to spend Saturday night, but I said, “I guess so. Yeah, sure.”

I saw Jordan's teeth flash beneath the towel.

That night at supper — after my father told Blake he looked like the real thing at quarterback, after my mother said he mustn't let it go to his head, after my father added that I'd be good when I got to play more too, after my mother finally set the ham on the table — Blake got busy with his knife and fork, removing a piece of fat from the edge of a slice of ham. I guess he wanted to be done and out of there. He never looked at me. Nor did he look up when my father asked, “What's doing tonight, boys?” but under the table I felt the weight of his foot on mine.

“I don't know,” I said, “nothing much, I guess.” I knew Blake would kill me if I mentioned the football party. There'd been a bad one last year that a lot of parents were still talking about.

Blake looked at my father then. “There's a new show at the Cap. Supposed to be pretty good.”

“Oh yeah, what one is that?”

“A heist movie, I don't know the name. Great chase scene, I hear.” Blake put some potatoes in his mouth, was concentrating on chewing. Of course, he hadn't said we were going to the show; he didn't believe in directly lying to our father.

When I approached Blake in his room after supper, he was stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling, a wistful look on his face, his hands behind his head. Tacked right above him was Miss April from the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Calendar. If you looked closely, you could see tiny holes left in the ceiling after he'd been asked by our parents to remove the tacks holding up other pictures. Miss April had more bathing suit and less breast than the other models.

I stood beside the bed until he turned his head and looked at me.

“You going to the party?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“You think I should go?”

“Yeah.”

“There's gonna be liquor, isn't there?”

“Could be.” I knew from the tone of his voice he meant, “Yes.”

Sure, and I was going to look stupid because they'd all know I'd never had a drink in my life. Everybody knew preacher's kids didn't drink. Hell, PKs didn't do a thing they weren't supposed to do. At least I didn't. “Evan said something about the two of us going to a show. I sort of promised him.”

“So? Catch the early show. You can come afterwards.”

“Everybody there's gonna be older than me.” Older than me, bigger than me, and girls too, sure as shit, some of them drunk too. If the truth were known, it was almost as if I was afraid to go, but I couldn't very well tell my brother that. “What fun's it going to be?”

Blake swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He faked a quick punch at my face, then nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. “Come for a while. If you don't like it, you don't have to stay. Whole team'll be there.”

“Yeah, if they all listen to Jordan.”

“Lay off Jordan.”

“He's fine — I know — as long as everything goes his way.”