Crackback Read online

  “You sure know a lot about beds. You must have a lot of experience.” She winks.

  What should I do? Ask her name? Get her phone number? Instead, I explain coil counts and what’s inside the box spring.

  She runs her hand over a mattress in the corner. “I like this one. The pink flowers are pretty.”

  I don’t tell her that once the sheets are on, nobody’ll see the pattern. I’m excited to have this woman stand close while I punch in the order. I breathe in her sexy perfume. I wish I was more like Zach. He’d know what to say.

  As the woman drives away in her Miata, I imagine going out with her. She’s probably got her own place. She’s got her fun car and a new bed. I need to quit dreaming. I need to find the guts to ask Kyra out. I read someplace that the average sixteen-year-old guy thinks about sex once every seven seconds. I’ve been thinking about it more.

  Since there are no other customers, I go back to the factory part of the store where we make mattresses to order. I think about the woman winking as I lift a six-sixtycoil innerspring onto the table. I pull a piece of Typar, the gray mesh fabric, from the roll. I tuck it under the corners and pick up the hog ringer. Chunnc, the power gun makes a solid sound as it drives a ring around the coil to hold the Typar. I put a foam topper over that and tuck it into the corners.

  On the wall, beneath the clock, is a calendar from Leggett & Platt, the innerspring supplier, with a picture of a father and son in a canoe. Dad and I used to do stuff like that. I remember our first trip on the Bow River when I was seven. We went with Sully, who works for Dad, and his son Jeremy. I’d never been in a canoe before, and I loved sitting in the middle as we floated on the water.

  For lunch, we stopped at a sandbar in the middle of the river. We sat on a log and ate peanut butter sandwiches, Sun Chips, and Fruit Roll-Ups. Jeremy and I drank Kool-Aid and the men drank beer. Afterward, I waded in a shallow pool and tried to catch tiny fish as they darted between my legs.

  In the late afternoon, as we sang paddling songs, the current got stronger. The sun dipped behind a hill, and it cooled down. We came around a bend. A tree had fallen all the way across the river. We were headed straight for it.

  “Steer to the right.” Dad paddled hard. “There’s a gap.”

  “Jeremy, Miles, bend down,” Sully yelled.

  I ducked to avoid leaves and branches. The canoe smashed something solid.

  “A rock,” Dad shouted. The canoe spun sideways, wobbled a few seconds, then tipped over.

  Suddenly I was beneath the surface. I opened my eyes but couldn’t see. I didn’t know where anybody was. Cold water surrounded me. I kicked and swam wildly. Then I felt a strong hand grab me and pull me to the surface. I came up under the canoe.

  “Hang on to this bar,” Dad said.

  Moments later, he came back up with Jeremy. He saved both of us. Afterward, he told me not to say anything to Mom because she’d worry. We never talked about it again.

  The phone rings. “Easy Rest Mattress—remember the name; the rest is easy.”

  “Depends who you’re resting with,” Zach says. “I talked to Kate. She said yes. Then she sent me a picture message of herself in her new bikini.”

  “Wow.”

  “Have you asked Kyra yet?”

  “I’m working on it.” I walk over to the empty table and sit down.

  “Well, quit working on it and do it.”

  “Yeah, I will. A woman who looked like a model was in here flirting with me.”

  “Did you ask her to the dance?”

  “No, she’s not in high school.”

  “You’ve always got an excuse,” Zach says. “Talk to Kyra.”

  “Don’t worry. I will. Bye.”

  I go back to the mattress and pull the cover over the foam. It’s easy for Zach to ask Kate. He’s good-looking. He drives a new truck. He’s got lots of girls who want to go out with him. I’ve got a fresh zit on my chin. I’d have to ask Mom to borrow her old Civic. And I don’t know if Kyra would say yes.

  We watch game tapes Sunday night in the small gym at school. Zach and I grab folding chairs from the cart and set them next to each other. Everybody’s in a good mood after the win.

  Sepolski pauses the tape on my interception. “You D-backs, watch how Manning takes away the slant and jumps the ball. That’s smart football.”

  Getting a compliment from Coach in front of the team always feels good.

  Someone farts loudly in back.

  “Is that you, Jonesy?” Sepolski asks.

  “Yes, Coach. I’m having digestive problems.”

  “You’re the Superstar.” Laughter echoes in the room.

  Then Stahl takes over and focuses on the trap. He runs it over and over telling us how to recognize it, defend it, and stop it. “What do we want to hold our opponents to?”

  “Zero,” we say.

  “What?”

  “ZERO.”

  “That’s better.”

  At practice Tuesday, second offense is going against first defense. Fox, the backup quarterback, dings his finger on a helmet and goes to the trainer. Jonesy, the starter, comes in to replace him.

  “Down, set, hit.” Someone jumps offside.

  “Pay attention,” Sepolski snaps. “Run one play right, and we’re out of here.”

  “Down, set, hit.” Jonesy drops back to pass, and I cover Stillwell in the flat. Tyson Ruden, the tackle, breaks free.

  “Go get him, big fella,” Sepolski hollers.

  Tyson grabs Jonesy, spins him like a doll, and flings him to the ground.

  “You okay, Fox?” Coach calls. Jonesy is crumpled up holding his right shoulder. “Fox, are you hurt?”

  “It’s not Fox,” I say. “It’s Jonesy.”

  “No, no!” Sepolski runs over. “Jonesy, are you okay?”

  Jonesy grimaces and shakes his head. Coach Stahl runs in and blows the whistle. “Break it up, men. Hit the weights.”

  I walk in with Zach. “I can’t believe Coach sent Tyson after Jonesy.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not bad,” Zach says.

  chapter eight

  It’s bad. Jonesy has a separated shoulder. So bad, he’s out for the season.

  “Jonesy didn’t come to school today,” Zach says.

  “Can you blame him? Would you after your season’s been destroyed because Coach sent Tyson after you?”

  “Coach didn’t know it was Jonesy.”

  “I know.” I slam my locker. “But that doesn’t help him. That doesn’t help us.”

  The buzzer sounds and I hurry to history.

  “Take out your homework,” Halloran says. I arrange my notes on my desk. I can’t imagine Jonesy being out. Since middle school, he’s been the leader. I feel a surge of fear. Who’s our leader now?

  “Okay,” Halloran says. “Give me some reasons your ancestors came to America.”

  “To have their own land.”

  “To give their kids a better life.”

  “To join other family members.”

  Kids are shouting out answers and Halloran’s writing them on the board.

  “To escape religious persecution.”

  “To dodge the draft,” Strangler says. Everybody laughs because Strangler’s a skinny guy who wouldn’t be much good in a fight.

  “Let’s see some hands,” Halloran says. “How many of you had at least one ancestor come to this country to avoid fighting in a war?”

  I raise my hand along with a few other kids.

  “How many of your parents said they didn’t know why their ancestors came to this country?”

  Lots of kids raise their hands. Thanks to Drew, I don’t have to.

  Halloran leans on his podium. “Sometimes the reasons people came to America were not the most noble: to escape debts, to avoid prosecution, to skip responsibility after getting someone pregnant. There can be all kinds of reasons. Some of you might want to investigate further. Why your ancestors came to this country is important. It helps connect you with w
ho you are.” Halloran turns back to the board. “Okay, what’s another reason people came to America?”

  The new girl raises her hand. “Love,” she says.

  Halloran writes “love” on the board. “Can you give us an example, Lucia?”

  “My grandfather was an American soldier in Germany. He went to Italy to see frescoes in Ravenna and met my grandmother. They fell in love, got married, and she moved to America with him.”

  “Yes, people do all kinds of things for love,” Halloran says. Some of the girls smile. “What’s another reason?”

  “Because they were starving,” I blurt out.

  Halloran writes “starvation” on the board. “Where was it, Miles?”

  “Ireland, during the famine. My dad says there was food, but the British took it.”

  “He’s right. The famine was caused by more than the potato blight. Millions of Americans, including me, are descendants of Irish who came to this country so they’d have enough to eat.”

  The room is quiet as we listen to Halloran. He’s the only teacher I have who links the past with the present. Right now, desperate people in Ireland, lovers in Italy, and draft dodgers in Germany feel like they’re here with us.

  “Remember this, the next time somebody complains about immigrants from Mexico, Africa, or Asia,” Halloran says. “Remember, the reasons these immigrants are coming are the same ones your ancestors had.”

  Halloran turns and points to the board. “There’s one group who didn’t come to America for any of these reasons. For Friday, write down who that was and why none of these reasons apply.”

  At practice, Coach Sepolski follows the usual routine, but everybody’s thinking about Jonesy. Fox struggles to run first offense. He fumbles snaps. He misreads keys. He misses wide-open receivers. But worst of all, he’s got no zip on his passes. The ball floats like a dead duck.

  When we split up by position, Coach Stahl pulls a few guys, including Zach, to try out for quarterback. He doesn’t ask me, even though I’ve got a decent arm. I’d like to be asked, but I wouldn’t want to switch. I love defense. I love being the hitter, rather than the hittee.

  Afterward, I ask Zach about the tryout. “How’d it go?”

  “Not great,” he says. “Stillwell looked good, though.”

  Stillwell’s the starting fullback. He’s got a strong arm. There’s no way he’s Jonesy, and we’d need a new fullback, but that might work.

  “Besides,” Zach says, “I told Coach I need to stay on defense to look after you.”

  Zach and I swing by Jonesy’s on the way home. Jonesy’s got his arm in a sling and is watching beach volleyball on TV. Football magazines cover the floor. “We brought you something, Star.” I pull out a box of Twinkies.

  “Thanks.” Jonesy keeps his eyes on the screen. Normally, he loves junk food.

  “I’d like to play with her.” Zach points to a blonde spiking the ball.

  “Dream on,” Jonesy says.

  “We miss you bad, Star,” I say. “Fox was terrible.” I don’t know if this helps, but Jonesy’s paying attention now.

  “They should try Stillwell,” Jonesy says.

  I look over at Zach, who nods.

  Jonesy clicks off the TV. “The defense has to dominate. You’ve got to be monsters. The offense will be okay, but the defense can win games.” He’s still thinking about the team. It’s part of what makes him such a good quarterback.

  “Tyson feels bad,” Zach says.

  “He should have eased up.” I open a Twinkie and hand it to Jonesy.

  “That’s Tyson,” Jonesy says. “He was rushing. Coach was yelling. Maybe he didn’t know it was me.” He takes a bite of the Twinkie.

  “He’s played with you for two years,” I say. “He should know.”

  “Don’t blame Tyson,” Zach says. “We’ve got to stick together.”

  Sometimes I wish Zach didn’t sound so much like a coach. I wish he’d think for himself more. I hand Jonesy another Twinkie. “You’ve still got senior year. You’re still the Superstar.”

  “That’s right. It’s not like I’m dead.” Jonesy shoves the Twinkie into his mouth.

  At home, I stare out my bedroom window. I don’t like seeing Jonesy in that sling.

  “Miles.” Mom knocks.

  “Yeah.”

  She hurries in and shuts the door. “I found these in your pocket when I was doing laundry.” She holds the gold capsules. “What are they?”

  “Nothing.” I cross my arms.

  “What?” She looks worried.

  “Something one of the guys gave me. It’s nothing.” How stupid to leave them in my pocket.

  “What are they?” She shuts off my CD player.

  “I didn’t take them.”

  “Why are they here?” Mom paces back and forth.

  “Because I didn’t take them. That’s why they’re in my pocket.”

  Mom’s eyes narrow with the look she gets when she’s angry. “I’m asking you once more what these are,” she says. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll call your father.”

  That’s one thing I don’t need. “They’re called Rip Blast.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just caffeine. Something guys take to get psyched up.”

  “Who gave them to you?”

  “Zach.”

  “Is he taking them?” She looks closely at the pills, as if she’s expecting them to talk.

  “Yeah. It’s nothing.”

  “Don’t mess with these, Miles.” She runs her hand through her hair. “I read an article in People about a high school football player who committed suicide after taking steroids. It devastated his family.”

  “These aren’t steroids, Mom.” Sometimes she’s so extreme.

  “I don’t want you taking anything. Don’t risk your future for a football game.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “Stay away from them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  She stands at the door as if she wants to say more.

  “You’re not telling Dad, are you?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think I need to?” She rubs her lower lip.

  “No.”

  “I’ll see.” Mom closes the door.

  I hear the toilet flush and imagine the capsules swirling down.

  I’m not sure how Dad would react. He wants me to be a better football player, but he doesn’t like drugs. This isn’t really a drug, though. It’s a stimulant, a performance enhancer. But Dad doesn’t like shortcuts either.

  chapter nine

  “Jonesy has a separated shoulder and is out for the season.” I get right to the news at dinner.

  “What?” Dad asks. “How’d Sepolski get his quarterback hurt in practice?”

  “He didn’t know it was Jonesy.”

  “How could he not know?”

  “He thought it was Fox.”

  “He can’t keep his quarterbacks straight. Maybe he’s losing it.”

  I take some salad and pass it to Martha.

  “Perhaps it was an accident,” Mom says.

  “Accident!” Dad snorts. “An accident is something you can’t control. A coach is supposed to be in control. Sepolski should know who’s quarterback.”

  How come Dad tells me to respect my coaches, but he gets to say what he wants about them? How come I don’t get that freedom?

  “The lasagna’s delicious,” Martha says.

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s good.” I don’t think she told Dad about the capsules.

  “Kelsey said her sister is going to the homecoming dance.” Martha looks at me. “Are you going, Miles?”

  “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”

  “You don’t need that crap,” Dad says. “You’ve got football, school, your job. That’s plenty. I’ve seen too many guys get so wrapped up in girls that they let football and homework go to hell. You’ll have plenty of time for that later.
”

  What does he know? Why can’t he lighten up?

  “I’m sure there are nice girls who haven’t been asked who would love to go.” Mom’s concept of dating has no connection to the real world. “What about that Ritter girl?” Stephanie Ritter is on the chess team and hardly talks. “I’m sure no one has asked her.”

  “I’m sure no one has either.”

  “What do you mean?” Mom asks. “She’s nice.”

  “Let’s drop this whole damn subject.” Dad raises his voice. “I already said Miles has plenty going on. He can wait.”

  I push bits of noodle around my plate. Dad’s not in charge of my life. It’s not his decision. Why can’t he just shut up?

  Coach Sepolski gathers the defensive starters. “As you know, Jonesy’s out for the season. Josh Stillwell’s our new quarterback. It will take a while for him to adjust to the position. In the meantime, the defense has to step up.”

  I scrape dirt off my cleats with a stick and try not to think about Jonesy.

  “We’re at Clifton tomorrow,” Sepolski says. “Let’s have a strong practice to get ready.”

  We jog down to the goalpost to work on blitzes. Fox is running second offense, and I feel sorry for him. First Sepolski thought he was sending Tyson after him; then he gets yanked as a starter after one day.

  Sepolski comes into our huddle. “Manning, run the corner blitz. Don’t show it early. Wait for the right moment, then explode.”

  I creep up to the line, then back off a step when Fox looks over. “Down, set, hit.” As soon as I see movement, I burst forward. Nobody picks me up and I’ve got a free shot at Fox.

  Sepolski blows his whistle. “We don’t need anybody else hurt. Hossick, where the hell are you? You’ve got to pick up the blitz. What are you doing, dreaming about your girlfriend?”

  Sepolski slaps me on the shoulder. “Good work, Manning. Way to time it.”

  During water break by the shed, I watch the offense. “Down, set, hit.” Stillwell spins on a fake, then throws a tight pass to Brooksy in the flat. We’re going to be okay.

  Sepolski claps his hands. “Let’s end with ten sprints. Line up by position.” I line up with the receivers and the defensive backs at the forty-yard line. Coach blows the whistle and we run hard. As usual, Zach finishes first and I’m in the middle. On the final sprint, Coach Stahl is barking, “Don’t give up, men. Don’t give up.”