Stick (14 page)

I
called Preston three times after talking with Mike, and a surge of panic rose in me when he didn't answer. I had visions of destruction rolling through my head as I got in my half-convertible car. I'd seen Killinger and Tilly work their magic on unsuspecting nerds and geeks, and I knew full well that they weren't going after Preston to humiliate him.

They were going after him to hurt him.

Tracking Preston down was becoming a habit, and I ground my teeth in frustration as I drove to his place. I buzzed his apartment, and his mom answered.

“Hello, Mrs. Underwood. It's Brett. Is Preston home?”

“Brett, I don't think this is a good time…,” she began, and then I heard a male voice in the background tell her to buzz me up. A short conversation, muffled, followed. “Come on up, Brett.”

When I reached the top floor, I knocked on the door, and it swung open so quickly that it startled me. Tom stood there, dressed like a glorified used-car salesman. He smiled, leaning forward, but there was ice in his eyes. “Well, if it isn't Brett Patterson, in person. Come on in!” he said, the tone of his voice like a viper ready to strike.

“Is Preston here?” I said, but it went unanswered as Tom walked back into the apartment, leaving the door open.

I stepped in, quietly closing the door behind me, and Mrs. Underwood came in from the kitchen. She smiled, but the lines around her mouth were tense. “Preston is in his room,” she said, nodding pointedly down the hall.

I turned to head down to his room, but Tom's voice boomed from the living room. “Things sure change quickly, eh, Patterson?”

I stopped, the hair on the back of my neck standing and my scalp prickling. “They do, sir.”

He came in sight, raising his arm and leaning his elbow against the living room entry. “Three thousand dollars,” he said, then shook his head and grinned again. The glint in his eyes sharpened, and he reminded me of a laughing hyena ready to go in for the kill. “Three thousand dollars on a game you aren't going to play.”

“Yes, sir. I'm playing for the Tigers now. You heard that, right?”

He furrowed his brow, and his voice lowered. “If you were a man, I'd beat you to a pulp—you hear?”

I nodded, thinking of how he'd talked about Preston. “I'd bet you would, sir, but I'm not. I'm just a kid. In fact…,” I said, “I still like playing with dolls, too.”

His mouth snapped shut, and it looked like he would explode. His neck flushed red, and he shook his head and walked away.

I turned toward the hall, and Preston stood there, staring at me. His expression was unreadable, just those big eyes studying my face. I realized he hadn't been there when I'd goaded Tom into betting more on the game. “Hey,” I said.

He barely smiled, and it reminded me of Kermit the Frog. “Well, I suppose you're here.”

I followed him to his room. He shut the door, then sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I stood, not knowing exactly what to do, then sat at the desk, swiveling the chair around. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, last night…”

He looked up, ignoring me as usual. “I'm assuming, based on the last hour of him yelling about it, that you talked Tom into betting three thousand dollars on the game you are not going to play.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I didn't talk him into anything. He talked himself into it just fine.”

“Why?”

“Because he's a toad.”

He scratched his head, then slowly patted down his hair. “You know what the difference is between being dumb and being stupid?”

I sat back in the chair, ready for another of his sermons. “Why can't you ever just answer a question? I asked you if you were okay. You could just answer the question. You know, like ‘I'm fine' or ‘I'm tired.' You know, like a normal person.”

He went on. “Being stupid means you have the ability to understand why you're being stupid. Being dumb means you will never comprehend why you are dumb. Tom is dumb.”

“He deserves what he gets, as far as I'm concerned.”

He glanced at me. “If you saw a mentally challenged person pick up a loaded gun and fire it backwards, blowing his own face off, would you say he deserved it?”

“Oh, come on. I see what you're saying, but…”

Preston shrugged. “Tom wakes up every morning and shoots his face off and he doesn't even know it. And he's going to wake up every morning for the rest of his dumb life and do the same thing.”

“He's mean.”

Preston laughed. “Only if you take anything he says or does seriously.”

“Will you answer my question now?”

“I already did.”

I furrowed my brow.

“I'm not dumb, Brett.”

“You could just have said you were all right. Pretty easy to do.”

He sat up, sliding on the bed, his back propped up against the wall. “As far as last night, yes, I'm fine. And so are you. And as far as your friends making it clear to me that I am the official football team punching bag for the rest of the year, yes, I'm just fine with that, too.”

“So you have a death wish.”

“I didn't answer my phone when you called three times.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“I didn't want you to think I was avoiding you. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“I was thinking it's a sign of paranoia to call somebody three times within three minutes.”

“Are you answering another question?”

“No.”

“I was worried is all.” I shifted, swiveling the chair back and forth. “I just thought they might have gotten to you or something.”

He shook his head. “They can't. You do remember I'm a superhero, right? I put an invisible shield of protection around myself this morning.”

Of course I had no idea if he was being serious or not, but from the bit of sarcasm in his voice and the frog smile on his face, I guessed he was joking. I hoped he wasn't delusional. “Listen, this whole thing is a mess, Preston. I swear to God if they come after you, I'll get them.”

“I'd rather have you take responsibility for making my cereal every morning. I hate pouring milk.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“Okay, whatever.”

He slumped down, staring at the ceiling again. “How was your first day of school?”

“Fine. LC is pretty cool. You should think about transferring.”

“I don't run from my problems.”

My eyes bulged. “Hey, you were the one who put it in my head to transfer.”

“You take everything so personally. But, then again, you're a very narcissistic person.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I'm buying you a dictionary. You didn't run from your problems—you solved them. I, on the other hand, have dealt with my kind of problems since the first day of kindergarten, and switching schools solves nothing.” He smiled, putting his hands behind his head. “Fond memories, those. Dalton Richards was particularly good at pinning me down and farting in my face.”

“You act like you were born to be picked on.”

“I was.”

“Don't be a victim.”

He laughed. “Look who's talking.”

I stood. “I gotta go. I'm going to try and talk to my dad.”

He went back to staring at the ceiling. “See you later.”

“I
f you really wanted to hurt me, you've done a good job.” My dad sat on the back porch, watering the wilting potted plants from his chair.

I sat on the edge of the picnic table. “I wasn't trying to hurt you, Dad. I just want to play football.”

He twisted the nozzle on the hose shut, letting it drop to the paving stones. “Coach Williams and I played through school together. We've been friends for over twenty-five years. He won't even return my calls.”

I thought about what Preston said about the difference between being dumb and stupid. “What if I told you I was gay?”

He blinked, studied my face for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I, um, well, I guess I'd tell you I loved you. Can't say that I really agree with it, but…” He looked at me, his eyes questioning. “Is that what all of this is about?”

“Sort of. I'm not gay, Dad, but you'd accept me being gay more than you accept me playing for the Tigers. Or not playing at all.”

“I just don't see what the issue was, Brett. I've done everything in my power to help you, and you rejected it all.”

I realized then that no matter how much I tried to explain it, my dad, for all I loved him, got up every morning and shot himself in the face when it came to what he did for me. “What would Mom do if she were here?”

He sat back, staring over the backyard. We didn't talk much about her. After a moment, he said, “She'd tell me I was being too rough on you.” He smiled, shaking his head. “She always said that I took things too far. That I got too involved in things. She was like the balance in my life. All the good things about her and all the bad things about me…” He went silent.

“You loved her, huh?”

He winced, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “She was the one for me.” He took a deep pull from his beer, craning his neck up, then idly studied the bottle in his hands. “I've never even bothered looking for somebody else since she died.”

“Is that why you drink yourself to sleep every night?”

The world stopped moving, the wind stopped blowing, the birds fell silent, and my dad wouldn't meet my eyes. “You think I—”

“I don't think you do—I know you do, Dad. And I know that every time you've hit me, you've been drunk. I also know that half the time you yell at me, you don't even remember it the next morning. You're a mean person, Dad. You might wait until four o'clock every day to do it, but you're an alcoholic. You blew your knee out on the field. Then Mom died, and since then, there's been nothing to do but put every dream you ever had on my shoulders. And I'm sorry”—I shook my head as tears sprang to my eyes—“but you ruined football for me. You made me hate it. And I let you do it. And now you're pissed at me for trying to get it back.”

He kept his head down, staring at his feet, his teeth clenched and his chin quivering.

I shook my head. “I'm sorry about your life, Dad, but I'm not paying for it anymore. I'm playing ball for me now. Not you. And if you can't at least accept that, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of it.”

I sat there on the edge of the picnic table in silence, and he said nothing. Then his voice came, quiet, almost a whisper, throaty and thick with emotion. “Would you mind giving me some time? I'd appreciate that.”

I nodded to his downturned head, then stood. “I love you.”

He didn't reply.