Stick (17 page)

“C
oach Larson, right?”

My dad was on the sidelines now, having come down from the stands. He held his hand out to Coach, and I was having a nervous breakdown. This is where he'd light into the coach, ripping him up one side and down the other for benching his son. Coach Larson shook his hand. “Yes.”

My dad nodded. “I'm Brett's father, Stuart.”

Coach nodded. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Patterson.”

I looked around nervously, seeing too many people still milling around after the game. I tried to make eye contact with my dad, but he was focused on Coach. There would be a scene. I held my breath as my dad spoke. “Fantastic game. I haven't seen that in years.”

I was stunned. What? Fantastic? How?

Coach smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Patterson.”

Dad laughed, shaking his head. “They had no idea what to do. That's some old-school tactics. Team play. Not star play. You used Brett perfectly.”

Coach laughed. “Probably won't work again, but I saw the opportunity and took it. Brett is a talented player.”

He nodded, glancing at me. “He is. He's a good boy.”

Coach adjusted his baseball cap. “I'm going to tell you, Mr. Patterson, that what those boys from Hamilton did tonight is unacceptable. I'll be lodging a formal complaint with the league for conduct unbecoming off the field.”

Without hesitation, my dad replied, “Brett is strong. He'll be fine.” They shook hands again, and my dad faced me. “Good game, son. I'll see you at home.”

Then he was gone, winding his way through the crowd and leaving me wide-eyed and wondering what had just happened.

I
closed the door behind me. My dad wasn't in his usual spot after a game, which was always in front of the TV with a beer in his hand, watching the tape. Clatter came from the kitchen. I walked in, and he stood at the counter next to the sink, getting plates down. He turned. “Hey, son.”

He'd stopped for Chinese takeout, which was also unheard of because it was expensive and didn't fit my diet.

“Hi.”

Opening the fridge, he took out a gallon of milk. “You hungry?”

I smiled. “Starving.”

He put out two glasses. “Well, set the plates and we'll dig in.”

I did so as he placed the white boxes on the kitchen table. I couldn't remember the last time we'd eaten at the table. We sat and dished out egg foo yung, almond chicken, rice, and whatever that slimy vegetable dish was that I loved so much.

Things were still weird, and we ate for a minute or so in silence. He finally spoke. “Funny how there's a bit more money around when somebody isn't spending it on beer.”

I looked at him for a second, then laughed, swallowing a huge chunk of chicken. “Yeah.”

He ate, then cleared his throat. “That was a nice run, Brett. I'm proud of you.”

It was so natural for me to expect, and wait, for him to cut to the chase. Next would come what I should have done. What I'd screwed up. What I should work on. Why I had been benched. “Thanks.”

Taking a drink of his milk, he wiped his mouth. “You know, I was thinking that maybe we could do something tomorrow.”

I looked up at him. Just the two of us, sitting alone and eating, was weird. He was weird. I wondered if he was trying a new tactic with his same old game. I couldn't get it into my head that things might be changing. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I saw this preview for a movie. Something about a cop that saves the world from some alien attack?”

“Yeah.
Armageddon Is Now.
It looks pretty good.”

He took a bite. “Well, maybe we could go.”

The last time we'd done anything on a Saturday afternoon that didn't have to do with football or me paying the price for what I'd done wrong the night before was when I was in diapers. In fact, I couldn't remember ever going to the movies with him. He hated them. “Really?”

“Yeah. It looks good. You in?”

I smiled. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

“Good. Then it's a date.”

I stared at him as he got up, clearing his plate. “Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't get it.”

He stopped, looking at me. “Get what?”

“Was Coach Larson punishing me for something? Was it some sort of test?”

He turned, leaning against the counter and looking at me. “I think that's something you should take up with him. What I do know is that I'd like to go see a movie with you tomorrow. Maybe we'll grab a burger afterward, huh?”

I sat, frowning into my plate. My dad's body was the one invaded by aliens. “Yeah, sure.”

Just then the doorbell rang. Dad put his plate in the sink. “I'll get it. Finish up,” he said, walking out. I heard him open the door, and I heard a familiar voice.

“Hello, Stuart. We need to talk.”

It was Coach Williams.

I listened to my dad. “About what, Don?”

Coach's voice was insistent and authoritative, as usual. I figured the guy was born with a coach's whistle stuck up his butt. “About Brett.”

I heard my dad let Coach in, and they sat. “Brett? Can you come in here, please?” my dad called.

I picked up my plate, setting it on the counter and walking to the living room. Coach Williams gave me an unblinking stare. “Hello, Brett. I was hoping to have a private conversation with your father,” he said, completely ignoring what my dad had just said.

I stood there, not knowing what to do.

My dad cut in. “Have a seat, son.”

I did, sitting in one of the recliners. Coach Williams worked his jaw muscles, staring at me for a moment, his blond crew cut glistening with gel. “Okay, then. I'm here to talk about this nonsense with the team. With the Tigers. We've got to straighten things out, Stuart.”

“We need to figure things out, Don? What exactly do we need to figure out?”

Coach Williams blinked, then leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “Listen, Stuart, whatever Coach Larson did to sway Brett over to the Tigers is against league rules. There could be big trouble for them. They'd have to forfeit the game Brett played in tonight, which would take them out of contention for the playoffs. That's why I waited to talk to you until now. And with Brett back at Hamilton, I could take them all the way to state again. That's all I'm saying, and I think you know my thinking. This whole thing was a big misunderstanding, and if Brett comes back, I'm sure we could work everything out.”

Silence, with my dad studying his face. Then he spoke. “We've known each other for almost twenty-five years, Don.”

He smiled. “Yes, we have. Good years, too.”

“Did you watch Brett and his friend get assaulted by Killinger and Tilly?”

Coach shook his head. “Come on, Stuart, you know boys will be boys. Tensions were high. They need to get things out of their systems.”

“So, Brett should lie and say he was recruited by Larson, get them canned for the year. We should ignore two of your football players committing assault on my son, along with seriously hurting a skinny freshman. And we could win state. Is that what you're saying, Don?”

Coach shook his head again. “No, no, no. It wouldn't be that way. You're not understanding. Brett wouldn't need to—”

My dad interrupted, looking at me. “Brett, I'm very sorry. You were right, and I should have seen this. I should have listened to you.” His eyes went to Coach Williams. “Don, I do understand. You're welcome to leave my home.”

Coach Williams stared, in shock. “Stuart, come on. I'm not saying that Brett—”

Dad stood. “Get out of my home. Now.”

Coach Williams stood, anger flushing his face. “You were always the weak one, Stuart. Always. And now you're throwing your own son's life down the drain. He'll end up being just another loser.”

I'd never seen my dad so intense. He stepped up to Coach, eye to eye, then suddenly grabbed the front of his shirt with both fists. His voice was low, dripping with venom. “You don't say that about my boy. You
understand
what I'm saying? Because if you don't, I'll show you.” Then he released him, shoving him back.

Coach raised his hands. “Whoa, Stuart, calm down. Come on, there's no need for this.”

My dad nodded. “No, there's not. You heard what I said. Get out before I throw you out.”

Dad and I stood looking as Coach shut the door. I couldn't believe what I'd just seen. After a moment, my dad nodded to himself, some thought agreed upon in his head. He looked at me, then smiled. “He was always an asshole. Let's see what's on the tube, huh?”

I grinned. “Yeah. Let's.”

S
aturday morning, I got on my computer with dread after several people had texted me about Preston being Nakedboy. Clicking on the YouTube icon, I dragged up the video. Several copies had been made, but there was a new one, which was definitely higher quality. Almost professionally done. Somebody had put some time into it, because they'd made almost like a music video of Nakedboy walking down the halls, complete with what they called the Naked Dance. Over two million hits.

At the end of the video, I cringed. They were offering Nakedboy T-shirts for sale. For $9.99, you could be wearing a shirt emblazoned with a full-color picture of Preston walking naked down the hall. His genitals were blurred, but his face and his pale, scrawny body were plain as day. Above the picture, “NAKEDBOY!” was printed across the chest of the shirt. Below was “Do the Naked Dance!”

I grabbed my keys and rushed into the living room. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. I called to him, “I've got to go, Dad. Something came up. Can we catch the movie later?”

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Just something. I'll let you know, okay?”

“You got it. Just give me a buzz.”

I opened the door. “Bye.”

In my car, I hit the steering wheel. I'd hoped beyond hope that the interest in Preston would fade. Most things like that did. But if anything, it was bigger. Viral. I could kill Lance Killinger.

At the entry to Preston's apartment, I buzzed the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Underwood? It's Brett. Is Preston there?”

“Come on up. I'll tell him you're here.”

As the elevator opened, I did a double take. Jordan Appleway stood there. I furrowed my brow. “You know Preston?”

He cocked an eye at me. “Who?”

“Preston Underwood. He goes to Hamilton.”

“The kid upstairs? Yeah, we've met a couple of times. Seems nice enough. You know him?”

“Yeah. He's one of my friends. You live here?”

He laughed. “You don't think a black kid can have money, Stick?”

“No. No. You just surprised me is all. I thought for a second you were here visiting Preston.”

He slapped my shoulder, laughing. “Joke, buddy. I use the black thing all the time. Hey, take it easy.” He walked to the doors, turning. “We'll see you later, babyface.”

Mrs. Underwood answered the door. “Hello, Brett. How are you?”

I wanted to blurt out that I felt like killing myself because I'd managed to ruin her son's life, but I didn't want to be overdramatic. “I'm fine. Thanks.”

“Preston is in his room,” she said, walking into the kitchen and leaving me.

I walked down the hall to Preston's door. I knocked.

“Enter,” came the droll reply.

I rolled my eyes, opening the door. He was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He held a tennis ball in one hand, squeezing it. I shut the door, playing it cool. “Hey. What's up?”

“The sky. Elevators. Flagpoles. An estimated three hundred billion stars in our galaxy.”

I walked across the room and slumped down in his computer chair. “You know Jordan Appleway?”

“No.”

“He lives in this building. Plays wide receiver on the Tigers with me.”

“Oh, him. Yeah. I know him.”

I looked out the window, across the city. “I am so not right with this.”

“With me knowing your teammate?” he said, then tossed the ball up, trying to catch it above him. It came down, bouncing off his hand and hitting him in the face. He picked it up again.

“No. The video. Haven't you seen? There's like four versions now. The worst has over two million hits.”

“I know.”

Exasperated, I shook my head. “Well, there's got to be something we can do. Get them banned. Something. You're smart. We could hack it or something.”

“Why?” he said, trying to throw the ball up again. This time it hit him in the eye.

“
Why?
They're selling shirts now, that's why! And you know that by Monday people at school will be wearing them.”

“I know.”

“And that doesn't bug you? You're not going to be able to go outside for months without people laughing at you. If ever. Jesus, it might go national, if it hasn't already.”

“Have you always been concerned about what other people think? Maybe you should see my counselor.”

“I'd like to find out who made it. I'd kill them.”

He turned his head, looking at me. “Why are you so upset about this?”

“Why? First of all, because it's wrong. Second, it's just a bit humiliating for you, wouldn't you agree?”

He threw the ball up again. It hit him in the shoulder. “I've never been ashamed of my nakedness,” he said, then sat up. His hair was sticking out at all angles. He stood and walked over next to me. Touching the mouse to his computer, the screen flashed, coming alive. Then he walked back to his bed, lying back down again.

I glanced at the screen, ready to lay into him for not being pissed off about the whole thing, like any normal person should. Then I stopped, studying the screen. It was some sort of statement from Holyoake Industries, based in Los Angeles, California. “What's this?”

“Order tracking.”

I looked closer: 44,366 orders for item number 324565. “You own a business?”

“No. I contracted the shirts out to Holyoake.”

I frowned, looking at the screen again. “Shirts? Wha—” I blinked. “No way.”

“Yeah way. My out-of-pocket expense for each one is $4.17. I'm making a profit of $5.82 for every order. And 44,366 times $5.82 equals $258,210.12. That's how much money I've made in two days. Of course, that doesn't take into consideration taxes, licenses, copyrights, and—”

I cut in. “YOU'RE selling the Nakedboy shirts?”

He looked at me like I was an idiot, which apparently I was. “Of course. When I saw how poor the quality was on the first video, and how popular it was, I made the new one. Pretty good, huh? I think I did a good job with the music and stuff. I even made up the dance. People like stupid dances like that.”

I was speechless. He'd just made over two hundred and fifty grand on the backs of his victimizers, and God knew how much more he'd make over the next few weeks until it died down. I stared at him as he threw the tennis ball up and it bounced off his forehead. Brilliant. He was brilliant. But he couldn't catch a ball for the life of him.

It took a moment for it all to sink in, but when it did, I sat back and laughed. And I kept laughing. I couldn't stop, and the best irony was that Lance Killinger, who wanted nothing more than to hurt him, had just made Preston Underwood the wealthiest fifteen-year-old kid I'd ever known.

I realized Preston was staring at me. “What?” I asked.

“Why are you laughing?”

I slapped my leg. “Dude, you are so out there, such a freak. But you know what? You're awesome. You're the most awesome human being I've ever known. I can't believe you.”

“I am pretty cool.”

“Does your mom know?”

He nodded. “She had to sign off on some issues since I'm a minor, and she lent me the start-up cost. Things have gone pretty smoothly, though, especially when taking into consideration that I needed to find a manufacturer that could almost immediately begin printing and distributing them.”

“Wow. You're rich. You know that, right?”

“I suppose so. My calculations, based on the number of hits versus the percentage of orders, should top out at around four hundred thousand dollars or so before it fades. It's hard to gauge how long consumer interest will last until they latch onto another useless thing to spend money on. There are orders from all over the world, though.”

I scratched my head, still trying to take it all in. “Hey, you want to go to a movie today? My dad and I are going.”

“I take it he is still not being drunk?”

“Dry as a bone,” I said, relating the story about the game, and about Coach Williams coming over.

He listened, then got up. “That's cool, Brett. I saw the game.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How? It wasn't on television this week.”

“Well, they have these things called buses. You get on one, drop money into a machine, and a man or woman driving the bus will take you to your destination.”

“You actually came to the game?” I said, surprised that he'd watch something he hated.

“No. I just thought I'd tell you I did for no reason.”

“Okay, fine, sorry. But why did you go?”

He shrugged. “I'm sort of new at having friends, but I thought they supported each other's interests.”

I studied his face, and of course couldn't read anything into it. For all I knew he was joking, but he sounded dead serious in his weird dead-serious way. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. And yes, I'll go to the movie with you guys. I'm sure it will be mundane and have little or no plot value, but I've decided to assimilate myself into mainstream culture more often. And I like popcorn.”