Stick (3 page)

S
ixth period dragged on and I got the call to go to the office after class. The wheels had begun to spin, and I knew what I was in for.

I looked at the kid sitting across from me in the office and my stomach crawled. Donny Dorko. Egg-splatter man. The kid I didn't want to think about because he reminded me of what I hadn't done.

I shifted uncomfortably as I waited for my counselor. I knew I could thank Coach Williams for being called in. “Hey.”

He said nothing, just sat there. Hunched over a bit, his elbow on his knee and his palm under his chin, he stared at the floor.

I thought of what Mike said. He hadn't had anything to do with it, and I hadn't either. Just happened to be there when it happened. Not a crime. I took a breath. Somehow, that was a lame excuse. I
did
feel like I was a part of it, and I knew why. “I didn't have anything to do with yesterday.”

He bit his lip, studied the floor, and then looked up at me without straightening his hunched shoulders. His eyes were big and brown, his skin pale. “Biologically impossible.”

I frowned. “Huh?”

His voice was lower than I thought it would be, and tinged with sarcasm. He reminded me of a frog. He went on. “Unless you can suddenly not exist for a period of time, all matter that existed yesterday had something to do with yesterday. Rocks, trees, dirt, people. All matter.”

I sat back, slouching my shoulders. Great. Weird on the outside and weirder on the inside. “Whatever.”

He kept those eyes on me but said nothing.

I clenched my teeth, frustrated. “I was just saying I didn't have anything to do with yester— With the egg thing.”

He turned his head down and stared at the floor again, methodically drumming his fingers against his lips.

I sat, waiting, and he said nothing. I tried again. “It was uncool.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was deadpan, completely unemotional, and awkward. He blinked. “Is this some kind of sad and pathetic way to apologize while admitting nothing while at the same time making me think you're saying sorry for something you apparently had nothing to do with?” He looked at me. “Or are you gay and this is your way of hitting on me?”

“No…No! Jesus, I was just saying I didn't know anything about it. I didn't know what was happening.”

He nodded, then resumed his hunched-over position. “It's fine to be gay, but I'm not a homosexual. Sorry.”

I looked at him, and I could tell, for some odd reason, that he wasn't being sarcastic. “I'm not gay, and I am sorry. I should have stopped it.”

“Stopped what? The hands of time? The sun from rising? Idiots from being idiots?”

I propped my head back against the chair, closing my eyes. “So, what's your name?”

“Preston Underwood.”

“Why're you here?”

“I'm an undercover agent. There's a drug ring here at the school. I'm giving the principal a report.”

I blinked, then looked at him. “I hear drug rings are a real problem here. Mexican cartel?”

He looked across the office at the receptionist. “No. They use idiot football players as mules to traffic their product.”

I laughed.

“Most people don't recognize a sophisticated sense of humor like mine. Why are you here?”

“I'm here because I made a decision.”

“First time for everything.”

“Funny, funny.”

“I wasn't joking.”

I smiled. “You do know you're weird, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “And I know you're an ignorant asshole. Weird versus ignorant asshole, weird always wins.”

“I said I was sorry.”

He shrugged and sat up. His fingers were long and slender, and he slowly tapped his knee with his middle finger. “And I accept your apology. But that doesn't
not
make you an ignorant asshole.”

I felt better for some reason. At least he was honest. “Fair enough. So, why are you really here?”

“My counselor thinks she needs to counsel me.”

“About what? Your sophisticated sense of humor?”

“No. She needs to think she's doing her job, so I come twice a week. I don't like disappointing people, because I have an abnormal trait called empathy. Why'd you make a decision?”

I didn't know where to start with this kid, so I didn't. I slouched in my chair. “I don't know. Just tired of everything. Coach was busting my balls because I'm failing math, which means I can't play ball, which means it's a big pity party for him and my dad.”

“Why're you failing math?”

I frowned, wondering why he was interested in the least important thing about this whole deal. “Because I suck at it,” I said. I didn't want to talk about it, because of all the things I
could
do well, math truly wasn't one of them. It wasn't that I was slacking. The numbers just didn't fit in my head right. “So, who are the drug smugglers if they're not a Mexican cartel?”

“I was joking.”

“Yeah, I know. It was a way to change the subject.”

His eyes went to the clock. “Nine minutes thirty-seven seconds.”

“What?”

He looked at the clock again. “How long I've been sitting here. I'll miss the bus.”

“Where do you live?”

“Downtown.”

The only people I knew who lived downtown were homeless, crazy, or drug addicts. “Huh.”

He frowned. “Huh, what?”

“Where downtown?”

“The River's Edge.”

“Where is it?”

He stared at me for a moment. “You
are
stupid, aren't you?”

“What?”

“Never mind. It's on the river between Maple and Monroe.”

I wondered what this kid was all about. “I'm seeing my counselor, too. He's going to try and convince me to un-decision my decision, even though I'm not really sure what I decided. If you're done when I am, I'll give you a lift home.”

He looked at me, and there was a shadow of caution in his eyes. “No thanks.”

Mr. Reeves came out of his office, saw me, and motioned. I stood. “See you around,” I said, then went inside.

I
didn't know Mr. Reeves that well. He'd taken care of a few class changes for me, and overall he sort of came off as the kind of guy who didn't have much to say about anything. One of those ghosts in the hall who made an occasional appearance. “You wanted to see me?”

“Coach Williams called me after your meeting today. He's concerned.”

I sat down. “I know.”

He studied my face. “He relayed to me that he's worried about your attitude.”

“No, he's not.”

“He's not?”

“He could give a shit about my attitude.”

He looked down at his desk, and I gave it a seventy-five percent chance that the next words out of his mouth would be for me to watch my language. No matter how rotten the core of the apple, keeping the outside bright and shiny was the most important thing. He took a breath, his eyes returning to me. “Then what is he worried about?”

My respect scale rose. Maybe he was cool. I hitched my head toward his door. “That glass case out in the office.”

“The trophy case.”

“It's the only reason I'm sitting in here.”

He sat back. “Coach Williams told me you are failing math. That, to me, is a concern.”

I laughed. “I suppose if me failing math were a concern, my math teacher would have called you. But he didn't. Coach did.”

“Coach Williams also told me you've become…rebellious.”

I looked around the room, searching for the usual signs. They were there. A poster of the basketball team. School colors on the walls. An old picture of him playing college football. Two framed newspaper articles from last year highlighting a win of some sort. I smiled. “You played ball?”

Satisfaction spread across his face. “Actually, I was a receiver for the Oregon Ducks back in the day. Second-string, but it was the experience of a lifetime.”

“I'll bet,” I said. “So, you're here to convince me to do what I need to do to put another trophy in your sacred little case, too.”

The three-minute friendship we had disappeared, and his face hardened. “I think you're making assumptions, Mr. Patterson. Coach Williams—”

I stood. “Coach Williams is a douchebag, and I'm done talking,” I said, then moved to the door.

“Yes, he is.”

I turned back to him. “What?”

He nodded. “Yes, he is a douchebag. Will you sit down, please, Brett? I'm not your enemy here.”

I gawked. “You do know that I could tell him you said that, right?”

“Coach Williams is well aware of how I feel about him. Yes, I played sports, but no, I don't care about that trophy case.”

“Then why am I here?”

He gestured to the chair. “Why don't you sit down and tell me?”

I
closed the door behind me. Preston was nowhere to be seen. I stood there for a moment, tempted to wait, when his counselor's door opened and Preston walked out. He looked at me. “What are you doing standing there?”

“I just got out.”

He hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder and walked past me. “All the world's problems solved in twenty minutes,” he said.

I watched him go, this kid who was silent but had so much to say, then followed him out. He exited the building and walked to the edge of the parking lot, where he stopped and stared at his watch.

I came up behind him. “You sure you don't want a lift?”

He turned. “Wow. I've got a fan club.”

“I got a car is all. You said you'd miss the bus.”

He looked at me. With those big wide-set eyes and small nose and chin, he reminded me of a cartoon character. “Do you know why most people give to charities?”

I felt the warmth of the afternoon sun on my cheek. Mr. Reeves and I had had an interesting talk, and even though I still didn't know what decision I
should
make, I knew what decision I
was
making. “I don't know. To help people?”

“People help other people because it makes them feel better about being selfish.”

“There are tons of people who are good.”

He smiled for the first time since I'd met him. “I wasn't talking about tons of people. I was talking about you,” he said, then walked away.

I'd never been a glutton for punishment, but I couldn't get the image of him sitting calmly with egg all over him out of my mind.

I watched him shuffle off, walking like a gangly duck, and went to my car. Get in, turn the ignition, put it in gear, drive. As I drove out of the parking lot, I couldn't help myself. I pulled up alongside him and rolled the passenger window down. “Okay, I'm selfish, and I do feel guilty, but I had no idea it was going to happen. Will you get in the car now?”

He kept walking. “Why should I want to make you feel better? Why would I even want to
know
you?”

I stopped the car, thinking. Then I pulled forward and leaned over. “You shouldn't. But maybe I want to know
you
.”

That stopped him, and he faced me. “You want to know me?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, I'm not gay. And yes, I do. Now get in.”

He did.

“Where's your place?”

He buckled up. “I'll show you. Just head to Monroe Street and go over the bridge.”

I pulled away from the curb. “So, how'd the counseling go?”

He looked at the middle console, where a crunched-up McDonald's wrapper lay. Next to it was an empty Red Bull can. There were various bags and wrappers strewn about the floor. My car wasn't the cleanest, and the backseat was full of months-old crap, too. He picked up the wrapper and held it, staring out the window. “It went fine. I think she's doing well with it.”

“She? With what?”

“The grieving process. She's following it precisely. Straight from the book.”

I drove. “Did she lose somebody?”

“No. I did. The state wants to make sure I'm coping correctly, so I check in with her. The school is very concerned about my emotional well-being.”

“Who did you lose?”

He picked up the empty Red Bull can, then began slowly scrunching the wrapper inside. “My dad. Six months ago. See, we're supposed to go through stages of grief. She thinks we're at stage four, which is depression and loneliness.”

I glanced at him. He'd picked up an old straw and was idly folding it into the can. “She thinks?” I said.

He nodded. “Yeah. A couple weeks ago she moved out of the anger and bitterness stage.”

“She? I'm confused. You're not grieving about losing your dad?”

“Of course I am. Just not the way she needs me to.”

“Why don't you tell her that?”

He inched his hand toward a gum wrapper, hesitated, then picked it up. He rolled it into a ball. Into the can it went. “Why would I tell her? I don't need her help, and I don't feel like arguing about where I am in her process.”

“Well, then tell her you don't need counseling.”

“It's just a check-in. Like mini-counseling. I have a regular counselor. He thinks the same thing, though. I think they talk.”

“I'm totally confused, Preston. You're seeing a counselor that you don't need, you go to the school counselor to help her with your grieving process, and it doesn't bother you at all?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

He stuffed a used napkin in the can, twisting and turning it in. “Because it gets me what I want.”

I glanced at him. He was systematically cleaning my car. “What? A neurotic need to clean my car?”

He set the can down, self-conscious. “I have a compulsion to keep things in order.”

“No kidding? I never would have guessed. So, what is it that you want?”

He looked out the window. “How did your counseling session go with Mr. Reeves?”

“It wasn't a counseling session. He just wanted to talk.”

Preston shrugged. “Going to see a counselor to talk is called a ‘counseling session.' It's the definition of it.”

I sighed. “It went fine, except that when I get home, all hell is going to break loose.”

“Why?”

I turned left on Monroe. “Because I know Coach Williams called my dad, and the shit is going to hit the fan.”

“I have no idea what you're saying.”

I took a left on Madison Avenue. “I'm thinking of quitting football.”

“Why would you care if your dad was mad about that?”

I rolled my eyes. “You're kidding, right? It's just like if you quit school. Wouldn't your mom be mad?”

“No, but if she were, that's her issue.”

I gaped. “She wouldn't be?”

“She's not the one going to school.”

I took a breath, again not knowing where to go with that statement. “So, what you're saying is that my dad, who has lived through me for the last three years because he loves football more than life, shouldn't be upset if I quit? And he shouldn't be pissed that I'd most likely be giving up a scholarship that could eventually get me into the NFL?”

“I'm not saying he shouldn't. He could be if he wanted to, I suppose. But what does that have to do with you playing your game or not?”

“Well, I guess my world is different than yours.”

He pointed to a parking lot for me to turn into. “Only because you want it that way.”

I pulled into the lot. “Nothing is the way I want it.”

“What if you told your dad that it was none of his business? What if you ignored everything he said? What would he do?”

I smirked. “You don't know my dad.”

“Would it make you bad?”

“Bad?”

“Yes. Like, bad. Like, a bad person.”

“I don't know, Preston. You lost me.”

“How is it his business?”

I stared out the window. “He'd make it his business.”

He studied my face with those big eyes, and it made me uncomfortable. “How?” he said.

“He just would.”

He opened the door. “Thanks for the ride.”

I glanced around the empty parking lot. Clinkerdagger, a fancy restaurant, stood off to the left. “You live in a parking lot?”

“No.” He pointed. “There.”

I gazed upward, and what looked like a fifteen- or twenty-story office building stood looming over the river. “I always thought those were office buildings.”

“No. Apartments.”

“Huge windows for apartments.”

He grabbed his backpack, then quietly slipped the Red Bull can into a side pocket. “They call it ‘luxury condominium living.' ”

“Wow. What floor do you live on?”

He got out, then shut the door. “The top one.”