Center Field (9 page)

Coach Cody beckoned him out of jock study hall on Friday and silently steered him toward the school psychologist's office. He'd forgotten he was supposed to see the shrink. He was surprised when Coach Cody unlocked the door and followed him inside. He locked the door behind them. Mike had never been in this office before. It was just big enough for a swivel chair, a desk, and a shabby old two-seat couch. No windows.

Coach pointed Mike to the couch, then dropped into the swivel chair. It squeaked.

Coach looked at him for a long time. Mike started to feel uncomfortable. He wanted to shift his position on the couch, sit up higher, but he felt the weight of Coach's stare pressing him down.

Finally Coach nodded and said, “I'm a certified guidance counselor, you know that?” When Mike shook his
head, Coach Cody smiled and said, “There are lots of things people don't know about me. Don't need to know. I've seen things I hope you never see. I don't expect you to understand why I do some of the things I do in this school, but you better believe it's all about making sure you never have to go through what I went through.”

He leaned back in the chair. It squeaked louder. He closed his eyes and sighed. His shaven bowling ball head seemed to sink into his shoulders.

“I'm waiving your session with the school psychologist for now because I don't want you to have anything on your record that could damage your shot at a college scholarship.”

He let that sink in. Mike remembered that Dad had said the visit with the shrink wouldn't go on his record if nothing else happened. Dad would have made sure of something like that. Was Coach playing him?

“You've got good grades. You're a good kid. But…” His eyes snapped open “…unless I'm convinced you've worked through this issue to my satisfaction, you will have to see the shrink.”

“How do I work through this issue?” What issue? he thought. My slump?

“Show me you understand why Zack Berger and the Cyber Club are a clear and present danger to the well-being
of Ridgedale High School.”

He almost expected Coach to break out in a big grin. It was a joke, right? An Andy Baughman riff. Clear and present danger. Andy had brought over a DVD of that movie. Harrison Ford was the CIA agent hero. They'd watched it on the eighty-four-inch pull-down screen.

“How many fights you been in at Ridgedale?” said Coach.

“None.”

“Right,” said Cody. “But this little smart-ass punk pushes your button. Gets you to hit him, make himself a martyr, draw attention to his cause. Classic.” Cody's lips peeled back from his big white teeth. Mike could see where his gums were receding. “Meanwhile, your game goes into the tank. You lose focus because you're thinking about all this extraneous stuff. Your concentration's gone. Zack Berger's the reason you're in left field.”

“What about Oscar?”

“He can play, no doubt,” said Coach. “Might even have pro potential. But he's not a team leader. You're a team leader. You belong in center field, in the spine. And I want you back there.”

Mike felt dizzy. He hadn't slept well, thinking about the third strike he took yesterday. He imagined himself in the middle of a math problem, only there was no answer. No clear and present answer. What is coach driving at?

“Semak? You still with me?”

“Yes, sir. I guess I just don't get it about Zack.”

“Good guys always have a problem understanding just how insidious the bad guys are,” said Coach. He swiveled and squeaked. “Zack's got an agenda. He hates authority, order, justice. You know, there are basically two kinds of guys in the world, jocks and pukes. We're jocks. We want to live by the rules, win fairly, work hard, and be rewarded for it. The pukes want to rebel and disrupt so they can slide through the chaos. Are you tracking me?”

Mike nodded.

“There are also different kinds of jocks. Your pal Ryan, steady, dependable, not much fire. You'll never get much more than you see. He's afraid to open up, let loose, go for the gold. He deflects everything with humor. He'll never rise high.”

Coach was smiling, but he seemed to be smiling to himself, Mike thought, enjoying the sound of his voice. “Craig, lots of heat, but inconsistent emotionally, not dependable. Sure he can be terrific, but he can also be a disaster.

“And you. People might think you're like Ryan, always on an even keel, in control. But I know there's a fire in your belly, Mike, you can explode when you need to. Do what needs to be done. I like that. But I want to be sure you're exploding for the right reasons. Still tracking?”

Mike nodded again, but he wasn't sure any of it made sense.

“I know that ankle hurts like hell. I saw how you sucked it up in football. That tells me a lot. You remind me of a kid I knew when I was a Little League coach in Colorado. I've never told this story in this school, but I know it will be meaningful to you. This kid was steady and cool on the outside, you'd think he was a blank. But inside, that boy burned to do well, to compete, to win. Like you. Kid's name was William Budzinksi. Wonder what ever happened to him.”

Mike's breath caught. “You coached Billy Budd?”

“Coached against him. Walked him a lot, let me tell you. This was just before his dad changed the family name. I don't even know if he actually read the Melville book. Billy Budd dies at the end. But Dad must have figured Billy Budd would sell a lot more of those batting gloves and wristbands you wear than William Budzinski.”

Coach leaned back, shook his head at the ceiling. “Some world. We were on the same field and now he's in Yankee Stadium, one of the biggest superstars in the game, and I'm here at—” He stopped himself and looked at his watch. “You better get to practice.”

 

Oscar worked out at shortstop with Coach Sherman while the rest of the team ran wind sprints and took extra batting
practice to prepare for tomorrow's clinic. Mike found himself watching Oscar scooping up grounders. Billy Budd worked out at shortstop during spring training. Good for your footwork. A lot of similarities between shortstop and center field. Mickey Mantle started out a shortstop.

After practice he went into the new weight room with Ryan. They spotted each other. They'd been lifting together since middle school, when Ryan's dad set up a bench and barbells in his garage.

“I think Coach's playing with me,” said Mike.

“I'm trying to get Ms. Marsot to play with me,” said Ryan. “You believe these mopes who rat out their teachers after they have sex?”

“I'm serious. He wants me to spy on the Cyber Club to get back to center field.”

“Cruise with it. Tell him everything.” Ryan settled under the bar. “Just don't tell him about us on Brokeback Mountain.”

For an instant Mike wanted to let the bar drop on Ryan's leering face. Can't you be serious for one second and listen to me? But maybe he just couldn't. Afraid to open up, let loose. Coach was right about Ryan. Wonder if he's right about me and Billy.

 

There were voice and text messages from Lori. She was in Boston and she was nervous. The twins were going to
do a fire stick routine they had never done in competition before. The other girls had awesome routines. Tori had a sinus infection that was throwing her off. Please call me.

He called. Need to talk to somebody. He got her voice mail. He wasn't sure if he was sorry or glad.

Not sure of much these days, are you?

He watched the Yankees game downstairs. The cat sat across the room and glared at him. He wouldn't have minded if she climbed into his lap. You really must be lonely, Mike.

Billy's timing seemed off, he was hitting on top of the ball, choppers instead of his usual line drives. But some of them were going through for base hits. Even when he's off, he's on. Mike heard the garage door opening. He didn't feel like talking to his parents. He got up. The cat swiped at his bare foot as he passed. Nicked him.

In his room, on the Buddsite, he read EmoBaller's theory that Billy was being distracted by that model. Catchergrrl reminded him how Billy had played out of his skull the week his grandma died, setting a record for postseason hits. As usual, EmoBaller agreed with her.

An alert popped up. The A Day With Billy contest closes Sunday, right after the doubleheader! Get those videos in! He wondered if Coach had really known Billy in Little League. Would Coach make up something like that to motivate me? To play better? To spy for him? Could be. But
not a lot of people knew about that name change. Nothing about it on the Buddsite. Mike had read about it once, years ago in a baseball magazine, then it never came up again. He wondered what Coach had been about to say when he said, “and I'm here at…” Did he wish he were somewhere else?

Lori still wasn't answering her phone. For a moment he thought about calling Andy. Talk about Coach's jock-puke theory. What's that all about? But Andy would turn it into a lecture on politics. He realized he didn't really have anyone else to talk to. But what did he have to say?

The cat scratch on his foot stung. He thought of Tigerbitch. I'll see her tomorrow.

Kat drove the van toward the city, swiftly, confidently, one hand on the steering wheel, the other gesturing at Zack, who sat shotgun, tapping on his laptop. Mike couldn't hear most of what they were saying. It sounded more political than personal. He wondered if she was driving too fast as she gunned out of a toll booth. But she seemed in control, happy.

Mike was in the third row between two pukey-looking guys, one fat, one skinny, who were text messaging each other. How had he gotten between them? He had climbed into the van and suddenly they had appeared, one at each door, and sandwiched him. He didn't think they meant to do it, they just did it in that uncool dorky way. A jock might let a classroom door close on you, but never by accident. He thought he had seen these two around school, but it could have been two other kids who looked like them, wore
lame band T-shirts, and walked on their heels. He never paid much attention to geeks and nerds. When jocks gave them a hard time, he walked away. He felt bad one time when some football players trash-canned a puke, stuffed him into one of the cafeteria garbage baskets. He thought that Billy would have stopped the bullying, but Mike didn't feel strong enough. Maybe didn't care enough. Coach was right. Pukes are different.

In the bench seat in front of them, a Chinese kid was sleeping against the window and Nick the Goth was leaning into a girl with a Mohawk and nose rings. She wasn't bad-looking. He hadn't talked to Nick this morning when they met at the van. Still trying to figure him out. Does he really think I'm a spy for Cody, or is he pulling my chain?

They crossed the bridge and Kat swung the van down an exit ramp into the city. The Hudson River sparkled on their right as tall apartment houses loomed on the left. The city always made him a little nervous. It seemed dangerous, mysterious. They had rarely traveled in as a family except for the occasional Yankee game or Broadway show. There were class trips to museums. There were kids who went to dance clubs in the city, a druggie crowd he avoided.

Tiffany had disappeared into the city for a couple of days
when she was fifteen. Mom and Dad freaked. When the police brought her back, she'd seemed different, spacey. Mike was too busy playing ball to pay much attention, but he remembered her fighting with Mom, screaming, doors slamming. Scotty had just left for college. Now he was in Indiana and she was a single mom living in the East Village with her little daughter. And I'm in left field. Remembering that made his stomach ache.

The pukes on each side of him started laughing through their noses at something they were messaging back and forth. Mike was getting more and more frustrated between them. He was too large for this group. If they were jocks he would have elbowed some more space for himself. If they were jocks the van would be noisy and friendly. Mike started digging into a pocket for his iPod, trying not to poke them.

He heard Nick say, “Ask him yourself. He's housebroken.” When the girl murmured something, Nick turned around and said, “Syl wants to know why you're here.”

Tell her I'm spying for Coach Cody. Mike put on a tough
Law & Order
voice. “Zack thought you needed security.”

The fat kid snorted, thumbs flying, and a moment later the skinny kid laughed so hard Mike thought he was going to choke. Smart-ass pukes.

The Chinese kid turned around. He'd only been pretending to sleep. “You take steroids?”

“You take smart pills?” said Mike.

“You got any?” said Nick. He was laughing. “Smart pills are the only ones I never took.”

“Figured,” said Syl.

The Chinese kid turned to Nick. “You took steroids?”

Mike thought, I'm in a reality show. An alternate universe. These people are weird. They are definitely not housebroken.

“I took them one summer before football camp,” said Nick. “It helped a little I think but you need to be a physical freak like Mike here for it to do any real good. And then you have to lift like crazy. I never cared that much.”

“You were a football player?” The fat kid's fingers were frozen in midair.

“He was a good receiver,” said Mike. “I couldn't keep up with him.”

“Thanks.” Nick looked pleased. “Maybe I should've worked harder. I couldn't deal with those fascist coaches.”

“The suppression of any dissent,” said Syl.

I'll channel Andy, thought Mike. “It's all about keeping us off balance and maintaining totalitarian control.” He thought he had said it sarcastically, but the way Syl and the others nodded and seemed to look at him differently, he
realized they thought he was serious.

Except maybe Nick. He had a smirk on his face. Either he wasn't totally buying or he was giving Mike a hard time. “So, comrade, how come you decked Zack?”

“He wouldn't get out of my way.”

The Chinese kid said, “Why didn't they suspend you?”

“Rules are not for stars,” said Nick. “If you're as good as Mike you do what you want.”

They were driving past Chelsea Piers now. The varsity and JV had gone there for last year's hitting clinic with Dwayne Higgins, the Yankees' right fielder. There was a rumor Billy would show up to support his bud but he didn't. Higgins mostly talked about himself. The minor league coaches who came with Dwayne gave the high school players batting tips and actually worked on individual stances and swings. One of the coaches said Mike needed to get his hips open sooner. He had worked on that and it helped. He wondered what good advice he was missing today at the Meadowlands. Maybe some tip that could get him back into center field. But according to Coach, that's not what will get me back.

If I understood what Coach was talking about.

 

Mike followed Zack and the others into an old factory building near the river while Kat screeched off to park the
van. A hundred kids, mostly high school guys, were packed into an auditorium. The kids seemed pretty psyched by what they were hearing, tech jargon Mike had trouble following. They recorded, videotaped, and made notes in their laptops as speakers up front droned on about something called On-High dot org that was going to revolutionize education in America by making high schools accountable to the students. That part Mike understood but not how they were going make it all happen with the help of backdoors and packets and sniffers and tunneling. Speakers made jokes about scooters and pinheads. Mike sat behind Fatty and Skinny, who laughed and elbowed each other continually. Mike got some of the
Matrix
,
Star Wars
, and
Battlestar Galactica
references, but that didn't help much since the speakers seemed to think that was all ancient culture anyway. He kept looking around for Kat but didn't see her.

He became alert when Zack got up to speak. The crowd seemed to know and respect him.

“High school is a prison and Ridgedale is maximum security,” he said.

The crowd howled. Fatty and Skinny bumped foreheads. I'm in a nuthouse, Mike thought. Nick was whistling and cheering Zack on.

“We're running a two-pronged operation right now,
an outreach program to bring in marginalized users, older folks and disabled teenagers, that's being funded by the school board. That money's also helping expand our internal operation. We have a site called RidgedaleReform dot org making students aware of how we're being controlled by the system, where the money goes, and how educational decisions are made against our best interests.”

Zack was getting excited now, talking faster. Mike could see the spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. He remembered their confrontation in the hallway.

“We've got chat rooms on Ridgedalesucks dot com that disseminates information on teachers and students, particularly certain government types and the jockocracy, how athletes run the school.” Mike remembered Craig and Eric complaining in the locker room about something they'd read online about favoritism in grading for jocks. Mike had barely paid attention. Craig wanted to trash can the Cyber Club but Todd had talked him out of it.

“We're constructing a new site, Codywatch dot com. Cody is our vice principal.”

“The head Cylon,” yelled Fatty. Skinny looked like he was wetting his pants.

“Hack Cody,” shouted Nick.

“That's the plan,” said Zack. “We're going to expose him,
drill into his…” He stopped himself, as if he thought he might be going too far. He took a breath, went back to his deep, even voice. “I know a lot of other schools have similar programs and if we all link up with On-High dot org we will be invincible.”

Nick leaped up and thrust a fist into the air. Other kids stood up and cheered. This was what Cody was talking about, the clear and present danger. Coach wasn't entirely paranoid. Am I supposed to tell him about this? What about Kat?

Mike stood up and scanned the room until he found her, crouching along a wall, shooting video of Zack. He watched her. She was graceful and quick. Like a cat, he thought. When she turned her head, her ponytail bobbed through the back of her baseball cap.

Watching her took his breath away, pushed out other thoughts.

The lead speakers took over then, quieted them down, and started talking about committees and networks. The meeting broke up. Zack and a dozen other kids stayed up front talking. Kat stood a few feet away, shooting them. Mike walked up to her casually. The way she looked over her shoulder and smiled, he had the sense she had been waiting for him.

 

“I'm walking over to the East Village,” she said. She held up her camera. “I want to shoot some stuff.” She was wound up, full of energy.

“I'm actually heading in that direction, too,” he said. “My sister lives there.” He didn't want her to think it was about her, even if she looked oddly excited.