Raiders Night (11 page)

Tyrell always said that the week leading up to Homecoming was like a week back in the 'hood, all noise and action, no downtime. You had to shake with the beat or die from the heat. But this year's beat was slower, softer, and there was no heat. There was less buzz in the halls, Matt thought, fewer PA announcements for committee meetings, ticket sales, volunteers. Even the hammering and sawing on parade floats out on the front lawn seemed toned down.

Tyrell himself was a shadow, quiet in the halls and cafeteria, doing only enough in practice to keep the coaches off his tail. Pete was jittery. Even All-Brody, the calm cruiser, seemed super alert, like a dog sniffing strange smells. None of them had much to say to Matt, which made him feel even more alone. The Back Pack was drifting apart.

But Mandy was drifting back. It started with a look from the sidelines as he passed cheerleader practice. No expression he could read for sure, but she didn't turn her back. Brody spotted it, raised his eyebrows until Matt said, “What?”

“You could reel her back in if you wanted.” The way Brody said it, super casual, made Matt think he was carrying a message. Just the way he brought Coach's instructions into the huddle, trying to make it sound like they were his ideas.

“Who says I wanted?”

“Terri says she wasn't so flamed at you pounding Sarah as she was losing out on Queen for nothing.” Brody gave his I-could-care-less shrug.

That sounds like old Mandy, Matt thought. The unwritten rule at Nearmont was that the Homecoming Queen couldn't be going out with a football player. An ancient rule, nobody knew why it was obeyed, but Mandy had gone along, not even allowing herself to be nominated. She'd liked it when a friend of hers won and asked her to ride the float with her as a lady-in-waiting. Everyone would know she was the real queen. But now she just looked like a loser. No crown, no football player boyfriend.

“So?”

“Ask her to Homecoming—she'll suck your dick till your head caves in.” Brody looked proud of himself. He repeated it. “Sound like a song?”

“I'll think about it.”

“Clock's ticking, old buddy.”

After practice, he found Junie waiting by his car. Damn. Wasn't I going to start him on a fitness program?

“Need a ride?” Junie usually rode home with one of the women who worked in the cafeteria.

“Yep. Guess why.” He was grinning and clutching a long green plastic envelope.

“Mrs. Arecco was sick.”

“Nope.” He was bouncing on his feet. “Guess again.”

“I give up.”

“I'm taking music lessons.” He opened the envelope and carefully pulled out a black plastic tube with holes and a mouthpiece. “It's called a recorder.” He blew a note. “Daniel says I'll be playing songs in a month.”

“Who's Daniel?”

“My friend Daniel is in the marching band. He's Sarah's friend, too.”

Great. Now she's worming her way back into the picture.

He dropped Junie off at the house, promising to listen to him practice when he got back from the gym.

Monty waved him into his office and closed the door quickly. “What's going down?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm asking you. The cops have been around, asking questions.”

“About what?”

“Why do you guys always answer a question with a question?” Sounded like Monty had talked to other guys. Which ones? “What do you know? And don't say, ‘About what?'”

Matt glanced at the metal locker where Monty kept the juice. Not too cool. Monty followed the glance and tilted his head in a questioning way. Matt wondered what he'd have to tell him to get his shot. Nothing. Not going to tell Monty anything.

He didn't have to. Monty said, “No, it wasn't about juice. They wanted to know about Tyrell—did he ever deal pot in here, which he didn't. And they asked me if Chris Marin ever worked out here. What's his story?”

“Marin looked good at camp, but he got sick and there's some kind of fuss.” Close enough, no lie.

“Heard that.” Monty opened the metal locker and took out the FedEx box. “Anything I need to know?”

“It's all I know.”

Monty nodded and started laying out the needles and syringe. “Word to the wise, Matt: You keep your eyes on the prize. Another game like the last one, your dad'll be beating off coaches with a bat. Now, grab your ankles.”

He needed to push the image of a bat into a corner of his mind before he could try to imagine the steroids coursing through his body, pumping and ripping muscle. But the fantasy wasn't working today. Hope the juice is.

After dinner, he sat in Junie's room listening to him blow on his recorder until Dad clomped upstairs. Mom was at a PTA meeting for Homecoming. “Man, I thought Romo was being tortured.”

“He likes it,” said Junie. Romo was staring up at Junie, tongue out, digging the sound. Matt hated it, a whiney note that picked at his brain like a red fingernail.

“Matt, I need to talk to you.” Dad turned his back and started out of the room.

“When Junie's done.” He threw the words like rocks at Dad's broad back.

As Dad turned slowly, Junie said, “I'm done.” Good old sensitive Junie. I'm probably not ready for Armageddon tonight anyway, Matt thought. Just edgy. The 'roids? That's the least of it.

He followed Dad downstairs to his den. Big meeting? Lecture? Ultimatum? Cross-examination? Been there, bring it. But Dad pushed him down gently into his leather couch and sat next to him, a hand lightly on his arm.

“I think I've been on your back too much lately, Matt. For your own good, but still too much. You're a great kid, all I could have wanted, and I know you've got a lot on your plate this year.” Dad's eyes looked soft, sincere. He was playing good dad. “Something on your mind?”

“Homecoming,” said Matt. “Big game.”

Dad nodded. “Team up for it?”

“Hope so.”

“This thing with the Marin kid? Negative effect?” He was trying too hard to sound cool. What did he know?

“Coach thinks so.” When Dad's eyes widened, Matt said, “Without him, it's easier to key on me and Tyrell.”

The eyes narrowed. He looked disappointed. Then the expressionless mask came down. Bad dad's back. Fine. Familiar territory. “Something happened on Raider Pride Night. Can't help you if you don't tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

Muscles twitched in the mask—he was trying not to show he was getting pissed. “Something that could affect the program, the school, not to mention everything we've worked for.”

“What happened?” He looked Dad right in the eyes, challenged him. You think you know everything.

Dad didn't blink. “Something that needs to stay in the locker room. Stay with the team. What do you think?”

Maybe he does know. Maybe he's afraid it's going to get out, wreck the season, hurt the town, hurt Rydek Catering. “It was a Raider thing.”

“That means it stays in the locker room, right?” When Matt nodded, Dad said, “Everybody on that page? Tyrell? Pete?”

“Why do you mention them?”

“You always wonder—a kid who doesn't really live in the town, another kid who always seemed a little…sensitive?”

“They're cool.”

Dad clapped Matt on the shoulder. “Good boy.” He pushed himself up out of the couch. “I got a pile of e-mails to answer. Would you believe Mississippi State?”

“Coach played for Bear Bryant.” Saw that on ESPN.

“Right.” Dad was moving toward his computer. “Trouble is, he loves running backs, not receivers.”

Matt was relieved the meeting was over, and disappointed. Did he want a
Law & Order
third degree? I wanted something out of him, like he was interested in what had happened to Chris, maybe how I felt about it, not just how to keep it quiet so it wouldn't give the town a bad name. What the hell, I'd have lied to him anyway.

He heard Mom drive into the garage. He hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a can of soda and a leftover broiled chicken leg, and went up to his room. Junie was playing his recorder again. That one note made him happy. Even if Sarah did it only to get to me, it was a good thing.

He felt Jerry Rice watching him slam down chicken so fast he got a lump in his chest. Ease up, bro, you need to be steady, in control, if you want to snag the rock.

The glowing computer screen called him over. He played a few games of Bubblehead. Corndog said it was good for eye-hand. Got bored and checked the ball scores, read the rants on ESPN.com. Visited Aunt Thumb. Same old faces and bodies. Boring. He stalled as long as he could before he checked his e-mail.

Most of the messages were spam or from the Raiders coaches and managers. He deleted them. One from Paul@Nearmonteye. He deleted that. Didn't feel like answering questions. He was surprised to see one from
CRAZYOVER
80. He clicked on it.

It didn't even sound like her, he thought. What does she sound like? I never listened to her. She never had anything to say. How would I know that if I never listened to her? Great, let's get deep here. I don't know who she is any more than she knows who I am.

He deleted it.

A message from
SONOFAGREENBERET
. Probably spam, but he clicked on it.

He shut down the machine.

On Wednesday, three days before Homecoming, Coach Mac called Matt and Ramp out of class. That was unusual. Matt figured it was about Chris. His stomach hurt. Coach was rocking in his swivel chair behind his big desk. He told them to close the door and to sit down. Matt sat on the edge of his chair. It was hard to see Coach behind all the trophies, videocassettes, and stacks of papers on his desk.

“What's going on, captains? No bullshit.”

Ramp said, “Lotsa pressure, Coach. It's a must-win.”

“I said no bullshit. What about Tyrell?”

“Somebody narced him,” said Ramp. “We think it was Eastern Valley, psych warfare. I, personally, have never seen him dealing.”

With Ramp's big, dumb potato face it was hard for people to pick up on what a tricky scumbag he was,
thought Matt. First he spreads rumors about Tyrell, then he vouches for him.

“What do you think, Matt?”

“I know Tyrell's not dealing. But getting pulled in shook him up. Maybe you could talk to him. Like a vote of confidence.”

Coach Mac nodded. “Anybody talk to Chris Marin? He's not in school.”

I spent the night not talking to him, thought Matt, wondering if I should answer his e-mail. Didn't exactly wimp out. Just haven't done it yet.

“That homo is trouble,” said Ramp.

“What makes you say that?” Coach Mac rocked forward. Matt thought his ears perked up, like Romo's.

“When he saw he didn't have the goods, he played the blame game.” Incredibly, Ramp sounded as if he believed what he was saying. “Like we gave him a hard time.”

“Did you?”

“Sure. Raiders pay their dues. We all did.”

“Swirlies?”

“No. We tea-bagged him and he freaked. It happens to closet fags.”

What do I say? thought Matt. Coach is buying this. And Ramp isn't totally lying. Yet. Chris did freak. Could he be gay?

“His mother hired a lawyer,” said Coach Mac. “Claims he was sexually assaulted.”

“By who?” said Ramp. What balls he has, Matt thought.

“She doesn't know and Chris isn't talking. But she says she has medical reports; the boy had bleeding consistent with anal penetration.”

“Proves he's a fudge packer,” said Ramp.

“I don't like that talk,” said Coach Mac. “You know what could happen to the program if this gets out?”

“What gets out?” said Matt. Coach was sounding like Dad. Had they talked?

“These are very serious allegations. Could shut us down, end the season.” He swept a big forearm across his desk, clearing room so they could see his big, stony face. “You're the captains. The players will listen to you. No more loose talk. Put a lid on this until we find out what really happened.”

“You want us to ask around?” said Ramp. Matt could tell he was trying not to grin. “Investigate?”

“No, no,” said Coach quickly. “This is not a witch hunt. We're not trying to hurt anyone, not the team, not this poor kid. You understand?” He stood up and came around his desk. “Let's just make sure we keep this in the locker room until we can sort it out.” When Ramp stood up, they squared off, yelled “Raiders Rule!” and bumped fists.

Matt just nodded at the coach as he left the office. He couldn't bring himself to bump fists with him.

Outside, Ramp said, “Who you think we got to worry
about besides Pete?”

“Pete won't say anything.”

“Pete pisses sitting down.”

“Worry about Hagen and Boda.”

“They don't scratch their asses without asking me. Anyway, they know it was self-defense, if it comes to that.” Ramp grinned. “Long as Missy Chrissie keeps her mouth shut, we win Conference, maybe State. Should I talk to her?”

“Leave Chris alone.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he really liked it.”

“Stay the fuck away.” Matt was surprised at how hard his voice had become. Probably can't take him, Matt thought, especially if the fight lasts more than a few minutes, just too much size and weight. But I could do a lot of damage. His gut is soft, and I might just get lucky.

Ramp must have thought the same thing, because he put up his hands. “Hey. We're on the same team. Don't you want to win?”

“Maybe not if it means fucking somebody up.” Had he ever thought about that before?

“You know, a man does what it takes,” said Ramp. “A captain makes sure every man can do what he needs to do when the shit hits.”

“A captain takes care of his men.” Where did that come from?

“Like you know what a captain does.” Ramp's big face
was expressionless, a mask like Dad's, his eyes slits. “You took the job because it looks good when you're up for a D-One ride, pretty boy with the ball gets the publicity and the pussy.” There was spittle in the corner of his mouth. “How far you think you'd get without the grunts blocking for you? I'm the one does the dirty work, keeps this team together. You don't like it, just stay out of the way.”

He walked off.

When he gasped, Matt realized he had been holding his breath.

They avoided each other at practice, but Matt noticed they were both scanning the team, as if searching for someone who might tell about Raider Pride Night. Only take one loose mouth to start an investigation.

Do I want someone to talk? Pop the blister, take the pressure off so I don't have to keep all this inside?

Outside the field house, he smelled Mandy's lemony perfume before he felt her arm slip through his. She pushed her breast against him as if she expected him to feel it through his pads. The team jogged past them to the locker room. There were a few whistles.

“I was such a bitch,” she whispered. “I thought you cared about that slut. Really hurt me. I wanted to hurt you. How could I have done it?”

“The e-mails? The picture in my locker?”

“Ramp gave it to me. He said he knew how to get to you. How could I listen to that pig?” He'd forgotten how
great she looked, the waterfall of straight blond hair, almost platinum now, the eyes even bluer behind tinted contact lenses, the baby pink skin tight over sharp bones.

“But you want to get past the past.” He figured she'd never hear the sarcasm, and he was right.

“I do. We both made mistakes. And after you did Kristen, I knew it was just fast food—you were lonely and horny without me.”

Kristen was her name? Guess I knew at the time.

“Gotta shower.”

“You do reek.” She laughed through her nose. Never noticed that before. He thought of Sarah's tinkly laugh. “Let's go to Homecoming and stand this school on its ear. They'll talk about it for years. Then we can have our own homecoming. No one's at the beach house this weekend.”

A couple of times he'd been at her parents' weekend house on the Jersey Shore, but never alone. It was on the water.

“Don't make me get down on my hands and knees.” She smiled. “At least not here.”

He knew he didn't trust her and he thought he probably didn't like her. But he wouldn't mind tapping that ass again, at night on the beach.

And maybe that would make life normal, at least roll it back to where it was before Raider Pride Night.

“I'll call you,” he said. At the moment he said it, he even thought he might.