Running Loose (3 page)

Boomer lined up on the inside with me next to him. The rest of the backs and ends lined up next to us with Carter on the outside. At the sound of the whistle Boomer’s foot shot out and tripped me, but I caught myself with my hands and only lost a step or two. Carter came off the line quick and cut to the inside about three or four steps ahead of everyone. I caught up to him. Boomer was a few steps behind.

“Goin’ out fast,” Carter said. “Stay with me.”

I matched him stride for stride, but you could tell it was a lot easier for him than it was for me. We were opening a wide gap between ourselves and the rest of the pack. Only Boomer was hanging close. Carter said the key was to wear everyone down on the first three laps so no one would even try to make a run at the end. The gap widened. Boomer stayed in it.

By the end of the third quarter it looked like we might lap Larry Ingram, and the rest of the guys were strung out around the track. When we crossed the line to start the last lap, Carter said, “You’re on your own,” and lengthened his stride, picking up speed almost effortlessly. I tried to stay with him for about a hundred
yards but there was no way, so I looked around to see where Boomer was. He was hanging in about ten yards back. I couldn’t see his face very well inside his helmet, but I thought I caught a quick glimpse of desperation. I picked up a little on the back stretch, knowing that desperate or not, if that scumbag was within fifteen yards of me going into the final turn, he’d just outsprint me. Going into the turn, I thought I heard his footsteps, so I picked up a little more. I could tell it was a good mile because my lungs hurt and my lower gut burned. But time didn’t matter; I just wanted to beat that bastard. I picked up a little more. Coming out of the turn, I opened up. I could hear his footsteps coming hard, but I was all out. My gut was on fire, and my legs were like bricks; but I forced it out of my mind. About twenty-five yards from the finish I saw Madison standing with the watch. Carter was finished, and all I could hear was Boomer’s feet. I had to hold on! With about ten yards to go, he shot past me like I was standing still, screaming, “Cram it, wussy!”

I finished hard and kept going, easing the pace to a trot. Carter fell in beside me. “Good run,” he said. “Under five twenty. He got you on the kick.”

I looked back to see Boomer bent over the ditch outside of the track with his helmet in his hand, heaving his
guts out. I thought about asking Lednecky why he didn’t have to drop for fifteen for taking off his helmet, but not for long. I was gasping for air, but I wasn’t sick.

“Jesus,” I said between gasps, “you don’t beat him easy. I had it turned on all the way. He must really hate me.”

“That would explain it,” Carter said. “Maybe you’re lucky you didn’t take him. It might not have been worth it.”

The whistle blew, and we turned around and jogged back. The linemen were running their mile, and Lednecky took us over to run some pass patterns. Larry Ingram and Allen Snyder were the only ones who didn’t make the six minutes, but that meant we’d have to run it every day until they did or until Lednecky gave it up. Christ, Larry Ingram couldn’t do a six-minute mile in a car.

I’d have plenty of chances to take Boomer in the mile, and I did every time after that because he just ran with the pack. He’d shown his stuff, and it wasn’t worth the pain now that I knew.

The rest of the practice went well. I found out that what had seemed like calculated torture for the past three years was only a good workout if you were in shape, just like Carter said. The wind sprints were
tough, and four guys chucked up before we were through; but I was up front on all of them and even took Carter on a couple where he was getting his wind. Boomer ate me up on the first five just to let me know how it was and then dropped back with the pack for the rest.

I felt good heading back to the lockers, all things considered. Losing to Boomer hacked me off some, but then there was never any question about which of us had the talent. Measured up against myself and the rest of the mortals, though, I looked pretty good.

When school started and two-a-days were just a miserable memory, we started looking forward to playing some actual football. By that time I’d nailed down the end position and also a linebacker spot on defense. Goin’ both ways. Lednecky and Madison were really impressed by my attitude, and I was silently thanking Dakota for building a fire under me. My status with Lednecky seemed to be a rung or so below Boomer and Carter, so I was feeling pretty cocky, like one of the guys that makes things happen. I did my share of dumb-butt things related to that—forgetting what size pond I was in a lot of the time—but all in all, I handled it pretty well. I mean, I never came right out and bragged all over the place like some guys, though I think I did develop a little Clint Eastwood hitch in my walk there for a while.

And I had it bad for Becky. Who didn’t? Every guy in school was in love with her. You were considered weird or homo or something if you weren’t. But I had it bad. Worse than bad. I talked to her a few times—every chance I got—and I saw her out on the field, practicing with the other cheerleaders, and she was pleasant enough; but I couldn’t tell if she liked me or anything. Carter usually helped me out on the field by giving me at least one diving attempt at a ball he’d fire within inches of where they were practicing, but it was just hard to get anything going.

God, she was something. Tall—about five feet nine inches—and strong with long dark brown hair and these green eyes that made you ache. Smarter than hell, and she could get you to do anything she wanted with a smile. You would’ve thought she’d have ended up with Carter. He’s about the only guy that would dare consider himself in her league, except for Boomer, and
he’d
consider himself equal to anyone he could conjure up a wet dream over, which I would say includes every girl in town and several barnyard animals. He sort of works on a sliding scale.

Anyway, I didn’t have a lot of close contact with her until Thursday of that first full school week, when she walked right up to me over by the book lockers and
asked if I’d like to have a Coke with her after the Tamarack Falls game, which was the next day. She walked right up and asked me that. It didn’t embarrass her or anything, at least not that I could see. To tell the truth, I’d have walked across ten thousand miles of burning sand in my bare feet to see her cheerleader panties go by in a laundry truck, as Dakota says, but I was pretty cool, all things considered, and said yeah, I’d like that.

The Tamarack Falls game was a romp. Boomer ran for two touchdowns in the first quarter, and by halftime we were up 35–zip. I didn’t score any points, but I had three receptions, one that was nothing but class when I caught a perfect strike at the three yard line just as two of their guys high-lowed me. Carter said I landed on my head. I held onto the ball, though, and Boomer went over on the next play. None of the first-stringers played much of the second half, and I found myself thinking way more about having a Coke with Becky than football by the time the fourth quarter started.

In the locker room everyone was pretty high. People were laughing and joking about the great plays they’d made, and Lednecky came in and gave us an extra hour that night. There was supposed to be a record dance in
the gym, and he was letting us stay till the end.

Boomer made sure all the second-stringers were branded on the butt with a welt from his towel before they got out, in case they should get the idea that they were anywhere near his league. He included me in on that; by mistake, he said.

Becky was waiting by the gym door when I came out. She walked up and said, “Nice game,” and slipped her arm inside mine. Right there in front of everybody. Made me feel like a star. Boomer saw it, and I knew that later I’d have to hear about the infinite number of times he’d screwed her; but even that couldn’t begin to spoil the moment.

Carter went by and slapped me on the butt and said, “See you tomorrow,” and was gone. Usually I gave him a ride home, and I would have that day, too, if he’d wanted one; but he just wanted out of my way. Up until this last year I was pretty slow with the ladies, and that’s not the half of it, and he knew that. Hell, in a town of nine hundred people everyone knew it, but Carter was always real sensitive to it and never gave me a bad time unless we were alone. I appreciated that. But I still wouldn’t have minded giving him a ride home.

So Becky said right off, “Listen, why don’t you call your mom and tell her you won’t be home for dinner? We’ll have a burger down at the Chief and then go up to the dance later. My treat.”

“I’ve got money,” I said.

“So what? This is my date. I ask you out, I pay. Then you feel guilty and ask me out. Then you can pay. That’s how budding romance blooms. Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.”

I shrugged. “Okay, but do me a favor and don’t ever tell Boomer you paid.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t tell Boomer if his house were on fire.”

I started to open the passenger door to the pickup, but she beat me to it.

“Hungry?” she asked.

It was only about five. “Not yet. Wanna go for a ride?”

She did.

I stopped at the only phone booth in town to call Brenda and say I wouldn’t make it for dinner.

“But I already have your meat out of the freezer,” she said.

“Well, can’t you put it back in?”

“You can’t refreeze meat after it’s been thawed,” she said.

“I read in the paper where you can,” I said. “Go ahead and put it back.”

“So what’s so important you have to miss dinner?” she asked.

I hadn’t been ready to tell her, but I guess I knew she’d ask. “I sort of have a date,” I said.

“A date? With a girl?”

“Yes, Brenda, with a girl.” I laughed. “Your one and only son and fifty-fifty bet to bring you healthy grandchildren and carry on the noble name of Banks is all right after all. Gave us quite a scare there, didn’t he?”

“Never a doubt in my mind,” she said. “Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Becky Sanders.”

“Becky Sanders?”

“Is there an echo in here? Yeah, Becky Sanders.”

“Well,” she said, “you run along and have a good time. If I can’t refreeze the meat, I’ll cut it up for stew tomorrow.”

“Brenda,” I said.

“What?”

“I have on new undershorts.”

She hung up.

We drove out of town about a mile to the reservoir. It was low, and the spillway at the dam was only open about a quarter, so only a little more than a trickle swept into the river below. It was still pretty warm out, and the trees were just beginning to turn. I tried to think of something semiromantic to say about that but caught myself. I’d long since used up my quota of dumb-butt things to say to Becky. I’d do one pretty much every time I ran into her.

We stopped at the spillway for a while and dropped rocks and leaves and spit down into the water. I told Becky how Carter and I used to come up here during fishing season after we’d caught our limit, when the spillway was open full blast, and drop cardboard boxes of fish guts into the torrent below. When they reached the bottom of the spillway, they’d shoot up into the air like a ski jumper out of control and fly all over, showering the fishermen down there on the rocks with the entrails of the very prize they sought. Then we’d haul ass. Becky thought that was pretty funny once I’d assured her that both Carter and I had since put away such childish notions. She also said if I ever wanted to try it again, for old times’ sake, to give her a call. Then she put her arms around my neck and gave me a big hug. I didn’t get it; but I sort of hugged her back, and I
gotta say it felt pretty good.

We drove around the lake a ways farther, up past the old Crown Point cemetery and the rock crusher onto some old logging roads that wind back up into the hills like they’re going someplace. Nobody’s logged back there for years, so the only people who use them are hunters and kids looking for a place to make out. Man, you can lose yourself back there.

Becky had moved over close, and her hand was on my leg. We talked about the game and about loggers and hunters and how many really young people were buried in the old cemetery. Life must have been hard back then. And we talked about the animals that lived there and how they sometimes could tell whether you just wanted to look at them or blow their butts to smithereens. Becky gave them a lot more credit than I did. She said she thought a lot of animals could tell by the way you are. I said from the number of deer and elk and bear you see coming out of those hills draped over somebody’s car, a lot of them were exercising pretty bad judgment.

Becky said maybe so.

We stopped at the end of one of the few roads that doesn’t circle back to the main road but stops in a wide meadow. It hadn’t been used in so long that the turnaround area was grown over. We got out and walked to
a big yellow pine that stands right about in the middle. I still don’t know why nobody ever logged it. I mean, you could build a whole damn house out of it.

The sun was barely above the hill, and it was cooling down pretty quick. We sat down at the base of the tree, and Becky scootched in close and put her hand in mine. My stomach danced a little, and my heart was negotiating for space with my Adam’s apple; but I decided when the shadow of the tree reached the stump in front of the pickup, I’d put my arm around her. The shadow got there. Becky picked up my arm and slipped under. I was
so
smooth.

“I gotta ask,” I said finally, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“Why me?”

“Why you what?”

“Who’s on first?” I said, but she didn’t get it. “Why do you want to spend time with me? I mean, you must know you could have any guy in school. With guys like Carter and Johnny Campbell and Mark Johnson around, why me?”

“You complaining?”

“Unh-unh, sister. No, siree. Not me. Just curious.”

“Because if I were an animal in these woods and I saw you here, I’d come up to you.”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

“How about you?” she asked after a while.

“How about me what?”

“Well, do you like me?”

“Is a five-pound robin fat? Is a bullfrog watertight? Do da Pope wear a beanie?” I caught myself. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”

She smiled. “Even if I were, the Pope wears a beanie.”

“Okay,” I said.

She nodded. “Good. I don’t want to be wasting my time.”

The sun dropped completely behind West Mountain, and the air cooled off even more, so we headed back to the Chief for burgers. She paid.