The Off Season (13 page)

And yet I'd done it again. And it was all completely, totally my fault. No one else in the world to blame, not even the turkey farmers.

Eventually I got chilled through, even with Smut doing her best to warm me up. It was dark now, with stars and everything, and Venus twinkling away, and if there hadn't been a big chunk of moon I might have been in trouble. As it was, I could see just enough to tell where the path was as I headed back to the house.

"There you are!" Mom said from the living room when I walked in. "Brian called."

"Really?" I asked, my heart doing a somersault.

"This afternoon, right after you left. He said he'd come by after practice, but he never did."

"I ran into him on the way," I said, doing my best to keep every bit of emotion out of my voice. Like we'd just, you know, met up the way friends do. I flopped down on the couch.

"Oh. Okay," Mom said, a hundred questions in her voice. Questions she couldn't ask because that's not our family.

I stared up at the ceiling. It was really dingy, with some stains from who knows what. And a dent from when Bill threw a football inside once, back when doing something like that was the worst trouble you could be in. "He saw
People.
"

"Oh. So ... did he like it?"

Why had I never noticed how trashed the ceiling was? It must drive Mom crazy, lying there all day long looking up at that mess. "At least I won't be getting pregnant anytime soon."

"Oh, D.J.... I didn't—I'm sorry, honey. I'm real sorry." She patted my ankle—the only part of my body she could reach. "He'll come around."

I shrugged. But inside I couldn't help but whisper that I didn't think so. No reason he should ever come around for a loser like me.

All Monday night the phone rang, people calling to say they'd seen the article. I tried not to listen but I couldn't help it, a bunch of people asking Mom what exactly I was doing with that boy, in a way questioning her just as much as they were me. Which didn't make her too happy. Dad got stuck telling someone what a great kid Brian was, which I bet really surprised that person after all Dad's badmouthing of him in years past when we only knew Brian as Hawley's snotty backup QB, and it didn't make me too happy listening to this and remembering all over again how I'd let him down.

Going past me into the bathroom before bed, Curtis whispered, "Sorry."

I hadn't even thought about Curtis. This must not be so fun for him considering that kids in Red Bend Middle School don't care for Hawley any more than the high school kids do. "Are you getting it at school about
People
?" I asked.

He shrugged. That's one nice thing about being six-two in eighth grade. You don't have to take too much garbage.

It felt nice, talking like this. I hadn't checked in with him too much recently, I was so busy and so preoccupied. And he was too. "How's Sarah?" I asked.

"Okay. She got grounded."

Which took me a few seconds to remember, that business of Curtis sleeping over in her parents' basement. What with Mom's huge injury and
People,
I'd pretty much forgotten.

"Did the two of you have fun at least?" I asked, figuring that if you're going to get your girlfriend grounded and trash your mom's back, you might as well have enjoyed it.

"Oh yeah, it was awesome. We—" And then his face just snapped shut. "Forget it." He didn't say another word, just angled past me and locked the bathroom door behind him.

Tuesday morning I didn't go to school. I just stayed in bed, frankly. No one came up to check on me—Mom of course couldn't, and it wasn't like Dad or Curtis wanted to take me on. And Mom didn't even make them. That's how well our family communicates. Eventually Curtis had to run down the driveway to catch the bus, and then when I heard Dad head out, I went down to breakfast. I mean, I wasn't depressed enough to
starve.

In the living room, Mom sighed. "You know, I got a call from Lori Schneider this morning."

Oh, I thought, a conversation even more awkward than the one about Brian. How totally amazing.

"She's very worried about Amber," Mom continued, loud enough for me to hear.

"She's got a strange way of showing it."

"Do you know where Amber is?"

"Not in Red Bend, I can tell you that."

"Oh, D.J., this is so terrible." Mom sounded about ready to cry.

I went in and looked at her. "You mean, terrible because she left—and I'm sorry, but Lori is a worse mom than Smut and Smut's been fixed—or terrible because she's in love with a girl?"

"Do you know this"—Mom struggled with how to say it—"this person?"

"Dale? Yeah. She's really great, and Amber couldn't be happier or better taken care of if she was with—" I wanted to say with God himself, but I didn't think that would go over too well. Also, God's a guy. "Anyway, if you're going to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for me, because now my best friend is gone."

And Mom did look sorry, I have to say. Besides, she's not one of those gay-people-are-evil types. At least she wasn't whenever she talked to us about it. But it's kind of different when it's someone who spent six years having sleepovers with your daughter. At least she couldn't worry that I was, you know, joining Amber's thing.
People
pretty much took care of that.

Wednesday, Mom made me go back to school.

I stayed in the parking lot as long as I could, and didn't make eye contact with anyone, although you can be sure there were whispers and lots of people looking at me, and I got to world history without a total breakdown. No one talked to me in class, not even the teacher. Then in A&P Mr. Larson handed out a pop quiz on the central nervous system, which was great seeing as my own personal central nervous system could barely function. After that wonderful experience, I found a copy of that
People
picture taped to my locker with some extra stuff drawn on it, and words.

I ripped it down but not before a couple people snickered, and right then Paul Zorn came rushing up.

His face fell. "I'm sorry—I've been trying to keep it clean for you—"

"Don't worry about it," I said. How was I going to get through the day without crying?

"Um?" Paul asked bravely. "Could I—I mean, if you don't want to it's okay..."

I had my head against my locker. "What?" I asked. "Just say it."

"Could I, um, have your autograph?"

I stared at him, and he looked so scared that I thought he'd wet his pants or something. Then I started laughing, and I messed up his hair the way I used to with Curtis when he was still shorter than me. "No. But thank you for asking."

And that stupid question
did
get me through, that and the fact Mr. Larson let me eat lunch in his room instead of the cafeteria, which would have killed me. If I'd missed Amber before, boy, it was nothing compared to now. Although Mr. Larson asked a bunch of questions about Mom's back in a way I really liked, like we were A&P equals, and he asked me to say hi to Curtis.

Excuse me, but how did Mr. Larson know Curtis? Although he should, because Curtis is so into my A&P book that he could probably have passed that pop quiz.

I wanted so much to apologize to Brian, but I couldn't figure out how to do it. I'm sure the garbage I was getting in Red Bend wasn't nearly as bad as what it must be like for him in Hawley. He had a lot more friends to give him grief, for one thing. And he's, well, he's
Brian.
Mr. Popular Quarterback with great grades and a rich dad and pretty girls drooling after him. It wasn't like anyone in his circle spent much time hanging out with oversize girl dairy farmers; I was the kind of person that folks like that make fun of. I should have warned him. I should have told him at least who those turkey farmers were. How could I be so stupid?

All through health class and algebra, and English even, I thought about calling, but beyond "I'm sorry" I had no clue what to say. Ditto e-mail, or a letter, which I never write except to Grandpa Willy when Mom makes me, which isn't too often seeing as he almost never writes back. Besides, I didn't think Brian wanted to hear "Thank you for the gym socks," which was the only type of letter I knew how to write. And I sure didn't think swinging by Brian's house would win me any favors, especially considering that the last time I tried that, last summer when we weren't talking, Brian had almost taken my head off.

So instead of doing anything I just thought about him nonstop, wondering what sort of miracle would get us talking again and how I could ever make it up to him for doing this.

The rest of the week I packed a lunch so I wouldn't have to go into the cafeteria, and Mom kept saying things would calm down, although I didn't see any sign of that happening ever. Bill called practically every day to say my picture was all over the locker room and the guys wouldn't stop razzing him. When he found out I was getting grief at school, he said that Aaron could drive over and break some heads, which given Aaron's size he could do with just his pinky fingernail.

Win called as well. I happened to answer the phone, but it was kind of awkward because we've never had a lot to say to each other. He left home when I was twelve and he's barely been back since. He asked right away to talk to Dad, and they spent about an hour on Saturday's game, Dad wanting to hear all the strategy and Win as you know would rather talk football than eat, and they were on the phone so long that I finally went out and started milking so the poor cows wouldn't have to stand there with their legs crossed waiting for someone to get the milk out of them with our patched-up old milking equipment in our falling-down barn. It's too bad Dad couldn't figure out a way to combine milking and football because then maybe we'd make some money for once.

But I got through the week in the end, and even got an A on a pop quiz, which helped a little bit, and Amber called sounding as happy as I was unhappy, and Friday night Dad started a big pot of chili for Saturday's games because Jimmy and Kathy Ott were coming over, and we were all going to sit around Mom like she was a campfire and watch Bill play, and then Win.

Minnesota lost, such a tight and exciting game that even Mom popped a beer, which is weird for her, but it wasn't like she was going to fall down or anything. All she'd have to do is pee more with my help. During the ads before Washington's game, Dad filled everyone in on the stuff he'd learned from Win, and it sure was nice to be there with all my family, thinking of something other than my own misery for a while.

Only I couldn't, because not five minutes into the Washington game as Win was in the huddle and the announcers were chatting away like they always do, one of the announcers said, "The quarterback's brother Bill Schwenk plays linebacker for Minnesota."

"And he's got a sister who plays football too," the other announcer said, kind of chuckling.

My heart sank. I didn't play football. Not anymore, and those words just rubbed it in. And the five people in the country who might not have known about me now did, and the next thing they'd ever find out about me, the only thing probably, was that I'm actually just a quitter.

Then the huddle broke and Washington went up to the line as the announcers kept droning on. "She plays linebacker, and apparently she's dating a quarterback from another high school."

The other guy chuckled. "That's not something you see in football too much, is it?"

"I guess not. I wonder what the two of them talk about?"

"And there's the snap—and the quarterback is sacked. A great play by defense..."

But I didn't see it because I had my hands over my face. If ever—
ever
—there had been a chance for me and Brian to get back together somehow, it was gone now. Having your life talked about on national television like it's a joke—I couldn't imagine anything worse. Amber was gone. I couldn't play football—and don't think watching college ball made it any better, it just rubbed in how much I missed the game—and there wasn't even a guarantee I'd be ready for basketball. I might as well quit high school right now and work for Dad, slaving away for eighteen hours a day while we lost even more money and after a century of backbreaking work had to sell to some developer who'd turn our beautiful soil into driveways and basements, and our cows into dinner.

I sat there, all these miserable thoughts flooding my brain, not even listening to the game. I couldn't watch it anymore. I'd go take a walk with Smut, try to get away for just a bit from everything in my miserable, horrible life.

It was only because I heard a little gasp from Mom that I tuned in at all, and that's when I heard the announcer talking with a different voice, a less ha-ha voice than they use when they're blabbing your personal business all over the world:

"It looks like the quarterback still isn't moving."

I
DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH SPORTS YOU WATCH
. Maybe you don't watch so much. But the next time you're watching a game and someone gets hurt, and the announcers blab away while the TV cameras show the cheerleaders, and the fans with painted stomachs, and then they switch to a beer ad and a truck ad and some ad for investing that no one understands, and all the time that injured guy is lying there with medical people all around him—well, just remember that somewhere out there people are watching at home or in a bar, or in a camper even, and they know that person really well, and they're not interested one little tiny speck in the cheerleaders and stomachs and beer because all they care about is the person lying there hurt. And just take a minute to think about how they must be feeling.

We sat there staring at the screen, and just so you know I will never in my life drink that brand of beer, I hated it so much at that moment, and then—

"We're back in the first quarter, and Washington quarterback Win Schwenk is still on the ground, the medical team around him. This appears to be a pretty serious injury. You can see in the replay exactly what happened..."

They played it over and over again, from every angle you could think of, with close-ups, and freeze frames showing a tackle's fingers getting caught in Win's face mask, and the little jerk that Win's head made, just a little snap, and him falling sideways with the ball still in his hands, and ending up under a pile of bodies, and it wasn't until all the other players climbed off him and stood up the way players do that you could see Win not moving.