Doppelganger (11 page)

Anyway, I ended the half with a big sack, nailing the quarterback from behind. I could hear his arm snap as we came down. The next thing I knew, he was pleading for me to get off him. I jumped up, and a second later he started crying. I felt pretty bad—he looked like he was in a lot of pain—but before I could say anything to him, the horn sounded to mark the end of the first half. My teammates grabbed me and ushered me toward the sideline to a chorus of cheers. Coach was waiting for me with a big smile on his face. He gave me a big slap on the helmet as I went by.

“That's the stuff!” he said, and we all turned and headed to the locker room for halftime.

We gathered around the benches, all of us sweating, some bleeding, a few limping, forming a circle around Coach. He blew his whistle and everyone went silent.

“All right, ladies, we're up by seven. Not bad. But we need to step it up. Offense, you need to get serious and stop wasting time. Most of all, I need all of you to be more like this guy right here….”

He reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder pads and hauled me into the center. Suddenly all eyes were on me.

“You see this guy right here?” he said, shaking me.
“This guy is a goddam killer. That's what he is. Did you see him out there? It was like someone unleashed an animal in this kid—a predator taking down his prey with no mercy. That's what I want all of you girls to do out there. Be the killer!”

The guys all started cheering and shaking their fists in the air, but I didn't join them. All I could think about was what the coach had just said, about how he'd called me out, revealing me to everyone, mostly to myself. The adrenaline still running through me now mingled with the feeling of that running back crumpling under me, the sound of the quarterback's arm breaking and him crying, crying for me to get off him, to have mercy. It was that same sort of giddy sickness I'd felt after killing Chris, and I hated it. Worst of all, I was the big hero because of it.

Coach went on blabbing for a few minutes, talking about strategy and plays, but I didn't really hear what he was saying. To be honest, I didn't really care anymore, about any of it. All I knew was that I'd lost control out there on the field, just like at the fire with Chris, and people had gotten hurt. I'd been reduced to nothing more than an animal, and I hated that feeling more than anything.

As the adrenaline faded and the sick sweetness filtered away, and everyone starting scuttling out of the locker room, I suddenly realized what I had to do.

“Parker, get up,” Coach barked from the doorway as the last of the players headed out to the field.

I got up, went over to my locker, opened it, and started taking off my jersey.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hollered, and strode over to me.

I didn't say anything. I just kept taking off my shirt.

Coach shook his head. “I don't have time for this crap. Now come on, we got a whole second half to play.”

“Not me,” I said. “I'm finished.” I threw my helmet in the locker and tossed my jersey on the floor.

Coach made a kind of choked noise that sounded halfway between a groan and a growl. I could tell he was about to lose it, but at that point I didn't care anymore.

“I don't know what's gotten into you these last couple of weeks. I sure as hell don't like it, but we'll deal with it later. Now, for the last time, let's go.”

“Sorry, Coach,” I said, continuing to undress. “I said I'm finished. Done. As in, I quit.”

He grabbed me by the shoulder pads, slammed me back against a locker, and held me there.

“You can't quit,” he shouted, stabbing a finger toward my face. He was so close I could see every white whisker on his chin. More than anything I wanted to grab him right back. I wanted to do to him what I'd done to those Springfield players.

But I didn't. I just looked him straight in the eyes, looked through his eyes, into his brain, and right on out the back, and after a few seconds, he let go. He seemed tired all of a sudden.

“Chris, think about what you're about to do to everyone. Forget about me. Think about your teammates, think about the town, think about your father,” he said. As soon as he mentioned Barry, I made a face. I couldn't help it. “Then think about yourself,” he said. “Think about your future, how you're hurting it.”

“I don't have a future,” I murmured.

He took off his baseball cap and sighed. “Chris, you're an angry young man. I can see it in your eyes—for whatever reason you're pissed off at the world. I know what it's like. I was there, too, once. But that's why you can't quit. Because you know you can go out there and let it all out. You need this, Chris. Just like I needed it when I was your age.”

“That's not who I want to be,” I said. “Not anymore.”

Before he could respond, Coach Ballard poked his head in the door.

“Coach?” he said. “We're starting.”

“Dammit,” Coach muttered. He gave me one last look and walked away.

“We'll win it without you, then,” he hollered back as he marched out the door. Ballard looked at me for a moment in surprise, then turned and followed Coach.

“Good,” I said. I actually hoped they would win. For their sake as well as mine.

Just as I turned back to the locker, I felt the twitch in my eye. It had been a while. I glanced into the little mirror hanging in the locker and, sure enough, there they were—those doppelganger orbs, swollen against Chris's face, leering at me as if they had a mind of their own.

“Go away,” I said.

The slitted pupils—cold, reptilian—narrowed for a moment before fading away. Soon Chris's eyes were back, looking as dark and forlorn as ever.

“And don't come back.”

I changed, emptied out my locker, and walked out.

 

“Echo?” I called from the doorway.

The house was empty. She was still at her friend's.

I went into the kitchen and checked the answering machine. Sheila still hadn't called. Big surprise. Then I flipped through the numbers on the phone's caller ID, like I'd seen Sheila do, until I found the number Echo had called from yesterday. I dialed it, and a woman answered.

“Hi…Mrs. Simon?” I said. I was a little nervous. I'd never used a phone before.

“Yes?” she said.

“Is Echo there? This is her brother, Chris.”

“Oh, hello, Chris. The girls are upstairs. I'll get her.”

There was a clunking noise and then a long pause. A minute later Echo's voice came on.

“Yeah?” she said.

“This is Chris,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

“Oh, okay. Listen,” I said, “I was wondering if you wanted to stay another night. I mean, it might be good for you to stay another night. Think they'll let you?”

“Probably,” she said. “What's going on?”

“Nothing, really,” I said. I wasn't sure how Barry would deal with my quitting the team, but judging by how he'd reacted when I got benched, I wasn't taking any chances, at least not by having Echo around. “It's just that things might be better if you came back tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she said. Her voice sounded so small on the phone.

“Good,” I said. “See you later, then.”

“Bye,” she said, and hung up.

I knew Barry was still at the game along with everyone
else—probably wondering why I wasn't out there—and he wouldn't be back for a while, so I took a long shower and washed all the sweat and grime off me, scrubbing until my skin was raw and tingly. It felt good to be clean, to feel clean, if just for a little while. I even shaved afterward, something I hated to do because it meant I had to look at Chris in the mirror for more than a few seconds.

“Sorry, Chris,” I said as I finished the last few strokes. Even though I figured he would have been upset about my quitting, I felt a lot better. Like I was doing it for both of us.

Barry got home not long after that. I came out of my room as soon as I heard him walk in. I decided to get it over with now and not wait. Besides, he probably wouldn't have started drinking at this point—not much, anyway.

Seeing me standing down at the end of the hall, he stopped and leaned against the wall near the kitchen doorway. He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it.

“I quit,” I said.

He snorted. “Yeah, I know. I found out after I chewed the stupid coach out for ten minutes for benching you in the second half.” He took another drag. “You made me look like an asshole, Chris.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Me too,” he said. He shook his head. “That's it, you know. Forget the scholarships, forget college, because we sure as hell can't afford to send you on our own. Not that I'd pay for you anyway. Not now. Not for a quitter.”

“That's okay,” I said. I didn't mean to sound nonchalant. I mean,
I
knew why it wasn't a big deal whether Chris got a scholarship or not.

But Barry didn't. He turned and slammed the wall with his fist, punching a hole right through the Sheetrock.

“Stupid shit!” he shouted, shaking his hand. I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or to himself. Probably both.

I could see his knuckles were bleeding. He took another drag, tightened his fist again with a grimace, and turned into the kitchen.

A second later the phone rang. I heard Barry pick up.

“Yeah,” he snapped. There was a moment of silence. I wondered who it was. Echo, maybe? Sheila, at last?

“Sorry, Amber. He can't come to the phone right now,” Barry said, then hung up. He came back out into the hallway and stared over at me for a second. Even from where I was, I could see the look on his face. He looked just like Chris, just like the real Chris had the night I'd killed him.

He shook his head again in disgust and looked at the hole in the wall. “What a perfect week,” he said. He went back into the kitchen to make himself a drink.

“So who won?” I called down the hallway.

He didn't answer.

“Chris, could I speak with you for a minute?” Ms. Simpson said as the bell rang that Thursday.

“Ooooo,” the class said as they picked up their books and backpacks and headed for the door. I just stayed in my seat wondering what it was all about.

“Don't worry, you're not in trouble,” she said after everyone was gone. She came over with a few papers in her hand and sat down across from me.

“Okay,” I said, trying to get a look at the papers.

“I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I'm sure this hasn't been an easy week for you.”

By the time I got back to school on Monday, everyone had heard I'd quit the team. For the most part, the kids didn't really seem to know how they were supposed to react. I mean, Mr. Football giving it all up—it was ridiculous. As a result, just about everyone ignored me. My teammates, of course, were the most confused. And I could tell by the way Steve, Josh, and some of the others looked at me when I walked into school that first morning that
they were pissed off and even hurt. I didn't blame them. I even felt bad about it. But I didn't bother to try to talk to them or pretend everything was okay. I just kind of kept to myself, and for the most part, aside from a few murmured comments, people left me alone.

The fact that we'd won the game helped. Since I'd taken Springfield's two best players out of commission, Bakerville had had an easy time of it in the second half and won 37–16. Still, the season wasn't over by any means. Play-offs weren't that far away, and now they'd lost their star player. Which was me, of course.

The rejection was good, in a way. As the weekend went on, I'd started to worry that I was acting too much out of character—I knew Chris would never have quit the team—and I was afraid I'd drawn too much attention to myself. People might start asking questions. But now it looked like the opposite was happening—it was like, all of a sudden, I didn't exist. I was a nonperson again, which was fine by me. Don't get me wrong—I sort of enjoyed all the attention at first. All the looks from the girls and the high fives and salutes in the halls between classes. But that stuff gets old fast. Besides, I had other things to focus on.

Like Amber. She was one of the only people who didn't ignore me. In fact, she seemed to pay more attention to me after I'd quit. When everyone else went to a different table at lunch, she sat alone with me. We even went to the movies one night. This time she asked me out. We were going to rent something and go to her house, but at the last minute she changed her mind and we went to a theater instead. It was fine by me—I wasn't crazy about the idea of seeing her whack-job parents again anyway, especially now.

I don't even remember what the movie was about. Some sort of romantic comedy, I guess. I just remember about halfway through brushing Amber's hand, not on purpose, and then her brushing back and then the next thing I knew, we were holding hands. Her hand was warm, and her skin softer than anything I'd ever felt before.

It was more than enough to compensate for the cold shoulder the others were giving me. Still, I didn't want to seem like I didn't care at all.

“It's been a little hard,” I said to Ms. Simpson. “But I'm getting used to it, I guess.”

She nodded. “Good, Chris. I'm glad to hear it.”

“Thanks for asking,” I added.

“Just so you know,” she said, “if you want someone to talk to, I'd be happy to arrange a meeting with the school's counselor. Mr. Morovitch is very good.”

I wasn't sure what she was getting at. Why would I need to talk to anyone? Especially a shrink.

“No, I'm okay. Really. It's just a game. I didn't feel like playing anymore. That's all.”

“All right,” she said. “I just didn't know if there was something else. If your quitting was a part of something bigger. I don't mean to pry, but I can't help worrying.”

She seemed genuinely concerned. As nice as it was, I suddenly felt very nervous.

“You know,” she said, “when a person goes through a lot of changes all at once, they don't always realize what's going on, how it's affecting them.”

“There aren't any changes,” I said. “I mean, just football.”

“Perhaps. But I have to wonder about this.” She handed
me the paper. It was my test from last Friday. The final test on
Macbeth
, the one I'd studied for.

“But I got an A,” I said. “That's good, isn't it?”

“It is good. It's very good. This is better than anything you've done this year, by quite a bit. There's something different about it, in the way you write. Even your handwriting is more legible.”

“I didn't cheat,” I said.

“I know,” she said, “I watched you take the test with my own eyes.”

“I'm just trying to get better,” I said.

“There's nothing wrong with that,” she said, nodding. “I just haven't seen anything like this before. So much improvement. And now that you've quit the team, and then the conversation we had last week—I just want to make sure things are okay.”

“Well, they are,” I said.

“Good then,” she said. She didn't seem too convinced, but I could tell she wasn't going to push it any further. “You know, I found your essay really interesting. You were the only one who said Macbeth wasn't a tragic hero.”

“Well, I was reading over that handout you gave us, you know the one about Aristotle, and he was talking about how the tragic hero can't be too evil, otherwise we're just happy when he goes down at the end.”

“And I could see in your essay you think Shakespeare goes too far with Macbeth.”

“I don't know—I just felt sort of relieved to see him die. He seemed relieved too.”

“Perhaps. But to say that he wasn't a tragic hero is to say he lost his humanity for good. That he became a monster
and never recovered from it. But that isn't the case.”

“So my essay was wrong?”

“I think it was.”

I glanced over my paper. “But you gave me almost full credit on this section.”

“Because you made a good argument. I like to see students go out on a limb, even if I don't agree with their conclusions. And I think there's a case to be made for what you said.” She paused. “But I also see a man in act five who's come full circle, who's come to realize what's happened to him, what he's lost, and is utterly shaken, and more human than he ever was to begin with.”

I suppose she was right. But I couldn't get over what he'd done. Maybe because it reminded me so much of what I'd done to Chris, to the old man, even to those guys on the Springfield team. I still remembered what Coach had said about me in front of everyone at halftime. It had been on my mind ever since.

“So you think that someone who loses themselves in all that rage can still come out okay in the end?”

“Careful now,” she said. “I'm not trying to say that Macbeth comes out okay in the end. And neither is he. You're right, by the way. A part of Macbeth does long for it all to be over. I'm just trying to say he reclaims a part of that noble man he used to be.”

“I just wonder if it's possible for people who've done awful things to ever redeem themselves at all.”

“Of course it is,” she said. “It's not easy, though, and it doesn't happen often. And it depends on two things—someone really has to want to change, and the other people in their life have to be willing to let them.”

I nodded.

“But that's not what
Macbeth
is about,” she added. “Shakespeare's not writing about redemption. He's writing a tragedy, which is only a part of life, not the whole story.”

“Good thing,” I said, and stood up to leave.

“So did you figure it out yet?” she asked.

“Figure what out?”

“You know, what we talked about before, about Banquo being killed and Lady Macbeth not stopping it? You wanted to know what someone should do in a situation where, well, someone was being hurt.”

“Oh yeah,” I said. I still wasn't really sure about the situation in
Macbeth
, but I remembered what I'd told Echo in the basement last week.

“I guess sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands,” I said.

There was a knock. I looked over my shoulder to see Amber standing in the doorway.

“Hi, Ms. Simpson,” Amber said, smiling. Amber had Ms. Simpson for English too. Only she had her third period instead.

“Come in, Amber,” Ms. Simpson said.

Amber took a few steps into the classroom. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“That's okay,” Ms. Simpson said, getting up from the desk. “We were just finishing anyway. Right, Chris?”

“Right,” I said, standing up and grabbing my books.

“What do you need?” Ms. Simpson asked.

“Nothing,” Amber said. “I was just looking for Chris. Stacy said he was here.”

“Well, he's all yours now.”

I headed for the door. “Thanks, Ms. Simpson,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,'” she replied, and winked at both of us. Amber laughed and we turned to leave together.

“Oh, and by the way,” Ms. Simpson said. Both of us stopped. “Better watch out, Amber—your boyfriend got a higher grade on a test than you did.”

Amber looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I just shrugged as we left the room together.

“Got lucky, I guess,” I said.

“Damn right you did,” she replied.

 

“So where are we going?” I asked, lifting my head to try and catch something through the speck of light showing along the bottom of the blindfold.

“It's a surprise. Don't worry; we'll be there pretty soon. And no peeking.”

“Right,” I said. I had been distracted enough by my talk with Ms. Simpson that I hadn't really noticed Amber was acting funny until we reached her car and she pulled out the blindfold. That's when I realized how quiet she'd been as we left the school, just walking beside me with a sort of odd expression on her face that was almost a smile, but not quite.

We'd been driving now for quite some time, maybe twenty minutes. And fast, too. I kept feeling myself being tossed from one side to the other, just like that first time I'd ridden with her on the way to the party. Only this time, with the blindfold on, I had no chance to brace myself.

“You scared?” she asked at one point. Same as last time. But one thing was different.

“No,” I said, “just a little sick, that's all.”

She laughed. “Do you trust me?”

“I guess I have to.”

“You don't have to,” she replied.

“Then I will anyway,” I said.

“Good.”

A few minutes later we stopped. Amber helped me out of the car and removed the blindfold. We were at a lake. It was a nice day, and though many of the leaves had fallen, there was enough gold in the trees to make everything glow. And it was warm, warmer than it had been for a couple weeks, as if the sun had been holding on to one last day of summer and decided that today was the day to let it go.

There was only one other car in the parking lot—it belonged to some old couple at a picnic table down near the shore—so we had the place pretty much to ourselves. We got out of the car and started walking down through the pines toward the water. The trees were far enough apart to be able to see all around. I could make out some hills on the other side of the lake and picnic tables scattered here and there, and everything was quiet as we stepped across the pine needles.

“It's nice here,” I said. “I like this place.”

“I know,” she said, taking my hand.

As we walked down onto the sand, I suddenly stopped.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Aren't you supposed to be at cheerleading?”

“I quit,” she said, looking down with a smile. “I figured if you could do it, then so could I.”

“Great,” I said. “Now we can both be losers.”

She laughed. “That's right. And why not?”

“Why not,” I agreed. It made me feel kind of strange. I had never
caused
anyone to do anything in my entire life—unless you wanted to count Barry punching his fist through the wall—or at least never gotten anyone to change something about themselves. It wasn't the only reason why I loved Amber, but at that moment, it was the most important one.

We kept walking across the beach toward the far end. I was getting all kinds of sand in my sneakers, but I didn't care—it just felt good to be holding Amber's hand again. Even though we more or less walked side by side, I let her sort of lead the way. She seemed to know where we were going, and I didn't have a clue. There was something familiar about this place, but I couldn't figure out what it was.

Pretty soon we reached the end of the sand and entered a path that disappeared into the woods. Now I was really confused.

“Where are we going?” I blurted out.

She glanced over and gave me a look. “Funny,” she said.

I tried not to wince. I had to be more careful about stuff like that. I never got in trouble for things I didn't say, only the things I did.

I kept catching glimpses of the water through the trees to my right and realized the path we were on basically skirted the edge of the lake. Pretty soon we came out into a clearing right by the water. I could see the curve of the beach across the way. I started toward the far side, where the path continued.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

I turned to see her standing by a rock on the shore.

“Nowhere,” I said, coming back. “Just wanted to see if
there was anyone else on the path.” I knew right away it was a stupid thing to say. But I was totally out of it. I'd never felt so happy and so nervous at the same time before.

“Yeah, like there's any chance of that,” she said.