OCDaniel (14 page)

Despite the weather, the bleachers were packed. Raya and Clara were there, wrapped up in windbreakers and scarves and mittens to keep out the damp November cold. Steve had even come out for once, probably hoping to see me make a fool of myself, and there, sitting a few bleachers down from Max's mom, was Max's dad. I'd seen pictures, though he had a beard now, and some gray was sneaking into his black hair. He was watching Max proudly, as if he had a right to do that.

Max was playing like someone possessed. He scored a touchdown on our first possession, putting us up 6–0. I ran out for the extra kick, trying to stay calm.
Just visualize the kick.

The hut came back, Max placed the ball, and I took my two steps and kicked. It was silent as the ball took off toward the cloudy morning sky. And then the ball went through the uprights. I had made the kick.

Max gave me a one-armed hug, grinning. “I knew you had it in you!”

As we ran off the field, Coach Clemons patted me on the shoulder again. It was like a bizarre dream.

The game continued on through the mist and damp, but no one was cold. It was getting heated. The refs had to step in twice to stop pushing matches. The two benches were shouting at each other. At one point Coach Clemons threw his hat and stormed out onto the field, gesturing wildly about a blown call.

I didn't even recognize Max. He was pacing around the sidelines, his face red, shouting orders and getting more and more crazed. At one point he grabbed my shoulders and shook me.

“We're going to do this, Danny,” he said. “You got this, baby.”

He stormed away, and I shook my head. He was talking like the rest of the team. I don't think he'd ever called me “Danny.” It was something Taj said all the time.

I realized I was getting a little excited. I was part of the team.

There were two minutes left in the game when it happened. We were up 31–25 when they scored. The other kicker converted, and we were down by one. It was my worst nightmare. I sat on the bench and prayed that Max would score with one second left and we wouldn't need a kick. But the prayer didn't work.

The team started the drive from our forty. A few conversions. Killing time. We were stopped again on their thirty-nine with two downs. One of our running backs, Kyle, got us a few more yards, centering the call at the thirty-four. And then everyone turned to me. Coach Clemons appeared over me, looking panicked.

He tried to act calm. “Get out there, son,” he said gravely. “Make me proud.”

I walked through the team like I was going to my death. My arms were rigid. I heard my mom through the cheering crowd.

“Go get 'em, Dan!”

Thanks, Mom.

I jogged out to the thirty-four, and Max took me by the shoulders again. “You can do this.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My breathing didn't feel right. My stomach hurt.

But I could do this. I just had to kick the ball straight.

We lined up. I took two steps back. I was shaking terribly.
Think about Emma,
I told myself.
She doesn't care. And neither does Sara.
I thought of her, lying in the grass, staring up at the clouds.

She didn't care about football.

“Hut!” Max screamed.

The ball flew back, he placed it, and I kicked.

It felt like everything stopped except the ball. I couldn't hear Max shouting or the opposing line crashing forward or even the crowd. I just watched the ball sail end over end toward the field goalposts. I'd gotten better contact this time—no fluttering. It was the best kick of my life. And then the ball hit the crossbar.

There was a clang as it rattled off and flew back toward the field. It landed right in the arms of a Portsmith Potter who had been back to field any misses. I heard the cries. The groans. It was all over.

And then the Portsmith player did something ill-advised. He spotted an opening to our end zone and took off running. For a second everyone on our team was too surprised to act, and then they started the chase. I joined in, still burning with humiliation. The player just had to go down, or the Potters could run out the clock. But he kept running. He was clear up the sidelines, and he wanted the glory.

Max wanted it more. As I chased after the guy, Max appeared out of nowhere and hit the player so hard that he flew out of bounds, the ball sailing out of his hands. It bounced once and then landed by my feet.

“Go!” Max screamed.

I had no choice. I scooped up the ball and started running. Everything was happening fast. A Portsmith Potter closed in on me, but Taj clocked him out of the way, and they both landed in a heap. I kept running. The blocks lined up down the sideline, and I ran as fast as I could. There was no thinking. I just ran until I was at the back of the end zone. Suddenly my entire team was running toward me, jumping and screaming. I just stood there, holding the ball, and then it was sent flying by the rest of the team, all of them hugging me and patting me and then even hoisting me up onto their shoulders.

I saw my mom and dad hugging in the bleachers. Coach Clemons was jumping.

Grinning, I let myself be swept away in the celebrations.

It was the best day of my life. The team celebrated all day at Coach's house with a barbecue. Max walked around the whole afternoon beaming—even after his dad just shook his hand and got back into the car.

It was a blur of laughter and congratulations and feeling like people cared about me.

It was nice, but the only downside was the grim fact that I had to do it again next week.

I really hoped Kevin got better by then.

When we finally got home, I was exhausted and went upstairs to lie down. I flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, smiling. I hadn't gotten much chance to talk to Raya after the game, but I'd seen her smiling as I'd been hoisted across the field. She had said she didn't like football, but everyone liked a hero—according to Steve anyway.

I pictured her smiling and wondered if she was possibly by any chance thinking about me.

I hoped so.

But a part of me also remembered that the person I had pictured right before taking the kick was Sara Malvern. And I thought about lying next to her in the field, eyes on the clouds. I thought about the hair that always blew across her face, reaching down past her lips. I thought of her fingers on my cheeks.

But I couldn't like Sara Malvern. She was weird and constantly reminding me that I wasn't normal either. And I wanted to be normal more than anything else in the world. I wanted to be the kid I was today.

  •  •  •  

That night I watched a college game with my dad. We didn't do that much, but he told me to come downstairs and watch and have some chips. Steve was out, and Emma wasn't interested, so it was just us.

I cheered for the same team he did—Ohio State. I figured I had to. But even though I really didn't like watching football, I was happy to be there with him.

“Some play today,” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Lucky, I guess.”

“Sure, but you still have to make your own luck. Haven't seen a finish like that in years.”

I shrugged. “Me neither. I'm just happy we won.”

I was a little distracted already. I ate a chip in the first quarter, and something didn't feel right. I decided it was because I'd chewed it wrong, and ate another. Three bites. And then four. I was eating them all. I was sitting there listening to my dad, but my mind was on the chips. My thoughts were racing.
If I don't fix this, my whole day is ruined. What did I do wrong? Was it the number four? Five? What do I do?

I was sweating a little and trying to sit still, but I couldn't. I had another chip.

“How's school going?” my dad asked, his eyes on the TV.

“Good,” I said. “No problem.”

My hand went to the bowl.

“All As?”

“Everything but math.”

He looked at me, frowning. “Again? What's going on with the math?”

“Nothing,” I muttered. “Just not my best subject, I guess.”

He snorted. “You got As until two years ago. Both your mom and I are good at math. How do you stink at it?”

“I don't know.” Five bites. Six. Seven. My hands were shaking on the bowl. I was sweating heavily now. My skin felt flushed and burning and tingling. Why me?

I thought back to what Sara had said. That we were Star Kids. That we were special, and we didn't quite fit into this world. That was why she was on meds. That was why I counted things.

My dad turned back to the TV. “Well, maybe we should do some work on it tomorrow. Listen, your mom and I were talking about something. Is everything else all right?”

“Like what?” I asked, still distracted by the chips and numbers.

He suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Are you sleeping all right? It's just that I was up last night and saw your lights on. And then off.”

He didn't need to finish. He'd seen the flicking. I pulled my hands away from the chips.

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, that was just weird. My light was making this buzzing noise. I flicked it a few times, and the buzzing stopped. Was just up reading. . . . Nervous, I guess, with the game.”

He seemed relieved. “Okay. I told your mom it was nothing. A buzzing noise? I'll check it out.”

We went back to football, and he didn't mention it again. I waited for as long as I could, and then I took another chip.

  •  •  •  

I knocked on the door, feeling like I was about to attempt another game-winning field goal. My mom had insisted that I wear a nice shirt and khakis when she'd found out I was going to dinner at Sara's. She was convinced Sara was my girlfriend now, despite my protests. I waited for a moment, considering running away. Too late.

A large man with tattoos opened the door. John. He looked at me, obviously trying to place me.

“Is Sara here?” I asked.

He was still frowning. “Aren't you—”

I nodded. “Yeah. I did the contest for the paper. Hope you win!” I added meekly.

He snorted and stood back. “John. Sara's upstairs. You can go into the kitchen.”

I slipped off my shoes and started down the hall, looking around curiously. The hardwood floors were spotless and gleaming, and the walls were decorated with pictures of Sara. There were none of her father. In fact, I spotted at least ten pictures of Sara before I made it to the kitchen, which was a little weird. Her mother was over the stove, cutting into a roast. She turned when I walked in, and smiled, her eyes scanning over me.

She dressed like my mom, and I noticed she had Sara's small nose. She seemed like a strange match for John. She also looked very happy to see me.

“Hi,” she said. “Dan, right?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Malvern.”

“And you,” she said, sounding like she meant it. “Call me Michelle.” She was staring at me intently. “Drink?”

“Um . . . sure.”

She hurried to the fridge. “Sit down. Sara will be here in a second. Sprite?”

“Sure. Thank you.”

She put the Sprite down and looked at me again, smiling as John plunked down at the other end of the table. “So you go to school with Sara.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded. “And you met . . . how?”

She wanted to know how I'd made friends with a girl who didn't speak. One who was medicated and who'd had a TA her entire life. My eyes flicked to John for just a second, and then I shrugged.

“Just through class and stuff.”

She smiled and went back to cooking, leaving me with John. He was reading something on his phone. His dark eyes glanced up at me, and then he put the phone away, taking a sip of beer.

“So you . . . uh . . . eighth grade too?” he asked gruffly. His hair was combed back, exposing a white scar at the top of his hairline. He had grizzled cheeks again, and I saw a tattoo exposed on his neck.

“Yep,” I murmured.

“Play football?”

I nodded. “Kicker.”

“Cool,” he said, turning to Sara's mom and obviously hoping she would sit soon. I got the impression he wasn't thrilled about a dinner with his girlfriend's strange daughter and boyfriend.

“Sara!” her mother called, putting the dinner down on the table. It looked delicious, but I wasn't hungry. Sara's mom sat down at the head of the table and gestured to the dishes. “Dig in, Daniel. Roast beef. My specialty.”

I tentatively reached out and grabbed some, feeling their eyes on me. There was a piece of paper in my pocket that crinkled—Sara's script. I had a careful line of questions to follow. My stomach turned.

“Wow,” John suddenly said, and I turned to the doorway.

I wanted to say “wow” too. Sara was there . . . sort of. She was wearing a blue dress with a white belt, and her hair was tied back with a white ribbon to match the belt. It looked like she might even have had makeup on. Her mom put her hands together, looking thrilled.

“It's even better than I'd hoped,” she murmured. “You look beautiful. Sit down.”

Sara's cheeks were just a bit red as she sat down to my right, not meeting my eyes. She really did look beautiful. She kept her eyes on the plate as John helped himself to some roast beef.

“We were just talking to Daniel about school,” Sara's mom said. “Do you have any of the same teachers?”

“No,” I said. “Sara is usually . . .” I paused. “I mean, we might. She's bright, so she's probably ahead of all of us.”

Sara's lips pulled into a little smile.

“Yes, she is,” her mom said proudly. “She's doing college-level math. Not a big . . . communicator.”

John snorted, and Sara's mom shot him a dirty look. I just returned to my dinner. Then I felt a kick.

“How did you two meet?” I asked suddenly, sneaking a look at Sara.