Stick (9 page)

I
knocked on the office door five minutes later, and in a moment, Coach opened it. I held my uniform, with Killinger's spit on the jersey, and my helmet, streaked with drying blood. He looked at them, then at me, his face a rock. “You lost us that game, Brett.”

“You watched the whole thing.”

“You've let so many people down,” he said. “I thought you were better than that.” It was as if he hadn't just witnessed a kid getting slammed into the ground hard enough to knock his brains out.

My stomach turned. How could I have ever listened to him? Respected him? How could I have ever believed that he was someone to look up to? “Tilly could have killed him.”

If there was an emotion behind his face, God himself couldn't have dragged it out.

“You don't care, do you? It's all about your game, and whoever doesn't play doesn't matter, huh? All about winning, no matter what you do to people.” I dropped my helmet. It bounced on the floor, echoing through the empty gym.

His voice was low, full of gravel. “Don't quit, Brett. You'll regret it for the rest of your life.”

A wave of revulsion shuddered through me as Preston's head hitting the concrete flashed through my mind. “You think I'd play for you? You're a shitty human being,” I said, and then I flung the uniform at him.

He flinched, raising his hands to catch it.

I glared at him. “You suck. And you know what? You're nothing but a third-rate coach who has to play dirty to win.”

M
y dad had called me four times during the day, leaving messages. The first two were threats about the car; then it turned to “I want to talk”; the last was nothing but him pleading for me to rethink quitting the team. I didn't call him back.

After leaving the gym, I headed to the parking lot. In the late-afternoon sun, my rear window glistened and sparkled, the glass spiderwebbed. A brick lay embedded in it. As I stared, I noticed the driver's door. Somebody had keyed it with a big X. A parting gift from Killinger and Tilly, no doubt.

It took me ten minutes to take out the broken glass. Thousands of brilliant pebbles covered my backseat. I left the brick in the parking lot and headed to Preston's place.

When I reached the lobby, I buzzed the apartment, and Preston's mom's voice came through the tinny intercom. “Yes?”

“It's Brett. Preston's friend.”

“I'll be down in a moment. Please wait.”

I stared at the walls until the elevator dinged, and when the doors opened, Preston's mom came out. She was dressed like she was going out for the night. Short skirt, cleavage showing, hair curled, makeup done. Her face, however, didn't look happy.

Her eyes were blue, and I noticed they were shaped like Preston's. She nodded, smiled briefly, and pursed her lips. “What happened?”

“I'm not sure I know what you're talking—”

She cut in. “What is going on with Preston, Brett?”

“I don't know, ma'am. Is he here?”

“Yes, he's here. He came home with a knot the size of a golf ball on the side of his head, he's limping, and he won't tell me anything. For the last three months he's come home with bruises and cuts and black eyes, and he won't say a thing.”

I wondered what it was like to have a mom. She was pissed, all right, but I could see in her expression that she was worried, too. “Is he okay?”

“Brett, please. He won't talk to me. He won't say anything. Ever.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, squeezing herself. “What's going on?”

“I don't know, Mrs. Underwood. Can I see him?”

“I'm sorry. He explicitly told me that he didn't want to see you.” Her lips tightened, and she narrowed her eyes. “Did you do that to him? Did you hit him?”

“No. A guy at school did.” The last thing I wanted was to get into this. Rule number one when your friends' parents grilled you was to find a way to get off the grill. “It's okay, though. They're not after him or anything. I swear. Just a fight.”

She narrowed her eyes. “They?”

Ugh. Why did I have to screw everything up?“No, I mean him. The guy. I promise.”

Just then, the last person I ever thought would save my life walked into the lobby. Tom. Good old Mr. Boyfriend. He had his hair all done up and gelled like a guy twenty years younger, complete with Ray-Ban sunglasses resting on top. He was dressed in a Hangman Valley Golf Club polo shirt and wore a pair of tan pants. The glasses alone probably cost three hundred bucks, but it didn't change the fact that he was a two-bit ambulance chaser with a loud mouth. He looked at me and grinned. “Hey! Stick! How's the arm?” he said, slapping me on the shoulder like we'd known each other longer than ten minutes.

“Just fine, sir.”

He winked knowingly. “I put two thousand on the team. Thanks for the heads-up, kid.”

I nodded, smiling inside. “Great,” I said, then turned to Preston's mom. “Is he okay?” I asked again.

Tom frowned, but it wasn't a frown of concern. Every second I knew the guy convinced me that God occasionally borrowed from the defective-parts bin when he made people. “Let me guess. Preston.”

Preston's mom swallowed. “Tom, tonight isn't a good night. Preston isn't doing well.”

“I hope this is some kind of joke, because everybody who's somebody in this city is going to be at this fund-raiser, Diane. It's important.”

“Preston was beaten up today at school, Tom.”

He grimaced. “Always him. Always the kid. I said this was important.”

Word hadn't reached the papers that the star receiver had quit the star team, and I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Underwood? I'm sorry, but I should leave.” I glanced at Tom, who still pouted, and I gave him my best smile. “You going to be at the game this week?”

“Yeah, of course. Like I said, I'm betting big on you.”

I nodded knowingly. “We're playing Mead. I heard something, too.”

He perked up. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Their quarterback messed up his rotator cuff waterskiing yesterday after school. He can't throw.”

Tom, with the smell of easy money lingering in his head like a noxious green cloud, clapped his hands. “Golden! I'll up it another thousand.” He slapped my back. “Game on, Stick. You're making me money, boy, and this is how it's played!”

I thought about Preston sitting upstairs, no doubt with a raging headache, and I laughed. “You got it, sir.”

Y
ou never do anything dangerous, do you?

Those words rattled around in my head like numbers in a bingo cage. Yeah, right, I thought as my stomach clenched and adrenaline flushed through me. I figured for whatever I hadn't done for the last eighteen years, this was making up for it. Even through my fear, a certain giddiness overcame me, an exhilaration I hadn't felt before.

This was crazy.

After leaving Preston's mom and her boyfriend arguing in the lobby, I sat in the parking lot, staring at the gigantic building. Fifteen minutes later, I watched as Mrs. Underwood's pristine BMW drove from the garage. Tom had won the battle, it looked like. I figured he always got his way, but I also imagined him sitting in the bleachers as the team streamed onto the field this Friday. The look of concern. Then confusion. Then anger when he didn't see me. Then rage when he saw Mead's first-string quarterback take the field. I giggled like a little girl thinking about it.

Now, a half hour later, with the evening breeze rippling through my hair, I looked down. All the way down. On my hands and knees, I peered over the edge of the roof of Preston's building and vertigo swept through me. My eyes swam. I hated heights.

Closing my eyes, I backed away and stood, looking over the twinkling lights of Spokane. A notch of the moon was cresting Brown's Mountain to the east, rising slowly. I could hear the rush of the falls far below, and my eyes were drawn to the headlights, small and distant, streaming along the freeway.

Once again I got on my hands and knees and crept to the spot right above the balcony that was outside Preston's room. Insane. I was insane. I could have buzzed his place after his mom and Tom left, but I didn't. I'd entered the password for the garage and taken the massive lift up to the top floor.

I didn't knock on the door that led into the apartment. Instead, I found the maintenance door and the stairs that led to the roof.

You never do anything dangerous, do you?

The world below me spun, and I laughed.
Trust it.
Trust what was right. I had no idea why I was doing this, but there was a reason, and I was sure it was the right reason.

Among the antennas, air-conditioning units, and other apparatus on the roof, there was a large satellite dish on the south side. Around it, and running along the edge of the roof, were steel bars and tubes that fastened the dish to the building. Fifteen feet below that, Preston's balcony laughed at me.
I dare you to do it.

I figured that if I slung myself over the edge while gripping the bars, I could dangle a good eight feet down. That left seven feet of flight—or vertical plummet—to his balcony. Every synapse in my body screamed at me to leave. To go knock on his door like a normal human being. Stick Patterson didn't do
anything
that risked his career as a football player.
You never do anything dangerous, do you?
No, I thought. I never do.

I do what I'm told, and I do it without thinking.

No snowboarding, no waterskiing, no dirt bike riding, no diving off the bridge at Post Falls. My dad had actually compiled a list of things I couldn't do. Yellowed with years, it was still posted on the refrigerator. Last year, he'd even nixed plans I had to go play Frisbee golf with my friends the day before a game.

He hadn't, however, written that I couldn't hang over the edge of a nineteen-story building and free-fall to a balcony. Nope. Not on the list. He'd missed that one.

Taking a deep breath, I grasped the bar and twisted sideways, putting my first leg down over the edge. There was no reason to do this. I could have buzzed him. I could have knocked. I could have gone home to face my dad. Preston wasn't in danger. I could talk to him tomorrow. Hunt him down, if need be. But something inside of me said that I had to do this. That he
needed
it. That he needed me to prove something I didn't quite understand. Or maybe that I needed this.

My whole body tight with fear, my heart pounding, I refused to look at anything but the balcony. As I slung my other leg over the bar, every muscle screamed, and my eyes shifted sideways, to the sparkling lights of the city.
You stupid idiot. Now you've done it.

Feet dangling, I lowered myself, trying to pretend I was hanging from a monkey bar and not a pipe on the top of a building. Despite the breeze, beads of sweat gathered on my forehead. My body was plastered against the side of the building, my hands white-knuckled on the bar above me. I looked down to the balcony. I had guessed fifteen feet from up there, but here the gap from my toes to the concrete balcony seemed like a hundred.

So I hung there. I could try to pull myself up, but there was nothing farther back on the roof to grab that would allow me to pull myself over to safety. The movies, I realized, were full of crap. There was no way I could swing my leg back up over the bar. I imagined a news helicopter hovering, the camera rolling as they reported on the poor demented teenager hanging over the edge of a nineteen-story building. Breaking News. Eat your dessert and watch the drama unfold.

I don't know how long I hung there, but my hands began to cramp and my shoulder sockets were tortured balls of fire. I was never good at making decisions. Decisions were made for me, and I followed them. Now I was alone. And in a bit of an uncomfortable position.

I looked down again, cussing myself. Count to three and do it. Let go. Tuck and roll just like Vin Diesel or Tom Cruise.

I let go.

I quickly found that tucking and rolling when falling vertically does not work, and the pain that blasted through my body was proof of it. Forward motion was needed to roll. I landed like a collapsing scarecrow, my knees buckling, hitting my chin, my butt slamming into the concrete. I tasted blood, rolled onto my back, and lay there, looking at the faded stars rimming my eyes.

After a minute or so, I detected no broken bones or extreme pain. Just the pain of stupidity, and a crunched tongue. I turned my head and spat a glob of blood and saliva.

Preston didn't have the blinds drawn, and as I lay there, looking into his room, I had a hard time focusing. I'd crashed pretty hard and was surprised I hadn't alerted him.

Taking another breath, I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again. The lights were off, and the only glow came from the lamp on his desk. I saw movement through the sliding glass door.

Preston, with shadows drawn about him, stood next to his bed, his clothes bulky. He stuffed items into his school backpack, intent. I shouldn't say stuffed. Preston would never stuff anything anywhere. Whatever he was putting into the pack was carefully placed. Through the dimness, I could only see that what other items he put inside, he did with his typical organized manner.

He was leaving. I was stuck on his balcony. Sudden unease spread through me as I watched him. I was spying, and it didn't feel good. My imagined daring and heroic appearance disappeared, and I was left with being a Peeping Tom.

Groaning, I tore my eyes from him and stared at the star-glittered sky. He was leaving. Where? Why? Had today pushed him over the edge?

As I sat up, my head swam. Before I knew it, Preston had zipped up the bag and exited his room. Fear gripped me. I rose to my knees and crawled to the door. Please, God, be unlocked. I imagined myself stuck on the balcony all night, the sun rising, Preston's mom coming in and seeing me curled up outside like a homeless stalker freak. Oh God.

Gathering my courage, I crept to the slider. I reached up and pulled on the handle. It slid open gracefully, and I let out a breath. Now that I'd officially gone from a freako stalker to a criminal by breaking and entering, I somehow felt better.

As an attorney, Tom wouldn't agree, I was sure.

I quietly shut the balcony door behind me, then opened the bedroom door. I was just in time to hear the front door shut: Preston leaving. Walking quickly, I decided to leave by way of the kitchen. Once out on the landing, I pressed the elevator button.

In another minute or two, I was breathing the fresh night air outside the car lift, my crimes and humiliation averted.

Then I saw him.

The streetlamps cast his small frame in long shadows as he walked toward the bridge. I had my keys in my hand, and I looked at my car in the distance, then back at his fading figure. I followed, hustling after him.

Across the bridge and to the downtown core, Preston walked quickly, head down, hands in his pockets, hood pulled over his head. Twenty minutes later, he left the business district, turned right, and headed into a neighborhood I'd never been in before.

Nestled against the river, the decrepit houses, broken-down cars, garbage-strewn yards, and barking dogs were more numerous than the occasional well-kept and tidy home. Spokane might not be a sprawling metropolis with all of the metropolitan problems that bigger cities had, but we did have one thing in common with them: not a lot of money.

Hardened people were made hard by scratching a living from low-paying jobs, and more than a few of the neighborhoods showed the wear and tear of an economy that had sputtered and stalled for years. This was one of them.

This late, most houses simply had a porch light burning; some had nothing at all, just black shapes in the night. Streetlights were few and far between, and I had a hard time following Preston. I did notice that he slowed his walk, taking his hands out of his pockets. He turned his head left and right as he went, as if he was looking for an address, and his posture changed, too. His sloped shoulders were squared, his walk steadier.

A car came from behind, its headlights glowing as it drove slowly toward us. I was half a block behind Preston, and as the car passed me, he suddenly stopped and turned around, watching the car come. I stepped behind a massive maple tree next to the sidewalk, watching. The car sped up and drove by, under the pressure of Preston's attention, and as it rounded a corner, Preston broke into a jog, following it.

I, in turn, followed, pacing him, slowing as he rounded the corner. Two blocks up, I saw the taillights of the car disappear once again.

Preston kept jogging, then abruptly stopped. I realized the car hadn't turned a corner. They'd turned their headlights off and were driving slowly toward a car parked on the side of the street.

I couldn't help but wonder what Preston was doing. A drug deal? Trafficking in stolen stuff? Meeting with an assassin to kill Tom, who I was sure had given him the black eye?

I didn't know. Couldn't know with him. Preston was a mystery at every turn. I watched him carefully as I crept closer.

As I did, I saw that the car had stopped. The doors opened. Three figures got out and walked toward the parked car. My skin tingled. Eyes back on Preston. It looked like he was taking his clothes off. I blinked, confused, and the next thing I knew, he was running.

Straight toward the car.

From half a block away, he ran right at them, angling across the street at a sprint. I caught a flash of silver glinting on him as he did. I saw a flowing shadow waving behind him, and as he passed one of the few streetlamps, I gaped.

Preston wasn't Preston. Black tights with silver lightning bolts staggered from hip to ankle. A silver cape edged with jagged black streamed behind him. A black plastic motorcycle chest plate, ribbed with the same silver lightning bolts. Elbow protectors. A utility belt. Black leather gloves. And last but not least, a silver mask covering his eyes.

A superhero.

Preston Underwood thought he was a superhero.

In any other place or time, I would have started laughing uncontrollably. Watching him sprint awkwardly down the street, his knobby knees knocking, his arms pumping, his cape waving, I would have thought it the funniest thing in the world.

But not here. Not now. Not when the full realization of what he was doing slammed into me as hard as the football my dad had drilled into my chest.

You never do anything dangerous, do you?

My breath left me just as I heard the muffled sound of the men breaking the car window. Preston kept on, running closer to them. Intent on breaking into the car, the three men hadn't noticed him charging. I swallowed back a scream, watching in horror as he reached his targets.