Deadwood (8 page)

“It's not supposed to keep you warm. It just ties everything together.”

Hannah bit her lip. If only the mystery of the Spirit Tree were so easy.

11

Friday Night Rice

M
artin left his running shoes and socks by the door. He had stepped into a huge pile of extremely pungent animal crap, and he wasn't sure he'd get the smell out. His brand-new Nikes might be passable for a weekend run, but no way would he go to school smelling like a zoo sewer. He'd be stuck wearing his old ones, which had soles that flapped at the toe. He pictured himself tripping in the cafeteria, and wondered if it was worse to look stupid or smell horrible. Life was full of difficult choices.

He noticed a striped canvas bag full of pink-handled gardening tools peeking out of the hall closet, and wondered if it held a trowel or brush to clean his running shoes. Martin slid over to take a closer look at the engraved brass tag on the tote—
Michelle Medina, President, Brynwood Garden Club
. It figured—those tools must have been purely ceremonial, like the presidency itself. Aunt Michelle would do anything for another title beside her name, and those fancy implements looked more ornamental than anything growing in her artificially green yard.

Still, she had some heavy-duty hardware in there, even if it
was
pink. Martin tested the edge of the shears and clawed at the air with the curved tines of a cultivator. If an Arlithean raider ever showed up in Brynwood Estates, Martin knew where to arm the defense.

Aunt Michelle called from the other room, “Is that you, Martin?”

He let the tools drop with a clatter. Crap, she must have heard that.

“Stop that racket and come in here for dinner,” she said.

Martin could hardly believe his luck. In the kitchen, Aunt Michelle had dished Chinese takeout onto a porcelain plate and ate with chopsticks at the kitchen table. Martin's stomach growled. He would love some spicy orange-flavored beef like the kind he and Mom always bought by the quart, but any old pork fried rice or chicken lo mein would be okay. He unfolded the half-empty cartons on the counter—just white rice and overcooked steamed vegetables that shriveled as the vapor left the carton.

“Is there any soy sauce?” he asked when he sat next to Aunt Michelle, his plate brimming with dry food. What it lacked in flavor he would make up in quantity. She tossed him a single packet and went back to eating rice one grain at a time. The scented lemon-spice candle burning between them smelled more delicious than the food. Martin tore open the packet and drained every drop of brown liquid over his plate. He ignored the chopsticks and shoveled the food into his mouth with the serving spoon Aunt Michelle had left on the counter.

“Slow down, Martin,” she growled, then returned to her usual fluting tones. “Eating is about satisfying appetites, but dining is a ritual. Consumption should always be a conscious activity.”

“I'm really hungry,” he said with his mouth full. His stomach grumbled as he tried to fill it.

She put down her chopsticks and sighed. “You'll never get anywhere in life with manners like that. Maybe that was fine at your mother's house, but here in Brynwood Estates, I expect a higher standard of behavior. And I'm going to help you achieve it.”

He braced himself for what was next. Anything Aunt Michelle planned for him had to be close to torture.

“I've signed you up for an after-school activity. You'll love it—Junior Junior Executives of Tomorrow. Junior JET for short. When I was young we only had JET in high school, but that club was the first step that turned me into the successful executive I am today. It will teach you to focus on what you want, and attract people, things, and responses toward you. If you can see the power in your mind, you possess the power.”

Martin scraped his plate with the giant spoon. “I can't do it. I'm working on a community history project after school.”

“If you
say
you can't, then you can't.” Aunt Michelle popped a single grain of rice into her mouth.

He felt a glimmer of hope. “Does that mean I don't have to do it?”

“No, that's an expression. What I meant is that you can do
both
if you really want to and set your mind to it.”

Martin opened his mouth to protest that he had no intention of doing both, but Aunt Michelle shushed him.

“It's only one Thursday a week, sweetie,” she said, sounding anything but sweet. “Plus Sunday nights, of course. If I had had Junior JET when I was your age, who knows how much farther I would have gone!”

Martin wished she had gone anywhere but Lower Brynwood. Just as he thought things were getting interesting, they got worse. He wanted to be out tracking the source of magic—real, live magic—but instead he was condemned to sit around with wannabe CEOs jabbering about stock prices and golf scores, or whatever that kind of kid talked about. It was his worst social nightmare—
like a curse
, he thought grimly.

He heard a rumble in the distance. At first he thought it was thunder, then realized it was the bass of a marching band. The football game would start soon. If he had any money, he'd put it on the visiting team.

12

Season Opener

H
annah sat next to Dr. Wiggins during the car ride, but that wasn't the only reason she felt like one of the adults in the car. After dressing her up, Waverly had ignored her as soon as Libby opened the car door. They jabbered together about their project, which was supposed to be a history of the Brynwood Park Mall. Every now and then they fell silent, and Hannah could hear the click of thumbs on cell-phone buttons, punctuated by giggles.

Hannah felt her face get hot. She unwrapped the scarf and crossed her arms. The Brynwood Park Mall wasn't even a real mall. It was just a shopping strip next to the closed-down Walmart and Happy Elf Bakery. If that's what passed for a historic landmark in Lower Brynwood, she didn't know if the place was worth saving. She and Martin would be better off rescuing some more worthy town.

Now Hannah was cold in the blast of the A/C. She twined the scarf around her neck, trying to imitate the way Waverly had tied it, but she got it all wrong. The stadium lights glowed in the orange and purple twilight. She tried to enjoy the view. When she drove with her father, she never got to ride shotgun—that seat was always for her mom, A.J., or Nick. Still, tonight she wished she were in the back with Waverly.

The sounds of the marching band and the PA system grew louder, and Hannah bounced on her seat. She twisted her right earring, then the left one. This was the most important day of her brother's life so far, and she didn't want to miss it. She slammed the door behind her as soon as Dr. Wiggins pulled to the curb, then she sprinted toward the box office. Waverly and Libby could catch up. They seemed to be trying to ruin the night for her, but she wouldn't let them.

Lower Brynwood Memorial Stadium brimmed with noise and light, but not people. Too many losing seasons had dampened enthusiasm from the townspeople, so that only family members and the most bored high-schoolers bothered to show up. Hannah felt more nervous than before. The sparsely populated stadium was more intimidating than a full one. She could see each face, and what she saw wasn't cheerful.

Around the thirty-yard line, Hannah clambered up the aluminum bleachers. Waverly and Libby picked their way up the rickety metal steps behind her. Most other high schools in the area had spanking-new concrete stadiums, but at least the grass on the field was green. The assistant coach, Jake Laughlin, her brother's boss at the landscaping company, had donated field services, spraying enough chemicals to coax the rock-hard field into a patchwork of green, bright as artificial turf. Almost as bright as Martin's aunt's lawn.

“Where are you going?” Waverly demanded.

“You can see the game better from up high,” Hannah said over her shoulder.

“But we can't see anyone from up there,” Libby complained, trying to make eye contact with some boys who looked old enough to drive. The boys ignored her.

Hannah knew she meant that no one could see
them
. She preferred it that way. She caught a few people pointing and whispering at her. Everyone knew she was Nick's little sister—she looked like a football player with a ponytail. She took off the sparkly scarf and stuffed it in her pocket as she sat down, avoiding the mud on the seats from somebody else's footsteps.

She waved at her mom and dad, dressed in red and black, five rows back on the fifty-yard line. Her mom waved but didn't smile—too anxious, Hannah guessed. They all used to watch A.J. together as a family—Nick with his hair wet beneath a beanie, fresh from playing JV, and Hannah snuggling between her parents in a fleece blanket. Now she was old enough to sit with her friends, and A.J. perched a few rows behind them with his old high-school buddies, one of whom had a curly-haired baby, dressed in a Philadelphia Eagles jacket, on his knee. Even the babies knew better than to align themselves too closely with the Black Squirrels.

The band ran through “Louie, Louie,” rather sloppily for a song played every game every year for the past four decades. They segued into “Hey Ya” as the flag-team girls pranced down the field in unitards, waving silk banners. Two held the ends of a paper banner painted with bubble letters spelling “Lo-B Rulz.” Hannah was glad Martin wasn't there to see it.

The team was building up to its grand entrance—not so grand, actually, because the players had to jog the full distance from the gym lockers, through the parking lot, and over the soccer field. A.J. and Nick always complained about the lack of locker rooms in the stadium, and Hannah could see their point.

Hannah picked out Nick even without seeing his number—five, like Donovan McNabb had worn for the Eagles when they were kids. She smiled, just in case he could see her, too, but he seemed focused, staring straight ahead and bouncing from foot to foot. Waverly and Libby were still chatting.

A drumroll rattled and the loudspeaker boomed, “Ladies and gentleman, the Black Squirrels!” Hannah yelled so loud she didn't care if anyone else made a noise.

Nick burst through the paper banner, the rest of the team flowing behind him like a red and black cattle drive. Head Coach Schmidt brought up the rear, his ball cap so high on his head it looked like it might pop off if he took a deep breath. His red nylon pullover was big enough to land a paratrooper and stretched tight over his gut. It was a stark contrast to Assistant Coach Laughlin, beefy but trim in a black polo and sharply peaked cap.

Lower Brynwood won the coin toss, and the offensive line set up at the twenty-yard line after the kickoff ended in a touchback. Nick took the snap and dropped out of the pocket. He sent a low spiral to Chase, who shook off a defender to pull in the ball at the thirty-five. He spun to avoid a tackle and took off, accelerating toward the forty-five, the forty, the thirty-five. Even Waverly and Libby leaped to their feet. One defensive back and thirty yards of grass lay between Chase and the first touchdown of the season. He stutter-stepped, and his knee crumpled beneath him on the hard turf. Even from a distance Hannah heard the solid
thwack
of flesh against plastic against flesh. She wasn't sure if the grunt came before the hit or after, but then the groan turned to a wail.

The spectators fell silent. The wail grew louder. Defenders peeled off, and she could see Chase sprawled on the field, clutching his leg and twisting in pain. He was Nick's best receiver, down after the first play.

The trainers jogged out, Coach Schmidt following, his belly and neck rolls bouncing with each step. A circle of players formed around the outer ring of trainers. After a few minutes, Chase emerged from the wall of shoulder pads, hobbling under his own power, a trainer and the assistant coach each with an arm around him as they escorted him to the sidelines. After a few moments bending over Chase's leg as the player's face contorted in agony, a trainer called over the ambulance, standing by as always on the side of the field. The EMTs shuffled Chase into the back, silently turned on the lights, and rolled out of the parking lot.

“Whoa,” said Libby. “Bad luck.”

Bad luck
, Hannah thought. The team had enough bad luck already. Injuries happened on athletic fields every day, but she couldn't help thinking of the curse. Hannah stared at the field. In the middle of the once-immaculate green was a scorched brown patch, the size and shape of a body. The grass was dead where Chase had lain writhing in agony. Burnt dry.

She caught a flare of light in the corner of her eye. High above the end zone, sparks sprayed from the ancient electronic scoreboard. One light bulb shattered in a blaze of fire and a spray of glass, then another, then all the lights blazed on and faded slowly. The scoreboard went dark. Broken down and worn out, like everything else in Lower Brynwood.

After a few minutes, the grounds crew wheeled out a portable scoreboard and the teams resumed play, but Nick had nowhere to throw.

The Black Squirrels lost, twenty-eight to ten.

13

The Yearbook

T
he cursor blinked, and Martin waited. In a hot, dry room on the other side of the world, his mother was typing.

H
OW'S
SCHOOL?

C
OOL
. I
ALREADY
LEARNED
WHAT
THEY'RE
DOING
IN
MATH
. He drummed his fingers while he waited.

I
MEANT
HOW
DO
YOU
LIKE
THE
KIDS?
WHAT
ABOUT
THAT
KID
YOU
MENTIONED
MEETING
THE
OTHER
DAY?
STILL
HANGING
OUT
WITH
HIM?