Authors: Don Aker
Everybody but Willa. She forced a smile, but she was remembering what Greg had said in their group of four, how he understood the way David in the novel felt.
Like when he tries so hard to fit in but it never works out for him. He’s always on the outside no matter what he does.
She was pretty sure Russell Shaw knew how David felt, too.
T
he school had grown uncomfortably warm that afternoon, so being out on the soccer field in shorts and a T-shirt was a welcome relief for Keegan as he stood with his classmates in a circle facing the teacher. Among them were Wynn and his buddies, all three eager for action. Keegan could tell, though, that not everyone was so excited. Standing beside him, Greg Phillips looked like he was aching for invisibility—the sheer whiteness of his scrawny legs suggested that he only wore shorts when he was forced to. And beside Greg, Russell Shaw’s substantial belly struggled to get out of the cotton T-shirt it strained against. Keegan now understood why Russell had longed for a medical appointment.
“I’d like to get my hands on the asshole who made PE a required course,” Russell murmured to Greg.
“Haven’t you heard?” Greg muttered in return, his voice thick with irony. “It builds self-esteem.”
In his mid-thirties, Mr. Cameron sported a military haircut and physique that suited his drill-sergeant manner. “I hope our classroom work the past couple days hasn’t misled any of you,” he said. “If anybody thinks senior phys ed’s going to be an easy credit, think again.”
Keegan heard a soft groan from Greg.
“Today,” continued Cameron, “we’re going to do some soccer ball-handling drills, which are great for cardio.”
Russell quietly echoed Greg’s groan.
Cameron spoke to the class about the mechanics of dribbling, finishing with some pointers. “Keep the ball between your legs so it’s harder for your opponent to steal. Know where the ball is at all times, but keep your head up. Most important, focus on your opponent’s eyes. The eyes give a guy away every time.” He looked at Wynn. “D’Entremont, step up here.”
Wynn moved forward, grinning at his buddies.
Keegan wondered about the bandage on his left cheek. On anyone else, it might have looked dorky, but not on Wynn. He wore it like a badge of some sort. A testament to testosterone.
“As most of you know,” said Cameron, “d’Entremont here is an outstanding ball-handler. That ability is one of the reasons Brookdale won the provincial soccer title last year.”
Todd, Jay, and a few others punched the air with their fists and shouted “
Ooo
-rah!” Like they were frigging marines.
Smiling, Cameron waited for the cheers to end. “I’m going to ask him to demonstrate the moves I just described to you.” He nodded toward Jay. “Underwood, how about you come and—”
“Coach,” interrupted Wynn, “if it’s okay with you, maybe we could give the new guy a chance to show what he can do.” He smiled at Keegan, but his eyes telegraphed something completely different. The eyes give a guy away every time, thought Keegan.
Cameron nodded and turned to Keegan. “Fraser, right?”
Keegan nodded.
“You played soccer before?”
“A little.”
“Your goal is to try to gain control of the ball. And remember what I said about keeping your head up.” Cameron looked at Wynn. “Go easy on him, d’Entremont. No need to run him into the ground in this heat.”
He reached into a large netted bag filled with balls and tossed one to Wynn, who jogged with it toward the centre of the field.
As Keegan moved to follow him, he passed Todd, who muttered, “Good luck trying to get your feet on
that
ball, asshole.”
“Balls between his legs could be a whole new experience for him,” snickered Jay, whose voice could be heard by everyone.
“Underwood!” barked Cameron, the warning evident in his tone, and Jay gave him a palms-up pantomime of innocence.
“You ready for this, Vancouver?” asked Wynn when Keegan reached him.
Keegan nodded.
Wynn dropped the ball and began to dribble, the black and white sphere moving constantly between his feet. Keegan made a half-hearted attempt to hijack it, but Wynn feinted right and then drove left, easily keeping the ball out of Keegan’s reach while his buddies cheered. “It’s all about control, right?” said Wynn. “And knowing your opponent.” He wove deftly around him, keeping his eyes locked on Keegan’s the whole time as he expertly manoeuvred the ball over the grass. “You have to know the situation, too. The field you’re playing.” He got his toe under the ball, flipped it over his head and behind him, then spun around to trap it again as more
ooo
-rahs erupted from the sidelines. “If you don’t, you might make a wrong move.” He zigzagged back and forth, back and forth. “Know what I mean about wrong moves,
Vancouver? You don’t want to upset the balance, right? You’ve gotta be careful.”
You’ve gotta be careful.
As Keegan mirrored Wynn’s movements, always a heartbeat too late to connect with the ball, those words echoed in his mind.
You’ve gotta be careful.
So much like his father’s words that day in their backyard:
You have to be more careful.
And how had he responded to those words?
Because of you, my whole
life
is about being careful!
Keegan felt his stomach tighten, felt his jaws clench, felt his hands form steely fists. And then something released inside him.
Fuck
careful!
He lunged forward and toed the ball, surprising Wynn as it bounced away from him. Before he could react, Keegan leaped, twisting in midair and blocking Wynn as he trapped it, shielded it, controlled it, the ball now a blur between his own feet. He pressed forward, spun back, all the while preventing Wynn from making contact again. He could feel sweat rivering from his scalp down his neck and seeping into his T-shirt, and he revelled in the pleasure of unleashing his body. It felt good to open up, to let everything but the ball and his opponent fall away, his feet instinctively making split-second decisions for him again and again. Some part of his brain, however, registered that the cheers from the sidelines had stopped, a stunned silence filling the open space as he dribbled the ball backwards, forwards, his eyes never leaving Wynn’s.
The silence was broken by other cheers, this time from Russell and Greg. Then another voice joined theirs, and then another,
shouting his name, urging him on. Despite the heat blanketing the field, he felt like he could run forever.
And then a whistle blew. “Bring it in!”
Keegan stopped on a dime, pivoted, and kicked the ball directly into Cameron’s hands. From more than twenty yards.
When he reached the group, Russell and Greg pounded his back while some others whistled. The rest of the students, however, were silent, glancing awkwardly at Wynn bringing up the rear. Standing beside Greg again, Keegan watched Wynn return to his position between Todd and Jay, and the darkness of his expression made the bandage on his face seem even whiter, a kite against a thundercloud. Keegan remembered Forbes’s prime directive and winced.
“Fraser!”
Keegan turned to see Cameron striding toward him. The guys around him melted away.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” the teacher barked, his face inches from Keegan’s.
Keegan shrugged. “I was just doing what you—”
“Forget that! Why in hell didn’t you show up for soccer tryouts?”
“How’d he make out today?” asked Keegan, collecting his brother’s backpack from the back of the elementary school’s gymnasium while Isaac pulled on his outdoor shoes. Keegan was glad that Ms. Tomlinson was involved in the after-school program—continuity made things easier for his brother.
Tomlinson smiled. “Fine. There were some stressful moments this morning, but he seemed to settle much better this time.”
“He’s getting used to you,” said Keegan.
“Maybe, but I think spending yesterday with you was what made the difference. He was more relaxed today. The two of you seem really close. It’s unusual to see that in siblings when there’s such a difference in—”
Keegan expected her to say “cognitive ability,” a mistaken conclusion he’d heard too many people draw in the past. But she didn’t.
“—age,” she finished. “My sister and I were five years apart, and we could barely stand to be in the same room together when we were younger. Now she’s my best friend.”
Keegan nodded. In many ways, Isaac was
his
best friend, too. And not just because Jermaine, Lamont, and the rest of his buddies weren’t around. No, he couldn’t carry on a conversation with Isaac the way other siblings did, but Keegan had always talked to his brother, shared stuff about his day as if Isaac might suddenly surprise him and begin responding like anyone else. Not that Isaac didn’t communicate in his own way. His laser focus reminded Keegan how interesting even the simplest things could be, and his silences spoke of how connected everything was if you gave yourself the time to think about it.
And, of course, Isaac also reminded him of—
“Ready to go, Isaac?” asked Tomlinson, bending down so she was looking directly into the boy’s face. Isaac’s eyes, of course, were focused slightly to the right of hers and he didn’t respond, but both his shoes were on, their Velcro straps aligned perfectly.
Keegan slung Isaac’s backpack over his shoulder along with
his own, then took his brother’s hand in his. “Say goodbye, Isaac.”
Isaac made a sound that was more wordless murmur than anything else, but even that response was more than Keegan expected, further proof that Ms. Tomlinson was a good fit for him.
Leading him down the hall toward the exit, Keegan remembered her comment:
There were some stressful moments this morning.
No surprise there. Why
wouldn’t
there be? Despite the silence that had hung over the table at breakfast, Isaac would have sensed the friction between Keegan and their father.
And now Keegan had once more done exactly what his father and Forbes had warned him against, and he wished he could erase what had happened on that soccer field. His dad would be pissed if he heard, which would only add to the tension. There was nothing that Keegan could do now about his mistake, but he grudgingly admitted he had to try harder to make things better between him and his dad, to make their life here work regardless of how much Keegan missed what he’d left behind. What he’d lost.
Reaching the exit at the end of the corridor, Keegan nodded at a janitor cutting up a cardboard box for recycling, and he remembered the cereal box he’d emptied into his bowl that morning. He thought again about his resolve to try harder, thought about his father having to shop for groceries after working all day, thought about the debit card in his wallet for the household account his dad had set up. He looked down at his brother. “What do you say we make a stop at the SaveEasy on our way home?”
B
est school year
never
, thought Willa, the steering wheel sliding through her hands as she turned back toward Brookdale. Three days in and nothing was going the way she’d hoped it would.
She’d heard from Britney and Celia—via Jay and Todd—what had happened in phys ed that afternoon, the girls nearly breaking the school’s hundred-metre record getting to Willa with the story: Keegan Fraser grandstanding in front of everybody, catching Wynn off-guard, making him look like a fool in front of Coach Cameron and the rest of the class. “He purposely held back,” said Britney, “stumbling around on the field before pouring on the juice. It’s like he was rubbing Wynn’s face in it.”
Willa hadn’t been planning to see Wynn until after soccer tryouts that day but, having heard the story, she’d gone looking for him and found all three guys on their way to the field. She’d expected Wynn to be annoyed, but she’d never seen him so angry. “I hope the prick shows up this afternoon,” he’d seethed. “I’m gonna run his fucking ass into the goddamn ground!” According to Jay, Coach Cameron had made a point of asking Fraser to come to tryouts, which had only increased Wynn’s humiliation.
“It’s not like you have to worry about making the team,” Willa had offered, trying to soothe him.
“That’s not the point!” he’d snarled. “Losers like Phillips and Shaw were cheering for him.
Cheering
!” he’d repeated. And then he’d stormed off, Todd and Jay jogging after him. He hadn’t even kissed her goodbye.
So instead of heading home after school, she’d gone for a drive, hoping to wrap her head around what had happened. And ended up realizing how inconsiderate she’d been. Hadn’t Wynn been nothing but supportive after Keegan embarrassed her in class, even offering to kick the guy’s ass? And how had she responded to
his
humiliation?
It’s not like you have to worry about making the team.
She must have sounded like she was
defending
Keegan, which was absurd. The guy was a jerk, something he seemed determined to prove every chance he got.
And then, as if her thoughts had summoned him, there he was, big as life, walking into the Brookdale SaveEasy. Stunned by the coincidence, she drove by the store before realizing this was her chance. She’d confront the asshole.
Braking, she whipped into the Home Hardware parking lot, pulled a U-turn, and moments later found herself parked in front of the grocery store, wondering what she was going to say to the guy.
Who do you think you are
? sprang to mind, but that sounded way too much like Vice-Principal Caldwell. She mentally sifted through other options as she got out of the SUV and walked through the SaveEasy’s entrance, glancing down each aisle she passed. Spotting the jerk in the condiments section, she made her way toward him, the memory of Wynn storming off still vivid in her mind.
Squatting on his haunches, he had his shoulder to her, his attention directed toward a young boy beside him. In each of Keegan’s hands was a bottle of barbecue sauce, and he held both up for the boy to examine. “So, buddy, the way I see it, we’ve got two options here. There’s spicy,” he said, waggling the bottle in his left hand, “and then there’s extra spicy.” He waggled the other bottle. “Whaddya think?”