Knights of the Hill Country (8 page)

All I could get out then was, “Uh, well…”

Sara ducked her head and her hair blew across her face. “Okay, maybe I'll see you there, then.” Next thing you know the door was shut and she was halfway up the sidewalk.

Blaine laughed and shoved the shifter into gear. “Yeah, I could just see you taking Bush Girl to Wild West Days.”

“Don't call her that,” I said, but that only got him laughing louder.

Next football practice was pretty intense. Friday's game was only against the little old Pawtuska Pirates, but Coach let us know loud and clear we didn't have no room for letup unless we wanted to fumble away our one and only chance at a fifth straight undefeated season. I didn't think he should've used the word
fumble
like that, sort of hinting back to how Blaine fumbled against Wynette. That was uncalled-for. But if he was trying to get Blaine motivated, it sure worked.

That whole practice long, any time Blaine got the ball, he just wouldn't go down. Running up the middle, he never broke loose for much yardage, but even when the whole defensive line stood him up straight and plowed him backwards into the backfield, he'd just keep swinging his elbows and kicking his legs up till the whistle blew.

Every snap, he went looking for someone to hit whuther he had the ball or not. One time he clocked little Tommy Nguyen so hard, Tommy flew backwards about five yards and come down headfirst into the ground about like a tent spike. He smashed up into that oversize helmet of his so far, I thought they was going to have to find a crowbar to pry him out of there. But that was Blaine. He wanted them five undefeated seasons worse than anyone else.

I know his knee had to be killing him too. Instead of letting one of the assistant coaches wrap it before practice, he done it hisself so nobody could see how much it'd swole up again after that last big hit he took against Wynette. But when he got on the field, he gave it everything he had. I just admired the soup out of him for the way he went at it that day—sweat and blood and fists all flying.

It wasn't till after practice that I found out how he lied to me.

We got our showers in, then me and him loaded up in Citronella and headed over to Rachel's house to talk over the details of our double date on Saturday night. Rachel lived up on Ninth Street Hill in this big old white-brick two-story house with a wide front porch and a giant flower bed that they hired someone else to take care of. I waited in the car while Blaine went up to the door. Standing there on that porch in his backwards ball cap and wore-out Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt, he looked about like he could've been the hired help his own self.

Blaine wasn't poor, not by a long shot. His dad was a shift supervisor over at the glass plant, and their house was sure a lot nicer than the little rent house me and my mom smooshed ourselves into. It might not have been anywheres near big as Rachel's, but Mr. Keller kept the white board walls with the
green trim, the lawn, and all the shrubs about as neat as a marine sergeant's bunk bed on inspection day. He was a pure nut for lawn equipment—the louder the better.

On the other hand, Rachel's dad owned hisself the big furniture store on the edge of town, along with one in Lowery and another one he was just getting started in Wynette. She always had the best of everything—new clothes, a horse with its own pink trailer, a brand-spanking-new Dodge Durango SUV. None of that bothered Blaine. That was just the kind of girl he was
supposed
to have, he always said. He was as sure of that as he was of how our football team was fixing to go down in history alongside old T. Roy Strong's team of thirty years ago.

Rachel's mom poked her head out and talked to Blaine for a second or two and then shut the door. He walked off the front porch, slamming the post there with the flat of his hand on his way.

“What's the matter?” I asked when he got in the car. “Ain't there?”

“Naw, she's down at the furniture store. And I told her clear as day what time I was coming over here.” Blaine stuck the shifter in gear and we headed back down Ninth Street. “That girl's starting to wear me out a little. Getting a lip on her too. Tell you what, if she wasn't so good-looking, I might switch over to Misty Koonce myself.”

“You don't mean that. You been with Rachel almost two years.”

He grinned. “Don't worry, Hamp. I ain't gonna steal Misty from you.”

“I ain't worried.” I looked out the side window. “Go ahead and steal her if you want to.”

“That Misty, she's a hot one.” He let out a high whistle.

“Fact is, I don't know how crazy Rachel's gonna be about getting Misty to come along on one of our dates, but it'll do her some good to get a little jealous for a change.”

That's when it hit me that Blaine'd lied. “Wait a minute,” I said. “Rachel don't know about it yet? I thought you said everything was already set up.”

“It is.” He fiddled with the radio buttons for a second, tuning in a country station. “I mean, maybe I ain't actually talked to Rachel about fixing you two up yet, but that's all right. I got that girl in my hip pocket. Besides, how's she gonna say no with you standing right there?”

“Hey, I never even said I wanted to do this in the first place. I ain't got the first idea what I'd say to Misty Koonce on a date.”

He took his eyes off the road to size me up. “You ain't still thinking about that Bush Girl, are you?”

I looked away out the window again. “Her name's Sara.”

He gave the steering wheel a little slap. “I knew it. You got a thing for her.”

“I don't know if you'd call it a
thing.
All I know is we can set there and talk and it's just about like no time's gone by at all.”

“So what? I hope you don't think that means you got some kind of
deep connection
or something, 'cause that's bull. Let me ask you this. How much does she know about football?”

“Not too much.”

“See there. If she don't understand football, she don't understand you.”

I had to admit Blaine had a point there. She probably didn't have the least idea how football pretty much saved me when I moved to Kennisaw after my dad run off.

“I'm just trying to do you a favor,” Blaine went on.

“ 'Cause if you think you're gonna change her, you can forget that. You don't change them, man, they change you. Look at what happened to my brother and that train wreck he got married to.”

“That was different,” I said. “Billy married a crystal-meth freak.”

“That ain't the point.” Blaine was getting irritated. “The point is he changed. I don't even know where he's living now—somewheres on the north side of Tulsa, I think, but nobody knows his address. My parents don't even talk to him no more. Don't even mention his name.”

“That's messed up,” I said. “He's still family.”

Blaine stared a cold hole in the windshield. “No he's not.”

He looked like he really meant it too. The family could just lop old Billy off like a rotten branch. He wasn't really such a bad guy neither, just different from the rest of the Kellers. Quit football before high school, always talked about things like hitchhiking around the country or taking a steamboat to Malaysia, going to chef school, starting up a country-rock band. Me, I liked Billy, but him and Mr. Keller was always butting heads, and Blaine kind of gave up on him when he dropped football.

But I guessed cutting Billy off was about the same as the way my dad cut me and my mom off. It's a hard way to go, knowing your family can split up at the drop of a hat like that. I thought back to how Blaine played in practice today, and it dawned on me that maybe Coach Huff wasn't the biggest thing motivating him after all.

“What I'm saying is this.” Blaine was still staring hard through the windshield. “I don't want to lose my best friend the same way I lost my brother.”

“That ain't gonna happen,” I said. I still wasn't convinced
on the Misty-against-Sara deal, but there wasn't much else to say. Me and Blaine had been good buddies for a long time, but he'd never compared me to his brother right out loud like that before.

At the furniture store, Blaine slung open the front door, strolled in, and surveyed over them rows of sofas and easy chairs about like he was the heir of a big Southern plantation, just taking a good look at what all he was fixing to inherit. He picked up a floweredy pillow, lateraled it back to me, and said, “Throw me a long bomb, Hamp.”

When he took off down the aisle, I heaved the pillow end over end, leading him just a whisker too much. He had to make a diving catch and landed hard on this blue crushed-velvet sofa with an eight-hundred-dollar price tag on the arm. It let out a little whimpering moan that didn't exactly sound healthy.

Una Lewis, the salesclerk, come shuffling down the aisle from the back of the store. “You boys tear anything up out here and you buy it.” Una looked like she could've been a hundred years old and had worked for Calloway Furniture ever since Rachel's granddad started the business back in the old building on Main.

“Aw now, Una,” Blaine said. “You know your furniture's too high quality for a dainty little thing like me to hurt it.” He stood up and tossed the pillow down on the sofa. “Where's Rachel—in the back talking to her dad?”

“Her daddy's not here,” Una said in that usual abrupt way she had. “He's over at the Wynette store.”

Blaine said he seen the Durango parked out front so he figured Rachel had to be around somewheres, and Una said, “I
didn't say she wasn't here. I said her daddy wasn't. She's in the back office talking to Don.”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Rachel's getting a little flirting time in with big Don.” I was just kidding—Don Manly wasn't any kind of big, and I never thought for a second Rachel was back there flirting with him. But Blaine shot me this real dirty look and headed off for the back so fast you'd have thought he was on a mission. I had to double-step just to catch up with him.

The office was located at the end of the storeroom, and as we got up close, you could hear Rachel's voice. Blaine stopped right beside the door and waved for me to stand next to him. He craned his head so he could hear her better.

“I'll tell you this for sure,” she said. “I know I don't want to end up hanging around this sorry town forever. I might not even want to stay in this state.” There was something strange about her voice, kind of like she was looking to finagle Don's stamp of approval or something. That was different. Most of the time, she acted like she didn't give a powdered donut hole what anybody else thought.

Don come back with some advice. “What I do is list goals down in writing, and then every day I look at that list and ask myself what I have to do to get there.” He was trying to sound official about it, like one of them authorities they get on daytime talk shows to tell folks why it ain't a good idea to sleep with their sisters.

Don hadn't been much in high school, hadn't even played football, but he went up to Tulsa and got hisself an associate's degree in business from the junior college, and he thought he was a hotshot now. Mr. Calloway even made him full store manager for the Kennisaw location. But I figured, so what?
Maybe some of the girls said he was good-looking, but you couldn't prove it by me.

Old Blaine, though—he looked about like he done swallowed a box of nails. It sure wasn't the kind of look you expect from a guy who thinks he has his girl in his hip pocket.

“If I was gonna have a list,” Rachel said, “first thing I'd put on there is that I want to live in a place where you can go to a good department store any time you want instead of just Wal-Mart. And I want a house with exactly twelve rooms. Maybe one of those ones with the big white columns out front.”

“Plantation-style,” Don said. You could smell his cologne, stronger than gasoline, all the way out where we was standing. “Columns like that date back to ancient Greek architecture.”

Blaine looked at me and rolled his eyes.

“Or I might want me a colonial type,” Rachel said. “White with green shutters.”

“Like in Vermont.”

“Only I'd have mine down in Dallas, and I'd have a circle driveway with a fountain in the middle of it and a swimming pool shaped like a star in the backyard.”

“Dallas would be fantastic,” Don said. “That's where I'm gonna start up my real estate business. I've got me a book on how you can retire at thirty years old off nothing but real estate investments alone.”

Right about there was when I noticed Blaine's ears had done went red and he was twisting at the tail of his sweatshirt so hard you would've thought he was practicing up on how to wring old Don's neck. Now, what they was saying might seem pretty tame, but you got to understand Blaine.
No doubt he was figuring it ought to be him talking to Rachel about living in Dallas, not Don Manly. Blaine'd dreamed of moving there ever since we was kids. He aimed on playing pro ball for the Cowboys just like T. Roy Strong and living in one of them big mirror-window high-rises and driving a red Lamborghini all over town. Now we just had us a handful of games left to prove we was worth moving on to college ball, much less the pros. Time was running out. You could practically feel it, like blood running out of a nasty wound.

“Hey, it's getting late,” Don said. “I better go lock up.”

Right quick, Blaine leaned away from the wall and pretended like he was just now getting to the door. Rachel almost crashed into him as she walked out ahead of Don.

“Whoa there,” Blaine said, grabbing her arm like he was surprised to run into her. “Watch where you're going.” Then he looked over her head. “Hey, Donnyboy, how's business?”

Don squeezed by. “Fantastic. How you doing, Billy?”

“It's Blaine.”

Don didn't pay the least attention to that and just kept on walking, that high-octane cologne smell trailing right along after him.

“What a dick,” Blaine muttered under his breath.

“So, what are you doing here?” Rachel said. Her voice had got its old edge back.

“I just stopped by to see my girlfriend.” Blaine stood there with his hands planted on his hips gunfighter-style. “But what I want to know is why my girlfriend was in there flirting with Don Manly.”