OCDaniel (9 page)

My cell phone rang, and I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Max.

“Hello?” I said.

“Where are you?” he exclaimed. “Coach Clemons is furious. You better be here tomorrow—”

“Why does Coach even care?” I said. “I don't play.”

“You do now,” he said. “Kevin hurt his knee at practice. You're playing the next game.”

I felt my stomach drop into my shoes. “What?”

“You're playing,” Max said. “Coach is having a special kicking practice tomorrow. Get ready, buddy. This is the moment you were waiting for.” He paused. “Don't screw it up.”

He hung up, and Sara looked at me and smiled.

“You're going to have a busy week,” she said.

“So,” my mom said at dinner, watching me with a grin, “who is this school friend of yours?”

I looked up from my spaghetti. “Sara.”

Emma was watching me with definite interest, and even Steve had glanced over.

“And how did you meet her?”

I frowned. “At school.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Emma asked, leaning forward.

“No.”

I returned to my spaghetti, hoping to eat and get out of there as soon as possible. My mom would ask me questions for the rest of the night if she had the chance. She was a notorious quizmaster.

“I thought you were after a girl named Raya?” Steve asked.

I felt my cheeks burning. “I'm not after anyone.”

“Shocker,” Steve said.

“She was cute,” my mom chimed in. “Quiet. Is she shy?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Very shy.”

Sara had left soon after the phone call, probably sensing that I was distracted. I wasn't sure if I was more terrified of investigating a potential murder or having to play football. The combination was not enticing.

“Go to his house tomorrow after football,” she'd said. “He lives at 17 Selkirk Lane. His name is John. Meet me at five thirty outside my house with a report. I live at 52 Janewood Drive.”

“But—”

“I wrote down all the information for you. It's on the bed.” She'd looked at me. “We're going to get John for what he did. And then we can worry about what's next for us. We have a lot to do.”

She had walked downstairs and left without another word, and I'd been left wondering what had happened.

“She looked familiar,” Emma said. “What did you say her name was again—”

“I have to play next game,” I cut in. It was the only way to change the subject.

Steve put down his fork. “What?”

“I'm playing,” I muttered. “Kevin got hurt. I'm the starting kicker.”

Steve looked like he might be sick. He had played for the Erie Hills Elephants and loved the team. “Don't they have another backup?” he asked.

“Thanks.”

Even my mom looked concerned. “Isn't it the play-offs?”

“Yeah.”

Steve shook his head. “It pains me to say this, but maybe we should do some extra practicing. I can hold if you want to take a few kicks this week.”

I was impressed that Steve actually was willing to hang out with me, even if it was probably more for his love of football than of me. But the thought of extra football was enough to make my stomach turn.

“Thanks,” I said. “But we're practicing a lot. It'll be fine.”

My mom forced a smile. “Your dad will be excited.”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

Just after nine o'clock my dad came into my room and grinned. “I heard the news.”

I looked over from my computer, blocking the screen. “Yep.”

“You'll do well,” he said, grinning under his mustache. “You have to stay calm.” He patted the door and then started down the hall, obviously pleased. “Should be a good game!”

I turned back to my computer. He was going to be very disappointed.

Daniel picked up the phone, but the number rang through to voice mail.

“You have reached Charles Oliver. Leave a message.”

He stood there for a moment, considering what to do next. He needed to find Charles Oliver's house. Maybe there was another station. Maybe there was still a way to save humanity.

He Googled Charles Oliver, but the name was too common to yield anything helpful. Then he tried Googling the phone number.

It was from New York City. A ten-hour drive, easy. Daniel punched “Charles Oliver” into New York City 411 and got eleven listings for “C. Oliver.” It was a place to start. Looking to where the sunlight was sneaking in around the curtains, he recalled the shape he had seen between the two houses. Tall and as black as night. As fast as a shadow. And strangely, eerily human.

If Daniel was going to get to New York, he needed to drive.

He packed a survival kit: his laptop, charger, water bottles, granola bars, and a picture of his family in case he got lonely. He was just zipping the kit up when a familiar noise split through the house and almost caused him to topple backward.

Someone was knocking on the front door.

I finished the page and leaned back. I already knew who it was going to be.

  •  •  •  

The looks started the moment I got to school. Taj and the others watched me as I approached the group where they were hanging out by the basketball court, as if hoping that I had somehow become more athletic overnight. I know you're probably thinking that the kicker doesn't have to be that athletic, but you're wrong; the kicker is extremely important. In fact my dad often pointed out that the kicker is almost always the leading scorer of the team, and that when the game comes down to the last few seconds, it's the kicker that everyone relies on. They are the true pressure players. All this wasn't helping me at all, of course, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

“Morning,” Max said, clapping me on the arm. “Ready for practice tonight? The whole line is going to be there, and the long snapper. I asked to hold for you. What do you think?”

“Yeah, sure,” I murmured. “Couldn't you just kick?”

Max laughed. “You'll be fine. This will be good for you. But practice hard. This game is big, man.”

“Thanks, pal.”

Taj and the others came over and looked at me skeptically.

“Where were you yesterday?” Taj asked.

“Uh . . . I had an appointment. Doctor.”

“Well, get out there tonight. We don't need any botched kicks.”

Raya looked at me. “Leave the kid alone. He'll be fine.”

I sort of resented the term “kid,” but at least she was defending me. The guys started talking among themselves, and Raya stepped in front of them.

“How freaked out are you right now?”

“Highly.”

She laughed. “I figured. Listen, you'll be fine. I saw you when I was riding home yesterday.”

I looked at her. “And?”

“You were walking with Sara.”

I stood there for a moment, unsure how to respond. “Yeah.”

“She talks to you.” It wasn't a question. “She doesn't talk to anyone.”

I shrugged. “She talks to me.”

Raya just shook her head, smiling. “There's a lot more to you than meets the eye, Daniel Leigh.”

“You don't know the half of it.”

She laughed and joined her friends, and I was left thinking that everything had seemed a lot more straightforward yesterday.

  •  •  •  

“How?” Coach Clemons asked, incredulous. “We're fifteen yards away.”

I had missed my second consecutive kick. I was supposed to be working my way backward, starting at the ten and going to the thirty-five. I hadn't managed to get past fifteen yet, though, which was a definite problem. That was supposed to be automatic range.

It wasn't that I couldn't kick. In the field with Steve I used to be able to kick it thirty, no problem. We used to play a lot when we were younger and he wasn't too cool for me yet. But when there were people watching and shouting and the other team attacking, it just didn't work out right. I usually shanked it to the right, sometimes bad enough that it didn't make it to the end zone.

“I would guess a general lack of confidence and skill,” I said resignedly.

He threw his hat onto the ground and walked away. “Water break.”

“Try again,” Max said. He ran to grab a ball and hunched down. Everyone else was already walking toward the sidelines, muttering something about the kicker. He turned the laces out. “Now.”

I sighed, and then jogged forward and easily kicked the ball through the posts. He clapped his hands together and stood up, grinning.

“See? Easy.”

“I can do it when no one is watching,” I said. “It's the nerves. And Coach Clemons.”

“You have to ignore them all. Just focus on the ball and the posts.”

“Easier said than done,” I said, watching as Coach Clemons stormed across the field toward me. He had this flushed, sweating face that barely held on to his glasses.

Max grabbed a ball. “Come on. One more try.”

“But—”

“Just ignore him. Relax. Just worry about kicking the ball. There is nothing else out there.”

I shook my hands at my side nervously, trying to focus. I knew the routine: one right step, one left, and then kick, letting your cleat follow through toward the posts. I had done it a hundred times practicing with Steve when we were younger. Suddenly I felt like I could do it. Max was right. I didn't need to worry about the distractions.

Clenching my fists, I took a right step, then a left, and then pulled my leg back—

“Leigh!” Coach Clemons yelled. “I've had a thought.”

I tried to look back and kick at the same time. I missed the ball and felt my leg swing upward, pulling me with it. I realized in horror that I was no longer standing, and then I crashed hard onto my back beside Max. I felt my brain smack the ground for some more lifelong brain trauma.

Coach Clemons appeared over me, looking exasperated.

“Never mind,” he said sadly. “It's hopeless.”

  •  •  •  

My day wasn't getting any better. After changing and hurrying away before Coach could give me any more advice, I remembered that I had another problem that night. I was starting a murder investigation.

Why had I agreed to help Sara? Confrontation and sleuthing made my stomach turn. I was clearly more of a thinker than a doer.

But I had promised Sara I would help, so I didn't have a lot of choice.

I had looked up the address the night before, and the house was a bit south, toward the seedier area of town. It was about a twenty-minute walk, and I saw that the place was a small brown bungalow with untidy flowerbeds and an overgrown lawn. A large black truck sat in the driveway, covered with dirt and dents. I checked the house windows—they were dark.

I stood there for a few minutes, moving from one foot to the other. Maybe I could just tell Sara he wasn't home? Maybe I could say I had changed my mind? I pictured her—judging me, calling me a coward. She would know I had bailed out. She seemed to know everything about me.

As I was fidgeting, I stepped on the sidewalk crack. Immediately my stomach tightened and my body started to tingle and I stepped on it again to get rid of the feeling. It didn't work. I stepped again, but the feeling remained. I knew I was in trouble now. I had to fix this or I would need to come back, and I did not want to come back here. But I was at four times stepping on the crack, which was unacceptable. I went to five steps, and then soon I was at twenty. A woman walked by with her dog, and I stopped and pretended to be reading a note until she was gone. Then I continued. I was at 121 before I was okay to move on.

I checked my phone. I'd been stepping on the crack for seventeen minutes.

A bit of annoyance flared up in me, and I decided to get this over with. I wanted to go home.

Trying to ignore the burgeoning panic flooding through me, I walked up to the door, taking out a pen and the fake contest note. With my hands trembling, I hit the doorbell and waited.

A minute passed with me still fidgeting, and I turned to go, relieved. Then the door swung open behind me, and a gruff voice asked, “Yeah?”

I froze and turned back. I try to avoid stereotypes, but I could see why Sara thought he was a murderer. He was tall and broad with faded tattoos on his muscular exposed arms, of everything from Popeye to the face of a woman. He had a grizzled half beard stretching from his cheeks to his neck, and deep-set gray eyes that were looking at me like I was trying to sell him a vacuum or something.

“Umm, hi,” I said meekly. My brain wasn't working again. Why did it insist on doing this? I tried to regain my composure. “I'm here with the
Erie Hills Express
.”

John raised a bushy black eyebrow. “You're not the paperboy.”

Good point. I tried to think quickly. “No,” I said. “I'm going around for a big contest we're having right now. Any subscribers just fill out their name and address, and they are entered to win a free trip to Florida in the Coco Beach Hotel. It's a . . . community involvement initiative.”

Nice ad-lib. If only my hands weren't shaking so hard that the paper was about to fall out. John looked at me, obviously unconvinced, but then took the paper and the pen.

“Five days?” he muttered. “Not bad. Just for two?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, sneaking a look behind him. The house was dark and sparsely decorated. I think there was a poster of a woman in a bathing suit on the wall.

He finished writing and then looked at me. There was a puckered scar running along his chin.

“You're not going to send me flyers and crap, are you?” he asked.

“No,” I murmured.

“Good.” He handed me the paper and pen. “Have a good one.”

And then, just like that, he closed the door and left me on the porch. I scurried off his property and down the street like I had just stolen his TV. When I was around the corner, I took a look at the paper.