Stick (11 page)

I
woke up at six with a stiff neck, a cramp in my foot, and a headache. Newly homeless, I'd curled up in the back of my car, spreading an old hoodie over me and hoping that bandits, car thieves, murderers, or traveling gypsies wouldn't kill me.

Sitting up, I watched the sun brighten the sky and took stock of what I had. Fourteen dollars and seven cents in my pockets. Fifty-three dollars in the bank. A half-dead cell phone with no charger. A quarter tank of gas. The clothes I had on my back. A new freedom that I found oddly exhilarating.

I'd finally stood up to my dad, and I'd seen the look in his eyes. He'd believed me. He'd known I was serious.
He'd listened.
He would never touch me again. He'd never make me live the way he wanted me to live, and sitting in my garbage-strewn car, I knew that I preferred this to that. Things were different now, and even though I was freaked out about what the heck to do, I knew I'd do something.

I also knew I wasn't going back home.

That struck me almost like a blow. Everything with my dad had always been a lesson. A teaching moment, he said. Punishment was a learning experience. This wasn't. He couldn't punish me any longer. He'd expected me to act like a man since I was twelve years old, and now that I was making my own decisions, he couldn't accept that.

I wondered for the millionth time what it would be like if my mom was alive, but I put it out of my head. I used to fantasize when I was little, usually after I'd gotten in trouble. My mom was always the hero. The superhero, I thought, then laughed, thinking of Preston. She would always rescue me in my fantasies. Hug me. Tell me everything was okay, and that I was okay.

I knew different, though. If she was alive, she'd be gone. Away from him. And maybe, just maybe, I'd be with her, living a different life.

Pulling myself out of my own mud hole, I thought about the positives. I had wheels and I had the clothes on my back, even if they were wrinkled and crumpled. I also had an empty belly. Deciding that the breakfast of champions would be a 7-Eleven breakfast burrito, I picked the one that didn't look eight years old, grabbed a Gatorade, and ate in my car.

Fifteen minutes later, and with a lump of lead in my stomach, I had to decide about school. The last thing I wanted to do was go, but something inside of me, a new thing, told me I needed to. Not to learn, but to at least not give in. If I was honest with myself, Lance Killinger scared me. Tilly might have the muscles, but Lance was far more dangerous because he knew how to play more than football.

“I
don't know what to do.”

Mr. Reeves looked at me, contemplating. He tapped his pen on his desk. “About what, Brett? Football?”

“No. Well, yes. Everything has just sort of fallen apart.”

He nodded, but didn't say anything. We'd been talking for ten minutes and getting nowhere. He wasn't the type to press, and I wasn't the type to tell people the truth about how I felt about things.

I went on. “If I tell you stuff, is it private?”

“Yes.”

I knew he was full of crap because I'd Googled confidentiality with school counselors on my phone that morning. If he thought I was in danger—a danger to myself or being abused—he
had
to report it to the authorities. After reading that, I'd laughed. It meant anybody with any serious problems might as well sew their mouth shut rather than talk to a counselor with any honesty.

But I had to trust him, because on my way to school I realized that I truly didn't know what to do. I was more lost than I'd ever been. So I told him. Everything. Football, my dad, Coach watching the fight, Tilly, Killinger, and last but not least, Preston. I didn't tell Mr. Reeves his name, though. The last thing I wanted was Preston sitting in the hot seat because I'd blabbed.

And when I finished telling him, he looked at me, and my world crumbled. So much for trust.

Mr. Reeves took a breath. “You are being harassed, physically assaulted, and bullied by fellow students. They could be suspended and put into mandatory counseling. Your father, by throwing the football at you, could be charged with domestic violence or child abuse. He could also possibly be charged with neglect for kicking you out of the house with no means to support yourself. Coach Williams could be severely disciplined for allowing students to fight. Your friend, whoever he is, puts himself in life-threatening situations and is in need of immediate counseling.” He stopped and stared at me.

“What are you going to do?”

He shook his head. “No, Brett. That's not what this is about.
You're
going to tell
me
what to do.”

“But that
is
what this is about. I don't know what to do.”

He shook his head again. “I misled you when I said this conversation was private. I had no idea the severity of the situation. I assumed you were dealing with the typical problems surrounding quitting a team.” He paused. “But that doesn't mean I need to force things all at once. I'm a counselor, and under those same laws, I have leeway.”

“Then what? What are you going to do? My dad might be an asshole, but he shouldn't be arrested.”

He nodded. “First, I clear my afternoon. Second, I excuse you from your classes. Then you figure out what you need to do while I sit here and listen.”

“N
ice window,” Preston said. He'd been standing by my car after school, waiting.

I looked at the empty space where my rear window had been. “Thanks.”

He shuffled. “It would complicate my life if you told my mom what I do.”

“Is that why you were waiting here? To tell me that?”

“Partially.”

I stepped to the rear of my car. “One of the good things about having a convertible,” I said as I threw my pack into the backseat, “is ease of use.”

He watched me as I unlocked the door, then pointedly looked at the gaping hole in the back of my car. “Are you afraid somebody will steal something from the front?”

I looked down at the key in the lock and laughed. “You need a lift home?”

He shook his head. “I said I was partially waiting for you to ask you not to tell my mom about me.”

“What's the other part?”

“I told you that football was useless.”

“It is.”

He shook his head. “But I think you're making a mistake by quitting.”

“I hate playing, Preston. And besides, you basically told me to quit, so why are you telling me not to now?”

“You hate all the reasons you give yourself to play. Your dad, the assholes you play with, that gorilla they call the coach. They're all controlling you. That's what I was telling you, Brett.”

I realized he was the only person I knew who had never called me Stick. “No. I quit. I have the power, Preston. I finally stood up for myself. Don't you get that? You of all people should.”

“When you quit, you gave
them
all the power. I've seen you play, and even though I think it's a stupid waste of time and played by below-average human beings, you're good at what you waste your time doing. Really good.”

“You have a horrible way of complimenting people.”

He leaned against my car. “Be honest. You love playing football, don't you?”

“Of course I do. But it's all just…”

“It's all just too much for you to take? You're good at pretending to be stupid, Brett, but it gets tiring after a while,” he said. “You
let
them ruin what you love. Admit that, at least.”

I bit my lip and watched as the few remaining cars in the parking lot filtered out. “There's no other way to do it, though. All the strings are attached. And besides, after Coach watching you get beat up, I would never play for him.” I spat. “Jesus, even if I was willing to go back, Lance and Tilly would make my life hell.” I shook my head angrily, glancing at him. “Listen, Preston, I know I screwed up. The day I quit, I knew. But I quit for the right reasons. Football—or anything else for that matter—shouldn't be this way.”

He stood there with his fingers in his pockets, feet splayed like a duck, shoulders slumped, a skinny rail of a kid with an enormous amount of wisdom that I couldn't fathom. “My dad shouldn't be dead, either. Nothing is ever the way it should be.”

“So that's why you thwart crime in a costume.”

He shook his head. “The costume doesn't do anything important, Brett, just like your costume doesn't do anything. After my dad died, everybody said I should deal with it the way everybody else does. But that didn't work.” He paused, shifting on his feet. “I tried to jump off that bridge.” He looked at me. “But I couldn't. That's why I go back and walk the ledge. To remind myself.”

I'd originally thought he was just a weird and sad dork pretending to be Batman. Some overgrown six-year-old with no friends who still played with action figures. “I guess I don't have to do things the way they say, huh?”

“I'm the one with the mental problems. You're the star.”

I laughed. “I think you're the most sane person I've ever met. Weird, but sane.” Somehow, I felt better, but it didn't leave me with any answers. “I can't go back to the team, though. I won't.”

He smiled. “You are really stupid sometimes.”

“What now?”

He hitched his pack on his shoulders. “I heard the Tigers are tied for first with the Saxons, since you guys lost last week. I also know that there are emergency school transfer policies for students who are being bullied.”

I blinked, widening my eyes.

“Walk the ledge, Brett. Your way—not the way you're supposed to,” he said.

I bolted back to Mr. Reeves's office.