same feeling that kept me from telling Ms. Warren my news. Saying things aloud makes them dangerous.
Have you been to her house? asks Kurt. He is the most talkative of all my friends and the girliest. He is also the second-best ballplayer we have.
I’m going after practice tonight, I say, leaving out the part about our history project, feeling mildly guilty for the lie it implies.
Have you been to fourth base? says Kurt. He is trying to be funny.
Have you? I say.
Matt Barnaby gets up from the bench and stretches and tries to casually walk away, pretending to go talk to some friends of his, but I know it’s really because he wants to call me out but is afraid.
I sit down next to the rest of them and take out the snack I have brought in my backpack: I have a pack of Slim Jims that I bought at the deli on my corner and I have a hard roll with butter from the same place. I have a cookie that one of the lunch ladies gave me for being cute. I have a giant bag of chips that I should not eat while I’m in training but I can’t help it, I love chips. I have a G2 from the vending machine. And peanut butter crackers that I make for myself at home and bring in a big Ziploc bag. I’ll eat a little of this now and save the rest for after practice.
Keller, what the hell is all that, asks Peters.
Jealous? I say, and realize suddenly that it is what I say to everyone who ever teases me. About anything. Peters is eating pita bread or some shit like that. His mother probably packed it up for him with her own hands.
Kind of, he says.
I’m quiet. Among my friends I am quiet except for when I am very loud and calling someone out. Or when I am mad or upset or drunk.
My cell phone rings. Normally I am very good about squirreling away my cell phone and making sure it is on silent (they’re strict here, they’ll take it from you if it rings or if they even see it) but suddenly I feel it vibrating in my backpack. There is only one person it could be because all my friends are here and a chill comes over me. What does she want. Is she all right. Sneakily I look at the phone inside my bag.
It’s an unavailable number. I wait to see if they’ll leave a message. I wait to see if it is a hospital or a police station, but after a minute it becomes clear that there’s no voice mail. And then I wonder if it was another scout.
We get up from the benches, we trot outside. Coach is in a bad mood. Probably because of the Yonkers game which he knows we will lose but must pretend we will win. It must be a terrible thing to be a coach. Today he cuts us no slack and me in particular. Separately he makes me take my drops until my legs shake. We do passing plays for an hour. I am distracted and I can’t tell anyone why. Coach has the JV defensive line go up against us while our real defense is doing drills down the other end of the field. JV is supposed to play like Yonkers’ defense, which is made up of boys that are probably three times their collective weight. We are the first-string offense and we should crush them. But my head’s not in it. I hold the ball too long. I get sacked on the first play.
Later, when I throw a pass to no one, Coach says, KELLER! WHAT! IS! YOUR! DEAL!
I say nothing. I shake my helmeted head.
• • •
After practice, I shower. After I shower I get into my car. After I get into my car I take several breaths and put on Sports Talk and listen to Charlie Rasco. Then I head for Lindsay Harper’s house down back roads that I’ve learned well over the years I’ve been at PLHS. It’s 4:45 in the afternoon. The sky is orange.
Some days, driving around Pells Landing, I become so aware of how pretty it is that I forget everything that I should be worrying about. This is one of those days: most of the leaves are off the trees, but it’s warm for November, and so every little family in Pells is out in the front yard