Thank God it's Monday.
The entire weekend sucked, starting Friday night when Dad grounded me for something I didn't even do, and then it just circled the toilet from there. All that stuff with Grace Collier really messed Zac up so Dad let me out of jail to help my team mate. I took Zac to a party in Holtsville so he could get away from all the rumors for a while. I had only two beers and on the way home, hit a garbage can or maybe a mailbox — not really sure. So there's a good-sized dent in the Camry that got me tossed back into solitary confinement except for the hours of lectures on responsibility and how my sisters never did anything like this when they were my age. Pretty sure Dad's got about three hundred and sixty-five separate lectures by now. He could publish the damn things in one of those flip calendars they sell at kiosks in the mall. 365 Days of Motivating Your Teen To Get Up Off His Ass!
A roar of laughter from down the hall interrupts my thinking time. I follow the noise, spot Grace Collier on her hands and knees while Kyle and pretty much everyone else laugh like hyenas. I freeze where I stand. Grace is just about the hottest girl I've ever seen. Amazing body she likes to show off in tight black leather and metal studs, wild dark hair that goes all the way to her ass, and these intense silvery gray eyes she loves to paint like Cleopatra that practically see right through a guy when they turn in his direction. It took me two months, two solid months to work up the guts to ask her out, and just when I had it all planned out, Zac beat me to it and now — after everything that went down on Friday -- I'm almost glad I never got my shot.
Almost.
Matt helps her up but when Kyle swats the back of his head, they take off. Before she disappears into the girls' bathroom, I get a glimpse of her face and see more than just those bright eyes.
I see pain.
I wait for a minute and then head to my first class. World History. Yay. I slide into my seat at the back of the room. Zac's already there, surrounded by his fans.
"Thanks, bro. Appreciate it." He clasps hands with Tommy Rao, a kid on the basketball team. Tommy jerks his chin in acknowledgment, takes his seat, over near the window.
"Hey, Ian," Zac nods at me. "Your dad still pissed?"
I roll my eyes. "You have no idea. I'm grounded. Again."
"Sucks." Zac smiles at Miranda Hollis and Lindsay Warren when they rush over to him.
"Oh my God, we heard what she said and can't believe it. You're such a great guy, Zac." Miranda Hollis puts a hand on Zac's arm.
Zac shrugs but smiles wider. "Thanks. It helps to hear that." Miranda smiles, lowers her eyes and twirls her hair in that universal signal that says I am totally into you.
I swallow a grin. Damn, he's good. The girls take their seats and I ask, "Zac, you okay? Hear anything more from the cops?"
His smile dims and he shakes his head. "Nah. My dad's lawyer says I have nothing to worry about." He pulls out his iPhone and hands me his ear buds. "Here. Take a look."
I click the video he's got on screen and almost drop the phone. It's Grace. Holy hell, it's Grace Collier and she's — Jesus. I rip the buds from my ears and hand him back the phone. "Wow."
He grins. "I know, right? She doesn't know who she's messing with."
The bell rings and the class quiets down but I can't concentrate on imperialism after seeing that video. I've talked to Grace maybe three times total but she never struck me as a girl who'd twist the truth to get back at somebody.
By the time the bell rings at the end of class, I'm seriously happy I never got around to asking her out.
"Ian, you're free now, right? I need to stop at my locker first and then I'll meet you in the library and we can review the trig stuff."
"Oh, God, thanks, man." Zac has the highest grades in the class and Coach Brill won't keep me on the lacrosse team if I don't ace the next math test. If I get booted off the team, my dad will deliver yet another lecture on how I'm failing my own future by not living up to my potential. I can already hear it. "Your sisters managed to earn scholarships while working part-time jobs and playing basketball," he'll say and fling up his hands. Claudia got a degree in architecture and Valerie's studying to be a pharmacist, but I'll probably be living in a double-wide, collecting Welfare.
I blend in with the stream of foot traffic changing classes and head for the stair well. Dad thinks — actually believes — I like this, that I like not knowing what I want to be but I've got a couple of ideas I've been thinking over. It might be cool to build stuff. Maybe engineering. It started with Lego blocks and then I moved on to building models and rebuilding stuff around the house. I just took apart the blender, rebuilt the motor, not that he cares about that.
Probably never even noticed.
Could also be fun to teach. I wouldn't mind coming back to school as a teacher instead of a student. I'd be cool. All the kids would love me. I'd listen, really listen to them, instead of talk at them. I shake my head and snag a table in the library. There's no point in even telling my dad any of this. He'd just shake his head and warn me I'd need better math grades.
I may not be perfect like my sisters, but I'm not the loser my dad thinks I am, either. I don't get high. I don't steal money from their wallets. Okay, so I dinged the car — big deal. It's not like I killed anybody.
Zac slides into a chair and throws his backpack on the table. "Jesus." He scrubs both hands over his blond hair. "The collie's in the nurse's office. Heard she passed out — missed the entire first period. That girl's got issues, man. Glad she's not my problem anymore."
Grace Collier's the furthest thing from a dog there is. But I get why he calls her that. As he finishes the sentence, I look up and there she is, standing at the library door, mouth hanging open. Her knees are twitching. So are her hands.
Zac doesn't see her. He's busy opening his pack and pulling out books. But I do and I don't know what to say, what to do. They hooked up Friday night — the entire school knows that and now Zac's done with her. It happens.
So why does she look so freaking terrified?
I open my notebook and grab a pen, and just pretend I don't see her. "Thanks for the assist, man. If I get kicked off the team—"
"Won't let it happen, bro. We need you." He punches my shoulder. "Hey, after we win the game today, what do you say to a little cruising?"
I snort out a laugh. Cruising is Zac slang for get laid. "Sure, if I get a free pass tonight."
"When we win today's game, your dad will have to let you celebrate with the team, right?"
I lean back and smile. "Hope so. Thanks again. Really."
"No problem." He grins and flips my math text book to the problem that keeps tripping me up.
I glance back toward the door but it's empty now. Zac and I get to work and I can't help thinking he's wrong — the problems are just beginning.
#
We opened the scoring at barely two minutes into the game against the Shoreham Sharks, but at 4:53, the Sharks fire a shot into the cage and Zac practically breathes fire. Now the score's tied at one up and we aren't gonna just sit back and take it. Coach Brill sends me in just as we force a turnover. I join the battle but the Sharks' goalie has the net sealed tight, then slings a breakout pass to a midfielder on a fast break.
I run all out — this is my skill, my talent. I'm a blur on the field. Zac's watching. Sizing up his opponent. I'm so fixed on my target, even when I see Zac's head change directions, I never see one of the Sharks attackmen, I can't stop, can't adjust and BAM!
Circle of stars.
Dimly, I hear a whistle blow, hear muffled shouts and curses and another whistle but it's all jumbled, like one long bleat. It takes me a long while to figure out I'm sprawled on the turf and then I notice the hands pressing and probing me.
"Ian! Ian, talk to me, son."
I open my mouth but my tongue just sits there, limp.
"Give him a minute, Coach."
I blink a few times, but that does nothing to make the circle of stars disappear. Hands tap my face. "I'm okay," I try to say, but it comes out, "Mmmay."
I figure out which strings control my limbs and manage to roll to my hands and knees, sucking up oxygen and finally clearing my vision. "Come on, Ian, get up." Kyle Moran shouts. Slowly, I figure out how my legs work, get them back under me. The coach and the EMT each grab an elbow and walk me off the field to glad-you're-not-dead applause from both teams.
I'm forced to sit out the rest of the game — we win 6 to 1 and the Panthers celebrate with pizza that I miss because I'm sitting in the emergency room. Couple hours later, I'm still in the emergency room with my parents, waiting for the doctor to come back with my films. I've been poked and stuck, x-rayed and even MRI'd. I feel fine except for the worst headache of my entire life. Dad's checking his watch, Mom keeps checking me. Suddenly, Dad jumps to his feet. "How is he, doctor?"
"Good news, there's no skull fracture."
Could have fooled me.
"Bad news, there is a concussion. You're benched for a while, son."
What? No way. Before I can protest, he turns to my parents and continues. "Keep him home from school tomorrow, nothing more exerting than TV on the couch."
Dad rolls his eyes. "Oh, that won't be a problem for him."
"Dad, jeez." Am I really gonna have to sit through a flip calendar lecture at the hospital? "I feel fine. I can go to school."
The doctor shakes his bald head, flips open one of those metal chart thingies and scrawls something on my paper work. "Sorry, Ian. Concussions are tricky and this is a serious one."
"It is?"
Dad frowns. "Ian, you were hit from the side, spun around in mid-air and landed hard. You were out cold for at least a minute."
I don't remember any of this.
"You may feel fine now, but tomorrow or the next day, something may worsen it — like another hit to the head. I want to give this some time, see how you feel in a few days."
"There's another game on Saturday; will I make that one?"
"Let's see how you're doing on Friday and if everything looks good, I'll clear you."
I blow out a relieved sigh.
"If you feel dizzy, sick, or have any headaches, trouble concentrating, I need to know about it." He tears a slip of paper off a pad and hands it to my dad.
Dad nods, pockets the paper. We drive home in silence, the glare of headlights doing strange and uncomfortable things to my concussed head. I know I'm going to spend the night getting awakened to answer stupid questions like what's my name, who's the president, and what year is it.
"Tomorrow, you'll stay home and in bed. No video games. I don't want you straining your eyes. You can call Zac or Kyle to get notes and homework after school."
I don't answer. I don't feel up to getting into another argument.
"Can you work from home tomorrow?" Mom asks Dad and I cringe. Please, no.
"Yeah. I may have to run out for a couple of client meetings, but most of the day, I can keep an eye on him."
Looks like I'm back in parental prison.