Over the End Line (17 page)

"In July I visited my aunt and uncle at their lake house Sloan said. "Eugene, Ruby's brother—I'm sure she mentioned him—was about to leave for college. Even a year later, they were still all broken up. We went out on their boat a few times. It was nice, but it wasn't the same. All it did was remind me how much Ruby hated—"

"The water," I finished.

Sloan nodded. She handed me a beer. "Please."

I took the opener from the front seat and fumbled to pop off the cap. I fumbled with mine, too.

"To my cousin Ruby," Sloan said, tilting the bottle back. She took a few gulps, then said, "You really knew her, didn't you?"

"I did ... I think."

"And you liked her?"

"Lots."

"My aunt gave me a bunch of Ruby's stuff," Sloan said. "I kind of wished she hadn't. I didn't want to look at it, but I couldn't get rid of it, either. I mean, how could I? So I got it all in a box under my bed. I wrote 'Ruby' on the side—like I'd ever forget what's in it. A T-shirt from a Divinyls concert's in there and like a hundred photos of us together. And CDs she sent me. We loved the same music. And letters. So many letters. Ruby loved to write."

Someone banged on the trunk. "Hey, Jonny, where's the beer? We're losin' our buzz." Brad looked in. "Whoa, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt."

"Just give us a sec," Sloan said.

I handed Brad as many beers as he could hold, then he walked away.

"Jonny..." she started to say. It was the first time I ever heard Sloan say my name.

"Need another opened?"

"I'm okay." She hesitated. "I got one last letter from Ruby. Must've been mailed right before the..." Her eyes welled up. "Postmarked from New Mexico. For like six pages she just went on and on. Didn't mention anything else about the trip, just this really great guy from Short Hills. She liked you, Jonny. She said so."

I didn't know if I should've felt happy or sad, but in the condition I was, I doubted I could've felt either.

"Look, I gotta get back," Sloan said. "Do me a favor, don't say anything to anyone. I want Ruby between just you and me."

"Sure," I said.

Sloan got out of the car. Eventually, I did, too. I leaned against the Range Rover, beyond the edge of the party, sucking down one beer ... then another ... watching my teammates still celebrating, and Maako with his hands on some girl, and Trinity leaning against Joshua's Porsche, making a fuss about wearing some guy's football varsity jacket, and Sheila passing Brandy a joint...

I closed my eyes and drifted, and I would've been happy to just stand there for a while longer, but I had to piss—really, really badly.

I made it over to the pine trees, then stumbled through. I could hardly see where I was stepping. When I reached for a branch I thought was in front of me, I tripped and banged my knee on a rock. I stood up, but then fell again—this time it was my elbow. I staggered deeper into the woods, the surface of South Pond moving closer, the voices from the circle becoming muffled. Finally, I put my beer down, unzipped my jeans, and opened the floodgates.

Maybe it was my mind swirling in alcohol and excitement and the smell of pine, but I was positive something significant had occurred tonight—the ladder had been rendered null and void. The crowd and its power would no longer be an obstacle. I'd entered its temple. Being at tonight's party was surprising, but in a few weeks it'd be expected. Then I'd hang out with Sloan and her bitches any time I damn well pleased.

When I was done, I zipped up and reached for my beer. Instead, I lost my balance, fell forward, and smacked my head against a tree trunk. I tried to straighten up, but when I took a step my ankle rolled sharply on a gnarled root.

Down I went.

The back of my skull hitting the ground.

I reached for my ankle.
Oh, fuck, don't be broken ... Don't be a torn ...
Either one and my season was finished. I felt around the bone to gauge the damage, but even the slightest touch hurt like hell. Then I realized my jeans were soaked.
No...
I reached under my back and pulled out my beer bottle—empty. I definitely couldn't go back to the party now. Not with a limp and a huge wet stain on my ass. I'd look like an idiot. What, Fehey couldn't figure out how to piss in the woods? People would laugh me out of the circle. Maako would. Sloan would. Trinity and Stephanie would. Who knows, maybe Annalisa, too. I'd be the biggest loser in—

Vomit rushed up my throat. I turned my head and booted. And again. After a few more convulsions, I wiped my mouth on my jacket sleeve and spit.

Why me?

Why tonight?

I laid my head on the dirt. I'd been teased with the belief that my world had changed. A moment of soccer brilliance. In an ideal position for the pass. Receiving the ball perfectly. Striking it perfectly. I scored
the
goal of the season. Because of it, I figured the ladder was crushed and I'd earned the right to hang with the crowd. But it was all a joke. I'd been sucked in, dreaming the dream. Fucked-up ankle. Wet jeans. Stench of beer and piss and puke. Fate got me—hook, line, and sinker.

The clouds parted; the moon shined down. I was alone. In the woods. My head on the cold earth. I was close to the party, not far from my home, and miles beyond wasted. I closed my eyes and let the night pull away...

***

"Wasted little girl..."

I opened my eyes. Treetops were whipping back and forth and the sky was spinning.

"A little farther," I thought I heard. "Come on, you can make it."

I tried to lift my head off the ground, but couldn't. I turned to my side and looked toward the path. Through fallen branches and between trees, I could just make out the silhouette of a guy walking with a girl. More like carrying her. Toward the rowboat, it seemed. They passed through a thin band of moonlight. I saw the lettering on the back of his jacket.
MILLBURN SOCCER
. The guy stopped and turned.

Maako.

I held still. Didn't breathe.
Keep going, keep moving ...
I couldn't let him find me—my world would blow up. He'd accuse me, mock me, say I followed him. Spied on him. Wanted to watch him. I was sick. A queer. A faggot.

He continued down the path, the girl's head bouncing on his shoulder and her legs kind of shuffling along. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see any more. I didn't want to hear any more. I didn't want to know any more...

***

I woke up, again.

Still on the ground. I looked.

In the dark of the woods, Maako was holding the girl's waist—kind of like they were slow dancing. The pond in the background. Them sucking face (or maybe not). Either way, this was
wrong.
Maako was an asshole—the whole damn school knew it. What girl would've been stupid enough to be alone with him?

The girl suddenly slipped through his arms to the ground. I couldn't see much—her hair billowing, the awkward bend of her knee—but I could tell Maako was standing over her. He had a bottle. He guzzled it. Then guzzled some more. The expression on his face quickly changed. It was peculiar, like he was thinking, figuring, scheming.

He looked toward Lake Road...

And up the dirt path...

Then the woods...

Maako kneeled down. Next to the girl. He was doing something. Lifting her sweater, it looked like. Then maybe her bra. Was he pinching her nipples? Even tugging at them? Yet the girl didn't move, and I didn't hear her say a word.

"Enough, Maako..."

But my voice was a whisper, lost in the sounds of the rustling branches. My hands tightened into fists. I felt heat, wicked heat. My fist shot out from my shoulder, crashing against Maako's jaw, feeling the skin and bone underneath give way, blood spurting from his mouth. Maako crumpled to the ground.

It was only in my mind.

I tried to push up off the dirt, but my arms gave way and I collapsed. I was dead tired and so out-of-my-mind drunk. My eyes flickered open and shut. I fought to stay conscious, but a wave of silent blackness rolled over me...

***

"Keep your fuckin' voice down..."

Maako's voice shook me awake.

I was face-down on the ground, my mouth pasty, the smell of puke all around. I turned my head and looked. Maako was standing near the dock.

"We were foolin' around ... She was beggin' for it ... Take a look..."

Who was he talking to? From behind a tree, I saw the silhouette of another guy. I focused my eyes.

It looked like Kyle.

It
was
Kyle.

Shit
...the Mighty Saint-Claire was going to save the day. Should've expected that. I could hardly lift my head off the dirt, but Kyle was going to swoop in and be a hero.

Maako stumbled over to the girl, then bent down next to her. "She's passed out," he said. "She won't remember nothin'."

"Why, what'd ya give her?" Kyle said.

Maako laughed. "Harmless stuff." He lifted the girl's sweater. "Take a look."

"Just leave her."

"Ya don't like titties?" Maako said. "That's why ya hang wit' faggy Fehey. You two bone each other, right?"

Kyle stepped toward him.

Maako stood up. "Really wanna fight? 'Cause I'll beat the shit outta ya. Then I'll tell the whole school you're a big homo. Wanna take that chance?"

"You're gonna get kicked off the team."

"By who, Pennyweather? He won't do shit. I'll tell ya a little secret. I don't give a damn if we lose in the state tournament. I got next year to rule Millburn soccer. You seniors'll be gone. Pennyweather'll be gone. That's right, it's a done deal. Pennyweather's finished."

"Bullshit."

"What's bullshit is you wastin' time. Everythin' ya do, the whole damn town knows about. Can't take a dump without the
Item
or the
Ledger
or some other newspaper writin' about it." He motioned toward the girl. "Here's a chance to have a little fun without anyone knowin'. Right here. At your feet. I did her. Now it's your turn."

Kyle said nothing.

Maako laughed. "So you
are
a homo."

I'll tell the truth."

"What truth?"

"You and her."

"You ain't gonna say a word, Saint-Claire."

"How ya gonna stop me?"

"College scouts'll be at the states," Maako said. "Say a thing and I'll make sure ya don't touch the ball. Me, Gallo, and Maynard'll make ya invisible. We control the game. How's that gonna look to scouts, especially after the shit ya pulled at Summit?" Maako stepped out onto the dock. "I gotta take a leak. Now go be a
man.
"

Kyle stood over her.

No way.

He dropped to his knees.

No way.

He took off his varsity jacket and covered her face with a sleeve.

It was a lie. Kyle wouldn't. Not Kyle.

My eyes had to be tricking me. Or my mind. This was a fucked-up dream. Or nightmare. I couldn't take any more. I turned and let my consciousness spiral away...

***

"I can't do this..." Kyle's voice cracked. He sat back on his ankles, between the girl's legs. He wiped his eyes. "I just can't..."

I heard the girl cough. Weakly.

Then, her arm flailed. Without warning. Without control.

Kyle's head snapped back. He jumped to his feet, his jeans unbuttoned, and fell back against a tree. I saw a pathetic, panicked look on his face. Then he booted. A bizarre, guttural sound. His body shook a second time. And a third. He touched his forehead, looked at his fingers, then slumped down and buried his head in his hands.

Maako returned from the dock. "Nice goin', Mr. All-State. You're a real fuckin' stud." He stepped past the girl.

Kyle looked at him. "Leavin' her?"

"You got a better idea?"

"We can't."

"I can."

"I can't."

"Then walk her home."

Kyle grabbed his jacket, but stopped. He reached down and seemed to pull the skirt into place, then the sweater down her stomach. He smoothed both of wrinkles.

"Let's go," Maako said.

As Kyle and Maako walked away, I thought I heard something behind me. It might've been a twig snap. Or a falling branch. Maybe a deer finding a place to sleep for the night.

I struggled to turn my head.

A figure moved in the shadows. Maybe.

Or was my mind playing with me again?

When I looked back toward the path, Kyle and Maako were gone.

My head eased back down to the dirt. It was over. The girl and I were the only ones left in the woods. For a final time, I succumbed to the blackness closing in all around my mind...

Somehow it was Sunday morning.

I wished it wasn't.

I was on my bed, looking up at the ceiling, feeling like shit. My head shimmered when my eyes were open, but when they were shut it felt as if my bedroom were spinning out of control.

My tongue felt bone dry and was so swollen it didn't fit my mouth. I tried to swallow. Then tried again. But I couldn't gather any spit, so there was nothing to squeeze down my throat. My arms braced. For a moment, it was like I couldn't breathe in!

Gonna pass out...

Gonna—

Air suddenly filled my lungs. I gasped for more. Eventually, my arms eased. And the rest of my body, too.

Then I noticed something smelled putrid. I touched my fingers to my face. What the hell? It was puke. I looked down. I was still wearing my shirt from last night. It was stained. So was my pillow. The horrid taste in my mouth vaguely reminded me of the grilled cheese I ate for dinner, and the beer and liquor that followed. But I wasn't sure exactly what remembering meant, because memories of last night seemed like really bad dreams—fading in, fading out, overlapping, sometimes believable, most times not. I pulled off my shirt, wiped my face, then swept the pillow off my bed.

There was a knock at the door.

"Ma?"

I heard her muffled voice on the other side—at least I thought I did—something about a friend waiting downstairs, waiting for me.

"What, Ma?"

But there was no answer.

Maybe what I thought was my mom's voice was just the rush of heat through the air vents. Or the wind outside. Or maybe it was my mind still sloshing in the backwash at the bottom of that final beer bottle I might've finished, or spilled, or tossed into the woods near South Pond.