Damage - A. M. Jenkins [32]
Nothing, tonight. Because Heather’s waiting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In the field house Monday afternoon, Dobie seems okay. He nods and says hi. He doesn’t ask how your date went, or start chattering about his weekend like he sometimes does. But then, he’s pretty busy with his duties.
Coach calls for full pads. He says he’s going out to the field, and everybody’d better be with him in five minutes. “Move it, girls,” he says on his way out the door. “I’m not in the mood to baby-sit.”
Curtis has to know what’s coming. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though; he asks how it went with Heather Friday night. You say fine. The two of you finish dressing out.
What’s coming doesn’t bother him, but it bothers you. It shouldn’t—God knows you’ve done your share of hammering other guys during Bull-in-a-Ring. But it does bother you; just a little, that’s all. Like gum on the bottom of your shoe, that you can’t quite scrape off. Because there’s no point in doing this—Curtis doesn’t need to be pounded into the ground for a mistake he’s already suffered over, fought through, and won. Not Curtis, who thinks of football as a higher form of art.
Probably that’s why your chest is a little tight. Even though you know this drill isn’t any big deal. No big deal. not really. And it’s probably why you can’t quite bring yourself to look at Curtis.
“Go ahead,” you tell him, bending to tie your shoe on the bench in front of the locker. “I’ll be out in a second.”
“You okay?” Curtis asks. As if it’s you who’s about get gored and trampled.
“Yeah.” Your face feels like it’s turning to stone. Curtis goes on outside. When you pull the shoelace, intending to tighten it, your hands jerk so hard that snaps in two.
By the time you find a new lace, get it into your cleats a head out to the field, warm-ups are almost over. You have time to do a few quick stretches, because Coach telling everybody to form the ring.
“On account of forgetting who he was supposed cover,” he announces. “Hightower gets the weekly Head up His Ass Award.”
Brett Stargill’s standing across from you, feet planted like tree trunks, a faint smile flickering like sunlight over his face. Your own face feels so stiff it could shatter. You lift your dangling chin strap, snap it into place.
Curtis steps into the center without a word.
“Everybody down,” Coach commands.
“Set.” Across the ring, Stargill hunkers down at same time you do; he’s your mirror image.
Coach blows his whistle at the same instant he points to Jason Cox. Immediately, Cox blasts off his straight into Curtis. But Curtis is crouched and ready and when they meet, he actually drives Cox back a step or two.
For some reason you’re remembering something you haven’t thought about in years; you and Curtis, ten years old, sneaking one of Curtis’s dad’s cigars out to the trees beyond the stock tank. Feeling hard-edged and bold, trading puffs—till you noticed Curtis’s face was kind green, and then you couldn’t deny the fact you were getting pretty sick yourself.
Cox trots back into the circle, into the wrong place. Coach already has his whistle back in his mouth.
Tweeet! He points to Shea, who takes his shot. He and Curtis come together like two rams, and the impact forces Curtis back almost to the other side. Shea’s quicker than Cox at getting back into the circle.
You’re remembering how you and Curtis laid there till the world stopped spinning, then tottered weakly back over to Curtis’s house, side by side, swearing a solemn vow never to touch tobacco again.
Tweeet! Thomas’s turn.
And when you walked inside, Curtis’s mom was looking out the kitchen window saying “Is that smoke out there?” And sure enough a spark had caught in the dried-up late summer grass. The Parkersville Volunteer Fire Department came, which was exciting, and a deputy from the county sheriff, which wasn’t, because you threw up all over his boots and he threatened to arrest you.
Tweeet! Ragsdale.
Curtis is still standing. He’s the one who told you they don’t arrest kids for throwing up. You already knew it but you were still scared, till Curtis said