Tilt - Alan Cumyn [50]
“The whole team had piled all their jackets and packs and warm-ups around this big tree behind the finish line. I crawled into the pile of clothes and lay there. Idelle burrowed in right beside me. I think I came fifth. It was the best race in my whole life. And Idelle burrowed in. We were like two kids hiding in a fort. Like you in your closet. And then we were kissing. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know who started it. I just remember it was like swimming naked at night. It was that perfect.”
Freezing. Stan was shaking on the ladder. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to stay there.
But he didn’t want to go, either.
“You didn’t . . . wonder what the hell was happening or —”
“We just did it. We did it and then we wondered about it later.”
“And the dance . . .” he said. Was it just last night? Time was turning hallucinogenic. “When we kissed. We just did that, too. And then you ran back to Leona.”
“No.”
“You did! I saw you!”
“I ran but . . . not to her. I just ran.”
“Why?”
Cold, cold. She didn’t turn her eyes away, but she wasn’t going to answer.
“You never need to run from me,” he said. “I hate it.”
She could unlatch the screen from her side and kiss him again. He saw now that she had to be the one to do it. It would be no good if he pushed.
“My dad’s coming!” she said then harshly, and the window fell shut. Stan scrambled down three rungs so his head was well below the sill. All Joe would have to do would be to pop his head out the window, to look down a little bit . . .
Cold, cold wind. Flakes of snow bit into his cheek. He couldn’t hear anything from Janine’s room. Was her father there? Did she make it back to bed in time?
Should he climb up the three rungs again and see?
He didn’t know.
But he did know this was no dream.
Slowly and stiffly he lowered himself down to the ground. As quietly as he could he replaced the ladder. Then he stood in the chill and watched the bruised clouds at dawn crawl across the sky.
Nothing more at her window. He could see the hole where his fist had gone through.
But then, a hand. A paper airplane glided down. A gust caught it and for a second it looked like it might end up in a tree. But it landed finally in a chilly bush. Stan reached it with just a small jump.
I like you, Stan Dart. I really do.
No signature. Just a faint image of a beautiful girl, behind a screen, watching him.
20
Six-thirty a.m. Stan ran into the gym in his street clothes and his old runners. The place was crawling with guys in shorts and jerseys, guys rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, guys who smelled already from nervous perspiration. Balls bounced everywhere, arced toward quiet hoops.
Most of the JV team from last year was there, and the ten returning seniors, and plenty of others. Just as Stan had thought, the gym was full of sweaty guys up too early, trying too hard, to fill just two spots.
Karl Brolin, Jamie Hartleman and the others had commandeered the south hoop. Like this was their private club. Brolin especially looked unconcerned, dragging his ass, slapping someone in mock defense.
Where was Coach Burgess? No time to hesitate. Stan ran straight onto the floor.
“Hey, Brolin!” The big guy didn’t turn around. “One on one, right now! You and me. Game to five!”
Someone laughed. A mosquito was challenging an elephant. Brolin turned his head slightly.
“Come on! Five bucks! I get the ball first!”
Stan didn’t have five bucks on him. He didn’t even have his gym gear. It was all back at the house but if he’d gone home from Janine’s he would have never made it to tryout. Somebody would have woken up. So he had walked and walked until the chilly dawn turned older.
“Do I know you?” Brolin asked.
“That’s the fucking guy from the game,” Hartleman said. “Kid can shoot.”
Stan snagged a loose ball and set up just past the top of the key. “Game to five, five bucks. I don’t have much time.”
His mother’s alarm rang at seven. If Stan wasn’t on the spot to explain Feldon and the disappearance of Ron, the house might go up in a mushroom cloud.
“Where’s your fucking