“Very nice!” Chris tossed the ball back and then put Jordan through his three-seam fastball, a sinker, a slider, and only one curveball because there was no point adding to the wear and tear on his arm. When they were finished, Chris rose, took off the face mask, and walked forward. “That’ll do!”
“Okay!” Jordan jogged off the mound, reaching him with a happy, relaxed smile.
“Okay, Coach?”
“More than okay! Awesome!” Chris clapped him on the shoulder.
“Thanks.” Jordan grinned.
“Really, your hard work paid off. You’re throwin’ heat.” Chris sensed a new closeness between them, so his mission had been accomplished—or at least part of it had. He wanted to get closer to Jordan, but he also wanted to separate Jordan from Raz. Chris couldn’t get as close to Jordan as he needed to be if Jordan had a best friend, and the crack in the relationship between the boys was already there. All Chris had to do was stick a chisel in the fissure and hammer it into pieces.
Chris motioned beyond the curtain. “Now, run and go get Raz.”
“Raz?” Jordan hesitated. “Why?”
“You’ll see. Hurry, go. We don’t have much time.”
“Sure okay. Be right back.” Jordan took off, tucking the glove under his arm. He ran through the opening in the curtain and arrived only a few minutes later with Raz jogging behind him, his dark eyes flashing with eagerness and his glove already on.
“Raz, hi. I need you.” Chris motioned to him.
“Sure, Coach.” Raz tucked a strand of hair into his man bun.
Chris turned away pointedly from Raz and faced Jordan. “Jordan, I was thinking it would be a great idea to videotape you. Between us, I have a buddy who knows a scout. I can send him the video through back channels, if you know what I mean.”
“Really?” Jordan’s eyes rounded with delight. “What school?”
“I can’t say.” Chris was improvising. Of course there was no scout, no school, and no back channel. “Just leave it to me.”
“That’d be great! I appreciate that, Coach.”
“Good, and keep it on the QT.” Chris turned back to Raz. “Raz, you catch while I film Jordan.”
Raz blinked. “Then are you gonna film me, too?”
“No, just Jordan.”
Raz cleared his throat. “But Coach Brennan, I pitched last season. I’m the pitcher.”
“So?” Chris faked confusion. “Raz, are you telling me you can’t catch Jordan?”
“No, I can catch him, of course I can catch him, but I’m the pitcher. Not Jordan.”
Jordan recoiled. “Raz, I pitched last season.”
“On JV.” Raz waved his glove at him dismissively.
“I’m on varsity now.”
“Because you’re a tryhard, Jordan.”
“No I’m not!” Jordan shot back, pained.
“Whoa, boys,” Chris broke in, acting surprised, as if he hadn’t instigated the conflict. He didn’t need it to go too far. He only needed to turn one boy against the other. He frowned at Raz. “Can’t say I like your attitude, Raz. This is a team. We function as teammates. And don’t give me attitude.”
“Sorry, Coach Brennan.” Raz swallowed hard. “But yo, can I pitch after Jordan? Like, can you film Jordan, then film me? And you could send the video of me to your friend and—”
“Not today. It’s late.” Chris motioned Raz backwards. “Get in position now. Catch.”
Raz stalked away, simmering.
Chris took Jordan by the arm and walked him toward the pitcher’s mound. “Jordan, I didn’t know he’d react that way. I’m trying to do a nice thing for you. Where did that come from?”
“I know.” Jordan walked with his head down. “He wants to stay as the starter. He just brought it up with Coach Hardwick.”
“Coach Hardwick will make that decision, not Raz.”
“That’s what Coach says.”
“I’m surprised Raz would take that to Coach Hardwick. I thought you and he were friends.” Chris paused, letting the silence do its work. The implication was that Raz wasn’t acting like a friend. “Well. You’re not doing anything wrong. You understand that, right?”
Jordan nodded, walking.
“You worked hard and you improved. You put in the time, built up your legs, studied the videos. You earned this shot. A good friend would be happy for you.”
Jordan pursed his lips as they reached the other side of the gym, where Chris motioned to the pitcher’s mound.
“Okay. Put Raz out of your mind. Get up there. Give it everything you’ve got, you hear me?”
Jordan nodded, averting his eyes, then headed toward the mound. He threw a practice pitch, then started pitching in earnest, but the fight with Raz had gotten to him. His pitching had none of its earlier brilliance, and one of his fastballs went wild. Chris hadn’t been sure that would be the result, but even if it hadn’t been, it worked for his purposes. Now Jordan would be mad at Raz for causing him to blow his big chance. Chris filmed the debacle and patted Jordan on the back afterwards, telling him they’d do it again, another time. Jordan and Raz didn’t say another word to each other for the rest of practice and they left the gym separately.
It couldn’t have gone worse for Jordan and Raz.
And it couldn’t have gone better for Chris.
Chapter Ten
After practice, Chris sat in his Jeep, pretending he was talking on the phone. The dashboard clock read 6:15, and the sky was darkening. Lights in the parking lot cast halos on the empty spaces. He kept an eye on his rearview mirror, watching the players walk toward the student parking lot. It was too dark to see their faces, but he recognized Jordan’s lurching gait and Evan at the center of the group. Raz lagged behind, alone.
Chris left the faculty lot and turned into the student lot, slowing and rolling down his window when he reached the boys, who were clustered around a brand-new BMW M 235i convertible coupe, gleaming darkly under the light. The engine thrummed like six cylinders of German precision engineering.
“What’s up, guys?” Chris shouted to them, though he knew.
“Coach Brennan!” “Yo!” “Hi, Coach!”
“Coach, you like my ride?” Evan grinned, sitting next to Jordan in the passenger seat. Raz was trying to shove himself into the backseat, which was nonexistent.
“Love it! Is it really yours?”
Raz interjected, “He got it from Daddy!”
“Wow!” Chris acted surprised, though he had seen Evan’s posts about the car on Instagram. “Hey listen, I was about to email the team. I’m having a get-together at my house tomorrow night, to introduce myself to the team. Why don’t you guys come over? Have some pizza?”
Evan answered, “Okay!”
“Sure, okay, yes!” the others called back.
“For your birthday?” Jordan asked from the passenger seat.
“Coach, it’s your birthday?” “Whaaaa!” “Happy Birthday!”
Meanwhile, Chris palmed his smartphone, thumbed to Settings, then to WIRELESS. His screen filled with the wireless networks, including Evan4EvaEva, which had to be Evan’s car. Chris pressed the screen to connect. Most people didn’t think about cyber-security in their cars, but the software that operated most cars, especially new ones, had plenty of vulnerabilities, and any wireless signal could be hacked—even a car’s braking system.
“Coach, what time you want us over?” Jordan called out.
“How about eight?” Chris kept his grin on.
“Woohoo, party!” Evan shouted, and Jordan and the other boys laughed, turning up the music again.
“Drive safe, gentlemen! See you tomorrow!” Chris waved good-bye, fed the car gas, and drove through the lot. Evan4EvaEva evaporated, and he took a right turn onto Central Valley Road, passing development after development. In no time he reached the entrance of Valley Oaks, where balloons lay deflated on the fresh sod, tethered to the MODEL HOME AVAILABLE sign.
He turned into the driveway, and the de
velopment was dark, with only the newly built sections lit up. There was a segment of new homes still under construction, their wood frames wrapped in Tyvek HomeWrap, and he drove to Building 12, parked in the pocket lot behind, then entered the building and let himself into his apartment on the second floor. He walked through the living room to the kitchen, a small rectangle with white cabinets, no-name appliances, and beige counters. He opened the refrigerator, which was packed with groceries for his party, grabbed a bottle of beer, and uncapped it, returning to the living room.
Chris surveyed the apartment, a two-bedroom with a rectangular living room furnished with a rented sectional couch, a teak coffee table, and end tables with glazed pottery lamps—but otherwise, the place was designed to make a teenage boy feel like it was a cool place to hang. An entertainment center with a large-screen TV and an Xbox system occupied one side of the room. The bottom shelf held Halo, Call of Duty, and Grand Theft Auto, and Chris had bought the games used, so it looked like he played, which he didn’t. He knew what real violence was like, and gaming had none of the thrill.
On the opposite wall was his locked gun case with a thick glass front, which held several hunting rifles, two long guns, an AR-15 assault weapon, and two handguns, a Beretta and a Colt .45 revolver. Chris had the appropriate licensing for each one, and they were unloaded and under lock and key. The case was intended to invite the admiring eyes of teenage boys, and he bet that most of his team had gone hunting, with brothers or dads. Chris was an excellent shot, though nobody but him would know that.
He wanted to make sure everything was set for tomorrow night, so he set down the beer bottle and crossed to the digital clock, turned it upside down, and checked the connection, which was fine. Though the clock looked normal, it was a hidden camera with audio. He double-checked the camera in the artificial plant in the corner and in the electrical outlet on the wall.
Chris scanned the ceiling fixture, which was a hidden camera, like the smoke detector. In the kitchen, there was a hidden camera on top of the refrigerator and behind the coffeepot. He couldn’t be everywhere tomorrow night, but the cameras could pick up all sorts of stray information. He needed to know as much about these boys as soon as possible, for step one and beyond.
Chris picked up his backpack and went to his office, which was small with two windows, bare white walls, and a massive computer workstation with two large monitors aglow, stacked with files. He had a lot of information to absorb, so it was going to be a long night.
A teacher’s work was never done.
Chapter Eleven
Heather Larkin wished she had time to make a decent dinner, but tonight it was scrambled eggs. She loved Ina Garten and wanted to be a home cook, but there was a difference between imagination and reality, beginning with her kitchen—too small to be a galley kitchen, she called it an “alley” kitchen—with refaced brown-wood cabinetry, Formica-knockoff countertops, and ancient appliances from a scratch-and-dent store. Their apartment was two bedrooms in a low-rise complex between a do-it-yourself car wash and a Friendly’s. Their view was the lighted Friendly’s sign, and at night, if she drew the curtains, the apartment took on a radioactive red glow.
Heather turned off the eggs, scooped them onto the plate, and brought them to Jordan, who was studying at the table. “Sorry, honey. I wanted to make chicken, but the witch kept me late again.”
“No problem, Mom,” Jordan said without looking up, and Heather knew he meant no disrespect. He was supposed to have read The Great Gatsby, but he hadn’t gotten it done. His schedule was as busy as hers, with school, homework, baseball practice, and games. He grabbed the upside-down bottle of ketchup from the table, popped the top, and squeezed it onto his eggs.
“How about I make chicken tomorrow night?”
“Sure, fine.” Jordan picked up a fork and plowed into the eggs, then turned the page of his book, tucking it underneath the rim to keep it open.
“Let me get your toast.” Heather went back to the kitchen, plucked the pieces from the toaster, put them on a plate, and brought them back to the table with her new Kerrygold butter. She had overheard the members at the club talking about Kerrygold like it was magical, but Whole Foods was the only store that carried it. Heather didn’t shop there because it was expensive, but she’d made an exception to get the Kerrygold. She didn’t realize until the checkout line that she was the only customer in a uniform—with a name tag, for God’s sake. Self-conscious, she’d zippered her coat up.
“Thanks,” Jordan said through a mouthful, opening his lips to let the heat from the eggs escape his mouth.
“Want coffee, honey?”
“If it’s made already.”
“It is.” Heather cheered up as she went back into the kitchen, feeling a wave of gratitude for her son. He kept his room clean, took their garbage to the incinerator chute, did his own laundry in the machines in the crummy basement. He’d set up her email, showed her how to G-chat, and fixed Netflix so they could use her sister’s account. Jordan never gave her a moment’s trouble. She didn’t know how she’d gotten so lucky, in him.
“How was practice?” Heather asked from the kitchen, sliding the pot of coffee from Mr. Coffeemaker and pouring him a mug, then herself. They both drank it black, which made her feel good, for some reason. They were no-frills, a tough little half a family.
“Fine.” Jordan turned the page, then tucked the paperback under his plate.
“How was school?” Heather brought the mugs back and placed Jordan’s coffee in front of him.
“Fine.”
“Good.” Heather pulled out the chair and sat opposite him. She wasn’t hungry because she had eaten at the club, scarfing down so many leftover pigs-in-blankets that she felt like one.
“Got a new assistant coach.”
“Oh? What’s his name?”
“Brennan. I have him for AP Government, too.”
“Is he nice?”
“Yes. I got a game tomorrow. I might start.” Jordan glanced up with a quick smile.
“You mean you might be the starting pitcher?” Heather asked, surprised. “Not Raz?”
“Yep.” Jordan nodded, returning to his book.
“Good for you, honey!” Heather felt happy for him, though she knew he would have mixed feelings, competing with Raz. She could have asked him about it, but she’d learned not to bug him. She wished she could go to his games, to cheer for him, to be there for him, but she had to work, which was just another way she fell short.
Heather sipped her coffee, keeping him company, or maybe he was keeping her company. Either way, silence fell between them. Jordan didn’t talk much, but on the plus side, he never complained. She used to worry that he internalized his emotions, like it said in the magazines, but he was a boy, after all, and so much like her father.
Heather laced her fingers around her mug, and her gaze traveled to the window. She hadn’t closed the curtains yet, and it was already dark outside. The Friendly’s sign glowed blood-red—TRY OUR HUNKA CHUNKA PB FUDGE—and the lights were on in the Sunoco gas station. Traffic was congested on Central Valley Road, and car exhaust made chalky plumes in the night air. Jordan had been spooked by exhaust when he was little.
Mommy, are those ghosts coming from inside the cars?
No, honey. They’re farts.
Heather smiled to herself, wondering if she had been a better mother then or if it had just been easier. Her mother always said, big kids, big problems, and Heather worried constantly about college for Jordan, where he would get in, how they would pay for it. Heather lowered her gaze, watching him. She loved watching her son eat, even though she watched people eat all day, but that was different.
Suddenly a text alert sounded on Jordan’s phone, which was on the table, and Heather glanced over to see a skinny banner pop onto the screen:
From Evan K: bro
Heather blinked, surprised. Evan K had to be Evan Kostis, Mindy’s Kostis’s son. It was funny, since she’d seen Mindy just today at the l
uncheon.
Do I know you? You look familiar.
Heather felt a tingle of excitement at the thought that Jordan could become friends with Evan. Jordan didn’t have any close friends besides Raz, but Raz was such a wacko. A popular kid like Evan could bring Jordan out of his shell. And Evan was the captain of the baseball team and in the local newspaper, whether for National Honor Society or some other thing. Evan was Winner’s Circle, like his parents. Maybe the Larkin’s could get out of the Loser’s Circle, or at least Jordan could.
The banner flashed a second time, but Jordan kept reading and Heather watched the phone screen go black. Her father always said, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know, and she saw proof of that every day, watching the club members exchanging business cards, taking each other’s stock tips and vacation-spot recommendations, hiring each other’s lawyers, doctors, babysitters, whatever.
“Jordan, you got a text.” Heather rose, reaching for his plate to clear the table, but he grabbed the other side of the plate, stopping her.
“You don’t have to clear, Ma. I will.”
“If I clear, you can text Evan back.”
“I’m not like you, Ma. I don’t get excited every time I get a text. I’m not an olds.” Jordan stood up with a crooked smile, picking up the dirty plates, silverware, and crumpled napkin, stacking them the way he learned to at the club, where he bused tables in summer.
“I just think if Evan texted you, you should text him back.”
“I don’t.”
“Why not? Don’t you want to see what he wants?”
“I know what he wants.” Jordan walked into the kitchen with the plates and silverware, then opened the dishwasher only wide enough to slide the plates in the bottom rack and drop the fork and the knife in the silverware bin.
“What does he want?” Heather could see Jordan getting testy, but she had him in her clutches and wasn’t about to let go.
“He wants to go to the movies Saturday night.”
“That sounds like fun,” Heather said, too quickly. “Are you going to go with him?