Some Boys

“You will not play in Saturday’s game. You will not play at all until you procure the required medical clearance from a qualified doctor. As for the outrageous way in which you spoke to a member of this faculty, you will not participate in next week’s lacrosse camp. You will apologize to Coach Brill. And you will ride the bench during the All Long Island Tournament.”

  “No!” I jump to my feet. “Come on, Mr. Jordan. You can’t punish the whole team for my temper.”

  He waves a hand at the chair I just vacated. I sit back down, mentally kicking my own ass while simultaneously trying to think up a way out of this.

  “Look, I’m sorry for what I said. But the team needs me. Some of these guys are graduating. This is their last shot at a win.”

  “You have a point, Mr. Russell.” He steeples his hands and thinks for a minute. “Tell you what I’ll do. Next week is spring break, and since you’re not going to be playing lacrosse with your team, perhaps you’ll consider donating that week to cleaning lockers on the second floor? Cutbacks, you know.” He winks.

  I lean forward. Clean lockers? I’d scrub the toilets if that means I get to play. “You mean if I agree to clean lockers this week, I get to play in the tournament?”

  “I think that’s a fair exchange.”

  “Agreed. Thank you, sir.”

  He holds out a hand to shake. “Clean out your locker, report here tomorrow at eight a.m.”

  Wait, what? “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Ian. Tomorrow’s Saturday, I know. You’ll work tomorrow plus Monday through Friday.”

  I sigh. “Fine.”

  I stalk to my locker, cursing and grumbling. I scare a tiny girl so badly she flattens herself against a locker as I go by. A locker I’ll most likely have to empty of all its pink notebooks with little hearts in the margins and—oh, Jesus—feminine supplies and who knows what else. Not how I planned to spend my spring break. I was really looking forward to lacrosse camp, our weeklong skills-building event. The damn concussion wasn’t enough punishment, I guess. When Dad hears about this, he’ll probably make me clean all the windows on the house just to piss on top of shit. I’m still in trouble for denting his car.

  My steps hitch. As long as I stick to the story, Dad will never know what happened.

  The phone in my pocket buzzes. I pull it out, unlock it, not surprised to see who’s calling me instead of texting. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Ian, have you lost your mind?”

  I sigh. Guess Mr. Jordan has my dad on speed dial. “No. Lost my temper and already apologized. No biggie.”

  I can practically hear my dad’s blood pressure spike. “No biggie? Cursing at your coach, the man who can write the letter of recommendation that either gets you a scholarship or doesn’t, and you think this is no biggie? Jesus H. Christ.”

  Where does the H come from anyway? Is there some obscure gospel buried someplace under the Vatican that said Jesus had a middle name and it’s Hiram or Horatio or something? Why does nobody ever swear his whole name instead of just the H? I was about seven before I figured out my name was just Ian and not Ian Alexander Russell with three exclamation points at the end.

  “Ian, are you listening to me?”

  “Uh, yeah, Dad.” Oops.

  “Way to go, son. You get to spend your entire week off scrubbing lockers instead of working on your cradling and passing skills. Oh, and by the way, your follow-up appointment was set for Tuesday morning, but we’ll have to change it because of your inability to control your temper—again.”

  I don’t bother reminding him of the time he slammed a door off its hinges because we ran out of milk. Or the time he dented the dishwasher because the dishes weren’t clean. “Okay, Dad, I get it. I messed up. I’ll clean the stupid lockers and apologize to Mr. Brill again, okay?” I stop walking when I reach my locker, fumble with the combination for a few seconds, and finally pop it open just as he starts another flip-calendar speech. Wish he’d just publish the damn things. Then we’d be rich, and I wouldn’t have to risk my brain stem on the lacrosse field for a slim shot at a scholarship along with every other player on this team.

  “Yeah, sure, you do that. If it were me, I’d kick you off the team. You need a good lesson in responsibility. You can’t just sail through life, saying whatever the hell you want and apologizing for it later.”

  Oh my God, it’s not like I bombed the school or something. Get a grip. “I get it, Dad.”

  “No, Ian, you don’t. If you got it, we wouldn’t always be having these conversations, would we?”

  Gotta love my dad’s definition of a conversation. I talk, and you listen while I tell you you’re lazy and ungrateful and will never succeed.

  “And when you get home, you’re going to wash and wax my car.”

  At least it’s not all the windows on the house. I swipe all the crap from my locker—might as well make this the first one I clean—and slam the door. “Dad, I gotta go. I’ll be home in twenty minutes, and I’ll get started on the car then.” I end the call without waiting for his reply.

  For a long moment I stare at the phone in my hands and wish I could crush it to powder, grab the keys, and just drive until I run out of road. I could work fields, bus tables, or wash cars when I need to eat or fill the tank. And when I run out of road, I could just hang on a beach, with nobody to tell me what a screwup I am, no older sisters casting their perfect little shadows over me, no raised voices in the next room complaining about my every action like I’m some supervillain with an evil plan to make my parents crazy on a daily basis.

  “Yo, Russell!”

  I whip my head around. Zac and Jeremy are heading my way, cleats clacking on the linoleum. Zac strides straight up to me and shoves me. “What the hell’s wrong with you, man? We have a shot at the title. You already missed one game, and now you’re benched. Jesus, Ian.”

  I hold up my hands. “I know, I know! I fucked up.”

  Zac rolls blue eyes toward heaven. “Fix it. Apologize. Write a damn essay or something.”

  I shake my head. “I tried. Jordan’s got me cleaning out lockers over the break.”

  Zac throws a punch at a locker. I wince. I’ll probably get blamed for that too. “Are you kidding me? You’re gonna miss the skills camp too? Ian, I swear to God if we lose tomorrow, I’ll kill you.”

  If we lose tomorrow’s game, I’ll do it myself. I know how much Zac has riding on this game. If we win tomorrow, the Laurel Point Panthers play in our first class-A championship game ever. With Zac as captain and our school’s first title under his name, he’ll be able to pick which scholarship to accept from a list of D-1 schools.

  Jeremy clears his throat. “So, um, cleaning lockers, huh? That blows.”

  I nod. “Tell me about it. There’s no damn air conditioning.” It’s been warmer than normal for April on Long Island, which is awesome if you’re not me and won’t be trapped indoors.

  “Hi, guys!”

  All three of us turn, see two giggly girls watching us from behind veils of hair. Jeremy’s freckles immediately go darker, and my throat closes up. But Zac? He smiles and nods with a quick chin jerk, slicks a hand over his sweaty hair, and drops his voice low. “What’s up?”

  The girls giggle again and come closer. “Dance practice just ended.” One says with a wave of her hand down the hall. Right. The dance squad practices in the large group instruction room. Both girls wear the same huge T-shirt with the sleeves cut out, knotted at the hip, shoulders exposed, Laurel Point Hyperactive written in some frenetic font across the chest. Um, not that I’m looking at their chests.

  Zac scans her from head to toe. “Sorry I missed it. Bet you have some moves.”

  “I’m pretty good.”

  Her friend steps up. “I’m better.”

  With Zac’s attention captured by the second girl, Jeremy catches my eye and grins. When it comes to women, Zac is a god, and the rest of us are mere mortals.

  “We think she’s lying.” The second girl rushes to say, hoping to keep Zac’s attent
ion focused on her for as long as possible. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Jeremy looks at his shoes. But Zac just grins wider. We all know who she means.

  “Good to know. So what’s your name?” He leans in, lifts the shirt that slid off her shoulder back into place.

  “Ashley.” She smiles. Her friend glares. I don’t know either of them. Probably sophomores. But they sure know Zac.

  “I’m Zac. This is Jeremy and Ian.”

  “We know,” they giggle in unison.

  “You’re what? Juniors?”

  More giggles. “No, sophomores.”

  Too young! I put a warning hand on Zac’s shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

  “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.”

  Zac never asks. He just announces his intentions, and girls topple like dominoes. Even sweaty from lacrosse practice, chicks can’t resist his blue eyes, blond hair, and ripped body. I lean on a locker, flex a muscle. Nobody notices.

  Ashley’s entire body lights up with joy. The first girl looks like she’s about to go thermonuclear until Zac turns back to me and Jeremy and asks if we’re coming too. I’m about to say yes until I remember my dad’s car is waiting for me to wash and wax it.

  “Can’t, man. I’m grounded. Have to report home in fifteen.”

  “Sucks.” Jeremy offers, his eyes on the girls. I think the only reason Jeremy hangs with us is for the girls Zac casts aside. Zac likes variety, so when he moves on, Jeremy moves in. Me? I do my own hunting, but it’s hard to score when girls can’t take their eyes off Zac.

  “Wait for us outside the locker room,” he orders. The girls giggle again, take off with a squeak of tennis shoes and a few looks over their shoulders. Wish I could hear their conversation as soon as they’re alone. Pretty sure Ashley is about to get bitch-slapped.

  “Sweet,” Jeremy comments.

  Zac shrugs. “Good enough. Let’s go shower. Later, man.” He clasps my shoulder. “Have fun scrubbing. I’ll leave you something special in my locker. Be cool, okay?” He lightly taps my cheek, and I shove him off, laughing.

  “You too. Watch yourself with Ashley and her friend. They’re under sixteen,” I remind him.

  “Relax, Russell. Just being friendly. Helps to have friends in my corner as long as the collie is barking up my ass. Later.” He grins once more and heads down the corridor.

  I collect my pile of locker crap and start walking. I hate that he keeps calling Grace a collie. But I keep quiet. I was late to the party that night—grounded again. Big surprise, right? By the time I got to the woods that paralleled the train station, everyone was gone—fled in panic because somebody thought he saw a police car patrolling the area.

  I don’t think the police patrol was true. If it were, they’d have been the ones to find Grace Collier unconscious and bleeding instead of me.

  Chapter 5

  Grace

  A lot can change in a month.

  Thirty-six days, to be exact.

  Am I still Grace? Or am I what everybody says I am because I was drunk, because I believed him? I hoped Mom was right—that this would blow over.

  Thirty-six days. It’s not better. It’s worse.

  There was one bright spot. Mom let me take the car today so I wouldn’t have to wait around for her to pick me up.

  Every Friday after school the newspaper staff meets. A few weeks ago I was in the middle of the action, the middle of the conversation and…well, the fun. Now I’m shoved to the periphery. I can feel all the eyes in the classroom boring a hole through me, but I do what Mrs. Reynolds said. I keep my head up high.

  Lindsay hasn’t talked to me since Zac posted his video. Instead, she pouts and has other students or Mrs. Weir, our editor, talk to me on her behalf. Fifteen minutes ago she tried to get Alyssa to ask me something, and Alyssa said, “I’m not talking to her. You talk to her.” They went around the entire classroom like this—all five staff members refusing to speak directly to me until finally Mrs. Weir threw up her hands and said, “Grace! I’m sure you’ve heard the request half a dozen times by now. Can you just send Lindsay the file name, please?”

  I did, but that didn’t stop their antics. It just made things worse.

  Now Lindsay’s standing near Mrs. Weir’s desk, shoulders hunched, sucking on the inside of her cheek. I can see her poor, suffering face reflected in the monitor displaying our photo-editing software. I look over my shoulder, raise an eyebrow to challenge her, and she immediately lowers her eyes. She leans down, says something to Mrs. Weir, who rubs her temples and sighs. “Lindsay, just tell Grace you need to use the computer, and I’m sure she’ll move.”

  Lindsay shakes her head, sending her ponytail swishing.

  The smell of pencil shavings and paste hangs heavy in the air. Mrs. Weir likes to do newspaper layouts the old-fashioned way. Drafts of stories in progress are tacked to a board with the pictures that will run with those stories—pictures I shot—beside them. There are six of us here today, working on the spring issue. Everybody stops what they’re doing to watch Lindsay quietly stab me. With a click of my mouse, a new photo fills the screen. It’s one of her I took the night of the party. Her face just falls apart—eyes fill, lips turn down. I wonder how she’d like it if this picture were plastered all over Facebook with SLUT written under it. There’s a part of me just begging to do it. But I can’t.

  I can’t be that mean.

  “Mrs. Weir! She’s not even doing real work.” Lindsay whines in a soft, wounded voice that tells everybody she’s just the poor victim in all this.

  Mrs. Weir sighs again and crosses to me, saying nothing about the unflattering shot of Lindsay dancing in the woods and holding a beer. “Grace, would you please finish your work so Lindsay can use the computer?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Weir.” I close the photo-editing program, back up my pictures to the flash drive I’ve started carrying since some of my work mysteriously disappeared off the hard drive, and offer Lindsay my chair, the smile never leaving my face. She scurries over to the classroom door, where the germ-killer gel dispenser is fastened to the wall, squirts some in her hands, and then takes the chair I just used. Jonah Miller and Alyssa Martin snicker while they slice up layouts.

  Mrs. Weir says nothing, and I try not to let my mind fill with revenge fantasies.

  I move to the board, examine the layouts. Jonah and Alyssa scoot away. I shoot them a glare because this routine is getting stale now. I pull the school’s camera out of my bag, take some shots of the expressions on their faces, and they suddenly remember they’ve got work to do. Lindsay’s clicking on keys, and then I hear her whine again. “See, Mrs. Weir? She didn’t even upload the shots she was supposed to get.”

  Mrs. Weir leans over Lindsay’s shoulder, reviews the pictures I took of the last lacrosse game, and calls me over. “Grace? Where are the shots of Zac’s last-second save?”

  “Right here.” I join them at the computer, lean over Lindsay to point to the folder where I saved the pictures. Lindsay recoils like I’m an acid bath she doesn’t want to fall into.

  “These are useless,” Lindsay murmurs from the vicinity of Mrs. Weir’s armpit.

  I shrug.

  “Grace, Lindsay’s right. These pictures are blurry and too far away to be of any use.”

  I cross my arms. “Those are the shots I got.”

  “She did this on purpose,” Lindsay says, and she’s right. I did. Just not for the reasons she’s thinking.

  Mrs. Weir turns to the other students. “You all can leave for the day. You too, Lindsay. Thank you for your help.”

  Their eyes dance with humor that they can’t hide behind their hands like the whispers that hiss at me every time I walk by. When the door closes, Mrs. Weir turns back to me. “Grace, what’s going on? You were supposed to get pictures of the game, but these look like you stayed in your car and tried to shoot them with the high-powered zoom.”

  “That’s as close as I am willing to get to Zac McMahon.”

  “Grace, regardless
of what you think Zac McMahon did—”

  “I don’t think he did anything,” I spit out before Mrs. Weir can finish her sentence.

  Mrs. Weir presses her lips into a tight line and finally looks at me. “I can’t take sides, Grace. And without evidence, that’s what I’d be doing. The fact remains you’re the photographer the school trusted with its only camera. If you won’t take the pictures, give Lindsay the camera so she can take them herself. Turn off the computer and lock the door when you leave.” Mrs. Weir gets up, leaves the room.

  Out in the corridor Lindsay blocks my path. “I can’t believe you, Grace. You knew this article was a big deal for me and totally ruined it because Zac broke up with you.”

  I sidestep her. “You really believe that? You really believe all of this is about a stupid breakup? Lindsay, you were there. You know what happened.” But she looks away, squirms, and tugs on her ponytail. There’s no hope, no point in trying to convince her. “Lindsay, believe what you want, but I can’t be near Zac. You don’t like the pictures I edited, go take your own.”

  Mrs. Weir is halfway down the hall and doesn’t hear Lindsay’s next round of insults. “You stole him from Miranda. You knew she liked him. Now you’re making up lies because you hate that he likes her more than you! You’re a whore. You’d do anybody just so they wouldn’t ask Miranda out. Everybody sees what you are.”

  Everybody’s blind. “Back off, Lindsay, or I’ll hurt you,” I say way too loudly.

  That’s when Mrs. Weir stops and turns around. “Grace, did I hear you threaten Lindsay?”

  Oh my God, are you freaking kidding me? “Mrs. Weir, did you hear the things she just said to me?”

  “Lindsay, go home. Grace and I need to have a chat with Mr. Jordan.”

  The glee on Lindsay’s face breaks the leash on my temper, and I viciously kick one of the lockers behind me. Mrs. Weir strides back to me, examines the locker I left a pretty decent-sized dent in. “Okay, Miss Collier. I guess we definitely need to meet with Mr. Jordan now.”

  Sure. Why not? What’s one more adult in my world telling me how wonderful Zac McMahon is and what a loser I am?