Jake, Reinvented

  Todd sputtered. His timing was off, his accuracy was off, and he didn’t throw a decent spiral all day. But after one of many punts by yours truly, Nelson, now anchoring the defense from the nose tackle spot, forced a fumble on our opponents’ six-yard line.

  With goal to go, our offense came in and gained negative seven yards. But that was still close enough for me to kick the field goal on a perfect snap from Jake: 7–3.

  Remember, this was Jake snapping to Todd, the holder. So I was kind of impressed the ball hadn’t been aimed at the guy’s throat. The two had not spoken since the confrontation at the party the night before. But it was plain that, if they had ever been friends, they weren’t anymore.

  I did note that, at the opposite end of the bleachers from Dipsy’s base of operations, Didi was wearing Todd’s jersey. I had no idea what that was supposed to signify. Beside her, Jennifer was fast asleep, a baseball cap pulled down to her chin.

  Jake saw me looking in Didi’s direction. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he assured me. “She’s with me now.” But I could tell it bugged him.

  As the game progressed, Nelson’s rage escalated. Every time Melissa and the cheerleaders took the field, he was reminded afresh of why he hated the world, and therefore Liberty. His tackles were train wrecks; his blocks cleared a path you could drive a truck through. Each bruising hit was made with such fury that I honestly started to feel sorry for the Lions.

  I heard their coach exhorting his players, “Don’t be afraid of that guy!” It was too much to ask. We were afraid of Nelson, and we were his teammates.

  We still trailed 7–6 at halftime.

  Considering we were only in this contest because of the wrath of Nelson Jaworski, the coach’s pep talk was very subdued.

  “Remember, it’s only a game. We don’t want anybody to get hurt.”

  Those burning effigies must have been of someone else’s grandmothers.

  It did nothing to slow Nelson down in the second half. Our offense stank, but their offense was completely neutralized by a rampaging lunatic. They didn’t score another point. The most offensive thing that happened in the game’s final stanza was that Dipsy emptied a two-pound bag of Chex Mix over the visitors’ bench. In the ensuing shouting match, he was ejected from the stadium for calling the referee something that would grow hair on the palm of your hand.

  This was not unexpected. Sooner or later, Dipsy was thrown out of every Broncos game. The fans awarded him a standing ovation as the back judge escorted him to the exit. In a way, it was the most respect poor Dipsy ever got at Fitz, and probably the main reason he had landed himself on the guest list for Jake’s parties.

  He was gone, but not forgotten. We could still hear his ranting from the parking lot.

  To make a long and vicious story short and vicious, the game came down to a field goal attempt with six seconds to play. It was a moment that really would have appealed to the college scouts who never showed up.

  As we got set for the kick, Todd decided to end his silent treatment of Jake. “Don’t screw it up, Garrett! Some of us have college careers to think about!”

  “Some of us should have thought of that before going oh-for-fifty!” Jake shot right back.

  “Hey!” Todd leaped up from the holder’s position, effectively scuttling down the attempt. “Who are you to criticize me? Coach hasn’t got you busting your butt playing offense and defense and special teams like the rest of us! You want my advice? Keep on doing your little snaps and shut up, because pretty soon people are going to start wondering why you’re so unique!”

  I could feel the tide turning against Jake on the field. That speech really resonated with the exhausted players. One by one the linemen rose out of their stances to cast unfriendly looks in Jake’s direction.

  The whistle blew. “Delay of game!” bawled the ref. “Five yard penalty. Still fourth down.”

  I was grateful for the interruption. A few more seconds and some of our guys might have started shoving.

  “Come on, Buckley!” shouted the coach from the sidelines. “What are you waiting for?”

  All at once, people remembered we were in the middle of a football game—one that the Broncos might actually win. Snap, hold, and kick, and we came away with a 9–7 victory. When the final score was announced over the loudspeaker, Dipsy charged back in from the parking lot, howling like a madman. He took out the Gatorade bucket with a flying tackle, showering our bench with an icy spray. In any other situation, he would have been burned at the stake. But there was something about winning that made everything okay.

  Our fans felt it too. They stormed the field, encircling the victorious quarterback. Never mind that every single point had come off my foot.

  Closer to the real truth was that Jake was the hero today. Last year, at least one of my field goals would have been blown because of a bad snap. Coach knew exactly what he was doing by letting Jake break his no-specialists rule.

  I grabbed our long-snapper by the shoulder pads and steered him clear of the celebration. “You don’t need to frolic with those idiots.”

  “Let go, baby.” He squirmed free of me and wheeled to scan the surging crowd.

  I could almost see him deflating when he spotted them—Todd and Didi, locked in a triumphant embrace at the center of the cheering throng.

  “Sorry, Jake.”

  “She only does it out of pity.” He never took his eyes off the sight of them. “She feels responsible for maintaining his image.”

  I kept my mouth shut. I was just now getting to know the real Didi Ray.

  From what I could tell, she wasn’t that self-sacrificing.

  chapter eleven

  JUST AS JAKE’S parties had acquired an unpleasant taste, the tone at school was beginning to turn ugly. The buzz was still all about Jake—now that his long-snapping had lifted the pathetic Broncos to victory, he was more famous than ever. But the speculation about him had become suspicious, derisive. Jake had no longer dropped from heaven to provide high-quality Friday night entertainment; he was putting something over on us, playing us. And the mysterious attributes that had proved so irresistible before were simply more proof that the lowdown sneak was up to no good.

  “I mean, he’s a cool guy and all that,” a junior girl was saying in the cafeteria on Monday. “But—”

  This “but” was a telltale feature of several conversations I overheard that week. Jake was cool; Jake was great; he was fun. But.

  “—but where does he get the money for such huge parties?” she finished.

  “Well, obviously he’s dealing drugs,” replied one of her friends. “You don’t make that kind of cash delivering the Tribune.”

  “You guys are missing the point,” put in another girl. “The parties are a cover for the dealing. I’ve heard Jake’s running a supermarket over there.”

  “I don’t know.” The first speaker was dubious. “I’ve been to a couple of those parties, and I never saw anything like that.”

  “Are you kidding?” the third girl crowed. “Babies could get born, and no one would ever notice at Jake’s place.”

  It was interesting—I knew exactly where Jake’s money was coming from, and it had nothing to do with drugs. But there were kids who swore up and down that they’d seen Jake selling X and loose joints in the upstairs hall.

  And did anyone plan to skip the next bash to avoid being swept up in a narcotics sting operation? Not on your life.

  “Those parties are the only excitement we’ve got around here,” said a tall red-haired boy in the food line.

  Another weird thing: going by the buzz at Fitz, it seemed like everybody in school was a regular Friday night attendee. The parties were crowded, sure, but not with eighteen hundred people. Guys were speaking with authority on the layout of the Garrett home and the location of the best make-out spots. Most of them had to be lying, but the rumors were so wild anyway, it was hard to tell who. I think some kids were so wrapped up in Jake World that they almost believed they had
been there—the way your mind can manufacture real memories of things your parents say you did as a young child.

  As Jake’s right-hand man, I picked up my share of piercing stares and dirty looks that week. Phil Braggett gave me a long lecture on the subject of my unwittingly “helping Jake screw us over.”

  I stuck up for Jake. “It’s just a few parties. That’s it.”

  “And you don’t think it’s weird that the guy came out of nowhere?”

  “He didn’t come out of nowhere,” I explained patiently. “He went to a different school last year. He lives here now. And because he’s new, he throws parties to get to know people.”

  “Well, I think he’s a narc!” Phil spat out.

  “A cop?”

  “Working undercover as a student. It’s a sting against underage drinking.”

  “And he hasn’t found it yet?” I laughed. “That would make him the dumbest cop on the force.”

  Phil was undaunted. “Maybe he’s biding his time, waiting to move in.”

  “Trust me,” I assured him. “If Jake arrested every underage drinker he saw, this school would be empty. This is crazy, Phil.”

  He looked at me resentfully. “That’s not what Todd said.”

  I was instantly alert. “Todd Buckley?”

  But who else could he be talking about? Actually, it made perfect sense. Our great and exalted quarterback had soured on Jake. Therefore it was only a matter of time before everyone else fell into line. I love high school. It’s a place for individuality to flourish.

  I cornered Todd in the locker room before practice. “What have you been telling people about Jake?”

  He scowled at me. “I knew you’d defend him.”

  “Defend him from what?” I exploded. “He hasn’t done anything! The guy has a few parties, and you’ve got him ratting for the cops!”

  “How do you know he isn’t?” Todd shot back. “He appears out of thin air, and suddenly he’s on the Broncos, he’s throwing parties, he’s all over school. Every toilet around here is stopped up with Jake Garrett! I’ve got the citywide college recruiting seminar tomorrow, and there’ll be players there from McKinley. Maybe Jake did the same thing over there. I’m going to get to the bottom of this guy if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You know exactly what he’s up to,” I muttered bitterly. “That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? You’re the big expert when it comes to messing around with other people’s girlfriends.”

  For a minute, I thought he might even take a swing at me. Instead, he fixed me with a snake-eyed glare. “Don’t go there, Rick. You think you’re hot stuff because you kick a few field goals, but let’s see how popular you are if you get on my bad side.”

  I only saw Jake at practice, with Todd in the vicinity, so it was hard to get a sense of what the man himself thought of all this. Jake had become almost an automaton around the Broncos these days, performing his simple function, and staying out of everybody’s way. But that was mostly because none of the other players talked to him anymore.

  That’s why, when I rounded the corner to my locker on Thursday and found myself staring into the depths of the Jake smile, I couldn’t help grinning. I liked being Jake’s best friend, and that didn’t change with the tide of public opinion.

  “Hey, baby—” He pumped my hand while gently but insistently guiding me away from my locker. “What do you say we ditch the afternoon? Call it a mental-health sabbatical.”

  I thought it over for about a nanosecond. With Todd, the center of Fitzgerald’s football universe, away at the recruiting seminar, practice was probably going to be a joke anyway—just some basic drills and a ton of calisthenics. As for classes—

  “I’m in,” I agreed. “We should probably talk anyway. I’m sure you’ve noticed things with Todd are getting kind of nasty.”

  He seemed completely serene. “I’m not worried about him.”

  “Yeah, well, I am,” I told him. “Todd’s got a lot of clout around this place. He can make things pretty unpleasant for you if he sets his mind to it.”

  But Jake just led the way out to the Beamer in the parking lot. He seemed to be in a fantastic mood.

  I settled myself in the passenger seat. “Where to?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  It did surprise me, although it shouldn’t have. We cruised through the neighborhoods of Colonials, ranches, and splits that made up my mother’s business universe until we pulled up at a gas station just out of sight of St. Mary’s School for Girls.

  Didi waited expectantly at the passenger door until I got out and sat down in the back. Jennifer crawled right over me and stretched luxuriously across the soft leather.

  “You’re on my half,” I told her.

  “I love you too, Ricky,” she purred.

  “Hey, ladies,” beamed Jake, as Didi sidled over and began nibbling on his neck. “School burn down?”

  The mere mention of school seemed to deflate Didi’s passion. “Don’t I wish,” she grumbled, slumping in her seat.

  “School can’t be that bad,” I goaded her. “You’ve got your old math tutor back, right?”

  Jake cast a beseeching look over his shoulder. Apparently, not much tutoring had been going on during those long nights at the Garrett house.

  We headed downtown to the small Greenwich Village-wannabe neighborhood that surrounded the Atlantica University campus. Cruising the main drag with the windows open, Jake exchanged greetings and the occasional high-five with the various research-paper customers we passed. Connor Danvers was one of them. To my surprise, he greeted Jake like a long-lost brother, risking life and limb to stand on the centerline to embrace the guy.

  The subject of the late quantum physics paper never came up. “We’re on for Friday night at your place, right?” Connor enthused. “Anything I should bring?”

  “People,” Jake said readily. “The more the merrier, baby.”

  “They’re lining up to come,” Connor assured him.

  I tried to sound a cautious note. “If that lunatic invites the whole world, you’d better be shopping for a bigger house.”

  But I could tell that Jake was in his glory. He had Didi at his side, seeing him treated like a big shot—at a college campus, no less. It was working, too. Her look of rapturous admiration was too total to be faked. It was eerily similar to the expression she wore when playing her other Academy Award role of God’s girlfriend.

  Even Jennifer had no taste for discouraging words today. “Mellow out, Ricky.”

  We had a high-caffeine, high-sugar lunch of mochas and monster cookies at the Starbucks on the corner, and checked out a few stores. Jake and Didi kind of melted into each other as the tour progressed, until they could hardly move, epoxied laterally together in the style of a three-legged race.

  “Those two should get a room,” I whispered to Jennifer.

  “Right now, I’ve got an afternoon off, and Jake has a BMW,” was her reply. “So don’t hassle it.”

  Eventually, we were back in the car, parking on a deserted dead-end street a bad punt from the dirty blue water of Lake Michigan. It was a make-out spot, no question about it. I glared at the back of Jake’s head. Didn’t he notice that his two rear passengers weren’t dating?

  In the front, Didi crawled over the gearshift console into Jake’s lap. It was an awkward operation because of the position of the steering wheel, but she managed to make it look sexy because she was Didi. I rolled my eyes at Jennifer, who shrugged.

  This isn’t happening, I thought, trying to ignore the sounds coming from up there. It was a joke, right? Surely we weren’t stuck here while those two did what came naturally.

  A light fog began to materialize on the inside of the Beamer’s windows. Jennifer reached over and traced out HELP with her finger. I grinned appreciatively and wrote: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE on my side.

  All at once, she grabbed my hand. “Hey, Stud. Let’s show these amateurs how it’s done.”

  “Right, War
rior Princess.” I jumped on her lap with an exaggerated moan. We overbalanced and keeled over sideways across the backseat in a symphony of manufactured slurping noises. The lovebirds gave no indication that they’d noticed. They wouldn’t have noticed a mortar attack.

  We forged ahead, determined to make our point. I hooked my foot over top of Didi’s headrest, working up enough hyperventilation to erase the messages on the misted windows. Jennifer pulled off her scarf and tossed it over the front seat. In what I hoped was a vampirelike gesture, I buried my face in her neck and blew a loud raspberry. Laughing, she put her arms around my back and hung on.

  “Behold, Princess—I hear the trumpet of battle!” I declared, digging in for another blow.

  I felt her fingers burrowing into my hair, pressing my lips against her skin too hard for bugling. “You’re crushing the trumpet of battle,” I said in a muffled voice.

  That was when I noticed that Jennifer wasn’t laughing anymore, or squirming to avoid my weight. The realization was a jagged fork of lightning that stretched from my head to a lower, less public part of my anatomy. What was the deal here? Was this a joke?

  She wasn’t joking—she was into it!

  Or was she? This was Jennifer, after all.

  I shrugged off the sting. Today, I’d find out one way or the other. Sure, I might make an idiot out of myself. Family friends—I’d never be able to escape the embarrassment. There could be no dignified retreat. Jennifer would become my Vietnam.

  On the other hand, why should I be the only person who thought about consequences in this town? Nobody else ever did. Melissa cheated on Nelson; Todd cheated on Didi. Didi cheated on Todd. It was happening just a few feet in front of me—Jake and Didi, swapping tonsillectomies and God knows what else. Jennifer had the right idea: It’s all about me. From this moment on, Rick Paradis did what felt good for Rick Paradis—starting in the backseat of the car that had replaced Jake Garrett’s mother.