concentration saying, “The doubting?” Blink . Blink .
“Christ, Mera, it’s nothing,” I say. The peaceful bubble fissures and explodes, and I feel like my chest is being compressed again; my airways are constricting. The tingling begins and explodes into my brain. I rub my temples and push on my forehead.
I’ve been caught. She knows.
Fucking Mera. I tap my pencil on the book and look back down the hallway at the patterns.
“Do you talk about it?” she asks. “I mean, not with me. Do you, um, talk to Luc about this stuff?”
Yeah, sure . Hey, Luc, did you know that it can take me up to two hours to leave the house some days because the numbers don’t work? That’s exactly what I want to talk to the ever-macho, ever-okay Luc about.
I shove my books into my backpack. I can’t hear her words over the hammering in my ears. My breath quickens, so I count, bringing it back, keeping it cool. Tuck. Tuck. Tuck. Put the piece away .
The bell rings and I jump up, relieved. I throw my backpack over my shoulder and hurry down the hallway toward English, feeling her eyes bore into the back of my neck. I guess I could’ve waited for her. Walked together. Sometimes I feel like a total asshole.
But she breaks the magic. I need to stay focused for Saturday. I don’t have time to get caught up in what used to be and what is now. I can’t go back. I can’t look forward. I just need now. That’s all.
I can feel Mera’s stare—like the prickle of hot sun on the back of my neck. I scratch it away.
What if she knows about me?
I shake my head. No way. Focus. Just focus. The game. Getting to class on time. Focus .
I walk away, leaving her again.
Twenty-nine The Future
Thursday, 2:15 p.m.
Two fifteen. Two plus one is three plus five is eight minus five is three. OK.
Before practice Coach calls me aside, holding a copy of the tardy-notice letter Dad showed me this morning. I want to tell him he should photocopy it and send it to nine people or else his balls will fall off or something equally horrible if he breaks the chain. Keep the tardy chain going .
But I like Coach too much to be a total smart-ass. And those are only thoughts.
I pause and stare at him, waiting for a reaction.
Good. I didn’t say it out loud.
Just thoughts.
Coach shows me the letter. “Martin, you can’t afford to be late again. Take this seriously.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I nod, my body itching to get out there and run. Get the release. When I’m out there, the spiders disappear.
“Jake,” he says, “Principal Vaughn doesn’t mess around. He’s here and ready to prove a point— no exceptions. Eight tardies and you’re benched—state final on Saturday or not. Don’t mess it up.”
“I won’t, Coach.” Only one day of school left before the final game anyway. I only have to be on time one more day. That won’t be hard.
Coach is still talking, so I start counting his words, my mind racing to keep up.
“You’re the best team player we’ve got. Scouts . . . college scholarships . . . teamwork . . . Martin, are you listening?”
“A hundred seventy-three.”
“A hundred seventy-three what?” Coach asks.
Numbers. Words. One hundred seventy-three. One plus seven is eight plus three is eleven. OK.
“Okay. Just—yeah, I’m there, Coach. You can count on me.”
“We need you here ,” Coach says. “Now.”
“Is there any other place?”
He smiles. “Okay then,” he says. “Get out there and let’s have a good practice.”
We group up seven-on-seven to play short-sided, practicing skills, going over plays. The fog melts away, the itching disappears. The field is a crisp, glossy photo—the kind in which every blade of grass is in macrofocus. Everything is clear, and the only thing I have to worry about is getting around a few guys who don’t know their asses from their elbows, tripping over themselves to stop me.
But they can’t.
It’s a dance. I flick the ball around Kalleres, push past Keller. Diaz
“Christ, Mera, it’s nothing,” I say. The peaceful bubble fissures and explodes, and I feel like my chest is being compressed again; my airways are constricting. The tingling begins and explodes into my brain. I rub my temples and push on my forehead.
I’ve been caught. She knows.
Fucking Mera. I tap my pencil on the book and look back down the hallway at the patterns.
“Do you talk about it?” she asks. “I mean, not with me. Do you, um, talk to Luc about this stuff?”
Yeah, sure . Hey, Luc, did you know that it can take me up to two hours to leave the house some days because the numbers don’t work? That’s exactly what I want to talk to the ever-macho, ever-okay Luc about.
I shove my books into my backpack. I can’t hear her words over the hammering in my ears. My breath quickens, so I count, bringing it back, keeping it cool. Tuck. Tuck. Tuck. Put the piece away .
The bell rings and I jump up, relieved. I throw my backpack over my shoulder and hurry down the hallway toward English, feeling her eyes bore into the back of my neck. I guess I could’ve waited for her. Walked together. Sometimes I feel like a total asshole.
But she breaks the magic. I need to stay focused for Saturday. I don’t have time to get caught up in what used to be and what is now. I can’t go back. I can’t look forward. I just need now. That’s all.
I can feel Mera’s stare—like the prickle of hot sun on the back of my neck. I scratch it away.
What if she knows about me?
I shake my head. No way. Focus. Just focus. The game. Getting to class on time. Focus .
I walk away, leaving her again.
Twenty-nine The Future
Thursday, 2:15 p.m.
Two fifteen. Two plus one is three plus five is eight minus five is three. OK.
Before practice Coach calls me aside, holding a copy of the tardy-notice letter Dad showed me this morning. I want to tell him he should photocopy it and send it to nine people or else his balls will fall off or something equally horrible if he breaks the chain. Keep the tardy chain going .
But I like Coach too much to be a total smart-ass. And those are only thoughts.
I pause and stare at him, waiting for a reaction.
Good. I didn’t say it out loud.
Just thoughts.
Coach shows me the letter. “Martin, you can’t afford to be late again. Take this seriously.”
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
I nod, my body itching to get out there and run. Get the release. When I’m out there, the spiders disappear.
“Jake,” he says, “Principal Vaughn doesn’t mess around. He’s here and ready to prove a point— no exceptions. Eight tardies and you’re benched—state final on Saturday or not. Don’t mess it up.”
“I won’t, Coach.” Only one day of school left before the final game anyway. I only have to be on time one more day. That won’t be hard.
Coach is still talking, so I start counting his words, my mind racing to keep up.
“You’re the best team player we’ve got. Scouts . . . college scholarships . . . teamwork . . . Martin, are you listening?”
“A hundred seventy-three.”
“A hundred seventy-three what?” Coach asks.
Numbers. Words. One hundred seventy-three. One plus seven is eight plus three is eleven. OK.
“Okay. Just—yeah, I’m there, Coach. You can count on me.”
“We need you here ,” Coach says. “Now.”
“Is there any other place?”
He smiles. “Okay then,” he says. “Get out there and let’s have a good practice.”
We group up seven-on-seven to play short-sided, practicing skills, going over plays. The fog melts away, the itching disappears. The field is a crisp, glossy photo—the kind in which every blade of grass is in macrofocus. Everything is clear, and the only thing I have to worry about is getting around a few guys who don’t know their asses from their elbows, tripping over themselves to stop me.
But they can’t.
It’s a dance. I flick the ball around Kalleres, push past Keller. Diaz
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