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“And your grandfather is the head of the Terror and he’s come to every parent-teacher conference and every game. People see you, they see the Terror and some parents have expressed concern that your being on the team is inviting problems.”
Problems. “What the hell does that mean?”
Coach lifts his fingers in a way to indicate a who-knows. “Parents are concerned if you’re on the field, a gang war will erupt and their sons will be taken out in the process.”
I’m being punished and judged based on someone else’s mistakes? “This is bullshit.”
“I agree, but the parent making the most noise has got the ear of someone on the school board. Until the board meets again, I’ve been told to bench you.”
“Bench me?” I repeat.
“You aren’t thrown off the team. Just have to sit out games until we get this figured out.”
“I’m not Terror. I’m not even a prospect.”
“As I said, I know. You’ve been given permission to sit with the team. Wear your jersey to games. They don’t want you to feel entirely left out. They said they want to do what’s best for the greater good.”
Fuck this. I stand, the small-ass chair banging against the floor. “Because if I dress out and play, that’s when the shooting begins, but if I sit my ass on the bench, everyone’s safe? How does that work?”
“It doesn’t.” Coach rises to his feet, his hands in the air in a sign for me to calm down. “Between me and you, this is politics, son, and it’s higher than my pay grade.”
Politics? I run through what Coach said and my head falls back when the answer hits me like a freight train. Some parents raised concerns, but he said there was one loud bastard with the ear of a board member. The kid who’s my backup if I get hurt hasn’t played much this year and his father’s been an asshole about it, shouting at Coach from the sidelines at practice and during games.
This kid’s dad’s best friend? He’s on the school board. “Ray can’t catch a damn ball and move his feet at the same time. He can’t remember his routes under pressure.”
“I’m aware. We lost last week. Eighteen to zero.”
To a team we should have easily beaten.
“Their defense knew we didn’t have you and they know Ray can’t play. They shifted their defense to the boys who can. Without you there, we couldn’t get down the field. Our defense saw the game falling apart and they fell apart. Our team needs a leader and that’s you. I need you back on that field.”
“Sounds like that’s not up to me.”
“It’s not. I’ll speak to the board. So will some of the other coaches and teachers. I know Cyrus won’t want to hear this, but he and the Terror need to stay clear. Them showing up will only hurt, not help.”
That conversation with the board will go over well.
“What I’m about to ask requires a better man, but I’m asking because I know you’re a great man.” His pause causes my blood to run cold. “Chevy, I need you to come to practice and help Ray. I need you to teach him how to cover the routes. Boost the kid’s confidence. We lose one more game and we lose our shot at regionals.”
I stretch my fingers and resist the urge to tell him where to shove helping Ray or the team because no one is helping me.
“Don’t answer now,” Coach says. “Take some time. Think about it, but I have a feeling you’ll show. As I said, you’re the better man.”
Without saying a word, I turn and walk out.
Violet
I’M JEALOUS OF my mom’s happiness. I’m quite aware of how awful and bitter that sounds, but it’s tough to know her happiness is due to my kidnapping. The real jealousy is that she’s just happy. There’s a smile on her face and pure joy radiates from her as she places the third round of hot buttered bread on the table in Cyrus’s kitchen. She’s plain happy and I honestly forgot how happy feels, so for a moment I wish I was her.
Found another note this morning in my math folder:
Want you to know we understand your situation. Can’t expect you to get what we want if you aren’t home, but we hear you’ll be home once certain people are back in KY. By the way, number fifteen is wrong. You need to divide instead of multiply.
A s
talker and blackmailer who is checking my math homework. My brain is slowly separating into tiny pieces and it’s going to be a very short trip to become a resident in the land of gone crazy.
But my mom? My mom’s happy. It’s Wednesday evening and the cramped kitchen is full of hungry men in black leather Reign of Terror vests and too-loud conversations. They were all drawn in by the scent of freshly baked bread and lasagna. I’ve got to admit, Mom makes a mean lasagna and she bakes bread you sort of think was created in heaven.
