Captain Nobody (5 page)

“What did they say?”
I wanted to shout, but my mouth was dry, and I didn't have the breath to make a sound.

The ambulance guys put my brother on a backboard and lifted him onto a rolling stretcher. While both teams stood by with their helmets in hand, Chris was wheeled into the ambulance as my mother climbed in alongside him. Everything was so quiet that, even from where I stood, I could hear Dad say to Mom, “I'll meet you at the hospital.”

Not a single person in the stadium moved until the wailing siren faded in the distance, and then the crowd filed out in stunned silence. It took me a moment before I snapped to and realized that I couldn't stand there all night.

I ran across the crowded parking lot to where Dad was backing out.

“Newt! Where've you been?” he asked, rolling down his window. “We looked everywhere for you at halftime.”

“I lost my ticket,” I panted, “but I saw what happened to Chris. How is he?”

“He's unconscious,” said Dad, rubbing his eyes. “That's all we know right now.” His cell phone was ringing, but he didn't answer it. “Listen, I'm going to join your mom at the hospital.”

“Can I come?” I asked quickly.

“It's gonna be crowded,” Dad said. “Dr. Snow and Dr. Stanford—they were sitting with us, remember? They're going to meet us there.”

“How come they get to go?” I asked.

“Because they're his doctors.”

“But I'm his brother!”

“I know, kiddo.” Dad nodded. “But until we know how serious this is . . .” Dad's voice caught in his throat. He sniffled and tried to start again. “Until we get a better idea of what's happened to your brother—”

“It's okay, Dad,” I interrupted him. I could see how hard this was on him. I wasn't making it any easier.

He smiled and quietly said, “Thank you.” Then he looked past me and called, “Carole? Stephen?”

Mr. and Mrs. Hennessey were walking to their car. They turned at the sound of my dad's voice.

“Can you drive Newt home?”

“Absolutely!” Mrs. Hennessy told my dad, putting an arm around my shoulder. “You go see Chris. We'll take care of Newt.”

“I appreciate it, Carole.” Dad looked at me. “I'll call you from the hospital, kiddo. And don't worry,” he said before he drove off, “your brother's got a hard head. I'm sure he's gonna be fine.”

And Dad was right. Sort of.

“Nothing's broken. Nothing's sprained,” Dad sighed with relief when he finally called me at eleven o'clock that night. “And they're doing every kind of test: a CAT scan, X-rays, the works.”

“Then what's wrong with him?” I asked.

“Well, he's . . .” Dad hesitated. “He's in a coma, Newt.”

“That's bad, huh?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Dad said carefully. He was quick to add, “His brain's healthy, and his spinal cord is fine. He's just . . .
out.
”

“He's been working real hard. Maybe he just needs the rest?” I suggested.

Dad chuckled. “Well, that's a good way to think of it. I'll tell your mother that. It'll cheer her up.”

“When can I see him?” I asked.

There was a long pause before Dad said, “Can we figure that out later?”

“Sure,” I answered, trying not to let my voice betray the disappointment I felt.

“So, here's the deal,” Dad said. “One of us is going to stay here, and one of us will come home. But you get yourself to bed. Can you do that?”

Before I could answer, there was a beep on the phone, and I knew what was coming.

“Oops, there's my other line,” Dad grumbled.

“Gotta go.”

“Okay, but, Dad, what if Chris—” I started to ask, but then I heard the line go dead.

When I was really young and still afraid of the dark, Chris would lean into my room at bedtime, and just before he clicked off the light he'd say, “Oh, by the way, bro, there's a monster under your bed.” Even though I'd wail, “Chris, don't do that!” the sound of my brother laughing quietly out in the hall somehow made me feel I had nothing to be afraid of.

I lay awake that night, staring at my bedroom door, trying to imagine that Chris was just outside, good as new, chuckling like he used to. But each time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed Chris's touchdown—the blur of bodies . . . the crunch of shoulder pads . . . the crack of helmets. As soon as the noises stopped, the memory rewound. The players' bodies flew up off the pile and their legs pumped furiously, carrying them backward to the twenty-yard line. Then the whole thing started again.

Blur! Crunch! Crack! Rewind!

Blur! Crunch! Crack! . . .

Yikes!

I sat up, punched my pillow and tried to focus on something else. I stared at the shadow of tree branches scratching on my bedroom ceiling, which reminded me of monster claws. Which reminded me of . . .

My stomach cramped.

“Come on, Newt,” I moaned in the dark. “You've got two days. Who's your personal hero?”

Instead of counting sheep, I ticked off heroic names and occupations in my head: “Fireman? Who'm I kidding? Christopher Columbus? Wasn't he fat? Astronaut? Ha-ha.”

Eventually, I drifted off. The next thing I knew, Mom was shaking me awake.

“Newt, honey?”

I opened one eye and asked sleepily, “How is he?”

“Your brother's vital signs are good, and he's resting comfortably. So . . .” She shrugged.

“Oh.” I was relieved that Mom didn't sound worried—just tired. “So, Mom. You want some breakfast?”

“Oh, no. I'll get something at the hospital. Your father spent the night there, but he'll come back sometime today.” She folded and stacked the clothes that I had tossed off on my way to bed. “There's orange juice in the fridge, and I got you some sliced turkey for lunch.” Her eyes narrowed with confusion. “Or it might be sliced chicken. Whatever. It's sliced.”

She looked at me. “Are you going to be okay on your own?”

“Mom,” I groaned. “I'm ten.”

She leaned down and kissed me on the head. “I forget sometimes.”

I wasn't totally awake, or else I would have asked a lot more questions before she left the room. Anything to get her to stay and talk a little longer.

All day Saturday the phone rang. I knew most of the callers, but some were total strangers who were just anxious for any news about my brother. I wrote down all the messages and answered every question as best I could without alarming anybody.

“My dad says that nothing's broken.”

“My mom says he's resting comfortably.”

“Nah, don't send flowers. . . .
‘Why?'
Cuz his eyes are closed.”

JJ and Cecil dropped by that afternoon. They each brought me a CD to cheer me up. JJ gave me a recording of some famous English actor reading the first Harry Potter book.

“He pronounces every word correctly,” she pointed out. “I smile every time I listen to it.”

“And this here's
The Battle of the Drums
,” Cecil announced, handing me his gift. “It's one smashin', bashin' drum solo after another. But you don't want to listen to it through earphones, cuz this stuff'll scramble your brain.”

“Thanks, you guys,” I said. I looked from JJ to Cecil, who were both watching me with concern.

“Oh!” I suddenly understood. “You're worried that I'm worried.”

“You're not?” JJ asked skeptically.

“No, not at all. And y'know why?”

“No, why?” JJ echoed.

“Because Chris is gonna be okay. He really is.”

They both nodded, and I nodded back, but we all seemed to have temporarily run out of words. So it was a relief when Cecil smacked his thigh and exclaimed, “Man! Whatever happened in that stadium last night is all anybody's talking about this morning. It was all over the news.”

“My sister told me that people are phoning into radio programs like crazy,” added JJ. “They're already calling it the Big Tackle.”

“They even canceled the Victory Parade,” said Cecil.

“You're not serious!” I cried. Each year the school that wins the Big Game gets their very own parade, which is way bigger and better than the Pep Parade. It never occurred to me that anything—not even my brother's tackle—could interfere with that tradition.

“It's true,” JJ chimed in. “The principal of Fillmore High School said that the Ferrets won't celebrate until your brother's there to celebrate with them.”

I shook my head. “Wow.”

“And just be glad you're not that guy . . . what's his name . . . ?” Cecil snapped his fingers to help him remember.

“Who?” I asked.

“That defensive end from Merrimac,” JJ explained. “Reggie Ratner.”

“Yeah, he's the one,” Cecil said. “That dude is screwed!”

“Why?” I asked. “What did Reggie do?”

“Everybody's saying he's the one who head-butted your brother after the touchdown,” said Cecil. “Knocked him out colder than an ice cube.”

“Apparently the two of them had some sort of rivalry going?” JJ asked.

“And this morning, at like three A.M., a bunch of players from your brother's school went to this Ratner guy's house,” Cecil said excitedly. “They spray painted his car and slashed his tires.”

“That's terrible!” I yelped. I strained to remember what I had seen the night before. Was it really Reggie who rammed into my brother's helmet? Or was it another player? There were so many bodies and it all happened so fast and—

“So!” JJ announced, the way she always does when she wants to change the subject. “What time should we start tomorrow night?”

“Oh, baby baby baby!” Cecil grinned broadly and swiveled his hips in a little dance move he calls the “Cecil Seesaw.” “You guys are not
ready
for what I've got planned!”

My throat tightened. “Uh . . . I don't know. Tomorrow night's maybe not the best time for me to leave the house.”

Cecil looked out of the kitchen, through the empty dining room and into the deserted living room. “Oh, yeah. I can see you've got lots going on here.”

“Moping around isn't going to make Chris come around any faster,” JJ said gently.

Cecil added, “And you say you can't go to the hospital, so . . .”

“So?” I asked.

“So!” JJ declared, standing. “Six o'clock it is.”