Dairy Queen (21 page)

"Oh. Can you, um, tell him I called?"

"I'll leave him a note. Goodbye."

It was so obvious that he was really home—she might as well have said that Brian told her to say he was gone. And then it hit me all of a sudden that Brian's cell phone has caller ID. He knew all the time it was me calling, or at least someone from the SCHWENK, WARREN household because the phone's still in Grandpa Warren's name because we never got around to changing it. And he was probably betting it wasn't Curtis.

That's when I figured out he wasn't talking to me.

Well, of course he didn't want to talk to me, because he was spending all his time around Hawley guys. You heard how sweet they were in the parking lot. Those guys are evil. Okay, that's a little strong. But they're not good. I'd bet a million dollars they were tearing me to bits, making all these cracks about me and ragging on Red Bend, and saying all sorts of nasty things that would make anyone bummed out if they listened enough. That plus the shock of seeing me Monday afternoon, well, no wonder Brian wasn't talking.

So I gave this a lot of thought, trying to figure out how to handle it in a real Oprah kind of way, and finally I decided to throw a brick through his window. Ha ha, just kidding. Although what I came up with wasn't that far off. If he wasn't going to talk to me on the phone and we probably weren't going to run into each other, not until the scrimmage, which probably wouldn't be too good a place for a heart-to-heart conversation, I decided to go by his house before practice when he'd be sure to be there.

Which, I just want you to know, was real brave of me, and shows how serious I was.

So Friday morning I left home extra early in our rusty old pickup, right after milking so I missed breakfast even, and headed over to Hawley. Brian's house was really new-looking, with new little trees around it and all, with a bunch of other houses in what used to be a field. I even remember when it was a field, which makes me sound like Grandpa Warren or something, but it's true.

I didn't even make it to his house, though, because just as I was pulling onto his street his Cherokee came the other way. I'll tell you one thing: he sure looked surprised to see me.

I stopped right there in the middle of the street and rolled down my window, and I guess because he didn't have a choice, Brian rolled down his window too.

"Hey," I said.

He glared at me.

"What are you so mad about?"

"Tell me you don't know," he said bitterly. "I spent every day with you all summer, and you never
told
me?"

"About football, you mean?"

"Duh! Of course about football!"

"I didn't think it ... mattered." Which wasn't quite true. There's a lot I would say if I could have this conversation over again. About me feeling like a cow, about my feelings for him, maybe even about Amber if we talked long enough. But I couldn't say all that right there in the street. I don't think that fast, and certainly not when I'm getting yelled at. Which I was.

"Do you think I'd train like that, every day, with someone who'd be playing against me? Would you do that if you were me? I trusted you. But you—you just used me."

I didn't have one word to say.

Boy, did Brian look mad. Mad and hurt. "You Schwenks, you're messed up. You might be good at football but you really suck at life." He shook his head in disgust. "When you don't talk, you know, there's a lot of stuff that ends up not getting said."

Which, sitting here now writing it down, sounds pretty obvious and a little stupid, even. But hearing it then, boy, it just about killed me.

I headed back to Red Bend on autopilot or something. How would I feel if I'd spent all summer playing pickup with someone only to find out they'd been planning the whole time to play against me? After learning all my weaknesses, all my tricks? If that happened ... I could see how Brian was mad. Because I'd pretty much want to throttle whoever that person was. Training someone, that's a commitment you make. And by deciding to play myself, I'd broken that. I like to think of myself as an honest person. If I had to list what I like about myself, I'd put "honest" right near the top. But not telling someone something—even though I'd always planned on telling him once I was sure it was happening and all—after a while not telling is about the same thing as lying. I'd lied to him.

I didn't like thinking that at all.

It wasn't until later that I remembered I'd never had a chance to say that I wasn't even going to be playing linebacker. So I'd never even be on the field at the same time as Brian. We'd never really be playing against each other. But by the time I thought of saying that, well, by then it was way too late.

So that was how absolutely wonderful my life was at this point, and the only thing that made it that much better was that I had to spend every free minute I had, until I passed out in bed because I was so exhausted, working on English. Every afternoon I'd eat everything in the fridge and take a shower until the hot water ran out, standing there wishing Amber and I were still friends because then she could give me one of her amazing back rubs, missing her in a way just as much as I missed Brian. Then I'd head into my room the way Smut walks into the vet's. Which if you're wondering means I was pretty darn reluctant. Even though Mom had brought a good computer home from school because ours is so old it could probably use Dad's walker.

The only reason I was even writing at all was because by now everyone in town, in the whole state it seemed, knew about me and football. And if they found out I couldn't play because I'd flunked English and hadn't finished my makeup work, that would be just about the worst. I'd pretty much have to leave the country. So if you're ever looking for motivation, there's one idea. Get everyone talking and you'll be sure to do whatever it is you need to do. Well, maybe it wouldn't work for you, but it sure worked in my case. I mean, I hope it does. It's not over yet.

And it turned out, if you want to know the truth, that writing wasn't half as hard as I thought it would be. Except for the fact that all I could do was think about Brian and want to die.

One evening as I sat there staring out at the sunset and feeling like a dried-up old cowpie, Curtis stopped by my room.

"Hey," I said, not turning around. I could see his reflection in the window.

"Hey." He stood there all hunkered down and uncomfortable. Finally he asked, like he was offering to fall on a grenade or something, "Are you okay?"

"No," I said, because I was too beat to lie.

"Do you, um, like Brian?" Which I have to give him a lot of credit for because it was probably the bravest thing he's ever done, asking that.

"Yeah." I thought about it. "Yeah, I like him a lot."

"Oh." He stood there a bit longer. "I'm sorry."

I turned around to look at him standing there looking as cut up as I felt. It just about killed me, seeing how much he cared. "Thanks," I said. I meant it too.

So I guess I should tell you before you bite your fingernails off worrying that I did make the team. Which didn't surprise anyone too much except Justin Hunsberger, who told anyone who would listen how stupid Jeff was, and I was, and everyone was except him. Then after a couple days Jeff took Justin into his office and told him—I heard later—that Justin was the only starter who'd voted against me and that Justin needed to find either a new attitude or a new team and maybe he'd better sit out practice until he decided which one it was going to be. Which really made Justin's day, I can tell you.

Just so you know, it wasn't like all the other guys on the team were in love with me and thought that having a girl on their football team was the best idea they'd ever heard in their entire lives. It was more that Red Bend is so desperate they'll take pretty much anyone. They'd take Smut, or that cow Don Voss even, if either one of them could wear a uniform and show some sign of beating Hawley.

Still, it was nice to know that most of the guys didn't hate me outright.

Practice, though, was brutal. I had it a bit easier than some because I was in shape, from working with Brian plus all that weightlifting known as farming. But the guys had one up on me because they were used to all that gear. Boy does that suck. And I say this as someone who really loves football. I was awful glad I'd done all those sprints by myself in the heifer field just to get used to it. Because a two-hour practice in full gear on that burning-hot field ... jeez. Let me just say that when basketball season starts I'm going to fly like a bird down that court. My feet won't even touch the ground. Assuming, that is, I survive that long.

Plus I had the whole burden of being a Schwenk. Which in some ways is good because it pretty much got me on the team, being Win and Bill's sister. If Amber had tried out, someone without that last name, they'd have eaten her for lunch. Not without a fight, though, if it was Amber, anyway. But because I'm a Schwenk and Schwenks work so hard, that meant I had to be at every practice from beginning to end, giving my Schwenk all. Which meant, say, that when Jeff wanted the water break to end and everyone to line up for sprints, he'd say, "Line up for sprints," and no one would move. And then he'd say, "D.J.?" and I'd get up—just like a cow but don't you make that crack—and head over to the end line. And then everyone else would have to stand up too, because I'd started it and I was a girl and also going to beat them if they didn't haul their butts.

Sometimes Jeff wouldn't say anything—he'd just look at me. And sometimes he'd just wait. I bet in his mind he was saying, D.J. Is Responsible, and my Schwenk radar would pick it up right through all that sweat and moaning and groaning, and I'd head out to the field and start. And then on the second sprint I'd be the first one on the line again. And the third sprint. And the fourth ... Anyway, you get the idea. Basically, I was a big old Schwenk Motivator getting the rest of the team in shape.

Besides Justin Hunsberger and Schwenk motivation and all that, there were other teeny little problems too, like the whole locker room thing. I always figured I'd just go in a closet or something to put my gear on. I'd spent all summer around Brian, after all, without him ever even noticing, it seemed like, and any guy who wanted a glimpse of me in a sports bra, well, that's a guy who needs to spend a lot more time online.

But apparently I'm the only person in Red Bend who feels this way, because people kept calling Mom about it, and coming by the school, and Jeff had to get keys to the girls' locker room so I could change in there. Only most of the time the cheerleaders were in there too, which would have been awful if it hadn't been for Kari, who was in cheerleader heaven, and they'd all watch me suit up, asking all sorts of questions, and then when I was dressed a couple cheerleaders would hurry to the boys' locker room to say I was ready and try to go in with me. Jeff finally took them aside and I couldn't hear what he said except the word Distraction came up a couple times, and after that they got better about it. A little, anyway.

And then I'd sit in the locker room with the guys, and some of them would be jerks about jockstraps and stuff but most of them wouldn't, and Jeff would go over plays and workouts, preparing us for our first big scrimmage, the annual scrimmage less than two weeks away, on the Friday night before Labor Day, against Hawley.

And then we'd go out and practice until I could barely stand up.

The problem was that Jeff was working me an awful lot as a linebacker. (I guess I should explain that on teams as small as ours a lot of guys play both defense and offense. Justin Hunsberger, for example, plays both sides of the line.) But I didn't want to be linebacker! I hadn't had the guts to call Brian yet because I couldn't figure out what to say, but I knew for sure that telling him he was right and we'd be playing against each other wouldn't be too good.

Finally after practice one day I stopped by Jeff's little office, where he was studying a play sheet and tugging on his mustache.

"Coach? You got a minute?"

He settled back in his chair. "You betcha. How's it going there?"

"Okay." I wondered if what I was about to say counted as good attitude. I didn't think so. "Listen, I know everyone's psyched to have me as linebacker because of Bill and all."

"Because of you." Which was nice of him.

"Thanks. Thank you. But, well, I don't want it."

Poor Jeff. Between me and football he wouldn't have any mustache left come November. "This have anything to do with that business between you and your brothers?"

I shook my head, twice as miserable now knowing that Jeff knew about The Fight. "I just ... don't want to play defense on Friday."

"What makes you think you're playing?" he asked matter-of-factly. Meaning, here I was telling him what to do after two weeks of practice when there are guys who've been on the team for years who don't get to play.

So in a way I was twice as embarrassed that I'd sounded so full of myself. But I was pleased too, because now I wouldn't have to play against Brian.

"How you coming with your schoolwork?" Jeff interrupted my train of thought.

"I'm getting it done."

"Good," he said, and he went back to work and I left.

It wasn't until later that I realized I'd been doing all that English class writing for nothing.

Speak of the devil, that afternoon Mrs. Stolze came by and sat in the living room with a pencil and everything, reading what I'd written so far. I was so nervous that I ended up in the barn helping Curtis get ready for milking just for something to do. We didn't talk too much, though I did tell him that Shannon Kleinhart—she's one of the cheerleaders—just got her wisdom teeth out. That perked him up.

In the end Mrs. Stolze said I'd done enough for the scrimmage at least. I didn't have the heart to tell her I wouldn't be playing, so I just promised I'd get the rest to her by the first day of school. And then she left with a couple of Dad's brownies, which he'd been baking to show off. That smell hung like a big cloud over the house. It might have been why she was so willing to let me play, that happy brownie smell. It might not have been my work at all.