High and Dry (21 page)

It started out small.

I couldn't breathe through my nose. Then the infection spread to my mouth, my throat. I couldn't inhale, couldn't get enough air, like my body was rejecting oxygen, even though without it I would pass out.

“Mom,” I called weakly. “Mom.”

“Charlie?” she came back into the kitchen. “Are you all right? What's wrong? You look all red.”

“Can't—can't—”

“Breathe, sweetie.” Her hand felt nice on my back, her fingers five points of strength to concentrate on. “Did you eat too quickly? Food go down the wrong side?”

I shook my head. It was just like her to assume it was a physical problem, a logical problem. No one in the Dixon family would have a panic attack. That wouldn't make any sense, because every problem had a clear-cut answer; every problem could be talked through. Maybe in her world. I wished Granddad were here. He would see what it was all about, even if he didn't know the details.

“It's been a long week,” I said, my voice hoarse.
I have to throw a game tomorrow. I have to decide what to do about the flash drive, the kids at school, Bridget, Ellie. If I could just pass out and skip everything tomorrow … if I could just pass out …

“Why don't you come into the den, watch some TV. Get your mind off things?” she suggested. “We'll watch whatever you want.” She smiled. “Even something with ‘Extreme' in the title.”

I wiped my eyes. “No, I'm okay, I'm okay. I have homework to do.”

She tried to stroke my hair, but I dodged away. There was a
finality to the movements, like maybe this was the last time she and I would do that. I gathered my dishes and walked to the sink.

“Call us if you need anything,” Mom said.

She just wanted someone to comfort. Was that so awful, really?

Maybe the real reason she liked Ryder was because he let her.

I logged on to instant messaging. Waited five minutes, cracked my knuckles. Paced around my room like an ultimate fighter waiting for his opponent to show up.

And there he was: BM.

“Hi, Badtz-Maru,” I typed.

“You found it,” BM typed back.

We chatted for a while.

It was very enlightening.

When we were done chatting, I sent a mass e-mail to BM, Maria Posey, Bridget, and Mr. Donovan.

“You're invited!” said the subject line jovially. It was a dick move, but I was in a dick mood. The body of the e-mail read: “To an auction. Winner takes all. I have the flash drive. It can be yours if the price is right. Saturday night, Quartz Hill. Map and address to follow.”

THROWING THE GAME

ON FRIDAY, I PUT ALL THOUGHTS OF THE FLASH DRIVE ASIDE
. I had a game to lose.

I hadn't seen Ryder all day, but that wasn't uncommon. I sort of hoped he was hiding out at my house again, since that seemed the safest option.

Two-thirds of the school had turned out for the match, and about a hundred fans from Agua Dulce were bussed in as well, their faces painted white and green.

Our colors were red and yellow. The Palm Valley Desert Rats. I mean, Cats. I was the only rat. I felt sick during warm-ups, but I felt a little sick before most games, not just games where I was playing double agent. Were you still a double agent if the other side didn't know you were helping them?

Maybe something miraculous would happen, like a tied game for eighty minutes, and then an accidental own goal that bounced off my foot. Then Ryder would get his money, Griffin would lose his, no one at Palm Valley would hate me (for long), and I'd never have to actively work against my own team again.

I jogged past the stands and made sure to point the happy-go-lucky
finger guns at the two clogged pores who'd helped me earlier in the week. I did this mostly to convince myself I still kept promises. They waved back, thrilled by the acknowledgment, their arms around their surprisingly existent girls, a bucket of popcorn shared between them.

My gaze drifted over the stands. My parents were here. Ellie was here.

Griffin was here.

And that's what did it, in the end. Injected me with the adrenaline and courage to focus and get this done. If Griffin had been a real older brother, a decent older brother, Ryder would be right here on the field with me. He would've risen to the top, the star player of the school. I was convinced of it. I wanted to see Griffin's rotten, crooked smirk disappear when he realized he was going to lose his money.

We took our positions and the ref blew the whistle and it was time. Floppy-haired, cokehead-looking Steve, my target, had a new attribute: besides the floppy hair, which you really shouldn't see in high school soccer, he was limping a little on his left side.

He saw me noticing and gave me a dirty look. I grinned back, full wattage. “Havin' a little trouble with your ACL?” I asked. “Gee, that suuuuucks.”

“Shove it up your ass, Dixon,” he retorted.

Ah, the thrill of competition brought out the most elegant use of language.

As usual, most of the action was at the opposite end of the field. Our team was good. I used to be part of that action. Now I kept track of it from afar.

Something miraculous happened pretty quickly, all right, but it wasn't in my favor. Agua Dulce surrendered a goal in the third minute. The third minute! It took me a second to remember I'd better look happy about it, so I raced over and jumped on Josh's back. He was startled and annoyed. We weren't buddies. During most games, we weren't even on the field at the same time. But he eventually indulged my high five.

Inside, I was burning with resentment: 1–0 meant I didn't just have to foul Steve and try to give him a penalty kick. Now I had to do it
twice
.

The crowd was chanting “De-lin-sky, De-lin-sky!”

Fuck Delinksy and his ability to pull the trigger from thirty yards out. That used to be me. I was feeling 347 different kinds of anger. The only one missing was “justified anger.” Maybe Ellie was right about me; maybe I'd gotten more aggressive in the past year, and Coach wanted that aggression on defense. Or maybe—and it killed me to think this—maybe Delinsky was simply a better player than I was. Maybe I'd lost my touch, and defense was the only place Coach could transfer me and still keep me on the team.

If Ryder
had
been on the team, it occurred to me now,
he
would've been Delinsky, starting freshman year. Which meant maybe I never would've gotten to be a soccer star at all, however faded I was now. Maybe I wouldn't have had three years as a forward,
and all the hype and visibility it entailed, and Ellie wouldn't have noticed me and sent me that note through the school newspaper. (“Which East Coast transplant doesn't want to be too Forward about her crush?”) It didn't have to be
me
. Anyone who'd been forward that year might've ended up as Ellie's boyfriend. Maybe she and Ryder would've gotten together! Maybe it was better that Ryder … God, stop.

I shook my head as though I'd poured water on it and needed to shake off the drops from my hair and eyes. Josh looked at me like I was nuts. I went over to the sideline and grabbed a bottle and poured some real water on my face, just to have something to do. Not like I'd worked up a sweat in the three minutes since the game began. Fuck Delinsky. Fuck Griffin. Fuck me for having all these weird thoughts.

Finally, five minutes later, the action reached my area of the pitch. We gave the ball away at midfield, and one of the Agua Dulce players sent a pass to Steve. But he wasted no time in lofting it over to his teammate on the far side.

If Steve never personally took the ball to the net, I was dead. You can't foul what's not there. And I couldn't cover both sides at once; one half was Josh's area.

Speaking of Josh, he was determined to play his guy tight, and things got tangled up before the ball went over the endline and the ref called a corner kick for Agua Dulce. We lined up, and I elbowed Steve just to let him know he couldn't get away from me that easily. But Patrick blocked the header and controlled the ball and
the Desert Cats were off on offense again for another few minutes.

The next time Steve got the ball, I acted fast, sliding feet-first and keeping my cleats up to trip him. Steve went down, but the ref let us play on. What the fracking hell?

I stole the ball and danced through traffic and the stands erupted for me. Well, gee, if they were going to be supportive … I chipped it ahead and to the left where Delinsky was waiting, and then prayed he didn't score again. It felt good to hear those cheers. It felt good to remind everyone I was still there, I still had the moves. And it also made it look like I was trying to win, which couldn't hurt.

Steve was still on the ground. I went over and held a hand out. He ignored me, stood on his own, and then leaned in to whisper a threat.

“You better cut that shit out,” he said.

“Son,” I said. “I'm just getting started.”

Unfortunately, my words fell somewhat flat since the action was all taking place at the far end of the field. Delinsky tried another shot on goal, shaking off a tackle and firing from long range again. His touch was off, though, and his attempt hit the far post. The crowd strained forward in their seats, then let out a collective moan of disappointment when the ball bounced off. Another attempt was caught by Agua Dulce's goalkeeper.

I was already getting sick of Delinsky's grandstanding. This wasn't supposed to be a one-man show. If I'd still been the striker, you could bet I'd have shared the wealth, passed the ball to other guys instead of acting like I was the only one who could score.

Finally—finally—in the twenty-fifth minute Steve received a solid pass and zipped toward our goal. I waited till he got close to the penalty box and then I lunged and grabbed his arm, pulling and twisting him off the ball.

Whistles, chaos. I held my hands up, an innocent man even while assuming Steve would be awarded a penalty kick, make it, and tie the score. But then the ref jogged over, signaling offsides. Apparently the flag had been up all along. The perfect opportunity, and Steve was offsides!

I was back at zero.

The next time Steve got possession, I chose a different tactic. I made like I was running really hard after him—so hard that I tripped over my own feet. I hoped that would give him the space he needed to take a shot. But at the last second he passed off to a teammate, who tried to get too cute and had the ball stripped by Josh.

But when Josh tried to clear the ball, he shanked it, sending it sailing back across the field. Steve was closer to it than I was and he got possession. I went straight for his bad foot, the one he'd been limping on earlier. I “accidentally” nailed it with my cleats, really put the full force of my weight into it. He howled and went down.

I got a yellow card, which really should've been a red. But at least Steve got the penalty kick. At long friggin' last, I'd fulfilled my part of the plan.

And good on him—he converted. Even with his limp, or maybe in part because of it, he was a good faker. Made like he was aiming
left and then sent the ball neatly in the right corner of the net, a topspin blast. Patrick was devastated. I couldn't bear to look at him.

At halftime, the score was still tied.

I headed to the locker room to cool off and drink my weight in water.

But the fountain was broken, and our assistant coach, Mr. Mitchell, hadn't brought the cooler in from outside yet. I headed down the hall to find a working fountain. When I turned the corner, my face connected with a fist.

I dropped like a bag of hammers.

THE BLUE-RASPBERRY LOLLIPOP

WHEN YOU FIND YOURSELF TIED UP IN THE CHEM LAB SUPPLY
closet, surrounded by jars of formaldehyde, about to be maimed by a microscope-wielding thug, it's a pretty good indication that something in your life has gone wrong.

When the base of the microscope came down on my foot, I blacked out.

When I woke up again, the room was fuzzy. Above me on the shelves were all the items any self-respecting mad scientist could want. Test tubes, filter paper, eye droppers, plastic funnels, red and blue litmus test paper, safety goggles, glass stirring rods, Bunsen burners, thermometers, custom rubber tubing, boxes of plastic gloves, and scales.

“What's your problem?” said a voice. I blinked and refocused, turning my head in the direction of the sound. “Why are you trying to wreck my scholarship? If I'm injured no college will want me.”

I could just make out a blurry shape above me.

Steve.

And pals. The pals were what worried me. The pals were the
size of buildings—no soccer players, they. These were wrestlers, football linebackers, or an unholy hybrid of the two.

Looking deranged and vengeful, Steve raised the microscope again, this time over my right foot, intending to wreck both my feet and make them even. Awfully considerate of him.

Before Steve could bring the microscope down, Ryder plowed into the supply closet out of nowhere and slammed Steve into the shelves, causing lab equipment to fall over.

“Don't! He's trying to help you, asshole. He's on our side. You friggin' moron.” He slapped Steve across the face.

Steve's pals each grabbed one of Ryder's arms, but Steve waved them off.

“What are you talking about?” said Steve, looking cowed and patting his face lightly. “He's the one trying to maim me out there.”

“He's trying to get you penalty kicks. He already got you one, didn't he? He's trying to help you win!”

“But—what—” Steve stopped and directed his next words to me. “So get called on a handball or something. Don't ram into me and stamp my bad foot!”

“A handball? What's the fun in that?” I wheezed.

“You nearly broke my ankle.”

“You
did
break my foot, you psycho!” I sputtered from my place on the floor. “I'm going to kill you!”