Kid Owner (7 page)

I headed for my cafeteria table the next day, slicing straight through the roar of noise. In a way, it was like being alone. I didn't care about the hundreds of other kids, their antics, their food, the insults they served back and forth at one another like Ping-Pong balls. I saw only Izzy, head bowed, quietly unwrapping a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, freeing it from its plastic wrapping and taking the smallest of bites before sipping at her milk through a straw.

Jackson was nowhere to be seen—late, I assumed, since he had a math teacher who liked to keep them after the bell about every other day. I stood beside her without speaking until she looked up and smiled and offered me the chair next to her. I had to believe the popular kids were looking on, hopeful for some more fireworks. I sat down and started to eat my lunch, doing my best to mimic Izzy's finer manners.

She took another bite and then a sip before dabbing her mouth on a napkin she produced from her
lap
. “So?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. I read it. All of it.”

“And?”

I had to look at her, even though those eyes turned my insides to jelly. “Are you saying I'm Austin?”

She stared at me with those big eyes. Hypnotized, I couldn't move.

Her face erupted into a smile. “Aren't we all Austin?”

Relief flooded through my body. The tension drained through my feet. I nodded.

“I was thinking more Jason than Austin, though,” she said, and now I warmed with pride and something else because Jason's character was pretty awesome, even though he started out not so great.

Was she saying that about me? I didn't dare to ask. I just soaked it up until Jackson walloped me on the back.

“Dude, it's
her.
” Jackson beamed with joy, nodding at Izzy.

“She has a name,” Izzy said, but not meanly.

“I told Izzy I was really sorry for being a jerk,” I said, “and I finished this book she gave me to read last night. I think she's—you are, right?—sitting with us again?”

“Watch out.” Jackson sat down heavily and started emptying his big bag of food onto the table in front of him. “
This
will be the popular table before you know it. Then
I'll
have to leave.”

Izzy laughed and dabbed her mouth with the napkin, then suddenly stopped and stared over my shoulder. I turned around and saw Bethany Bracewell standing there with her diamond
earrings glinting and her freckled arms folded across her chest, staring down in disgust. “Izzy, don't even
think
you're coming back to our table again.”

I looked back at Izzy and watched the surprise on her face turn to something else. This time she didn't dab her mouth, she just laughed out loud at Bethany and her stupid lunch table. I held out my fist and Izzy gave it a bump.

“Do you like football?” I asked.

“Not at all.” She shook her head, still grinning.

“Well, you'll have to start liking it, because this is the . . .” I pulled the first thing that came to mind out of my head. “. . . football superstars table.”

“This is the
sports
superstars table.” She stuck a thumb into her chest. “And
I'm
the best athlete we've got.”

I looked at Jackson to see what he thought of that, but all he did was nod.

“I was kidding,” she said. “Not about being the best athlete part, but about football. I love football, especially the Cowboys, and not just because you own them.”

“Finally, you say something about it! I've been waiting for you guys to talk about me owning the team.” I grinned.

Izzy shrugged. “It's cool and all, but what does it mean? What's even happening?”

I gave them a recap of when I found out about my dad, of the will reading, and how my mom was trying to schedule a press conference. “It's really still all with the lawyers to get things worked out. At least, that's what my mom says.”

“I'm sorry about your dad,” Izzy said.

“Yeah, me too.” Jackson paused, then said, “So what changes
can you make, you know, to the team or players and all?”

“Oh, I don't know! I haven't even thought about it!”

“Well, don't you think you should?” Jackson laughed.

And as we started talking about which players were good, we moved on to the ten all-time greatest players in a friendly argument that took us to the bell. We got up and moved through the halls together, ignoring the rest of the world. It felt good to have our own small group, just like the three best friends in Izzy's book.

At practice later that day, we headed out onto the field and Coach Hubbard divided us up, telling me I should go with the wide receivers during passing drills. It frustrated me that the fact that I was the kid owner of the Dallas Cowboys didn't seem to have any impact on him. He wasn't treating me that much better than before and I wondered if he somehow might not have heard the news. It didn't seem possible. He was probably just being a football coach, focused on coaching our middle-school team. That's how they were, especially in Texas.

But now I hesitated, fearful that the change back to receiver was going to be permanent. “Coach, I'm really good with reading defenses and stuff. You might need me at QB when things get going.”

“Get going?” Simpkin muttered under his breath, even though he kept throwing the football back and forth to Estevan Marin. “Take a walk, shrimp.”

I looked hard at Coach Hubbard, pleading with my eyes because I knew my hands weren't much to talk about, small and hard as stones. Even the passes I got during warm-ups with
other quarterbacks seemed to bounce off my hands. It was all I could do to take the snap, make a handoff to a runner, or throw a pass that didn't wobble. Catching wasn't in it for me.

“Well . . .” Coach Hubbard seemed to be thinking about it.

“Zinna, seriously? You don't question the coach!” Simpkin stopped throwing and stared at me, faking outrage and taking a step toward me as if to emphasize my lack of height. “Ever! Part of being a quarterback is calling the play you get. You don't argue when a coach tells you something. What, you think you're special 'cause you supposedly own the Cowboys? Please, that means nothing here.”

Coach Hubbard scowled and looked confused before he said, “That's right! Get going, Zinna, or would you rather run a lap?”

At that moment, I wished I were Jackson. If I were, I would have pummeled Simpkin into the dirt. Instead, I just narrowed my eyes at Simpkin, turned, and jogged over to where the receivers were, a place I knew I shouldn't be.

Practices went like this for the next two weeks. And even though I was frustrated, I was still happy to be practicing out on the field. But, while I was pretty pumped up about that for the first few days of practice, wearing the bruises and cuts on my arms and hands like badges of courage around school, the pride and joy didn't last.

Now I wanted to
play
. What real football player doesn't? Practice isn't the fun part of the sport. Playing is. I got to ride the bench for the first game against Hutchinson and I began to wonder if I wasn't happier before, the way it was in youth football, hiding from contact and comfortably planted on the end of the bench without any thought of entering a game. Now, it killed me to “ride the pine.” Especially since my new best friend was a monster on the field. When we needed a big play on defense, Jackson burst through our opponent's line like a
bull elephant snapping twigs and slamming either a runner or a quarterback to the turf. On offense, if we needed a critical yard for a first down or on the goal line, everyone knew they'd run the ball right behind Jackson.

On one touchdown, Simpkin actually grabbed hold of the back of Jackson's jersey and got dragged across the goal line over and through a pile of defensive bodies. Simpkin spun the ball on the ground and held up a single finger like he was the hero of the day. It made me want to barf. Meanwhile, Jackson chugged right on back to the sideline for some water and a breath of air without bothering to celebrate. It was all business with Jackson.

He was amazing.

I was miserable.

Jackson and Izzy felt for me, and invented reasons for the injustice of it all. “They just don't get it.” “Hubbard is a numbskull.” “Simpkin is a butt-kisser.”

Bottom line, I didn't fit the profile of a quarterback and my hands weren't getting any better at catching the ball. I was too small to play anywhere else on the field. On defense, I was a hitter, but too short to be effective as a defensive back and too light to play on the line or at linebacker.

Even I saw that.

The only one who didn't mind any of this was my mom. She loved seeing me dressed in my uniform, popping pads during warm-ups for the Hutchinson game like a real football player but safe from any of the live action, where she fretted over the bodies that got helped off the field.

“You don't want to be one of
them
.” She patted my leg as we drove home from the game. I looked at her hand making
small circles on my leg, wanting to bite it so she'd stop trying to comfort me.

“I want to
play
, Mom. That's the point.” I huffed and looked out the window.

“Your friend Izzy doesn't seem to mind whether you play or not.” My mom said in a singsong voice like a songbird in spring and gave me a wink.

“Izzy could probably get more playing time than me . . . if they allowed girls.” I banged my head against the window.

“She's cute.” My mom tilted her head as if she hadn't heard a word I said.

“Mom, I don't care about that. I want to
play.
”

“I think your coaches know their business, Ryan. There's nothing wrong with being a little undersized. A lot of great people are undersized.”

I hated when she talked like that. “Whatever,” I mumbled.

“Look at everything we have,” she continued. “There are a lot of people who wished they lived like you.” She shot a frown my way.

I wasn't sure if she meant because I owned the Cowboys or just other stuff, but neither mattered when you weren't where you wanted to be on a sports team. “Yeah, I know,” I mumbled. I shrugged and sulked the rest of the way home. When we pulled through the gates, my mother gasped.

I looked up and got a shot of total excitement.

My mom said, “Oh, no.”

In my mind, I said, “Oh,
yes
!”

The guy wasn't anything special. His hair was a little too long. His shirt was untucked. He had a California-wild-but-handsome kind of look, but it was the camera that excited me. It was one of those small digital video cameras with a bold little flag on it that read
TMZ.

I had to try hard not to laugh out loud. This was just what I needed to pick up my spirits, a little publicity.

“You sit here.” My mom's command was like a thunderclap and I froze.

She flew out of the truck and went right at the guy. I could hear her yelling through the windshield. It wasn't pretty, but needless to say, she went up one side of that kid and down the other.

“You get that camera out of my face, mister. This is private property and you are trespassing. You want to stay out of jail?
This video better not see the light of day. Your boss isn't going to be happy when TMZ is the only outfit
banned
from the press conference, so you just get back in your truck and get out of here. Go!”

The guy gave her a casual smile, but his eyes flickered like someone had tickled him with an electric shock and he got in his truck and drove away pretty fast. My mom watched him, then looked at me and shrugged, motioning to me that I could get out.

“What a rat,” she said.

“Why, Mom? Why can't I be on TV? Just a little?”

“Because you're twelve years old.” Her face turned to stone again. “And I'm your mother. And if I can't stop this whole thing, I can at least protect you from the worst of it, Ryan. You'll understand when you're older.”

I hated that line, but she softened the situation a little by suggesting that we go to the new X-Men movie and that I invite Izzy and Jackson over tomorrow to watch the Cowboys game.

The Cowboys opened their season the next day in Chicago. I'd wanted to go, but because things weren't legally final yet, my mom wanted me to stay home. But Izzy and Jackson came over to watch on our big-screen TV, which was the next best thing. My mom didn't even come inside to check on the score. Instead, she sat by the pool, getting some sun and reading her book. That made me mad, but I kept my cool because I wanted to enjoy the game. I was rewarded when Kenny Albert, the Fox announcer, mentioned me as the new kid owner and said how
everyone was waiting for my press conference. I felt like I was ten feet tall.

“Hey, they're talking about you!” Jackson shouted, spraying pretzel crumbs across the couch. “No way, man!”

I looked at Izzy. She bit her lip and gave me a nod to let me know she'd heard them mention my name on TV. I didn't know why she couldn't be more happy than that, but obviously I had no idea what made girls tick. The moment passed and we went back to rooting hard, and I got annoyed whenever the Cowboys made a bad play.

“Fusco's gotta catch that ball!” I growled when the linebacker missed an easy interception that would have kept the Bears out of the end zone. Instead, I had to watch Martellus Bennett do his orange dinosaur dance.

“You can cut him in a few weeks if you want!” Jackson's excitement was contagious. He was giddy with the power I might have.

“You gotta be fair, though, Ryan.” Izzy nodded seriously, which I loved. “You can't just go cutting guys for one bad play.
Mark Fusco makes that catch nine out of ten times.”

“I will.” It was a thrilling promise to make.

I was taking the whole thing personally. That's how it's supposed to be, right? And sometimes I even forgot I
owned
the team. I was just rooting as a fan. It was thrilling, too, because they had the lead most of the game.

It was in the fourth quarter when things started to get close. Then, with only a minute to go, they dropped behind because of a Bears field goal. My stomach knotted up as the offense took the field. When John Torres dropped back, even I saw the blitz coming.

“Throw it!” I shouted, shocking my friends.

Torres didn't throw it. He got sacked and fumbled. After a very painful minute of pulling bodies off the pile, a Bears player emerged with the ball, holding it high like the prize it was. The referee signaled first down for the Bears and their offense danced out onto the field to kneel on the ball and run out the clock. That's when the announcers started talking about how the Cowboys' Coach Cowan hadn't lived up to expectations in the previous two seasons and that if he couldn't get them to the play-offs, this might be his last. They also talked about what a new owner might mean for all that. I waited on the edge of my seat to have them drop my name again, but they never did.

“They talked about me like I wasn't even a person!”

“Well, when the time comes,” Jackson said, looking uncomfortable, “you're gonna have to get rid of someone. That you know, right? That's what everyone is grousing about. They're
acting like it's your fault and you haven't even had your hands on the controls yet.”

“My father did, though.” It was beyond strange to be so closely associated with a man I'd never even met.

“When is that press conference your mom set up?” Izzy asked.

“She wants to wait until the deal is final. There's all this paperwork, court stuff, or something crazy like that. Once I do, though, Jackson's right. I will have to make a decision.”

“That make you nervous?” Izzy asked.

I shrugged. “I don't know. I'll have you to help me, right?”

Izzy's smile outshone the sun and I couldn't wait to get the whole thing going. I wished my mom wasn't so stuffy about it all. I was going to own the team and there was no sense wasting so much time waiting for a bunch of lawyers.

The game ended and we went out back. I gave my mom a scowl when we walked by the pool, but she either didn't care or didn't notice from behind her sunglasses.

One of the other good things about Jackson is that you pretty much always have to have a good time with him. Soon we were flopping around in the pool, doing splash contests. Neither of us could come close to Jackson's torrential geysers.

We laughed and swam and then laid out on big lounge chairs with thick cushions. It lightened my mood.

“You sure know how to have fun, Jackson,” Izzy said. It was like she read my mind.

“Yup,” Jackson said, staring up at the sky. “Look at that cloud! It's a doggone dragon.”

“Fun is his middle name,” I said.

“Remember Simpkin and Markham, Little Man? What they said about swimming? What's wrong with those guys?” Jackson raised up to look at me.

“A lot,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” Izzy asked.

I told her all about the first day of practice. It was the day before school started, when Jackson showed up.

A FEW WEEKS AGO . . .

He was already out on the field. I could hear the coach yelling at him, and Jackson—because he was taller than the coach—was looking down and taking it.

“This is the
seventh
-grade team, son. The middle school.” Coach Hubbard lowered his sunglasses so he could lock eyes with Jackson. Coach Hubbard looked like a hippo, right down to the thick molars filling his mouth, the big belly, and the few random bristly whiskers beneath his snout.

And then he launched into a tirade about how hard we all were going to have to work if we wanted to play football for him.

As the other players filtered out onto the field, Coach Hubbard continued his speech.

“Now, I know you all are used to winning.” Coach Hubbard continued to scowl. “Yeah, I saw you play. Coached by a couple fellas who know their business, so my expectations are high this year. Fact is, I don't plan on losing a single game this year with this group. And I know that means beating undefeated Eiland Middle,
along with all the others.”

Coach Hubbard let that sink in and surveyed his players as if daring anyone to deny his prediction.

“That's right, Eiland. Haven't lost a game in
five years
, but that's gonna be over now.
You
are gonna break them.
We
are gonna break them together. That's what this season is about: Ben Sauer Middle beating Eiland. Making history.”

Coach Hubbard glared at us some more, then introduced Assistant Coach Vickerson, who basically restated everything Coach Hubbard had said, only he said it all louder.

Finally, Coach Hubbard blew his whistle and we began. They worked us hard, invoking the name of Eiland. We sweated and we ached. We breathed in dust until our snot was brown and we chopped our feet through agility drills until our sides split with pain. After half the team had collapsed, it ended. As we trudged off the field, I felt a big meaty hand on my shoulder. I looked up at Jackson.

“Hey, Little Man.” He was huffing.

“Hey. You were really sweating out there. You have time to go for a swim back at my house?” I grinned.

“Okay. I'll swim.” Jackson gave a curt nod like he'd made a big decision. Jackson and his mom lived by themselves, too, only in a small apartment on the edge of the school district.

“Nice.”

“Can I get a ride?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“I can swim in my shorts, right?”

“Of course.” I laughed.

We changed in the locker room and headed out. We had nearly reached the school parking lot when I realized that a cluster of teammates had surrounded us.

Bryan Markham walked along on the other side of Jackson and he chuckled before he spoke. “Hey, dude, how old are you, anyway?”

“Twelve.” Jackson studied his own feet as he walked, speaking soft and low.

“Come on, bro.” Bryan gave him a little slap on the arm. “You look like you're eighteen.”

Jackson shrugged. “I got big bones. Hey, you guys going to Little Man's house to swim?”

“Little Man? Oh, Minna Zinna. . . . Swim?” Bryan chuckled silently. “Haven't been to his house since second grade. My little sister has pool parties.”

Jackson kept looking to me. I shrugged and sighed and turned to go, eager to get away and used to avoiding confrontation. Jackson followed me while the rest of them laughed. There was nothing funny. It was just a mean and sneaky way to insult us.

The other kids gave him some space, wary of a boy so big, but Bryan wasn't afraid of anything. He stood nearly as tall as Jackson, and even though he was hardly as thick, he had muscles that the rest of us dreamed of. Bryan had been king of sixth grade and no one expected anything different in seventh.

“But you probably like that kind of thing, right, Jackson?” Bryan sneered from behind us. “You got kindergarten written all over you. That's probably why you're gonna hang out with Minna. He looks like a kindergartner and you probably act like one.”

I admit that I'd felt a prickle in my spine at that moment because I knew that, muscles or no muscles, king of sixth grade or not, Jackson could smash Bryan like a roach if he wanted to. So, when Jackson stopped short and stood tall, I expected that the balance of power in the world I'd come to know was about to shift.