Shots on Goal (11 page)

“Nothing much. Joey came over. That’s okay, right?”

“Sure. How did you do today?”

“Good. We shut them out. We seem to be back on track.”

“I’m glad.”

“Um, is Tommy there with you?” I ask.

“Yes. Just a sec.”

I hear her say his name. After a few seconds he takes the phone.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“I got a situation here.”

“Yeah?”

“Terranova and some of your other friends showed up.”

“And?”

“I wanna get rid of them.”

“Oh.”

“I know you can’t talk,” I say.

“Right.”

“I was having some people over. Not too many. They must have heard about it.”

“Hmmm …” he says. “So we’ll try to go fishing next weekend, maybe.”

“What?”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He kind of emphasizes “later.”

Five minutes later the phone rings again. I yell, “Shut up and turn off the stereo” again.

“Hello?” I say.

“It’s me.” Tommy.

“Yeah.”

“I’m in my own room now. What’s going on?”

“Nothing bad. Just more people than I wanted.”

“Let me talk to Tony.”

I call Tony over and he takes the phone. “It’s my brother,” I tell him.

“Yo,” Tony says. “Yeah.… No.… No.… We’re not.… Dana.… Her, too.… Yeah.… Sure.… Right.” He hands the phone back to me.

“What?” I say to Tommy.

“They’ll be gone by eleven.”

“Okay.”

“They’ll take all the beer cans with them, too.”

“Good.”

“Listen,” he says. “Tomorrow morning, or even tonight after everybody leaves, check under the furniture for empty cans or used glasses. And check the wastebaskets in the bathrooms. Tomorrow check the yard. I got nailed once because somebody left an empty Jack Daniel’s pint under the couch.”

“When was that?”

“Last year. You guys went to Aunt Beth’s for the weekend for Katie’s christening. I had too much studying to do.”

“Right.”

“Shannon there?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh-huh.” I can almost hear him smile.

“Joey’s here, too,” I say.

“Too bad. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay, man. Thanks.”

I stay in the kitchen for a while, avoiding the living room, where Eileen is. When I stick my head out there I notice that Joey is asleep in the armchair. I catch Herbie’s eye and he grins, nodding his head slowly. He walks over to the kitchen. Rico comes, too.

“He’s gotta be home at twelve, right?” Herbie asks.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s help him along,” he says, reaching for the clock above the sink. He takes it down and moves the hands ahead an hour and a half to 12:15. Then he asks, “Where else?”

“There’s one on the mantel in the living room,” I say.

He goes out and resets that one, a digital clock radio.

Rico says, “He got a watch on?”

We look, but he doesn’t.

Everybody else is dancing or drinking and seems oblivious to what we’re doing. But Shannon steps over to me and asks what’s going on.

“Nothing,” I say. “A little joke.”

She smirks. “Poor Joey,” she says.

“You wanna wake him up?”

“Ummm, no,” she says. “I don’t want to be a part of this.”

“I’ll do it,” Herbie says. He walks over to the CD player and turns the volume up full, just for a second. Joey opens his eyes. We try to act like we haven’t even noticed him sleeping.

Joey rubs his eyes and stands up. He walks across the room to the bathroom. When he comes out he glances at the clock on the mantel and says, “Shit.” The clock shows 12:22.

“I’m screwed,” he says. He looks around for his jacket, finding it in a pile on the couch. “I’m outta here,” he says, bolting out the door.

Herbie pumps his fist and yells “Yes!” after the door slams shut. He slaps hands with Rico. Shannon shakes her head but laughs.

“What’s going on?” Eileen asks.

“Sleeping Beauty just turned into a pumpkin,” Herbie says, mixing up his literary references.

Eileen looks at the clock. “Oh, you guys are cruel,” she says, but she’s laughing, too. It’s a harmless joke.

Terranova taps me on the shoulder. “We’re going,” he says. He’s got a full six-pack and another with two cans missing under his arm. “Thanks, Bones.” And the five of them leave, too.

That leaves six of us. I set the clocks back to 11:03. Hernandez is dancing with Shannon, but that doesn’t mean anything. Rico starts dancing with Eileen. Me and Herbie just watch for a few minutes, then go out in the kitchen to eat the rest of the chicken wings.

Shannon comes in after a while and sits at the table. She’s wearing a denim shirt, with the top two buttons undone.
“Herbie, could you guys get Eileen home safely?” she says. “I need to talk to Bones.”

About Joey, I figure. Herbie says, “Sure. Now?”

“In a while,” she says. “Whenever.” She goes back into the living room. I can hear them laughing out there.

Herbie’s picking chicken out of his teeth with a fingernail. “Brace yourself,” he says.

“What for?”

“Whatever,” he says. “She’s up to something.”

When they leave I start washing the dishes, and Shannon gets a towel to dry them. Our arms keep bumping.

“Great party,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “It went all right.”

“Those guys are a riot,” she says.

“True.”

“Don’t you dance?” she asks.

“Not often,” I say. “Hardly ever.”

She puts one hand on my shoulder and looks at my face. “Joey just sat there all night,” she says.

“He was tired,” I say.

“He was nasty.”

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” I say.

“From who?”

“His father. Himself. Us.”

“Yeah, well, that’s tough,” she says. “I was dancing with Herbie, and Joey was staring at us like he wanted to kill us both.”

“He’s worried about you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “He knows Herbie cracks me up. It’s nothing.”

“I guess it isn’t to him.”

She runs her hand down my arm and squeezes my wrist. “That was great how you guys got rid of him,” she says. “I had a much better time after he left.” She runs her hand back up my arm and across my shoulders. “You didn’t seem to mind a whole lot when Eileen left, either.”

I chew on my lip and scrub the plate I’m washing a little harder than I need to. “Eileen’s okay,” I finally say. “She’s just not, you know, not right for me.”

Shannon turns her back to the sink and leans against the counter. “Yeah,” she says, inching closer to me. She knocks her knee gently against my leg. “Well, you know,” she whispers, “I don’t taste like puke.”

And she doesn’t. She tastes minty and lemony. And God, she feels nice. She’s lean and solid. And warm. We work our way to the couch.

We lie there, pressed tight against each other, making out nonstop for at least an hour. It’s exhausting.

I walk her home about one o’clock, avoiding Main Street. Not many people are out. She lives up past the school, so we walk along Maple. I’ve got my arm around her waist and she’s got her hand in my back pocket.

This feels more than a little strange, like I’ve taken a candy bar from Rite Aid without paying, or as if a referee didn’t see me knock the ball out of bounds and awarded me a throw-in.

Her house is halfway up Buchanan Street, which is steep and dark. We stop on her walk.

She puts her hands on my shoulders. Her smile is … I
don’t know, ironic or something. I lean forward and kiss her, and she lets me linger there a few seconds. I don’t know if this is the beginning of something or the end. She turns toward the door. “See ya,” she says.

“Okay.” I stand there with my hands in my pockets until she’s closed the door and turned off the outside light. I feel warm, and mostly satisfied. Mostly happy.

I walk down the street toward the school, scuffing through some piles of leaves. The air is cool and still, and sort of misty. I cross the street and go into the stadium, hurrying down the cement bleachers and onto the track.

I’m feeling detached, like my world is spinning just a little too fast and I’ve lost the connection between my imagination and my body. Maybe that’s because, for once, my body has eclipsed my imagination, actually doing something that I’ve previously only wondered about.

I start to jog, feeling the pat-pat-pat of my feet against the track. I’m probably a better runner than I am a soccer player. I run the 400 and 800 in the spring, but that’s a different side of me. The side that’s more like Tommy.

I reach the backstretch and move a little faster, my arms swinging smoothly and my breathing feeling right. After a couple of laps I’m sweating, so I toss my jacket into an outside lane and pull my shirt out of my pants. I can taste my own sweat now, mixing with Shannon on my lips.

I’m driving hard, in a higher gear, not hurting at all. I asked Tommy once why he runs cross-country, why he keeps at it when he isn’t very good. And he said he wouldn’t care if he was the slowest guy in Pennsylvania,
because every step he takes makes him a tiny fraction tougher, gets him closer to the state championship in wrestling.

After another mile I start sprinting, really letting go. I’ll sprint for as long as I can take it, until I can’t do another step. I’m into the turn now, the white painted lines forming a pathway. Down the homestretch, the acid building in my legs, my arms beginning to tighten. I take it even harder on the far turn and power into the backstretch.

My chest is heaving as I begin to slow, my jaw is tense. I ease into a jog, lifting my arms above my head and sucking in air. When I reach my jacket I pick it up, dragging it behind me as I slow to a walk.

Lots of people jog on this track, but not very many ever sprint here late at night. I like that idea. I like to be places where no one ever goes, or go places at times when no one else ever would. So being here, now, feels all mine.

It must be nearly two as I walk back along Maple. I look up Buchanan Street; Shannon’s house is dark. I can see Main Street below me; it’s quiet and empty.

I have lots to think about tomorrow. But I’ll sleep good tonight.

Of course I have to face Joey Sunday night. He’s already in when I get there, standing over by the dishwasher.

“How’s it going?” I say, putting too much enthusiasm in my voice.

He looks at me without smiling. “Yeah,” he says, turning away.

I feel the ice. He knows. I don’t know how, but he knows.

I try again. “Watch the Giants this afternoon?” He always watches the Giants games with his father.

“Nope,” he says. There are no dishes yet, but he takes one of the dish trays off the stack and sets it on the counter.

“Guess I better punch in,” I say. I go into the office and punch my time card, then go in the back to wait for something to do.

Maybe he’s just pissed off about the clock thing, but I doubt he even figured that out. And he couldn’t have seen anything coming between me and Shannon, because even
I
didn’t read that one.

I have not told a single soul, and I can’t imagine that she’d tell him. And she wouldn’t tell Eileen, either. Neither of us would have anything to gain, and we’d probably lose our best friends over this. Maybe we already have.

About 8:30 I slip into the office and dial Shannon’s number. She’s real friendly when I tell her it’s me.

“You home?” she asks.

“No. I’m at work.”

“Oh,” she says. “Ohhh,” she repeats, as it dawns on her that I’m with Joey.

“You talk to him today?” I ask.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He seems pissed.”

“Oh. You think he knows?”

“I don’t know. How could anybody know?”

“I don’t know.”

We’re both quiet for a few seconds. Then she says, “I didn’t tell anybody.”

“Yeah. I didn’t, either. He’s been a jerk lately. He’s just pissed in general, I guess.”

“Probably,” she says. “It’s no big deal anyway. Listen, I gotta go.”

“Oh. Okay. See ya.”

“Okay.”

“Wait,” I say.

“What?”

“It was no big deal?” I’m trying not to sound hurt.

“Not really. Was it?”

“Um, I guess not.”

“It was nice.” She sounds consoling.

“Yeah.”

“You’re sweet, Bones. We’ll talk about it sometime.”

“Okay.”

I hang up. Shit. Kenny’s standing in the doorway. “You ain’t supposed to use that phone,” he says.

“It was an emergency.”

“I bet.”

I stand up and stare him down. “I was on for like twenty seconds.”

“Tell it to Carlos.”

I just shake my head and walk past him into the kitchen. I guess he’s a big authority figure now or something. And like he never uses the phone, right?

There’s only been about eight customers all night, so I could just sit in the back and eat carrots if I wanted. But I figure I’m getting paid to be here, so I ought to help Joey with the cleanup. I walk over by the dishwasher and wait for a tray to come out. When it does, I go to grab it, but Joey reaches it first. “I got this stuff,” he says, not looking at me. “Do the pots.”

I shrug and walk away.

I go out by the Dumpster and look at the sky. It’s a clear night, kind of cool.

This is awkward, having the upper hand on Joey for once. I’ve been his sidekick for a long time, the quiet guy behind the scenes. And even though he’s still the bigger sports star, I’ve moved a step ahead of him in certain ways. I’ve got a wider circle of friends, that’s for sure. Without me, in fact, I don’t think he has any.

And when you come down to it, I think he’s more upset about my hanging out with Herbie and Rico than he’d be if he knew about Shannon.

But I can’t say I feel good about all this.

I stare at the sky for five more minutes. Then I go in to take care of the pots.

What does she mean, it was no big deal?