The Shadow Club (3 page)

As I got into the building my anger shifted away from Tyson, and back to Austin. What burned me most was that Tyson was probably right: conceited, arrogant L'Austin Space had all the odds in his favor, and I hated Austin all the more for it. I began to imagine how nice it would be if there was a great conspiracy against all the L'Austin Spaces in the world.

"Now, I want you all to know right up front that this is no namby-pamby team," said Coach Shuler, as he fidgeted with his whistle. "Once you're in, I don't want you all quitting and joining Little League, or a soccer club, or something like that. This might not be high school, and we might not work out five days a week, but anyone who knows me can tell you that I expect hard work. Isn't that right, Jared?"

"Right!" I said, surprised that he called me out of everyone else.

"So if you don't want to be here, leave now."

In the back, two seventh graders, who in one day had already gotten a reputation of being obnoxious, stood and went to the door, laughing. As they left, one of them turned and said, "Adios, Commandant." Some seventh graders laughed. No one who knew Shuler laughed.

Shuler looked at his clipboard. "First of all, boys meet Mondays and Wednesdays; girls meet Tuesdays and Thursdays. Anyone who wants to can practice with both teams . . ."

As Shuler spoke, my mind began to wander. I looked around the gym. It smelled new, but didn't look much different than the old gym. You would think that when a gym burns down, a school would build a nice, new-looking one, but no. This gym was a carbon copy of the old one.

In each corner of the gym, a different team was meeting, and more were meeting outside. It looked like about forty kids were going out for track—a few more boys than girls. By next week that number would be cut in half. The coach never cut anybody, but people just lose interest and drop out.

L'Austin Space sat about ten feet away from me. He sat in the middle of a crew of seventh graders, already setting himself up to be the "Team Hero" for all of the new kids to look up to.

Shuler flipped a page on his clipboard. "As you can see, we have a beautiful new gym . . . and because of last year's fires, the gym is completely off-limits when a teacher isn't present. The doors will remain locked. That goes for the auditorium, and just about every other unsupervised place. I know you've heard it from all of your teachers—now you're hearing it from me." He flipped another page.

"Next, we have something new this year. Something I think you're going to like. A bunch of the local school districts are getting together to have a sort of mini-Olympics, and yes, there will be track events."

There were various cheers from around the room, including my own.

"That's the good news," said Shuler. "The bad news is that each district enters one team, which means that each school can only have one runner."

Various "Aws" from the group. I kept quiet. I'm sure Austin did, too. I felt a knot begin to form in my stomach.

"Now, before we go down and assign you gym lockers, there's one more order of business."

"The captain!" said Martin Bricker, an eighth grader who had a good chance of being captain next year, but was the only one who thought he would make it this year.

"That's right," said Shuler. "This is for old team members only. Here are pencils and slips of paper. When I say so, I would like all the old team members to come up and fill out a ballot. All you have to do is put the name of the person you would like to be captain this year."

"Don't we get to campaign?" asked L'Austin.

"No, we don't get to campaign," mimicked Shuler. "You all know each other; you don't need any presidential debates. There will be one captain for the boys, and one captain for the girls. Boys vote for boys; girls vote for girls. If you're not sure what you are, ask me and I'll tell you."

Someone lifted Sarah Dozer's hand. She elbowed him in the ribs.

"OK. Come on up. Here's the ballot box, and
please
put the pencils back in the can when you're done."

I filled in Martin Bricker's name, figuring it was low-class to vote for myself, and I certainly wasn't about to vote for Austin.

As Austin approached the ballot box, he turned to mo and smiled that crocodile smile that screamed "You loser!" from across the room. I smiled that "We'll see" smile right back at him.

"When will you have the results?" asked Martin.

"They'll be posted on the main bulletin board tomorrow, by lunch."

The group groaned.

"C'mon, it's only one day. Now, when I call your name, some up and I'll give you your locker number."

That night Cheryl and I sat in her old tree house, talking and trying to get my mind off of the election. I never remembered the tree house being so small. I bet it was even too small for Randall to sit in comfortably now. Sometimes I like growing, but at times like that I didn't. I remember when I could lie down across the floor in the tree house. It could fit all three of us—me, Cheryl, and Randall—each in our sleeping bags, late at night, telling ghost stories and drinking chocolate shakes, which were still one of my favorite foods in the world. I loved those days.

Now I couldn't even sit in it without bending my knees.it had been almost a year since I had been in it. Cheryl only lived down the street, but we never had much of a reason to go up into the tree house anymore.

It was Cheryl who had said, "Let's talk in the tree house," and I had said, "Fine," figuring it would cheer me up. Now, an hour later, the twilight was more twi than light, and the early September chill had come rolling in off the ocean.

"What else?" said Cheryl. "Keep thinking."

"I don't know, I can't think of any more."

"Don't you have any imagination?" "No."

"Yes, you do," she said.

"OK . . . umm." I thought hard. "I know . . . I would hang him by his toes . . . upside down . . . over a bear trap."

Cheryl laughed. "Now you're getting really gross."

"You asked for it. Your turn."

"OK. Next time she sings . . . I would throw roses at her, like that guy did, for her to put behind her ears. Only I would make sure they had lots of thorns on 'em!"

I grimaced.

"Your turn," she said.

"I would set Austin loose in Lion Country Wild Animal Park, and see how fast he runs. Next."

"Oohh! Vicious! Let's see . . . I would . . . I would fill her little lunch-box thermos with hydrochloric acid."

"Not fair," I said. "I said that one at the wedding."

"Well, then how about a king cobra in her lunch box?"

"No, wait . . . I've got one for you," I said. "Why don't we get her a nice date . . . with Tyson McGaw?"

"Ugh! A fate worse than death!" We both laughed goodand hard just trying to imagine Rebecca and slimy Tyson McGaw together. What a match!

"I can't believe we're really this nasty!" I said.

"But isn't it fun?" said Cheryl.

I guess it was. It was sort of like watching those horror movies. Sure, they're sick and gross and bloody and all that, but everyone still loves them, right?

"I mean, it's not like we're really doing anything to them," said Cheryl. "We're not
really
mean and terrible, it's just a game. Everybody has someone that really irks them, and there's nothing wrong with pretending, right?"

"Wait a second, I just had a brainstorm," I said. "We'll pay some bozo to pretend to teach Austin to walk on hot coals, and when he finally goes for it, he'll burn off his feet. So much for running!"

"You're awful," laughed Cheryl. Then she stopped laughing, and thought for a moment. Without the sound of our voices, the night seemed very quiet. I don't think I heard as much as one cricket.

"Hey," she said, "wouldn't it be weird if any of those things actually happened to Austin or Rebecca? Like somebody up there was listening?"

"I'll make sure I keep my eye out for bear traps," I said. She laughed. I could barely see her now, in the shadows on the other side of the tree house. Like I said, it was small; I could feel her Reeboks touching my Nikes. I wiggled my feet, and she wiggled back, like we were playing footsy, or something dumb like that. I looked over the edge railing. It was clear that night. No fog like the last few nights. Cheryl's house was the last on the street, and from there you could just barely see the ocean between the trees, a quarter mile away. It was my favorite time of day—when the faint blue glow against the horizon is just enough to make everything look black against it, just after the colors have faded from the sky.

Back when we were kids, I always loved talking with
Cheryl, and even with Randall, in the tree house at this time of day. Ghost stories, or even just stupid-talk. Now that we were older and busier, it seemed as though I never really got to talk to Cheryl alone when it was quiet like this. It was different from the old days, but I still liked it. I wiggled my feet again, and she wiggled back.

"Maybe we shouldn't have done all that before," she said.

"What?"

"Talk mean about Rebecca and Austin. It's like I feel guilty now."

Now that we had stopped, I began to feel it, too. "Well, it was your idea."

"Thanks, now I feel worse."

"Sorry," I said. Then I gave her her own speech back, "It's only words," I said. "It's only like . . . sticking your tongue out at them. That's all. Like you said, it's only pretend. We're not hurting anybody."

"Right."

"It gets out all our frustrations and stuff, so we don't go around being angry at them all day." "Right."

Somehow I still don't think I convinced her. I didn't convince myself, either. I couldn't—not when my mind was still filled with all those nasty, ridiculous things that could be brought down upon L'Austin Space. What bothered me most was that, like Cheryl said, it was fun. I didn't like feeling that it was fun.

I moved closer to Cheryl. Somehow I felt that moving closer to her would make that creepy feeling go away.

"Do you really hate Austin?" Cheryl asked. I couldn't see her talking now, it was too dark. I could just barely make out her shape against the trees behind her.

"I don't know," I said. "Do you really hate Rebecca?"

Cheryl sighed and didn't answer for a long time. Then she said, "It's not really hate. She's my cousin. I care about her . . . but sometimes I think she enjoys making me feel lousy."

"I know Austin does."

"Do you really hate Austin, Jared?" she asked again.

"I don't know," I said for a second time. I really didn't know. "It's all gotten so confused."

She thought for a good long time. "Would you be happy if Austin Pace moved far away?" she asked very matter-of-factly.

"Yes," I said.

"Would you be happy if he got hurt so bad that he couldn't run fast?"

"I don't think so. I think I'd feel sorry for him."

"How about if he died?"

"Cheryl! C'mon!"

"Sorry, dumb question." She was silent for a long, long time. She was thinking about something. I could tell. Then she finally spoke, very quietly, and slowly.

"I know what the real question is," she said. "The real question to find out whether or not you hate him."

"What?"

"The question is . . . if there were a way for you to make it happen . . . would you wish that Austin Pace had never been born?"

The cold of the night hit me just then, but I don't think it was just the cold. It was something more. Something inside, not out. And it was because I knew the answer to that question, and I didn't like that answer at all.

"Would your' she asked again.

"Yes," I whispered.

And then she whispered back, "I know how that feels."

The breeze played with the dying leaves above us. The chill got stronger. Before, I had just felt nasty. Now I felt weird. Weird and uncomfortable—with myself, and with that question. Do I wish L'Austin Space had never been born? Yes. Yes, I wished that. As much as I hated myself for wishing that, deep down, really deep down, I did feel that way, and I couldn't change that. It was scary.

"Cheryl . . . I'm spooked out."

"Me, too," she said.

"It's getting cold . . ." I said.

"Maybe we should go in."

Cheryl went first, and I followed her down.

"You really do feel that way, too, huh?"

"I don't want to talk about that anymore. Let's talk about something nice."

But we didn't talk about anything nice. We didn't talk much about anything at all. That good feeling we had when we first climbed into the tree house was gone, and wouldn't come back for the rest of the night. We went in, watched ten minutes of TV with her brother, then I hopped on my bike and rode home. I tried to chase that eerie feeling away by burying my head in that first night's homework.

It worked. By morning the feeling was gone. I felt like my old self and went on as if what we had discovered about ourselves in the tree house that night meant absolutely nothing at all.

Ignoring that night was a mistake—not the first one, and not the last one either. Maybe that feeling was meant to be a warning, a bright red alarm flashing in our eyes. If it was, we wore both too stupid to notice it.

The Fire and the Agony

PEOPLE WERE MILLING around the phys-ed bulletin board before classes. Ours wasn't the only team choosing captains that day, and everyone there waited impatiently for each coach to put up the results.

I wasn't one of the kids waiting. Sure, I wanted to he captain, but I didn't want to think about it. The more I thought about it, the more worried I would get, and I'd feel miserable until the results went up. Better to think about anything else until then. I thought about my new teachers, my old friends, what I would have for lunch, anything but the track team and Austin Pace in his million-dollar Aeropeds that never got dirty and looked like they came from planet Krypton, or someplace like that.

I wandered around a bit before the homeroom bell rang, looking for people I hadn't seen the day before. People really do change in one summer. Charlie Garcias had grown like
six inches since June, certain locations on Abbie Singer had begun to inflate, if you know what I mean, and half of everyone I knew seemed to have gotten rid of their braces. I talked to Ralphy Sherman, who said that he made a movie in Hollywood over the summer. Ralphy was always good for a laugh, because he had never uttered a word of truth in his entire life.