Unpopular: An Unloved Ones Prequel #3 (The Unloved Ones) (6 page)

I jump onto his bed, and raise the bat behind my head. "Bet you regret making the team now, don't you, Duko?"

His eyes open wider. "Sam?" he asks.

I raise the bat.

The door flies open and the light flicks on in the hallway. It blinds me momentarily, and I tilt my head down so the bill of my cap shades my eyes. Duko scoots toward the door, and I look up to see his father standing there with a shotgun.

I see his finger start to squeeze the trigger. Duko's father looks like Colonel Sanders in a set of pajamas, but his aim looks deadly enough.

I react at once: I throw the bat toward the gun. It knocks the barrel just as the gun explodes with sound, and parts of the floorboard shower up and flick against my jeans. I don’t delay.

I jump backwards, holding my feet to my middle as I somersault through the air—and crash through the window. The blinds buffer me from the broken glass, and I fall through the cold night air in what feels like slow motion. The shards of glass glint around me in the air, the window blinds flap in the wind, and I’m catapulted by the strength of my jump past the porch.

I land on the hood of Duko’s car, my feet putting dents into the metal. It’s a perfect landing, and as I balance myself, the confetti of broken glass clinks down around me.

I don’t have time to rest. Duko’s father is already at the window, aiming his shotgun. I leap off the car and race through his dark yard, using the trees as cover. He fires again, but I’m already hopping the gate as he tears apart his beautiful landscaping.

I land on the sidewalk running. The air whips through my hair, and my shoes clap against the pavement. I no longer care about making noise. I just have to get out of there.

I race out of the rich section of town, past the perfect houses where everyone is sleeping, and get back to my neighborhood. It’s so quiet. I look up at the moon in the sky, and my breath is the only sound in the world. I don’t know what I’ve done. What
would
I have done? Was I really going to kill him?

Yes. Yes, I was. I know it.

And now, I’m not sure if I’m grateful or not that I was interrupted.

When I climb through my window, my parents are still asleep. I close the window, and sit down on my bed, waiting for the cops to show up. In a way, that seems easier than facing everyone tomorrow. How could I talk to any of them again, after what happened tonight?

Did Duko even know it was me?

Then I realize I left my bat behind. My fingerprints must be on it.

I stare at my ceiling not really seeing it, feeling the threads of my mind start to unravel. What am I going to do?

The night goes on, and no one comes to our door.

I am almost disappointed.

As the sun rises, the familiar fatigue starts to come over me again, and I start to cry. I don’t want to face another day. I don’t want to play ball anymore. My eyes become heavy, and I try to fight it.

But I can’t help it. I never could.

I sink into my blankets as my room brightens with morning light, and in moments I’m as dead to the world as if I were sinking into my grave.

My mom wakes me up. I realize at once that it’s past my normal wake-up time. But she seems relaxed, and I just don’t care about the game anymore.

“How long have I been asleep this time?” I ask her.

“Oh, two or so.”

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I ask her, sitting up.

“I’ve got some leftover sick days I can use.” Her eyes go to the side and the guilt of her lie catches up to her. “Your father thought it best to make sure you didn’t miss another game.”

I put my head back down into my pillow. I remember last night. Running from Duko’s house.

“Has—has anyone called?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“About last night.”

She sighs. “No, your father thought it best to keep things quiet. He’s moved your truck into the garage. The rest—it came off easy enough.”

I am awake now. “But nobody came by? Nothing else?”

“No.” She looks at me, wanting to say something but holding back. I think she knows I went out last night. “Are you expecting anyone?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Good. Let’s get you to school, okay? The game is in an hour.”

I shower and join her for a late breakfast. She doesn’t finish her slice of toast, and I don’t really feel like eating the eggs she made me. When the clock on the stove changes to 2:30, she pushes back her chair and takes my plate, using a knife to scrape my leftovers into the trash.

Neither one of us mentions the fact that my dad is gone.

I get my backpack and we head outside. There are still some trails of toilet paper in the trees, but whatever was written on the house has been painted over with big brown patches.

I didn’t even hear them doing that.

 We make the short drive to the school in silence. The slow rumble of the car puts me to sleep, and she has to wake me up again when we arrive. I look over at her in the driver’s seat, and I want to die.

“I got you something,” she says ignoring my mood, and pulls her purse onto her lap. She reaches in and pulls out a small red bottle. “To help you with the game.”

It’s one of those 5-hour energy drinks they sell at the gas station. She hands it to me, and I start to cry.

“Please, Mom,” I beg. “Don’t make me play. I can’t face them. Not after this.”

She unbuckles her belt, but doesn’t open her door. “Oh, honey,” she says. “I’m sorry, but it’s—it’s better if you do.”

I take her hand and hold it tight. “Please,” I ask again. “I don’t want to play anymore. I don’t want to do it. I’ll go into the army instead. You won’t have to support me. I promise.”

She can’t maintain eye contact. “It’s for the best,” she says. She looks down at the drink. “Come on,” she urges. “Don’t make me into the bad guy.”

I let go of her hand, and open the bottle. I look at her and she smiles at me, and motions with her hand for me to drink. I put it to my lips, and swallow it down.

“That’s a good boy,” she says, and takes the bottle from me after I finish, making sure it’s empty. “I have two more in here if you need them.”

“You’d better give them to me,” I say. “I’m not feeling anything.”

I drink down both bottles.

“Better?” she asks.

“I think I feel them,” I say. My stomach gurgles.

We get out of the car, and she walks me to the field. I know they don’t trust me to go there alone. I would be insulted, but I know I probably wouldn’t have gone alone.

The world feels loud and sharp as I enter the gymnasium. My mom has her hand on my back, and I feel almost drunk and high at the same time as she leads me down the hall. She takes me to my dad’s office, and doesn’t bother to knock before opening the door and pushing me inside ahead of her.

The relief in my father’s eyes is palpable. He must have doubted I’d be here.

“I feel sick,” I say.

“It’s just the energy drinks,” my mom tells my father. “He had some to help him stay awake.”

“The guys are already changing,” my dad tells me. He works to stand up, and I know he means to take me there.

“Please,” ask my dad. “I don’t feel well.” I don’t know why I’m bothering. I might as well be talking to a rock.

“It’ll pass,” he says, and together my parents escort me down the hall, one on each side, and I get the odd image in my head of a prisoner being led down a prison corridor to death row.

I laugh, and even to me my laugh sounds half mad.

They don’t stop walking.

When we get to the locker room, and my mom waits outside. I can hear the team inside, but when my dad opens the door and they see me, everyone stops talking.

“Get into uniform,” my dad orders.

I want to object, but I’m embarrassed to say anything in front of the team. I look at them, and no one will meet my eyes. Maybe they’re ashamed about last night. I stumble over to my locker, and start to change. My dad walks over to Aaron Johnson. He whispers in his ear, but I can hear clearly.

“Keep an eye on him.”

Aaron nods.

I suit up into uniform, and then sit on the bench in the middle of the room until my father comes back in.

“All right,” he says, “this team has been through a few setbacks, but now it’s time to show this town what you’re made of.”

I can’t help it: I laugh.

My dad continues, and I tune him out, resting my head in my hands. It feels so nice.

Someone kicks me in the back, and I blink awake. I don’t even see who it is, but my dad is quiet. He’s going to let it pass.

“Time to get out there,” he says.

The rest of the team heads out before me, and my father waits behind, making sure I join them.

My limbs are heavy when I try to stand. My stomach pinches, and I clutch it. It feels like someone is twisting a drill in my intestines.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I say.

“Then be sick and get on that field,” my father says. He grabs me by the collar and tosses me out toward the door. I hobble toward it, too exhausted to object, and push it open.

At once the light is blinding. I cringe and try to look away, but there’s nowhere to hide. I can feel it burning my skin already, but my dad doesn’t care. I walk out, and find the shade under the benches.

Half the town is out in the stands, probably to see if I’d bother to show up or not. I look out at the stands, and I see all the parents and students wearing our school colors, hunter green and gold, and it disgusts me. All these people pushing and pushing for people like me to throw a ball around, and for what? To pretend they’re me? To take part in my stupid accomplishments and make their lives seem less meaningless and bleak? I sneer at them.

I look back at my other teammates through my drowsy eyes, and I hate them too. I see Bobby Duko. He’s chewing gum, smacking it between his teeth, and laughing at some stupid joke the guy next to him is saying. I didn’t hear the joke, but I’m sure it’s dumb.

I wish I wouldn’t have stopped last night. I wish I’d have killed him. It would have been worth getting shot.

It’s hell to get to my feet for the National Anthem. It goes on for an eternity, and every time I slump back to my seat, my dad comes out of nowhere and yanks me back up. Finally, the game begins and they let me sleep on the bench.

I am no longer the star player. They don’t make me go up to bat.

Someone nudges me from my sleep and I look up to see Bobby Duko leering at me.

“You are so lucky,” he hisses.

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice slurring. “And why’s that?”

“You know why. I tried to tell my dad it was you, but he waved it off. He said if it was true, it was best to forget about it. Our team was in enough trouble as it is.”

I nod. “Smart man.”

Duko grins. It makes me wish I had a bat. “And Cohen? My dad says if he sees you in our house again, he will shoot. Team or no team.”

He pats me on the back and gets up, leaving me alone again.

After what feels like a week, it’s our turn up on the field. My dad stops me on the way out. He motions to the stands, at no one in particular. “Remember,” he says, “he’s out there.”

I stare at him.

“The scout,” he adds. “All of this will be worth it if you can just keep it together for a few more minutes.”

I look at him. “And if I don’t? What if I don’t want to play ball anymore?”

He comes close. “Well that’s too bad,” he says, and his breath smells like onions. “Because you don’t have much of a choice. You’re not smart enough to get rich, and you’re not a girl so you can’t get by on your looks. All that’s left after that is the army, and you won’t serve much good there other than maybe stopping a bullet.”

He pushes me along, and I stumble out into the field. The pain of the sun sharpens my reality. I hear the guys of the team muttering as they watch me, my posture slanted and my face in a grimace. What’s the point of all this? Who are we trying to impress?

The sun burns. It mostly hurts my hands, as they are the most exposed. But I’m too tired to care.

Somebody shouts and I’m thrown the ball.

I hold it, feeling the weight of it in my hands. I don’t want to be here, but the only way out I can see is to get it over with.

The batter for the other team goes up to the plate, and his friends in the stand cheer. I glare at him, and he gets his game face on. I hate that he cares so much, and I feel the anger building in me again. I just want to hit somebody.

I lift my foot, and my body goes through the motions of the throw without my brain needing to comprehend it. My arm goes back, my body goes forward, and my arm goes forward again releasing the ball. It hurtles toward the batter, and lands in the catcher’s mitt.

The crowd goes crazy. People are rising to their feet and jumping up and down. I look over, and my dad is standing to the right of the field, clutching his hands together as if he’s hoping the dice will roll in his favor. A chant breaks out in the crowd, so indistinct and muffled that it takes me a minute to realize it’s my name.

Cohen. Cohen. Cohen.

The ball is thrown back to me, and I see that my hands are bright red. The skin is burning. No one cares. All they want me to do is throw the ball.