Painting the Black (21 page)

It was Grandpa Kevin's turn. “Ryan, can you give me a hand moving my suitcase downstairs?” he said. “I don't know what I was thinking when I put my things in your room. If you're going to be playing for the state tide, you're going to need your own bed.” I put up a halfhearted argument, but I was glad to get my room back.

But that didn't mean I was able to sleep. For the second straight night, I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking. I thought about Monica and the wolf masks and the hands grabbing and tearing at her; about my mother hugging me and my father saying how much he trusted me; about Josh's slider and what Hernandes had said in the shower. But always my mind came back to Detective Langford and one thing she had said:
You shape your own world.

What I needed was time—time to think things through, to get a grip on what to do. But time was one thing I didn't have. Everything was racing along, carrying me with it whether I was ready or not. The first game of the state tournament was Thursday at three o'clock in Tacoma.

There was a pep rally last period on Wednesday. The baseball team sat down on the floor of the gym while the pep team did flips and the band blared the fight song. It felt strange sitting there with everybody staring down at us. My head was pounding from the music and from lack of sleep.

Eventually Coach Wheatley walked to the microphone. “On behalf of the team,” he said, looking up into the stands, “I'd like to thank you for the support you've given us this year. Now it's our turn to give something back to you.” He reached under the podium, retrieved a gleaming silver trophy and held it high above his head. He read the inscription: “Crown Hill Vikings—Metro Region Champions!”

The place went nuts. Kids stomped and screamed. Chanting started: “Take the State! Take the State! Take the State!”

Wheatley held up his hand for quiet. “I know you love us,” he joked. “But I also know you want to go home on time. So let me move on.” The place quieted, and he continued. “Individual awards don't mean a whole heck of a lot if a team doesn't do well, but when a team does well, then it's a pleasure to give them out. This year it is a pleasure. The trophy for Most Valuable Player goes to . . . Josh Daniels!”

Again the gym exploded. Kids rose to their feet; they stomped; they whistled. Josh strode to the podium, shook Coach Wheatley's hand, and took the trophy. A new chant started: “Daniels! Daniels! Daniels!” Josh thrust his trophy into the air in rhythm.

“The coaches decide the MVP award,” Wheatley went on. “But this next trophy is voted by the players. It goes to a young man who was the last player to make the team. I penciled his name in only when I'd counted the uniforms and was sure I had enough. He doesn't have big numbers, but he's got a big heart. Our Most Inspirational Player is Ryan Ward.”

I was so stunned that even after I heard my name I didn't move. Garrett Curtis had to nudge me to get me up to the podium. But once Coach Wheatley put that trophy in my hand, once I grasped it tight, waves of pleasure, of excitement, rolled through my body. I looked to my teammates and they were all smiling and clapping for me. “Ward! Ward! Ward!” was the chant that was coming down from the rafters. Josh came over to me, put his arm around my shoulder, and the two of us raised our trophies into the air together.

Coach Cliff came up, put his hand out to me. “Congratulations,” he said. “Congratulations.”

Mr. Haskin took over the assembly. The baseball team moved to the first few rows of the bleachers as he read off all the other prizes and awards. Chess Club, Math Club, Cheerleaders, Choir. On and on he went. I wasn't listening. I was holding that gleaming trophy so tightly my knuckles were white.

“Finally,” Haskin said, and when I heard that word I came back to attention, “this year, for the first time in the history of our school, a Crown Hill High student has been named the
Seattle Times
High School Student of the Year. Her achievement is really quite remarkable. So even though she's not here today, let's have a round of applause for Monica Roby.”

I had another bad practice that afternoon, only this time Coach Wheatley was there to notice. “Something wrong with you, Ward?” he asked after the third routine throw home skipped by me to the backstop.

“I'm okay,” I replied. “I just haven't been sleeping.”

“Well, you look terrible and you're playing worse. Go home and get some shuteye. I want you ready tomorrow.”

I argued, but just a little. The prospect of lying down, of actually sleeping, seemed wonderful.

I didn't need to shower; I'd hardly worked up a sweat. I changed out of my cleats and went straight home. My parents would both be at work. I could go to my room and sleep, and not think about anything.

But I'd forgotten about Grandpa Kevin. When I opened my front door he was there, sitting in the big easy chair, reading a book. I think I startled him as much as he startled me.

“No practice?” he said, when he'd recovered himself.

“No,” I said. “I mean yes. Actually I'm not feeling real hot, so Coach sent me home.”

He smiled. “Well, that was smart of him. You don't look one hundred percent to me either. You're no good to the team sick.”

“I'm fine,” I said. “I'm just tired. I think I'll try to get some shuteye.”

I crossed the room and had one foot on the staircase when his voice stopped me.

“Ryan, is there anything you want to talk about?”

My face went red. “No, nothing.”

“Because if there's something you couldn't tell your parents or that policewoman, you might try me. I'm not such a bad listener. And I've been alive a few years, too, so nothing much shocks me.”

“There's nothing, Grandpa.”

He sort of winked at me, and I knew he knew I was lying. I felt like a little kid who'd been caught stealing quarters. “Get some sleep, then. And if you do want to talk sometime, I'll be here.”

Upstairs in my room I dropped onto my bed, but I still couldn't sleep. I felt like my head was going to explode. I didn't want to have to look at anybody or talk to anybody or do anything. I wanted everything to be over with—the baseball season, the school year, everything.

My parents came home, and somehow I made it through dinner. My mother helped. She'd been to an open house up in the Highlands, the fanciest neighborhood in Seattle, and she went on and on about all the rooms and the view of the Puget Sound and the gardens.

Once dinner was over, I went back upstairs to my room. I had homework, so I unpacked my school bag. Down at the bottom I found my trophy. I held it in my hand, thinking how happy it would make my mother and father and grandfather to see it. But I couldn't bring it down to them. I ended up shoving it into a bottom drawer under some shirts I never wear.

I sat at my desk and looked at my chemistry book for about five minutes. Then I closed it and went downstairs. My parents and Grandpa Kevin were watching television.

“I'm going to go see Josh,” I said as I pulled on my shoes. “Go over our game plan for tomorrow.”

“Don't be out too late,” my mother said.

When Josh saw me at his front door, his body flinched. But he gave me his usual smile. “You okay?” he asked. “I was worried when I saw you leave practice. I need you tomorrow, you know.”

I shrugged. “I know. And I'll be okay. Look, can we go someplace and talk.”

“Sure,” he said. “For a while. But I've got stuff to do.”

We ended up sitting on the stairs in front of the Community Center, sipping Cokes we'd bought inside the building.

“I can't keep doing this,” I said. “Maybe you can, but I can't.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Haskin, the police, my grandfather, my parents. I'm sick of lying to them, Josh. I can't look anybody in the eye. I can't even look you in the eye.”

He took a long swig of his Coke, wiped his mouth. “Listen, Ryan, I know how you feel. I've gone through the same thing. Haskin grilled me. The police have been over, talking to me and my mother and my old man. Even Wheatley pulled me in. But it's over, buddy. They're done. There's nothing more they can say or do. It's like I told you right at the start. They can't prove anything.”

We both were silent as two girls walked by us, up the stairs, and into the Community Center.

“Unless somebody tells them,” I said once the girls were gone.

He smiled. “Who would tell them? I'm not going to. And—” He stopped. “You're not thinking of talking, are you? That's not what this is all about, is it?”

I sucked in some air. “I don't know, Josh. I really don't know what I'm going to do.”

I could see the astonishment in his face. “I can't believe I'm hearing this. You're thinking of selling me out for Monica Roby?”

I felt my whole body sag. “It's not for Monica Roby,” I said, trying to explain. “And I don't want to sell you out. It's . . . it's . . .”

“It's what?” he interrupted. “What? Tell me.”

I'd thought that talking to him would help me pull my thoughts together, but it hadn't. “Nothing feels right anymore, Josh,” was all I could manage.

He was quiet for a long time. “Okay. I shouldn't have done it,” he finally said. “It was stupid. I should have just left her alone. But it's not like I really hurt her or anything. She's still alive. She's still winning her little prizes. Besides, it's done and there's no undoing it. What matters is what's ahead of us. The games are what matter. Winning the championship is what matters. You know that.”

I ran my hand through my hair. “But that's just it. I
don't
know it. Or at least I'm not sure about it.”

“Come on, Ryan,” he said, almost pleading. “What are you talking about? We're a team, you and me. Setting a batter up with fastballs inside, then striking him out with the slider away. I love doing that, and I want to keep doing it, all the way to the end. I can't believe you feel any different.”

I sat thinking for a while. “I do want to keep doing it,” I said at last. “More than anything in the world.”

He stood. “Okay then. So it's settled. We'll just play ball like always.” He looked at his watch. “I've got to get back now. But I'll see you tomorrow at school.”

He started off, but before he'd gone far I called to him. “Josh,” I said, “who was the other guy with you?”

He started to answer, then checked himself. “I promised I wouldn't tell anyone.” He let those words hang in the air a moment, then he walked away.

It was simple when Josh was on the pitcher's mound firing the ball to me, overwhelming batter after batter. On the diamond, the rules are all laid out, and there is a rule for everything. I wished it were that simple everywhere.

I went home. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to sleep, but I dropped off right away. I was so tired my body just gave out.

Thursday. Game day.

I got up late, which made everything a rush. As I picked at my breakfast, my mother complained about the travel arrangements for the game. “I don't see why you can't just get in the car with us and go to the game.”

“I've told you, Mother. Coach Wheatley wants the team all together.”

“And I want our family all together,” she snapped.

“There's nothing I can do about it,” I said, heading for the door.

“Oh, I know,” she answered, her voice gentler. Then she gave me a kiss on the forehead. “I'm just nervous. I'm glad you were able to sleep last night. I didn't.”

The kids at Crown Hill were nervous too. The halls buzzed with baseball talk. Guys patted me on the back and wished me luck. “Go get 'em!” they said.

“You bet,” I answered.

The school was on a half-day schedule so people could make it to Tacoma for the game. I thought even the half day would drag, but there was so much tension that the first three classes flew by. I had no time to plan; no time to think.

Then came Ms. Hurley's class. I still wasn't used to Monica's not being there. And that day, with the game just hours away, her empty chair seemed even more empty.

The other teachers had gone easy, figuring that nobody was up for studying. But Ms. Hurley tried to run a normal class. We were supposed to discuss a story I hadn't read. Actually, it seemed as though nobody had read it. As the minutes ticked by, I could feel Ms. Hurley's growing frustration. I wanted to help her out, but there was nothing I could do. When the bell finally rang it was like being released from prison.

Only I wasn't released. “Could you stay a minute, Ryan?” she asked, and from the way she said it I knew it had to do with Monica. Josh knew it too. He looked over at me as he left, a question in his eyes.

Once we were alone, Ms. Hurley took a deep breath and then began. “I've been wanting to tell you how much I appreciate what you did for Monica. I'm sure you know she's special to me.”

I nodded.

She went on. “There's something else I've been wanting to ask. Something a little harder.” She fiddled with a pencil in her hand. “You don't think Josh was involved, do you? Because if he was I'd feel—”

“It wasn't Josh,” I said, cutting her off.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked, surprised by my certainty. “I thought they were wearing masks.”

“I'm sure,” I said. “I'm absolutely positive it wasn't him.”

She sighed. “Well, that's a load off my mind. I kept thinking that maybe something had happened in class that . . .”

“It wasn't Josh,” I repeated, interrupting again.

“Good,” she said. “Good.”

I looked up at the clock. “Ms. Hurley, I'm supposed to be . . .”

“I'm sorry, Ryan. You go.” I headed for the door. “And good luck!”