Painting the Black (6 page)

The night before school started, my parents went to a play at the Seattle Rep. Once they'd left, I sprawled out on the sofa and watched a cop movie on HBO. It was okay—a little sex, a little violence, a little mystery. I heard a loud knock at the front door just as this nice-looking girl started to run a bath.

It was Josh. “You feel like going somewhere and getting something to eat?”

I looked back at the television. Some maniac with a knife was creeping down a hallway toward the steamy bathroom. “My parents aren't home,” I said. “We could stay here and watch a movie if you want. There's food in the fridge.”

He shook his head. “I'd rather get out, if it's okay with you.”

We walked up to Robertino's and ordered cinnamon rolls and mocha. Josh went down to the last booth away from everyone, which wasn't like him.

“My class schedule came,” he said, pulling out a piece of paper from his wallet and spreading it in front of me.

I looked it over. “I've got Ms. Hurley for English too,” I said. “And I'm positive it's fourth period. But I think that's the only class we've got together.”

He folded the paper up and put it back in his wallet. “Well, one's better than none.”

The food came. The rolls were sticky-sweet, and the mocha was tongue-burning hot.

“How's football practice going?” I asked.

He looked toward the street. “Not so good.”

“What's wrong?”

He looked back at me. “Do you know Brandon Ruben?”

Everybody knew Ruben. He was a big kid, a shortstop on the baseball team and last year's second-string quarterback in football. “Sure,” I said. “I know him.”

“He might beat me out at quarterback.”

“Brandon Ruben?” I said in disbelief.

Josh shrugged. “He's been here. He knows the play-book and he knows Coach Canning. Besides, ninety percent of our plays are handoffs to Colby Kittleson. He does that just fine. Last year I was All-League and this year I'm all-bench.” He smiled wryly.

After that neither of us spoke. “Let's go,” he said as soon as he finished. I stuffed the last bite of my roll into my mouth and followed him out.

The night had turned cold. Salt air was coming in from the Sound and big gray clouds were covering up the moon. We walked back quickly. “Look,” I said when we reached our block, “the first day of school can be confusing. If you want we can go in together. I can show you where stuff is.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but Canning wants us in the gym at seven every morning to lift weights. And he's going to post the depth charts tomorrow too.”

We'd reached his house. “Josh,” I called as he climbed his porch stairs. He turned around. “There's no way Ruben can beat you out.”

“We'll see.”

“Really,” I said, strangely sure of myself. “You're better than he is. You'll start.”

He managed a smile. “Thanks,” he said. “It's good to know somebody believes in me.”

At seven-twenty the next morning I mounted the stairs and entered the main hall of Crown Hill High. I nodded and said hello to the kids I knew. And they nodded and said hello back to me. But I didn't hook up with anyone. It was my senior year, but I still felt like a visitor, like a stranger.

There's not much to say about the first three periods: math analysis, computer drafting, art. I won't even bother with the teachers' names. The classes weren't boring or hard or weird. They were just school.

Right before lunch I had English with Ms. Hurley. I was looking forward to it, and not just because of Josh. I'd seen Ms. Hurley around the school. Most teachers are beaten down, but she glowed. She was from Egypt or Israel or someplace like that. Somebody said that in college she'd been a swimmer. Her olive skin gleamed and her dark eyes shone. Word was that she was excitable, that she'd get so worked up over a poem or a novel that she'd actually cry in class. Kids who had her liked her. I couldn't help hoping that something good would happen in her room.

I was one of the first there. I took a seat in the center, toward the back. I was just opening my notebook when Josh walked through the door.

“Hey, Josh, over here!” I called out.

He nodded in my direction, then shuffled over and took the seat next to mine.

“What's happening?” I asked.

“Nothing much,” he said, his voice barely audible.

The tardy bell sounded. I couldn't talk to him then, but I knew what was wrong.

As Ms. Hurley took attendance, Monica Roby came breezing in. “Sorry I'm late,” she said to Ms. Hurley, then she sat next to Franklin Dement, a tall skinny kid who acted in the school plays with her and who helped her with the
Viper.

“Please be here on time in the future,” Ms. Hurley said, but there was a smile on her lips. I don't suppose too many teachers are sorry to see Monica Roby walk into their classrooms, even when she's late.

Ms. Hurley told us her rules, then passed out our first novel, a book called
A Farewell to Arms.
Once we all had copies, she sat on her desk, opened the book up, and started reading out loud to us.

The book seemed pretty good. It takes place during World War I. This man lives in a little village somewhere in Europe. From his house he looks out on mountains and a river. It should be the greatest place in the world, but troops are always marching down the road and he can hear fighting off in the distance.

Every once in a while Ms. Hurley would put the book down and ask questions about how it might feel to be in a war. The discussion was pretty lively, but I was only half listening. I kept sneaking peeks over at Josh. When you're used to a guy being fired up all the time, it throws you off to see him down.

The bell rang ending class, and we headed to the cafeteria. Josh's shoulders were slumped and his eyes were on the ground. We joined the line, slid our trays along, stopping now and then to have the cooks slop some food onto our plates. We paid and found an empty table in the corner. We both started eating whatever it was we'd gotten.

Then a little buzz ran through the cafeteria. I looked up. Celeste Honor, wearing a T-shirt with Mount Rainier blazed across the front, was walking toward us. “Josh,” I said, glad to have something to talk about, “get a look at her.”

Celeste is a legend at Crown Hill. She has an incredible body and she loves to show it off. Every top she wears is skintight. All eyes were on her—boys' and girls'. Josh didn't break into a smile, but he did follow her as she moved past us.

She slowly walked the length of the cafeteria before she sat down and her beautiful body finally disappeared from public view. You could hear the whole room sigh and the ordinary sounds and conversation of lunch return. Somehow Celeste had broken the spell of silence that had fallen over us, too.

“Does she dress like that every day?” Josh asked.

“Pretty much,” I said. “Sometimes she wears less.”

He shook his head and whistled through his teeth.

I took a sip of my Coke. “What's the word?”

Josh grimaced. “Canning posted the depth charts.” He nodded toward Brandon Ruben, who was sitting at a center table laughing and joking with Colby Kittleson. “Ruben is starting.”

I stared for a while, but then Ruben's eyes caught mine and I looked back to Josh. His head was down again, and he was mechanically shoveling food into his mouth.

“You'll get your chance,” I said. “You've just got to be patient.”

Josh didn't look up, but I could see his mouth contort. “Spare me the pep talk, Ryan.”

“Listen,” I went on, ignoring what he'd said. “All you've got to do is wait for your chance. If it doesn't come this week, then it will come next. If not next week, then the week after. I know how bad you must feel, but it will come.”

I wasn't ready for what happened next. Josh's head snapped up and he glared at me, his eyes blazing, his index finger jabbing the air right in front of my face. ”
You
know how I feel!
You
know how I feel! What a joke! I put every ounce of myself on the field every single day. Every ounce. And I've done it for as long as I can remember. But you—you get one injury and you quit. You don't know how I feel, so don't tell me you do.”

I was so stunned I'm not sure I would have answered him even if I'd had the chance. But I didn't have the chance. He stood up so quickly his chair tipped over with a loud crash, and a second later he was gone—out the doors and into the main hallway.

The kids around me were staring. I don't know whether they'd heard what he'd said, or whether it was just the chair toppling over that made them look. My face was flushed and my heart was pounding, but I picked up my tray as though nothing had happened, walked over to the nearest trash can, and dumped it. The bell sounded. Everyone headed to afternoon classes. It felt good to blend in, to disappear.

I had American history and chemistry left. Mrs. Beck, the history teacher, had a bony, bird-like face and iron-gray hair. She peered down her glasses as she handed out twenty typed pages listing all the reading and writing assignments for the first semester. She told us ten times that she accepted no late work. “On time or zero! That's my motto.” You could hear the satisfaction in her voice as she said the word
zero.

The chemistry teacher, Mr. Woodruff, didn't look or act tough, but he didn't have to. Just flipping through the first five pages of that book convinced me I'd have some long nights ahead. But I was too numb from what had happened in the cafeteria to care.

When school ended, I went home and closed myself off in my room. I flicked on the radio and lay back and stared at the ceiling. Around four-thirty I heard the front door open and my mother come in from work. “Ryan, you home?” she called.

I went to the stairway. “I'm doing some reading.”

She smiled up at me. “I won't disturb you, then.”

My father came home a little later. I heard them talking together downstairs. He didn't come up at all.

I wanted to spend the whole evening in my room, but I couldn't have skipped dinner without facing the third degree, so I trudged downstairs.

My parents were both full of questions. “Your senior year! I can't believe how quickly the time has passed! Tell us all about it!” They wanted to know everything about my teachers—what they looked like, how hard and strict they were.

I couldn't work up any enthusiasm. Mentally I was back in the cafeteria, Josh's finger right in my face, his words striking like bullets. My answers were pretty short.

“Did something go wrong at school, Ryan?” my mother asked finally. “Was there trouble with gangs or something?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “There was no trouble with gangs.” I frowned. “I'm just not a little kid anymore, Mom. I don't like being checked up on.”

“We're not checking up on you,” my father said, stuffing a meatball into his mouth. “We're just asking you about your day.”

“You
are
checking up on me,” I shot back, working myself into a rage. “You want to find out about my classes. You want to make sure I do my work.” I paused. “Well, I've never flunked, have I?”

My mother put her fork down and stared at me. “Pretty touchy, aren't you?”

“I'm not touchy,” I insisted. “I just don't like being treated like a first grader.”

Her face went blank. “If you don't want us to ask any questions, we won't,” she said coolly.

“Well, I don't,” I said loudly, and as soon as I'd finished speaking I felt foolish for making a big deal out of almost nothing. But there was no backing down. “I can do my work without you checking on me.”

And to prove it I went to my room after dinner and started on Mrs. Beck's first history assignment even though it wasn't due for four days.

I'd been working twenty minutes when I heard the doorbell ring. I figured it was Greenpeace or somebody like that hitting up my parents for money. But then my mom called my name.

Downstairs I found Josh in the front room, a football in his hand, his lips pressed together tightly. “You want to go over to the Community Center, toss the ball around a little?” he asked.

It didn't take me any time at all to answer. “Yeah, sure,” I said, even though I'd vowed never to talk to him again. “Just let me get a sweatshirt.”

My mother followed me upstairs. “This is a school night, Ryan. What about your homework?”

“Oh, Mother,” I said. “It's the first day of school. I don't have any homework. Besides, you just said you weren't going to check on me.” I grabbed my sweatshirt and hurried past her down the stairs, and out the door.

I thought Josh was going to apologize, that that was why he'd come over. But as we walked to the Community Center we hardly talked at all, and what we said was nothing. Once we reached the field, we threw the football back and forth. His passes to me were on a line—hard, tight spirals. My throws back to him were lazy rainbows. It wasn't like baseball, where I was a real partner, but it was something.

At nine-thirty the field lights went off. There was nothing to do but go home. As we walked up our block, he spun the ball up into the air and caught it. “See you tomorrow,” he said as I turned up the walkway to my house.

“Yeah,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

I knew that asking me to throw the football around was Josh's way of apologizing. And it was okay, I guess. Besides, what had happened was partly my fault. He'd warned me to keep quiet, but I had rattled on.

Still, nothing could entirely erase what he'd said to me. It was as if I'd flipped over a shiny golden coin and discovered the other side was all pitted. I wanted to flip the coin right back and pretend I'd never seen the other side. But some things are hard to forget.