Pop (16 page)

M
arcus stared at the words on the EBU website. Stephanie and Elise Rogers? What about Charlie? Surely the King of Pop rated at least equal billing with a couple of nose-plug jockeys from 1988.

Of course, Charlie's response would have gone in late—good thing Marcus had gone to see Mac in Coltrane or the Popovich family never would have found out about the ceremony in the first place. The next time EBU updated its website, surely they'd be welcoming Charlie, too.

He sat back in the hard wooden library chair and peered through the window at the passing parade in the school hall. Quite a few eyes turned toward him, and there were plenty of smiles and waves. There was no question that he'd made an impact as a football player, even on the you-can't-improve-perfection Raiders. It still bugged him that he would never get a chance at quarterback when he was the best choice for the job. But there was plenty to be proud of besides throwing touchdown passes.

I love the pop!

He spied Alyssa among those who waved, but in her case, the gesture was accompanied by a lot of body English. If it was possible to hit on someone in half a second from the other side of reinforced safety glass, she aced it. A moment later, Chelsea entered his field of vision, in the company of a few sophomore girls. He tapped on the window to get her attention. She looked toward the source of the sound, nodded a very cursory greeting, and turned away quickly. He tapped again. This time she picked up her pace and hurried past.

Okay, he wasn't exactly at the top of the Popovich family Christmas card list. But there was something more. As he slid his chair back along the carpet, the web page headline swept into view … and he just knew.

Charlie's omission from the homecoming roster had nothing to do with a late acceptance. He hadn't been mentioned because he wasn't going.

Marcus raced out of the library just in time to see Chelsea disappear into the cafeteria.

He caught up with her in the food line and wasted no words. “You're not taking him.”

“Not here,” she mumbled under her breath.

“I can't think of a better place,” Marcus returned quietly but firmly. “Somewhere too public for the lecture about how this is none of my business.”

“It
is
none of your business,” she hissed.

Maybe, but he wasn't about to let it go—not with something this important on the line. “Explain it to me anyway.”

She abandoned her tray at the taco bar and headed to a deserted table.

Here it comes
, he thought.
She's really going to let me have it
.

Instead, she just said, “I'm sorry, Marcus.”

“I'm not the one you have to apologize to,” he told her. “That would be your dad.”

She reddened. “If we take him there, he won't understand. It'll just get him mixed up to the point where he could freak out in front of everybody.”

“You don't read minds,” Marcus argued. “No one can be one hundred percent certain what's going on in Charlie's head.”

“It's not up to me,” she said defensively. “It's up to my mom.”

“Are you sure it isn't up to Troy?”

“That's out of line!” she snapped. “I know you have a problem with my brother. I have a problem with him, too. But we're my dad's family, and you're not. A couple of months ago, you'd never even met Charlie Popovich. How dare you act like you know
one fiftieth
of what it's like to watch your father turn into a lost, helpless stranger?”

Marcus had no reply. She was one hundred percent right.

“It's a family decision,” Chelsea went on. “Mom thinks Daddy would just get upset. And you know what? I agree with her. Why drag him across the state for nothing?”

“Sorry to bug you,” Marcus mumbled stiffly. He left her to return to the taco bar and exited the cafeteria.

Okay, so Marcus had no business meddling in their family's crisis. And yet—

He knew Charlie in a way that neither his wife nor his children did. As Mac, he'd seen Charlie from a friend's perspective. Sure, the relationship was based on a fundamental misunderstanding. But that didn't mean it wasn't real. Too real—Marcus was facing criminal charges because he didn't want to rat Charlie out.

Over the past month, a lot of Charlie-and-Mac had seeped into Charlie-and-Marcus. Charlie and Mac had been kids together, football buddies, hell-raisers, closer than brothers. Now Charlie was about to miss out on the biggest honor of his life.

What would Mac do?

Chelsea said Charlie wouldn't understand the hall of fame induction. Maybe, maybe not. Marcus could sit in the cafeteria all day and debate the issue with her.

Or he could confront the one person who could provide the answer for real.

It felt strange to be in Three Alarm Park in the middle of the school day. Not that he had a huge guilt complex about ditching class. But he couldn't get past the thought that if Officer Deluca found him here now, he'd be arrested for truancy instead of the usual vandalism and harassment. That would certainly pad his bad-boy legend at school.

The park wasn't as empty as it had been during the summer. There were a few young mothers pushing babies in strollers, and an elderly couple chatting on a bench in the shadow of the Paper Airplane.
Remembrance
—what a name for the sculpture that marked his first meeting with a guy who couldn't remember at all.

No, that wasn't quite right. Charlie
did
remember. He remembered what still made the most sense to him—being young and wild and invincible, taking on the world with his best friend. Those memories were so pure and vivid that he believed he was still living them in the here and now.

Marcus had already made a few circuits on the Vespa, but there was no sign of his onetime football pal. Of course, it was a long shot to expect to find someone by running into him on the street. Still, he knew that Charlie, in his confusion, often spent his days prowling this area in search of something familiar.

Come on, Charlie, where are you?

Eventually, he knew, he'd have to go back to school. But before that, he decided to make one final run along Poplar Street toward Seneca Hill, where Charlie lived.

He hadn't left the park far behind when a commotion reached his ears. Angry voices filled the air around a bus parked at the curb on the corner. A small lineup of passengers shuffled impatiently as the driver ordered a tall, belligerent man off the bus.

A familiar voice announced, “I paid my quarter, and I'm entitled to my ride!”

“That's not a quarter, it's a walnut! And the fare's two bucks, mister!”

“Two bucks? What is this, a bus or a stretch limo?”

“It's neither!” roared the driver. “It's the shuttle to the outlet mall.”

Marcus leaned the Vespa against the fence and ran up. “Hey, what's going on?”

Charlie regarded him in irritation. “Back of the line, pal!”

The driver shot Marcus a desperate look. “You know this guy, kid? Is he your dad or something?”

“Or something,” Marcus acknowledged non-committally.

“You've got to get him some help,” the driver pleaded. “This isn't the first time he's done this. At least I'm used to him. If it happens on my day off, he could wind up at the outlet mall with no idea how to get home again.”

“Come on, Charlie,” Marcus said gently. “Let's go.”

“You don't tell me what to do!” Charlie protested. “I don't even know you!”

“Sure you do—I'm Mac.”

“Mac?” He looked a little less angry, a little less sure of himself.

Marcus reached further into his storehouse of topics that might trigger recognition. “Just be careful. Old Man Dingley's on the warpath.” He took a chance and grasped Charlie's arm.

Charlie allowed himself to be led down off the bus and along the sidewalk toward Three Alarm Park. As the scenery grew more familiar, he became animated.

“I say we take every nail in the store and dump it in the middle of the floor! Let him spend the rest of his life sorting.”

“Later,” Marcus promised. “Listen, I've got to ask you something.”

Charlie hopped up on a concrete bench and began to walk effortlessly along the narrow back. “Fire away.”

“Do you know what EBU is?”

“Sure.” The reply was instantaneous. “East Bumwipe, where I played my college ball.”

“Good times?” Marcus probed.

“The best. You were there.”

“That's right,” said Marcus, choosing his words with the utmost care. “We're the same age, right?”

“Three weeks apart,” Charlie confirmed, wobbling slightly before regaining his balance.

He thinks he's my age, yet he knows he had a college career. He sees no logical flaw in remembering university in the past while being in high school in the present
.

Things didn't have to make sense to make sense to Charlie.

Marcus took a deep breath. “One last thing. How would you feel about EBU inducting you into their sports hall of fame? Would you go back for the ceremony?”

The former linebacker jumped to the ground. “Are you kidding? What ballplayer wouldn't?”

Marcus turned it over and over in his mind, but the facts always lined up the same way:

Charlie
had
to be there for his hall of fame induction.

His family wasn't going to take him.

I have to get him there myself
.

It was no minor thing. For starters, Marcus would have to miss the Poughkeepsie West game, which everybody said was the most important matchup of the year. Worse, he couldn't even warn the team he'd be a no-show, for fear of inviting nosy questions. He'd worked so hard to carve out a spot for himself on the Raiders squad. He'd be putting all that in jeopardy.

As tough as that was going to be, it was small potatoes compared to the difficulty of disappearing for a whole day with a guy who had Alzheimer's. Definitely not the kind of stunt you could pull off without anybody noticing. The hall of fame ceremony was scheduled for halftime of the EBU homecoming football game. Even if they left right afterward, at the start of the third quarter, it would still be an absence of five hours, minimum. Charlie's family allowed him some freedom, but they'd begin to worry when he was gone for so long—just as they had worried the night of Luke's party. And when they realized where he was—and who he was with—well, then it was really going to hit the fan.

Like I'm not in enough trouble already!

Marcus couldn't even feign cluelessness. Chelsea had already told him the family's decision and the exact reasoning behind it. Payback was going to be a monster, especially if Mrs. Popovich called the police. Marcus's relationship with local law enforcement wasn't exactly the best. He could only hope that Charlie himself would back him up.

If Charlie even remembers the ceremony by the time we get home
...

He shook his head to clear it. It was reckless and stupid—and totally the right thing to do. It made no sense for Marcus. Yet
Marcus as Mac
had to deliver his “old friend” to EBU, and damn the consequences.

Deliver
was the operative word here. East Bonaventure was 110 miles away. Marcus couldn't ask a man with Alzheimer's to hang off the back of a Vespa all that way.

They needed another form of transportation. To borrow the car from Mom, he'd have to explain where he was going. And coming up with the right lie was beyond him at the moment. Besides, he couldn't risk her getting in trouble for this by providing the vehicle. That kind of mess would be Comrade Stalin's dream. He could have her declared an unfit parent—he'd threatened to do so often enough. Then the good comrade could sue for—
God forbid!
—custody.

But how else could he get Charlie to homecoming?

“Marcus!” exclaimed the hearty voice of James McTavish over the phone. “Good to hear from you! Did you get that little legal problem ironed out?”

“I'm working on it,” Marcus replied. “Listen, uh, Mac. You said you were thinking about going to EBU for homecoming and the ceremony. Is that still the plan?”

“Wouldn't miss it. Been thinking about the old days ever since you came to visit.”

Marcus cleared his throat carefully. “Any chance of Charlie and me catching a lift with you?”

Mac sounded surprised. “Charlie doesn't drive?”

“Not anymore,” Marcus replied. “Too much chance he might get lost, I guess. He could wind up three hundred miles from where he should be.”

“But surely his family wants to see him inducted?” Mac persisted. “His wife?”

“His son has a big football game that day,” Marcus explained, grateful for a little truth upon which to build his dishonesty. “They're working on a second perfect season. Kennesaw is obsessed with it.”