Pop (2 page)

Crash!

They didn't see it happen, but the sound was unmistakable. When they got to the fence, there sat the football: in the passenger seat of a Toyota Camry, clearly visible through the shattered side window.

“Great,” groaned Marcus. This definitely wasn't the introduction to the community he'd had in mind. “I guess we have to leave a note and offer to pay—”

Nothing could have prepared him for his companion's reaction to the crisis. Charlie took one look at the broken car window, vaulted the gate, and pounded down the street at an astonishing rate of speed. He never looked back. In fifteen seconds, he was simply a retreating dot.

Of all the strange things about a very strange person, this one had to take the prize. Here was the teenager, ready to own up and make restitution. And here was the mature adult, fleeing the scene like an irresponsible kid.

Last week, when the movers had unloaded the truck, Marcus's first act of unpacking had been to tape that clipping to his mirror. It was the one consolation for pulling up roots in the only place he'd known in sixteen years of life and laying them down in a completely different part of the country—he'd be going to a school with a first-class football program.

Mom had made that article from the
Kennesaw Advocate
the keystone of her sales pitch. By that time, she'd already known that the
Advocate
would be her new employer. Of course, her job as staff photographer was just how Barbara Jordan paid the bills. She had little interest in the inevitable prizewinning turnips and golf-ball-sized hailstones that dominated local news in a small town. She was putting together a book on the megalithic boulders scattered across upstate New York by the receding glaciers of the Ice Age. That was the reason behind their move to Kennesaw in the first place—pictures of rocks. The fact that it put fifteen hundred miles between them and Comrade Stalin—well, that was just gravy. When your ex was a control freak, distance was a good thing.

The good comrade, Marcus's father, had responded to the divorce with his usual flexibility. No joint custody, no weekend visits—just a laundry list of all the material advantages Marcus would enjoy if he forgot he'd ever had a mother. The Vespa had been the primo goodie on an almost irresistible menu. Stalin had even tried to demand it back when Marcus had opted to stay with Mom.
Classy
.

The purr of the Vespa's engine had become a bittersweet sound. Bitter because of the bike's role in the family breakup, and sweet because—well, it
was
pretty sweet. A Vespa was technically a scooter, but it could
move
. Back in Olathe, Marcus had earned himself three speeding tickets. Now he was speeding again, far from Kansas, with his bulky equipment bag balanced on his shoulders, streaking through town to Aldrich High School.

The sight of players on the field threw him. He'd called the athletic office three times to confirm the eleven-o'clock start. Yet here it was, only ten thirty, and a workout was already in progress.

He ditched the Vespa in the parking lot and took off at a run, heavy pads bouncing against his shoulders. Students were scattered around the sidelines and on the bleachers. On the field, coaches and trainers were leading the players through stretches and calisthenics. Good news. He hadn't missed much.

He turned to the first spectator he saw, a girl in a tank top and jean shorts. “Tryouts?”

He might as well have been asking about the nuclear launch security codes. Her expression was completely blank.

Undaunted, Marcus pulled aside a tall kid in pads and a scrimmage shirt. “Where's the sign-up table?”

The kid looked him over. “Don't know what you're talking about, man,” he said blandly, and jogged away.

Marcus stood by the entrance to the locker-room hut, frowning, when a brunette in a cheerleading outfit strode up to him, her pretty features hardened into an all-business expression.

“How long does it take to get a bag of footballs?” she demanded. In a single motion, she wrenched the duffel off his shoulder and unzipped. A sweat- and bleach-stained jockstrap tumbled out and fell at her feet.

She glared at Marcus. “Cute.”

“I think you've got me confused with somebody else,” Marcus told her. “I just came here to try out.”

A freckle-faced player whose body seemed like an endless pair of shoulders turned around. “You sure you're in the right place, man?”

“Let me guess—you're just field-testing your Halloween costume, then?” Marcus returned, a little annoyed.

Another Raider stepped forward, his helmet under his arm—a classic all-American pose. It was obvious from the deference shown by the other students that this newcomer was Big Man on Campus. His scrimmage jersey bore the number seven, which, coupled with the respect he commanded, almost certainly designated him as the quarterback.

Self-consciously, Marcus plucked his cup off the turf and stuffed it back in the bag.

“Is that how you win friends and influence people?” the QB asked Marcus.

Marcus took a deep breath. “I don't want a fight. I'm just looking for the tryouts.”

“You found them—sort of.”

“Well, where do I sort of check in?”

“We went eleven and oh last season,” Number Seven told him.

“I heard about that.”

“We only lost four seniors, and we replaced them with backups who are just as strong.”

“You're good,” Marcus concluded.

“If you were us, would you be making changes?”

“That depends,” Marcus said. “If you've got somebody better, why not?”

Number Seven's eyes flashed. “And that's supposed to be you?”

Marcus shrugged. “That's why you have tryouts. To pick the best.”

“You're looking at him,” Number Seven stated flatly.

“You'll have to forgive Troy,” the cheerleader put in sarcastically. “He's overcome with his own magnificence.”

Troy cast her a warning glare, and she smiled back sweetly. Marcus upgraded his first impression. Pretty was an understatement. She was a knockout.

With effort, he tore his eyes off her. “I'm not saying you're no good,” he told Troy. “I'm just saying I should have a shot.”

The endless shoulders got in Marcus's face. “Last year's eleven-and-oh season was thanks to Troy! His old man—”

“Shut up, Kevin,” Troy interrupted.

Kevin backed off, but he didn't back down. “We've got a chance at another perfect season! We're not risking that because of some newbie.”

“What's going on here?” bawled a voice with the tone and timbre of a buzz saw. Coach Barker muscled into the group. “Football is played with hands, feet, and body. The only time your mouth is open is so you can stick your guard in!”

“Got a wannabe here, Coach,” Troy said apologetically.

The coach was an ordinary-sized man with a massive head that made him resemble an Easter Island monument. It pivoted on his slender neck until his sharp gaze was focused on Marcus.

“What's your name, son?”

“Marcus Jordan. I just moved here a couple of weeks ago. I'll be a junior.”

The coach sized him up. “What's your experience?”

“I QB'd junior varsity at my old school in Kansas. Set a county record for total yards.”

“A
JV
record,” Troy pointed out.

Marcus addressed the coach. “I know you have a tight-knit unit, and I'm not trying to mess that up. I just want a chance to show what I can do.”

“I'm always looking for new talent,” Barker agreed. “Tell you what. We'll set a time for you to work out with the JV squad. If you're as good as you say, you'll play JV this season. Then, next year, it'll be wide-open for you after these guys graduate in June.”

Marcus shook his head. “If I can hack it now, I shouldn't have to wait.”

“It's a public school, Coach,” the cheerleader noted.

Troy snorted. “Yeah, you've gotten to be such a football expert from shaking your butt!”

“You never complained,” she shot right back.

“All right, fair enough,” the coach decided. “Suit up, and we'll give you a spin.”

“But Coach—”

Barker's face flamed red. “Doesn't anybody do what I say anymore? Get back on the field! I want to see wind sprints.” He turned to the cheerleader. “Alyssa, show Marcus where he can change.”

“With pleasure,” she announced, directing a pointed grin at Troy. She took Marcus by the hand and led him into the low hut that housed the locker rooms.

Marcus looked down at the spectacle of her fingers intertwined with his. “Sounds like you and Troy know each other pretty well.” An over-the-shoulder glance confirmed that the quarterback was doing more glowering than sprinting.

“We're kind of on again, off again,” she admitted blithely. “And on again. And off again. You get the picture.”

He did. “How about right now?”

“Right now I'm staying away from stuck-up quarterbacks who think they own the world.” She cast him a look that threatened to melt the fillings in his teeth. “But I'm keeping an open mind.”

She kicked loudly at a door marked
HOME
and yelled, “If it's hanging out, cover it up! I'm coming in!” She marched him into the deserted locker room.

Marcus tossed his bag on the bench and waited for Alyssa to leave so he could change. Instead, she made herself at home on the bench.

“I double as equipment manager. So if you've got any equipment you want me to manage… I'm
kidding
!” She laughed, seeing him blush. “A yokel like you is going to get eaten alive at DNA. What brings you to our little moonscape?”

Marcus shrugged his shoulder pads on over his T-shirt. “My mom's a photographer. This area's important to a book she's working on.”

“And your dad?”

“Out of the picture.” He studied the pockmarks on the concrete floor. “I have to take off my pants now.”

“Buzz kill,” she grumbled, heading for the door.

Marcus tried not to watch her go—and failed.

Don't get distracted
, he admonished himself. He had his tryout, but it was obvious nobody wanted him here, not even the coach. If he didn't star in the next few minutes, he'd never see the inside of this locker room again.

Outside the hut, he found Alyssa waiting for him. Troy was with her, and the two were in the middle of a whispered argument.

“I could jump his bones in the parking lot and you'd have nothing to say about it!” she was hissing. “You broke up with me, remember?”

Troy noticed Marcus at last. “Come on, hotshot. They're ready for you.”

Coach Barker started with Marcus throwing to receivers running basic patterns across the field. Tight end Luke Derrigan failed to reach out to gather in a pass that came down eighteen inches in front of him. Calvin Applegate had to slow his post pattern to nearly a walk so he could avoid the next one falling into his arms. Ron Rorschach, the halfback, was actually struck in the chest letter high while his arms dangled at his sides.

“Guess it's not your day,” Troy commented with false sympathy.

Marcus swallowed a sarcastic retort. The last thing he wanted was for the coach to see him trashing his own receivers, but it was pretty obvious what was going on here. Not a single pass was going to be completed today, and it was going to be the quarterback's fault.

Barker looked on contemplatively. “The attack of butterfingers seems to be contagious.”

“It's easy to get stale in the off-season,” Marcus offered lamely.

“You're not stale,” the coach observed.

“I've been working out on my own,” Marcus replied. “And with—a friend,” he added with a strange smile, remembering Charlie at Three Alarm Park. The smile disappeared abruptly. What kind of grown man was so cheap that he would stiff a teenager rather than pay his share of one little broken window? Now Marcus would be stuck with the whole tab. The damaged Camry was no longer parked in the same spot, and its owner had not yet responded to Marcus's note. But he would, of course. And then Marcus would be out hundreds of dollars he didn't have.

The coach raked his players with a wave of hot lead. “We're going to do it again, and this time, consider it a tryout for all your jobs. Take a look at Jordan and tell me any of you are so good you can't be replaced.” He stared down a protest from Troy. “Can it, Popovich. I know who calls the shots with these sheep. You think I'm blind
and
stupid?”