Pop (5 page)

T
he classroom numbers at David Nathan Aldrich High School defied the laws of science.

Marcus followed the progression: 238 … 239 … 240… B-611? Confused, he stared from the schedule in his hand to the number over the door and back to the schedule again. History was supposed to be meeting in room 241. Where was that? Up on the roof?

“Very hot—kind of Lost Puppy meets Dumb Jock.”

Alyssa appeared at his elbow, all sympathy.

Her presence brought out a definite nervousness in Marcus. What could you make of a girl who could flirt with you one minute and criticize the cadence of your snap count the next? He could still feel her arms around his midsection from their Vespa ride—or was that just wishful thinking?

“I'm having a little trouble with the layout of the building,” he admitted.

She nodded in understanding. “All the new kids stall out at B-611. I figured I'd find you here sooner or later.”

“Are you going to tell me where to go or what?”

She laughed. “I'll leave that to Troy. He's dying for the chance to tell you where to go.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Marcus muttered.

Alyssa shook her head. “Don't blame me. Football's a zero-sum game. More wannabes than positions. Your success always costs some other guy his job.”

“Yeah, well, Troy is job security personified,” Marcus complained. “The players take their orders from Troy, not from the coach. And even
he
wishes I'd play JV and make everybody's life easier.”

“You don't know what it was like last season.”

He was disgusted. “Sacrilegious as it may seem, the Raiders aren't the only high school squad that ever won a championship.”

She was patient. “When you love a team—I mean
really
love it—your whole life is about two words:
if only
. If only Kevin could get bigger; if only Luke could get faster; if only Ron could stop fumbling. Some of it's coaching, but mostly it's an act of God. Last year, the Raiders hit the
if only
jackpot. All our potential cashed in at the same time—especially Troy. He rewrote the record book. Even better, most of our
if only
s were juniors, so ninety percent of them are back. Now enter this kid on a goofy scooter, saying he's better than the team that went eleven and oh—”

“I never said that!” Marcus interrupted hotly.

“In their minds you did. These guys have put so much pressure on themselves that
everything
is about them and their season.”

Marcus was already sick of hearing about the Raiders' chance at history. Wasting precious Alyssa time on the subject was a crime against humanity. “So where
is
Troy? You're with me, so I assume he's watching from a distance. Or is it enough if he hears about it from a third party?”

She bristled. “Is that what you think this is?” She pulled him into room B-611, stood up on her toes, and kissed him.

“There,” she breathed. “No P.R. value at all.”

The lights came on suddenly, and someone entered the room, catching them with their arms wrapped around each other.

The girl glared at them in disapproval. “You have got to be kidding me!”

“This is none of your business, Chelsea,” Alyssa said defensively. “You know Troy and I broke up.”

“For which minute?” Chelsea sneered. “Oh, sorry—it only takes you that long to find somebody new.” She looked scornfully at Marcus. “Do you know who you're dealing with? Or can't you get past the pom-poms and the short skirt?”

“
You're
someone to lecture
me
on the rules of dating,” Alyssa accused, “considering you've never gone out with anybody in your life.”

“Yeah, and if being like you and Troy is what I have to look forward to,” Chelsea shot back, “then I never want to.” She wished Marcus a sarcastic “Good luck—you'll need it!” and stormed out.

“Who's that?” he asked.

“Chelsea Popovich.”

“Troy's sister?”

She nodded grimly. “Not one of my fans.”

Chelsea was obviously just showing loyalty to her jilted brother. Marcus thought back to what Ron had said that day at practice:
You could set your watch by their breakups
.

“Are you and Troy really broken up, or is this—you know—part of the dance?”

She reddened. “It did happen that way a couple of times. But a few months ago, Troy
changed
. It wasn't only with me. He got just as weird with his friends. Troy's house used to be the hangout spot. Now he's always on his own. Maybe it's the stress of trying to repeat this season....” She made a face. “You know, Marcus, you're a dope. Do you really think talking about this is going to get you any action?”

The second bell rang. They were both officially late.

He had to ask. “Action…?”

She pointed out the door. “Room 241—three doors down, after the custodian's closet.”

K.O. Pest Control was a storefront operation on Poplar Street, which bordered the east side of Three Alarm Park.

Marcus propped his bike on its kickstand and approached the entrance gingerly. The giant metal cockroach that hung over the front door wasn't exactly welcoming. But the needle-nosed face that appeared was even less so.

“You! What do you want?”

Marcus held out a white envelope containing his mother's check for $310 in payment for the broken window. “I brought your money, Mr. Oliver. Like I said before, sorry about what happened.”

The exterminator tore open the seal and examined the contents carefully. “I hope this is better than the telephone number you gave me.”

Marcus swallowed an angry retort.
This guy may be an idiot, but he didn't ask to have his window broken
.

“Anyway, I'm glad there are no hard feelings.”

“You kids kill me,” Oliver snarled. “It's no big deal to bust things up, but when it's time to pay for what you've done, you run straight to Mommy.”

Marcus took a deep breath. “Well, I don't have that kind of money, so if you want to get paid, you'd better take it from my mom.”

“Are you trying to be smart with me?” Oliver demanded.

“I can't believe you!” Marcus finally exploded. “I could have run away after I broke your window! But I did the right thing—and now you're
insulting
me for it?”

“You punk!” the exterminator roared. “Get away from my place of business. Who do you think you are? I never want to see you—”

From out of nowhere, a clod of earth sailed through the air and made violent contact with the giant metal cockroach over the door. It exploded into a million pieces, raining dirt and bits of grass down on Kenneth Oliver. He glared at Marcus in outrage.

“You can't blame that on me,” Marcus defended himself. “I'm standing right here in front of you.”

“You think I'm stupid?” the exterminator sputtered. “You lousy kids run in packs! For all I know, every tree on this block has one of your delinquent friends crouched behind it!”

“What friends?” Marcus demanded. “Everyone in town is about as welcoming as
you
!” And he stormed away, boiling with fury. If he stuck around, he'd only end up with Officer Deluca again. Sixteen years in Olathe had produced fewer ugly confrontations than Marcus had experienced during less than a month in photogenic Kennesaw.

Troy and his minions were bad enough, but this guy Oliver was a new low. How paranoid did you have to be to believe that Marcus had packed the street with hidden accomplices preparing to unleash an artillery barrage of dirt bombs?

“Mac—over here.”

“Huh?” Marcus looked around. There, concealed in the brush at the edge of Three Alarm Park, was Charlie.

Instantly, he knew whose unerring arm had thrown the missile.

“What were you doing over there with Old Man Dingley?” Charlie whispered loudly.

“Paying for the window
you
broke,” Marcus shot back. “And who's Dingley? The guy's name is Kenneth Oliver. Your half comes to a hundred and fifty-five bucks, by the way.”

“No problem,” Charlie said airily.

“Yes problem. My mom laid out that cash, and she has to get paid back. It doesn't have to be this minute, but it has to be.”

“Done,” Charlie murmured absently, but his eyes never left Kenneth Oliver's storefront across the street. “That guy needs to be taught a lesson.”

“I got hauled in by the cops because of him. Do me a favor—no more bombing his pest-control shop.”

“Pest control,” Charlie mused. “That makes it easy. We'll sugar him.”

Marcus was dubious. “Sugar him?”

Charlie nodded. “He's a bug killer. Let's give him some bugs to kill.”

The next thing he knew, Marcus was following Charlie down the condiment aisle of the supermarket, his arms laden. “Okay, we've got honey, molasses, and chocolate syrup. What's next?”

“Sugar,” Charlie replied, hefting a large bag. “Ten pounds ought to do it.”

“Ten pounds!” Marcus echoed. “We'll attract every insect in the state!”

The older man shrugged. “I'm sure there are a couple of stink bugs in Syracuse who won't bother making the trip.”

Marcus started for the checkout counter, but he already knew no money would be changing hands. The cashier made a few notes and waved him along after Charlie, who was already striding through the automatic door.

Bearing their purchases, they retreated to the park to wait for Kenneth Oliver to close up shop for the day. They had no football with them, so the workout consisted purely of hitting. It was brutal, and yet there was a beautiful simplicity to it—the jarring collision of muscle on muscle, bone on bone. Marcus was never wide-awake like he was when he felt that full-speed contact. Not even when throwing a touchdown pass.

It was only during their brief breaks that Marcus allowed his gaze—and his doubts—to settle on the supermarket bags leaning against the
Remembrance
sculpture. Why would a grown man get involved in somebody else's payback prank? Involved, hell—this whole thing was Charlie's idea! What was in it for him?

At the same time, he felt strangely honored that his companion was so dead set on revenge on his behalf. Did the guy consider the two of them such good friends that any insult to Marcus was an insult to Charlie, too? There was nothing halfway about the way they played football together. But beyond that, they were strangers separated by four decades.

Marcus couldn't shake the feeling that this was probably a
very
bad idea. He ought to back away. Yet, at the close of the afternoon, he found himself crouched in the bushes beside Charlie, watching as the exterminator locked the front door of the shop, got into his Toyota, and drove off.

“All right,” Marcus announced. “You're the big expert on sugaring. How do we do this?”

Charlie had the whole thing planned out in the time it took them to cross the street from Three Alarm Park. First he removed the weather stripping that sealed the bottom of the door. Then he squeezed a long line of honey across the crack.

Marcus watched, fascinated. The man worked with the delicate touch of a surgeon, but there was something more—an athlete's ability to focus with unwavering concentration. Charlie sugared a store with the same tunnel vision he brought to his beloved “pops.” His lively blue eyes gleamed with purpose.

Next, he painted the bottom of the door with molasses, all the way to the mail slot, which he propped open with a Popsicle stick.

In spite of everything, Marcus had to smile. “Pretty slick.”

“Are you kidding?” Charlie chortled. “We haven't even got to the chocolate sauce yet.”

That was next, fanning out from the door in long trails. One curled around the side of the building into the weedy lot behind. Another went across the street, where it broke into tributaries leading into Three Alarm Park. A third led straight down the sewer in the middle of the road.

“What if somebody sees us?” Marcus asked nervously. There were a few people around, but no one was close enough to get much of a look at what they were doing.

Charlie was unperturbed as he worked the squeeze bottle. “Let them.”

Marcus could only marvel at his unflappability. This wasn't the kind of tab his wife could stop by and settle up. Sure, it wasn't international terrorism, but Marcus knew one exterminator who was going to be seriously bent out of shape over this.

As they retraced the lines back to the front door, Marcus sprinkled sugar over the chocolate stripes.

“Not too much,” Charlie advised. “We don't want it to be too delicious out here. We want to lead them inside for the main banquet.” He took the sugar bag from Marcus, inserted the pouring spout into the mail slot, and dumped the remainder of the ten pounds inside the store.