The Islanders (25 page)

“These are supposed to be the best years of our lives,” Aisha said.

“God, I hope not,” Nina heard Claire mutter.

“At least you guys are all seniors,” Nina said. “It will be over for you soon. I'll still be trapped here in bizzaro world for an extra year.”

“You're all looking at it the wrong way,” Benjamin said. “High school never goes away. Stupid teachers become stupid professors become stupid bosses. One set of inexplicable rules and regulations gets traded for another set. Cramped, stuffy classrooms become cramped, stuffy offices. Face it. There's no escape.”

“I'll be killing myself now,” Nina said.

“You're being awfully philosophical tonight,” Claire said.

“I may have eaten too many Jolly Ranchers,” Benjamin said with a sly grin. “Sugar depression.”

On the field, Mr. Hardcastle was using the word
tradition
for
the tenth time in three minutes. He began introducing alumni from the stands. A guy who had graduated in 1959 and now owned a string of oil and lube shops. An old woman who had graduated some time during the Jurassic period and was now the style editor for the newspaper.

“Too bad Christopher had to miss all this magnificence,” Nina said.

Aisha smiled. “I guess being in the hospital isn't all bad.”

“When's he going to bust out of there?”

“He's getting out Sunday, although he won't exactly be doing cartwheels for a while.”

“Damn,” Nina said. “And I know how he loves cartwheels. I can help you guys do his papers tonight. Claire will help, too. Isn't that right, Claire?”

Claire nodded glumly.

“I'll drive,” Benjamin offered.

“Oh, here we go. The big moment,” Nina said.

The band began a staccato drumroll that rose and fell on the breeze, sometimes sounding like nothing more than a flag snapping in the wind.

“The first runner-up for Weymouth High School homecoming queen is . . .”

“That's it, drag it out, Hardcastle,” Nina said.

“. . . Zoey Passmore!”

“Hey, she came in second. Cool,” Benjamin said. “Any more coffee?”

Nina unscrewed the thermos bottle. “Yeah, if it turns out
Penthouse
magazine has nude pictures of K-burger, then Zoey will take over the official duties, whatever they may be.”

“Is Jake jumpy or is it just my imagination?” Aisha asked.

“The first runner-up for Weymouth High School homecoming king is . . .”

“Just in case they also have nude photos of Lucas.”

“. . . Tad Crowley!”

Nina noticed that Claire actually looked disappointed Jake hadn't won the number-two slot. Nina rolled her eyes. Amazing. Claire was acting like it mattered. “Could this be any more bogus? We all know who the winners are; the only suspense was over the runners-up.”

“And the new homecoming king is . . .”

The drumroll swelled.

“Lucas Cabral!” Nina yelled out. “But I'm just guessing.”

Mr. Hardcastle's face fell as the sound of Nina's shout carried down to the grandstand. But he went ahead as though nothing had happened. “. . . Lucas Cabral.”

“I heard that name somewhere before,” Nina said.

Benjamin nudged her in the side. “Together on the next one.”

Nina grinned and elbowed Aisha. There was a tittering sound from the people close by. Obviously a number of people had the same idea.

“And the new Weymouth High School homecoming queen is . . .”

“LOUISE KRONENBERGER!” a hundred voices yelled. “BUT WE'RE JUST GUESSING.”

AFTER THE HALFTIME CEREMONY WAS
over and Jake was back in his pads and jersey, he went into a toilet stall to do a few more lines. His conscience was now only a whisper in the back of his brain as he tapped the powder out in the crease of a folded piece of pasteboard and used a rolled-up dollar bill as a straw. The initial buzz had begun to wear off and he wanted to hit the field at absolute maximum velocity.

As the team trotted back out to the field he made a race of it, challenging his teammates to catch him and signaling that he was back. Back in a major way.

The very first play was a pass. Fitz had overthrown, as usual, but Jake leapt, got two fingers on the ball, brought it tumbling down, and caught it as he fell for a first down.

A roar went up from the crowd, and an answering roar went through him. This was more like it. He was back in control. He could barely wait for the next play.

In the third quarter the Weymouth team brought the score
to within ten points. By the end of the game they were within a point.

They had still lost, but the humiliating first half had been wiped away. And back in the locker room after the game, the mood was more upbeat than it had been at halftime.

“What the hell,” Lars Ehrlich said, “we nearly won and they had linemen big enough to be in the NFL. Did you see that number thirty-two? The guy's a truck.”

“This is true,” someone else agreed. “Nobody ever expected us to win.”

“If you'd played the first half like you played the second half, McRoyan, we
would
have won.” Fitz was not ever one to accept a loss gracefully. Normally, neither was Jake. But this was about more than just winning. His own personal honor had been at stake. If he hadn't gotten his act together at the end, the whole school, hell, the whole town, would have pointed to him as the one who blew it. Now at least some self-respect had been salvaged.

Still, Jake was feeling desperately weary, despite the stinging hot shower. More tired than he remembered ever feeling. Too tired to want to go out and celebrate the near-upset with the guys, though a semi-official party had been organized. It was a party for football players and cheerleaders and it would mean rehashing the game half the night.

Only a small amount of the coke was left in his locker, but it ought to be enough to buy him another hour of energy, enough to get to the ferry and home. He went to his locker and slid the vial into the pocket of his jeans.

Then he felt something strange. A circle of silence had formed around him. He looked up guiltily and saw his coach, wearing the grim expression that had silenced the locker room.

“Hey, Coach,” he said warily.

“McRoyan, we have a little problem.”

Jake shrugged. “I know, I blew the first half.”

“Yes, you did, but that's not our only problem. The Bangor coach thinks you had an amazing recovery during half time.”

Now the room was dead silent. Jake closed his locker door, a deafening noise.

“Must have been the pep talk you gave us,” Jake said.

The coach tilted his head and focused sharply. “The Bangor coach wonders if maybe it wasn't more than a pep talk. He's made a formal request that you be given a drug test.”

Jake felt his stomach lurch. He glanced at Lars, but Lars was looking down at the floor. Jake forced a heavy laugh. “He's nuts, Coach. You know I'm not into that stuff.”

“Look, Jake,” the coach said, kindly for him, “here's the deal: I can't force you to take the test—”

“I have nothing to hide,” Jake protested wildly.

“Now, listen to me. Listen to me closely. Are you listening?”

Jake nodded. He could feel the hard knot of the vial in his pocket. His heart was thudding like a sledgehammer in his chest.

“If you agree to take a urine test and it comes up negative, okay. If it comes up positive for any controlled substance, you're off the team permanently. Do you follow me so far?”

“Yes, sir,” Jake murmured.

“However, you can refuse to take the test, in which case I will have to suspend you from the team until you agree to take a test. Are you getting this? If you test positive now, you're gone. If you refuse the test, hey, maybe next week you have a change of heart. You take the test, you pass, you're back on the team. Is that clear?”

It was clear. His coach was telling him to refuse. Refuse until the drug was out of his system. But it would mean admitting his guilt. No one would have the slightest doubt as to why he had refused.

“I think drug tests are bull,” Fitz said, unexpectedly coming to Jake's defense. “They ought to be unconstitutional.”

“The school board doesn't give a rat's ass about the Constitution,” the coach said. “This is
their
policy, although personally I'll tell you right now any athlete who thinks he's going to improve his performance over the long run with drugs is just a
fool. Make your choice, McRoyan.”

Jake raised his head and tried to look his coach in the eye. But he found himself staring off over the heads of everyone around him. His face burned. His hands felt clammy. His pulse was racing, though whether it was from anxiety or the lingering effects of the cocaine, he couldn't tell.

“I don't think I'll take the test, Coach.”

The coach nodded grimly. “I kind of thought that might be your decision. You're suspended for a week. If you can pass a test then, I'll put you back on the team.”

“Yes, sir,” Jake said.

“Everyone gets one free mistake in my book. But don't pull this again, McRoyan. Whatever the damned school board policy,
my
policy is I don't have druggies on my team.”

Jake left the gym with the burning feeling of eyes following him. He dodged around the moving mass of people heading out toward the parking lot, some in high spirits, others rehashing the game, parents trying to be cool with their kids, and their kids wishing the parents would just go home so they could take off to the dozen or more parties already under way.

One or two yells followed him, derisive remarks from some, a more encouraging cry from someone else, but he didn't acknowledge anyone. He pushed on through, trying to get as
far away from them all as quickly as he could.

He had lost the game. That was the fact. And he had been suspended for suspicion of drug use. If he didn't clear the next drug test, this would go on his permanent record, and no college, not even the humble Maine schools he'd applied to as safeties, would be interested in a known druggie athlete.

He fished in his pocket for the vial of cocaine and blindly threw it into the bushes.

He ran toward the dock, realizing even as he ran that he had no good choices. His parents would probably take the water taxi back to the island. His friends—and Claire—would all be on the ferry. He couldn't avoid them all.

He needed time to think. He needed to disappear somewhere for a while, wait for the water taxi's last run, after his parents were safely gone.

Suddenly, down the street, came a loud group of kids, a mix of seniors and juniors. Some he knew fairly well, like Tad Crowley. Others he knew only by sight.

“Hey, yo, big Jake!” Tad yelled. “What's up, man?”

Jake shrugged. “Not much.”

“You want to party? My mom's out with her boyfriend and we have . . .
obtained
. . . a keg.”

Tad was obviously pretty well lit already, Jake realized. They weren't exactly in the same circle, and if Tad weren't
feeling unnaturally expansive, he never would have invited Jake over. Still, it was a place to hang for a while. And a couple of brews would take the edge off.

Tad Crowley's home was an apartment in an old, four-story brick building right in the quaint Portside section of Weymouth. Jake was able to lean out of the window and see the ferry landing. Perfect. Easy, downhill walking distance to the water taxi.

Inside, the lights were low and the stereo was cranked up on some old Grateful Dead. Jake found the keg resting in the kitchen sink on a pile of slushy ice. Louise Kronenberger was bent at the waist, her lips wrapped around the tap, swallowing while a handful of other people stood around counting, “Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen . . .”

At twenty Louise broke away and came up for air, gasping and giggling and looking flushed. Tad Crowley started to take her place, but then he noticed Jake. “Hey, your turn, man; you've got to need it more than me, running around all night and all.”

Jake squatted and took the tap in his mouth. He pressed the lever and the cool beer began to flow while the crowd began a count. At twenty-nine he came up for air, feeling bleary and giddy.

That was better. Much better. He sat down heavily on a couch and sighed in relief. This music wasn't his favorite kind of
stuff usually, but it sounded cool right now. Laid back, and that's what he needed. He needed to relax.

He began rubbing at a sore spot on his thigh where one of the Bangor linemen had nailed him hard with his helmet.

“You hurt yourself?” Louise sat beside him. Close beside him. She was wearing a skirt that rode up as she squirmed to make herself comfortable.

“Just a bruise,” Jake said. The thick sound of his voice was funny. He smiled broadly.

“Caught a buzz yet?”

“Either that or my mouth just stopped working,” he said.

“We wouldn't want that,” Louise said. “So. Jake McRoyan partying with all us lowlifes. Aren't the Virgin Islanders having a private party tonight?” She laughed appreciatively at her own joke.

Jake stared at her legs. When she moved, he could see a flash of her white panties.

“I'm thirsty again,” he said.

“Me too. What a coincidence.”

“Too bad I can't walk,” he joked.

Louise stood up. She swayed as she reached for his hand and pretended to be hauling him to his feet.

“Uh-oh, Louise found herself some new meat,” a laughing voice said from somewhere.

Jake stood up, spread his arms to gain his balance, and followed Louise to the kitchen.

“What did I do last time?” Louise wondered, wrinkling her brow with concentration. “Twenty. This time, twenty-one. You count, okay?”

Jake kept count as well as he could, but he repeated fifteen twice, which brought Louise up sputtering in hysterics. “You're lucky you have a really, really great body,” she said. “‘Cause you can't count worth a damn.”

Jake bent to the tap. This time neither of them kept count. Jake drank till his lungs burned from lack of air. When he stood up, the world was reeling.

“Now . . .'m buzz,” he said. “‘S go siddown.”

He took a wobbly step back toward the living room, but somehow he didn't reach the couch. Instead, he realized, he'd come to be lying on his back on an unmade bed. Louise was beside him. She was undoing the buttons on his shirt, her fingers fumbling.

“‘ts goin' on?” he asked.

Louise didn't answer. She finished opening his shirt and began running her hands and lips over his chest. Her fingers felt like ice, but her mouth was hot on his.

Jake squinted, trying to focus. The coke had worn off completely, leaving a weariness that had been deepened by the beer.
He felt barely awake, in some halfway state between consciousness and nothingness. “Claire?” he asked.

“Yeah, it's Claire,” a girl's voice said, laughing.

Jake nodded, closing his eyes. “Love you.”