Three-Point Play (3 page)

Chop plucked a french fry from the platter that sat between them. “So, dawg,” he began, “that explains the sad dreams. What about the bad dreams?”

Cody whistled through his teeth. “I'm not even sure where to start on that subject. I mean, do you realize that it's less than a month before my dad and Beth get married? It didn't seem quite real when they first told me. But now that they've set a date, December second, I realize it's actually going to happen. It's just too weird: Beth is going to be living in
my
house. Cooking with my mom's pots and pans and stuff. Sleeping in my mom's bed. She wants to be a parent to me. I don't know how I'm gonna handle that. I don't even know what I'm supposed to call her. Dad wants me to call her Mom already. He gets mad when I call her Beth. Or just plain old You.

“Why don't you take my suggestion? Call her Backup Mama?”

Cody laughed sadly. “Yeah, right.” He sat back in his side of the booth and let himself slouch. His mom, Linda Martin—his real mom—would have corrected him immediately for that. “You have a nice, straight spine,” she used to say. “Please use it.”

He stared at the pink bubbles in his shake cup. He felt Chop studying him and looked up.

“What else is eating you, dawg?” Chop said. “I can tell there's more on your mind.”

“It's gonna sound stupid—”

Chop was smiling. “Code, last week at lunch I heard Gannon saying he was learning to like
tofu
as much as steak—and lemongrass tea as much as root beer! You really think you can top that?”

Cody stirred his shake, recalling the nightmares that invaded his sleep almost every night. A hulking thug named Gabe Weitz standing at the foot of his bed laughing and brandishing a tire iron. Weitz lining up against him in football. Weitz popping up from the backseat of a car and choking him from behind.

Pork Chop pounded a thick fist on the table, rattling the silverware and jarring Cody from his thoughts. His smile was impatient. “Spill it, Code. And I don't mean your shake.”

“It's Weitz, okay? I can't get the dude outta my head.”

Pork Chop frowned. “Uh, Weitz is dead. Look, I know he put us through heck for almost a whole year—trying to beat us down, breaking into your house, trying to run you down in his Loser-Mobile. But all that is over. People don't survive encounters with big trucks. And I know you don't believe in ghosts, so what's the problem?”

Cody leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and sandwiched his head between his hands. “It's just that I don't know where Weitz is—you know what I mean?”

Chop arched his eyebrows. “Uh, I can show you exactly where he is. Just follow me over to Grant Cemetery. You know, I've thought about going over there and taking a leak on his grave—”

“—Chop! Stop, okay?” Cody was surprised at the anger in his voice. “First of all, you just don't do that to someone's grave, you know? C'mon, you're better than that. And, second of all, I didn't mean that I don't know where his body is. I'm talkin' about his soul.”

Chop waved a hand dismissively in front of his face. “That dude had no soul.”

Cody looked his friend in the eyes. He hoped Chop could see the sincerity, the earnestness he felt. “Chop,
everybody
has a soul.”

Chop appeared to be considering the statement. “Well,” he began slowly, “look at it this way, then. I'm not sure I agree with you about the whole heaven and hell thing, but if there is a hell, Weitz's sorry soul is definitely there. In the Extra Hot and Smoky section. That's what he deserves.”

Ah, Chop
, Cody thought,
sometimes I think you're so close to understanding what's what, but other times it seems like where you're at and where truth is are a million miles away.

Chop was studying him again. Cody had seen the same expression on his friend's face when the two of them watched game tapes: the intense eyes, the creased forehead, the tightly pursed lips. “You gotta agree with me,” Chop said after about a minute of silence. “You gotta admit that if anybody ever earned himself an all-expense paid trip to Hades Acres, it's Gabe Weitz. Dawg, you should feel good about that. If Weitz is roasting his toes in the underworld, justice has been served.”

Cody shook his head, slowly, sadly. “Chop—you just don't get it. If Weitz didn't get right with God before he died, that's sad. That's a tragedy.”

Chop belched. “You gotta be trippin'. Are you forgetting that, a few minutes before he died, he was trying to turn you into 140 pounds of roadkill?”

Cody finished his milk shake with a shiver. He wasn't sure if it was the cold beverage or the recollection of what happened along Highway 6 a month ago that was responsible. Ever since that day, when Weitz had apparently tried to run him down, he couldn't avoid whipping his head around whenever he heard a vehicle approaching from behind. And he could never watch a fiery car crash on TV without picturing Weitz's old Nissan truck cartwheeling off the road.

“Code,” Chop said, interrupting his thoughts again, “I'm still waitin' for an answer. Tell me that after Weitz wrecked and you ran for help that you didn't consider just leavin' him to bleed out in his truck.”

Cody felt himself teetering on the edge of tears. He wasn't sure why. He took a deep breath before he answered. “Chop, I promise I never considered that. I did think it was weird that I was running like crazy down the road trying to find help for my archenemy. But I knew what I had to do—what God wanted me to do. But I wasn't most concerned about finding medical help. I was more worried if Weitz had heard me when I told him he should pray. That's what still haunts me. Did he call out to God before he staggered onto the highway and got killed? Did he ask for forgiveness?”

“Like I said,” Pork Chop said coldly, “he didn't deserve forgiveness.”

“None of us does, big dawg. That's why it's called
forgiveness
. That's why we plead with each other for it. If we were entitled to it, we wouldn't have to beg. We'd just take it for granted, like, I don't know—the air all around us—and breathe it in. But forgiveness is like an act of mercy. You can't say to somebody— especially God—‘You owe me some forgiveness. Give it to me right now!' Does that make sense?”

Chop appeared to stare at something above Cody's head for a few moments. Then his head began to bob slowly. “I think I'm feelin' what you're saying.”

Cody heard himself sigh. “That's good to hear.”

“So you've forgiven Weitz, then? For everything?”

Cody heard skepticism in his friend's voice, but also curiosity. “I really have, Chop. I can honestly say I don't have any bad feelings for him. ‘Malice,' that's the word Pastor Taylor uses. Malice is like—”

“I know what malice is,” Pork Chop said dismissively. “I read more than
Vibe
and
Sports Illustrated
, you know. But I have just one more question about this forgiveness thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, if you've forgiven Weitz, how come the dude is still haunting you?”

Cody laughed sadly. “That, big man, is the question of the century. When I get it figured out, I'll let you know. But we both might be in an old folks' home before that happens.”

“Maybe,” Chop said, finishing his shake with a long, wet slurp. “But enough about all this mess. We got round two of the play-offs in a couple days. Claxton Hills, up at their place this time. It's time to put another beat-down on those rich posers.”

In his mind, Cody replayed a highlight reel of the violent collisions he had absorbed during the regular-season battle against Claxton.
Those didn't feel like poser hits to me,
he said to himself.

Mr. Porter, who had run errands while his son and Cody dined at Dairy Delight, dropped Cody off at his house. “I'm right proud of you, Cody Martin,” he said, with a tip of his trucker's cap. Then he poked a thumb toward the backseat in Chop's direction. “You and this-un have really shown me something this football season.”

“Just wait till Friday, Pops,” Chop said. “We're gonna light up those Claxton Hills pretty boys.”

Mr. Porter plucked a handkerchief out of a front jeans pocket and blew his nose in three short bursts. “Now don't get all cocky on me, Deke Porter. Don't let your mouth start writin' checks that the rest of your body can't cash!”

Cody laughed and swung shut the door of the Porter supercab pickup. “See you tomorrow, Chop. Thanks for the ride, Mr. Porter.”

A note was taped to the TV screen. Cody's dad and Beth were in Colorado Springs “taking care of a few wedding things.”

“I wonder why Beth stuck the note to the TV,” he muttered. “I'm not watching any TV tonight. There's no football, college or pro, on Wednesday nights. Man, some people just don't have a clue.”

He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, his quad muscles throbbing and aching with each step. He flung himself on his bed and grabbed the phone to check messages.

The only one was from Robyn Hart.

“Yo, Cody. First of all, congrats again on a rockin' game this past week! You were awesome! Hey—I know you might still be sore from the game and your practices, but I was wondering if you might want to run with me tomorrow morning. Six-thirty or so? I'm having trouble getting myself motivated. I need my sometimes running partner. And who knows—it might help you loosen up a bit. So call me, okay?”

Root canal. Eating cold sauerkraut. Going to the opera. Singing a solo in church. Wearing a suit and tie— and stiff, pinchy dress shoes. Surprise essay tests. Cody began to list the things he'd rather endure than tumble out of bed on a frigid Colorado morning and try to run on legs that, right now, felt as if they were on loan from his arthritic Grandmother Martin.

He hit the third button on speed dial. He got Robyn's machine. “Hey, Hart,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, relaxed. “Sure, I'll run with you tomorrow. I'll just jog by your house around six-thirty or so. The extra half mile will help me work out some of the kinks. See you then.”

Cody returned the phone to its charger.
You're such a dork,
he told himself.
You just agreed to do something you totally don't want to do. To help a girl! What's wrong with you, anyway?

He yawned and settled onto his bed, hoping he'd be able to enjoy a nightmare-free slumber. He tried to convince himself that the run with Robyn was no big deal. She had gone out for cross-country this past season, eventually working her way onto the JV team. But she had wanted to run with the varsity, and that didn't happen.

Cody was sure that hitting the roads in the mornings was helping her to ease the disappointment—as well as getting her in shape for basketball season and laying a solid foundation for track in the spring.

“I'm just doing a bud a solid,” he whispered. “No big deal.”

He smiled as he imagined Chop was in the room listening to him.
The big fella wouldn't believe any of what I just said
, he thought.
I'm not even sure
I
believe it.

Chapter 3

…and Hunted

I
t's nice of you to get up so early and run with me,
again
, Cody,” Robyn said, her voice smooth despite the brisk pace she was setting. “Two days in a row. That's sweet of you.”

Cody shrugged. “Just want to help a fellow athlete. Besides, we'll just do walk-throughs this afternoon at practice, and if I don't burn up at least some nervous energy, I won't be able to sleep tonight.”

Robyn coughed softly, sending a round puff of vaporized air in front of her. “Anyway, if I'm going to make varsity track in the spring, I'm gonna need this extra work. I'm so bummed about cross-country this year. Maybe I shoulda played volleyball. I just don't know. But, the main thing is, thanks for doing this with me.”