Bobby held the phone away and muffled a cough, then turned back. "Can you make it?" he said. "I want you there."
He heard Carmelina sigh. "I wanna be there," she said. "You know that."
"Then, be there."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Bobby...," she said. "I can't. My boss won't give me a day off."
"You sure?"
"I asked."
"It's Rampart," Bobby said, as if that was all he had to say.
"I know it's real important," Carmelina said.
"It's everything."
The phone was silent.
"I'm sorry," Carmelina said, finally.
"So am I."
It was well after midnight. Bobby stared at the ceiling. The mechanics for a single-leg played in his mind: driving through his opponent and stepping up with the leg, then running the pike and bringing him down to the mat. Heat rose from the neck of his T-shirt, and his hands clenched.
The desire to defeat Rampart went far beyond the Wrestling mat. There was much more at stake. He hated Rampart for the people they were. Whenever he heard a snide remark about Italians being wise-guy Guineas or Nicky-Newarkers, he thought about Rampart. They were punks, and their arrogance was an affront to good Italians.
The aftermath of a match against Rampart two seasons ago still smoldered. Bobby remembered how Millburn's Stuart Brown sparked a 27–23 victory over Rampart in Rampart's gymnasium. Instead of giving up an expected pin—and six team points—against Rampart's captain, Brown held tough in an 8–1 loss, allowing Rampart only three points in the team score. It was the gutsiest Wrestling Bobby had ever seen, something he would never forget.
When the match was over, chaos erupted. Three Rampart girls accosted a Millburn cheerleader in the school bathroom, while Rampart fans stood at the edge of the mat, taunting Millburn wrestlers. Afterward, a police escort did little to deter fans from hurling rocks at the Millburn team bus as it pulled out of the school parking lot.
The next day, officials from both schools agreed to suspend the rivalry for one year.
The whole scene had been a disgrace, Bobby thought. Disrespectful to sportsmanship. Humiliating, as an Italian. Rampart had to be punished. And so, tomorrow, he and his teammates would teach the whole goddamn town a lesson.
"Rampart," Bobby muttered, as if spitting out the sour, pasty taste in his mouth.
He ripped off his comforter, sat up, and opened a window. Cold gusts blew over his dehydrated skin. It was a wonderful relief, the best he had felt all week. Bobby closed his eyes, leaning on the windowsill.
It had been almost two days since he'd eaten. He was starving beyond hunger, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone to the bathroom. Maybe the night before yesterday.
Practice had been a nightmare. Between every shot, Bobby had taken a few extra seconds of rest and stalled to save energy whenever it wasn't too obvious. It wasn't the way he wanted to practice. He wanted to go hard every shot, every round-robin, every minute on the mat. But his body couldn't give that much. The aches, the chills, and the coughing had taken their toll.
Bobby switched on the closet light, squinting momentarily as his eyes adjusted, then set the scale at 129 pounds. He stepped on unsteadily. The balancing arm didn't move from the bottom. He tapped the counterbalance to 128 and ¾ pounds. Then an ounce or two under that. The scale arm finally balanced out.
One cup of water was all he could have.
His pewter baby cup in hand, Bobby looked toward the kitchen. The light was on.
He walked in, finding the kitchen empty. He opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of seltzer and a lemon, and then reached for the cutting board. He sliced the lemon in half, then in quarters, and, for a time, was lost in thought about Rampart.
Then he heard something.
Bobby turned. He looked into the dining room. It was dark, and yet there was his father, sliding a half-empty glass back and forth.
"Dad?"
His father raised his head.
"Kinda late, isn't it?" Bobby said.
"It is for you."
"Can't fall asleep yet," Bobby said. He poured seltzer to the cup's brim.
"How're you feeling?"
"Fine."
"Mother is worried you've been sick."
"I'm fine."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"It's nothing."
Bobby put the cup to his mouth and tilted it back. The lemon stung his chapped lips. Carbonated water ran over his tongue until the cup was empty. Not enough. It was never enough. But that was all the liquid Bobby would have until after weigh-ins. He set the cup down. He was still broiling inside and so hungry, he nearly heaved.
"I made it through practice," Bobby said. "Tough, though."
"Sure," his father said, his voice just a whisper. He rubbed his eyes. "Tough..."
"Dad?"
His father straightened up. "Had a tough break with one of my cases today. Sometimes things go your way. Sometimes they don't."
For as long as Bobby could remember, his father had never showed disappointment in a case, or conceded any loss. In fact, it had never occurred to him that his father could lose in a courtroom.
"Sometimes you have to be a little selfish," his father said. The glass slid back and forth. "Figure out what's most important to reach your goal and put what might block your path behind you. You're on the right track now, Bobby. You are. You need to keep everything together. Stay focused. Don't let anything, anyone, distract you. There'll be time to sort it all out later." He punctuated it with a nod.
"But even with all the preparation in the world, nothing is guaranteed," his father went on. "Never guaranteed." He wasn't talking to his son, Bobby was sure of that. "Understand?"
"No, do you understand?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Beat this kid from Rampart tomorrow."
"I will," Bobby said.
His father took a final swallow from the glass, then smiled a melancholy smile. "You should get some sleep."