THE PORTSIDE PIRATES BATTLED THE REBELS on the gridiron and I snapped pictures of everything, barely taking the time to focus. The camera had a massive memory card so I figured I’d get at least one good piece of art for Eli. In the third quarter, our star wide receiver caught a thirty-yard pass one-handed for a touchdown that tied the game. I got a great action shot of the catch. Best picture I’d taken all night.
He hung frozen in midair, wedged between two jumping defenders, stretched to his full six-foot-three height to snag the ball. Great lighting, incredible composition, probably good enough to sell to a real newspaper. One problem: the receiver was Zach Lynch.
I deleted the photo.
That douchelord wasn’t getting any shine from me.
Walking the field’s fenced-in perimeter, I scanned the crowd with the camera’s zoom, then panned over to the Stepton cheerleaders on the sidelines, spotted Reya. Her face filled the frame, sparkling with gold glitter. She smiled as if she knew the camera was on her.
Startled, I lowered it. Realized the crowd’s cheers and Zach’s sad, sad end zone dancing were what triggered her smile. I raised the camera and looked at her one more time, almost snapped the picture, but decided against. If I’d had a chance with her, I blew it being distracted with all this Whispertown drama. Time to move on. Better for everyone.
Swinging the lens toward the far end of the field, I spotted an ambulance sitting prepped and ready in case someone got folded backward or something. The EMTs leaned against the vehicle, drinking Cokes. Twenty yards from them, in the bleacher shadows, a small group gathered. I zoomed tighter.
And saw my dad.
Him, a plump Asian man, and a wispy-haired white guy huddled together. I took a couple of shots.
Their conversation seemed . . . active. A lot of hand gestures, everyone participating, everyone a little on edge. Then chunky guy pressed a cell to his ear, said a few words, and ended the call. He motioned to the others, and they made for the exit.
I moved toward them. The game ended at the same time—winner: Rebels—and people crowded the walkways, slowing my progress. The surge of football fans kept me from tracking Dad and his buddies.
That was fine. Monday would be here soon enough.
Sunday I worked on giving Eli his eight inches (hehe . . . it was funny again).
All jokes aside, it was hard (hehe). Seriously, it was difficult. I’d never concentrated on writing before. Of course, I’d done the term-paper thing, and made a sucky attempt at that video-game review—which Eli cut from the Yell—but I never really cared about the quality of my writing before. My motivation had more to do with not giving Eli an excuse to withhold info than any other real journalism aspirations. When I finished writing what I thought to be front-page-worthy copy, I had three pages. Or thirty-odd inches.
Cutting everything I could only got it down to a page and a half. I was about to make another go when I noticed the clock. Four hours had passed.
In terms of my attention span it was the equivalent of an eight-hundred-pound man running a half marathon. I spent another hour revising, got my story to the exact length Eli requested. The amazing thing was, even though I cut stuff, it seemed better than before. My story kicked ass.
Shortly after eleven I said, “That’s all you’re getting from me tonight, Eli.”
I went to bed proud of what I’d done. Sleep came easy.
I haven’t had a peaceful night since.
Not only did I stay up late typing my article, I got up early, anticipating the shock on Eli’s face when my copy crushed whatever low expectations he probably had.
I printed it and backed it up on a flash drive. Walking into the J-Room, I reread the printout, mentally flagging areas I thought Eli might ding me on. The normal mushroom scent of old books and neglect had been eclipsed by something else. Something worse.
“Eli, I think you created a monster, man—” I cracked the J-Room door.
My stomach seized and I took in too much red for anything to make sense. Though the smell pushed at me, I kept walking until my foot stuck in something gummy, like old syrup, but rancid. The tacky pool covered most of the floor, and my friend lay in it like an island, his head resting between two books that were so saturated, the pages were bloated.
“Eli?”
My stupid article drifted to the floor. I knelt next to him, in the congealing stickiness. Ugly slashes ran up his arm, and a triangular X-Acto blade rested next to his limp fingers.
I ran then, tracking red residue through the school, past the first string of early bird students. At the main office I screamed for help. The vice principal and security guard tried to calm me. Too late for that.
“My friend . . . in the journalism room. He’s hurt. He needs help.”
They reacted like they were supposed to, even though I was lying.
Eli was as far beyond help as anyone could get.