I only pack a carry-on.
If Maya turns out to be a psychopath, it’ll be easier to gather my things and leave.
Also, I have no idea what to bring other than toiletries, clothes, and a phone charger. Maya said I’ll sweat so much I won’t want to wear anything. I hope she doesn’t plan to lounge around the hotel without her clothes on. If I get hard just looking at a picture of her, I can only imagine what would happen if I saw her naked.
Monday evening, I make chicken parmesan for dinner. I’m not in the mood to cook, but I’m leaving Dad for a while, and it’s the least I can do. As I pull the garlic bread out of the oven, Dad calls from the hospital, saying he’ll be home late. I put aside a plate for him, eat my own, and Tupperware the rest. Samantha licks clean my dish, while Jojo lies on the couch, snoring away. Usually, she stalks me whenever I eat. Maybe Jojo is still upset Samantha is here. Or she knows I’m going somewhere. Dogs can sense those things.
While I’m rinsing my dish, the doorbell rings. It better not be anyone other than Amazon dropping off a package. Samantha barks and scratches at the door, chipping paint. Now I’m forced to answer it or risk demolition.
I grab Samantha by the collar and swing open the door. Samantha sniffs the intruder and immediately stops barking. It’s only Gracie, back to her usual, sober self with cleavage-covering clothing. I’m surprised, nonetheless. Our last two encounters ended on a bad note. The third time’s the charm?
“Hi, Gracie. What’s up?”
“Your dad says you’re leaving tomorrow.”
“What? When did he tell you that?”
“I came to the hospital today, but you weren’t there. He said you were home, packing for some trip.”
This is not good. If Dad told Gracie, Gracie will tell everyone from school. I don’t want people to know my business. That’s one of the reasons I went off social media. So I can leave town discreetly.
“Yeah, I’m leaving for a while,” I confess.
She frowns. “Where are you going?”
“Well, I’m, uh…” I notice the silver Cross around her neck. “I’m going on a spiritual journey.”
“A spiritual journey?” Her lips twist to one side, suggesting a smile. “For what purpose?”
“To find God.”
“Oh.” Now she’s full-on smiling, and it’s making me sweat. “That’s great, Daniel. That’ll be good for you. Maybe you’ll start to feel something again.”
“Yes, that’s the idea.” I’ll be feeling the heat of Georgia. “So, what did you need to see me for? Did you want to come in or—?”
“I wanted to apologize.”
This is surprising. “For what?”
“For what I said to you. And for all the pressure I put on you. I wasn’t being sympathetic. What you’re going through is different from every other person in this town. And with all the crap people are saying online, it’s just not fair.”
“Gracie, it’s okay. It doesn’t bother me what they say.”
“Then why’d you disable all your social media accounts?”
“Well, I…” I better think of something fast. “I need to be off social media for the spiritual journey. No electronics.”
“Oh, right. That makes sense. What exactly are you doing for this spiritual journey?”
“I’m going to connect with other victims of mass shootings. It’s really hard to talk about right now. It’s very…” I lower my head, hoping she’ll back off if I show some hesitation and fear.
“No, I understand. I’m just so glad you’re doing something. I’d love to have you with us next week in D.C., but finding God is way more important.”
“Thanks, Gracie.”
She smiles again and nervously scratches the back of her neck. “Yes, well ... I should be going. But I just…”
Oh, no. She’s biting her bottom lip and squeezing her knees together. Girls do that when they want to be hugged or worse, kissed. Girls also do that when they’re debating whether or not to kiss you first. Do I want to be in either situation? I’m still very much attracted to Gracie, but she’s three years younger than me, way too political for my comfort, and the sister of my dead teammate. I also just lied to her face about the spiritual journey.
Something dropping to the kitchen floor startles us both. “Oh, no,” I say, backing up. “I gotta go. It’s the dog.”
“Of course.” Gracie immediately steps away. “Good luck on your journey! Tell me all about it when you get back.”
I don’t care that Samantha jumped on the counter and knocked over the tray I used to cook the chicken parmesan in. She licks it clean, and I thank her a million times for saving me from an unwanted situation.
Then the doorbell rings again. Gracie is back?
Samantha barks hysterically, growling like an armed robber is at the door. I look through the peephole, surprised to see Coach Colebrook holding a brown paper bag. Did we somehow travel back in time to when people knocked on your door whenever? Or could it be that I haven’t returned anyone’s calls in two weeks, so what choice have they but to come directly to my house?
I hold Samantha by the collar to open the door, but she doesn’t stop barking even after she sniffs the coach. So I drag her away and step outside to talk to him.
“Sorry,” I say. “We’re fostering.”
“That’s okay, Daniel. I just came by to give you your plaques.” He hands me the bag, but I don’t look inside.
“Thanks.”
“We had to have them professionally cleaned. That’s why it took so long for me to get them to you.”
I wish he hadn’t told me that. That the blood of my teammates had splattered on all the awards. Now I’ll have less of a reason to do much with the plaques other than dump them inside my closet. Or a trash can.
By my silence, maybe he realizes what he said was a mistake. He scratches the back of his shaved head and looks across the driveway. “Is your dad around?”
“He’s working late.”
“Oh.” He nods his head and awkwardly shifts from right foot to left. “Well, I just wanted to give you your plaques. And to tell you again how sorry I am. But grateful you’re still with us. It’s going to be hard next year, working with a brand-new team, if we can even put one together. I’m hoping you’ll be an inspiration to all the boys when you kick ass at Notre Dame.”
“I, uh ... hope so too.” Maybe if I continue to lie, he’ll just leave. It worked on Gracie.
He starts to back away but pauses. “You know, I haven’t spoken to anyone about this, but Wesley showed a lot of potential.”
“What?” Why the hell would he say something like that?
“Nothing, forget I said anything!” he almost shouts. With a forced smile, he puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a tight squeeze. He did that at every funeral, but this time it feels wrong. Like he shouldn’t be touching me or anyone, ever.
“I have to get back inside,” I say. “The dog…”
“Right. Take care now, Daniel.” He finally removes his hand from my shoulder, but I’m pretty sure he would have kept it there as long as possible had I stayed outside with him.
I don’t get upset with Samantha for scratching the hell out of the front door. We have paint in the garage. I’ll fix it up before I leave tomorrow. It almost seems like Samantha tried her damndest to get outside, to protect me from Coach Colebrook. Dogs can sense a good person from a bad. But Colebrook has never been anything but kind and supportive for as long as I’ve known him. Why did the shoulder squeezing suddenly become creepy? Does he do that to everyone or just specific people?
Maybe it was the fact that he did it after mentioning Wesley.
What did Colebrook mean by Wesley’s potential? Potential on the football field? Potential to kill? If the latter, why wouldn’t Colebrook mention that to the investigators?
Probably because it would put him in a bad light. He’s already been labeled #coward for falling into the pit rather than protecting his athletes. Though many say he “fell” because of the gunshot. Either way, the survivor’s guilt must be eating him alive. Plus PTSD. If physical therapy doesn’t work, his shoulder may give him problems the rest of his life.
I take a deep breath, feeling less weirded out by Colebrook’s behavior. He gets a pass this time.
Samantha follows me into my bedroom and lounges on top of my bed. She’s acting like she already lives here. I sit down at my desk and Google Wesley Dover’s name again. He still doesn’t have a Wikipedia yet, but I scroll through all the pictures people and newspapers have posted of him. Some are sad and sympathetic, saying if he hadn’t been bullied, he never would have snapped. Many still blame video games. Others just label him as mentally ill. Should have been medicated. Should have been put into a special school. Should have been taken away from his neglectful mother.
Should have.
But what about potential? There’s nothing about Wesley being a good athlete, let alone an outstanding one. From what people have posted, he was a decent receiver but lacked the upper body mass to survive varsity. Wesley looked more like a soccer player, lean and long-legged. What could Colebrook see in that?
Maya messages me, interrupting my thoughts.
LookingForMyLostSock: all packed?
Kicked123: Yeah.
LookingForMyLostSock: excited?
Kicked123: Getting there. Just had a couple of weird visits from people.
LookingForMyLostSock: did u tell them where u were going?
Kicked123: I’m on a spiritual journey.
LookingForMyLostSock: u r getting good at this
Kicked123: Deceiving people?
LookingForMyLostSock: its for yr happiness
Kicked123: I’m never going to be happy if I stay here.
LookingForMyLostSock: im in the same boat
Kicked123: Boats make me seasick.
LookingForMyLostSock: good thing we r not going on a cruise
Kicked123: I wouldn’t survive that.
I stare at the brown paper bag. No one got to hold their plaques for more than a few minutes. Why should I hold on to mine any longer? I toss the bag into my closet, alongside all my other awards just in case Dad wants to keep anything for sentimental value.
I chat for a few more hours with Maya, mainly talking about Fantasy Land and all the things we’re going to do. Maya doesn’t have a set schedule for anything other than needing to hit up the nightclub, something she wasn’t allowed to do as a child. Since she’s paying for everything, I don’t care if she makes all the decisions so long as there are cool-down options like a pool or waterpark when it gets too hot.
Around ten o’clock, I fall asleep with Samantha lying by my feet and Jojo wheezing by my head. I dream about Coach Colebrook and Wesley Dover. Colebrook screams at Wesley to run faster, but Wesley can’t keep up with the other guys. With every step, he grows smaller and smaller, until he passes out on the field with all his teammates around him, yelling at him to get up. Then they kick him.
If I wasn’t going to Fantasy Land, I might be inclined to investigate Wesley Dover on my own. To uncover this so-called potential only Coach Colebrook seems to know about.
But more importantly, did his potential have anything to do with his downfall and decision to annihilate my team? Did he always have killer instincts?
I can’t linger on what-if ideas. Maya would tell me to move on and let the police handle it. But what if after months and months of investigating, they still have no real answers?
The simplest explanation is usually the right one. A bullied, shooter-obsessed young man just lost it one day.
That doesn’t sound simple at all.
There is no simple answer for anything.