Jessup isn’t the first one out of the locker room, but he’s hustling. Wants to get over to Kirby’s as soon as possible. Can already see the poorly hidden disappointment on his mom’s face when he leaves for the party. David John won’t say anything, but Jewel will whine a bit.
He reaches into the truck and tucks the game ball behind his seat. He grabs the scraper and is working on the windshield when he feels the finger poke into his shoulder blade. It’s Kevin Corson, the Kilton Valley running back. Mostly, when Jessup has seen the kid, Corson has been smiling. He’s not smiling now.
“That was bullshit,” Corson says. He jabs his finger into the center of Jessup’s chest now, right on the bone between his pecs. It hurts, but Jessup doesn’t flinch.
“Hold on to the ball next time,” Jessup says.
“You hit me early.”
Jessup’s got two inches and forty pounds on Corson, and he looks over the running back’s shoulder. Kilton Valley players are heading out of the school and onto the bus that’s idling at the edge of the parking lot.
“I didn’t hear a whistle.”
“Syracuse was here tonight.”
“I saw. Heard that’s where you’re going.”
“That’s right. And you know what? After the game, Coach Trevor came up to me and laughed about that hit. Know what I said?”
Jessup shifts a bit, turning his hip so that he can feel the truck behind him. He tries to give himself a bit of space to move. Corson has that look, and even though Jessup knows he can take him, no point making it easy. He shakes his head.
“I told him about your dad and your brother. Said you come from a family of Nazis and that kind of thing might not play well in the Syracuse locker room. Came as a surprise to him. If I were you, I wouldn’t be holding my breath for a scholarship offer.”
Jessup doesn’t say anything, tries to keep his face still, but in not saying anything, he must be saying something, because a smile flits across Corson’s face.
“Oh. You think I didn’t know? Think that’s the sort of thing that stays quiet?”
From across the parking lot, Jessup hears Corson’s name being called. A woman’s voice. Corson turns and waves. “In a minute,” he yells. There are two people over by a clump of cars. Corson’s parents waiting for him. But he and Corson are in their own private bubble right now. By the look on his face, Corson is trying to decide whether or not to swing at Jessup, and Jessup considers his options. Not a punch but a takedown. As soon as Corson swings, step in and bring him to the ground. Even if he didn’t have a weight and height advantage on Corson, Jessup wrestles in the winter and he’s good at it. Not college scholarship good, but good enough that as soon as they’re on the asphalt, Corson will start regretting his actions. Jessup would bet whatever is in his wallet that Corson’s never been in a real fight. Sure, on the practice field, or more likely stuffing some freshman in his locker, but not the kind of fight where there’s no one close enough to stop things. Jessup thinks of the grainy video from the alley, of the way Ricky swung the wrench.
Corson goes to poke him in the chest again, but Jessup grabs his wrist. “You do that again, and I’ll lay you out,” he says. They both stay like that, rigid, Jessup’s hand on Corson’s wrist, Corson’s arm outstretched. Jessup notices the cop car idling in the corner of the parking lot, the cop looking over. At the same time, Corson’s mom calls him again. This time there’s a note of worry in her voice, and Corson lets a smile rip through. His arm loosens up, so Jessup releases his wrist. Corson pats him on the shoulder. “This isn’t over, boy,” Corson says. He turns and starts walking away.
“Maybe,” Jessup calls, “but your season is, boy.”
Corson stiffens, stops, turns. Jessup tips his chin. He’s the one smiling now. He gets in the truck, starts it up, and starts to pull out.
He feels the thump, hears the crack of broken plastic. He stops the truck, looks in the driver’s-side mirror. Corson is standing by the back of the truck bed, looking pleased with himself. And now Jessup has to decide: beat Corson’s ass or walk away. Cop car right there. High school parking lot and all that comes with getting in a fight. No way he’d get to play next week. Suspension at least. Possibly worse. Thinks David John. Ricky. The alley. Thinks Corson’s black skin. Thinks jail. Thinks of Ricky spending half his life in prison, David John already done his four years, thinks of the nights his mother cried hard enough to shake the trailer.
Thinks his own hands are shaking on the wheel.
Drives away.