OKAY. SO, YOU KNOW HOW sometimes you arrive late to a party, or, let’s say, to rugby practice, and you see two of the guests—or in this case, two of your teammates—involved in a heated confrontation that you can’t really hear but you know is heated because of the way they’re standing and how the veins on their necks are sticking out and they’ve got their hands on their hips and one foot angled back like they were maybe already thinking about boxing, even though there is a calm mediator, a boy whisperer—in this case Coach M—trying to get between them, and just as you get through the door to the party—or, in this case, out onto the pitch—all three sets of eyes turn and look at you and you instantly know that the fourth—in this case invisible—participant in the heated confrontation happens to be YOU, and you’re all, like, what the fuck did I do now? because if there was actually going to be a fight between Spotted John Nygaard and JP Tureau, it would be a real bisexual-ninja-versus-testosterone-drunk-hammerhead-shark death match because those two guys happened to be without a doubt the toughest guys on the team?
Exactly. You know where I’m coming from.
But I had no clue what it was all about. Not that I was particularly eager to find out. So I went over to where the backs were working on drills and got into line for some up-and-under kicking practice. I kept the corner of my eye on Spotted John and JP, until Coach M sent them off on a “buddy run,” which was something Coach would make guys do if they got into arguments during practice. He gave them a ball and told them to go, and JP and Spotted John had to run laps around the practice field, passing the rugby ball between them until Coach M was satisfied they were over it.
That afternoon, JP’s and Spotted John’s buddy run lasted until practice was nearly finished.
We ended with a game of touch. That was more than fine with me because my ribs weren’t 100 percent yet, and Coach informed us that this would be a noncontact week leading up to Thursday’s friendly, because he wanted us to be hungry and healthy.
And speaking of healthy, I felt pretty good about things. Maybe it was the sandwiches, and the “next time” note from Annie, but I also knew that the uncomfortably awkward hour I’d spent in Mrs. Dvorak’s office did something for me too. It opened me up in some ways, and it felt good.
Could I actually be looking forward to seeing Mrs. Dvorak again next Monday?
Still, there was this heavy, muted vibe going on during practice, like everyone knew what was up between Spotted John and JP, but nobody said a word about it to me.
Until we got inside the locker room.
I had just come out of the shower and was drying off in front of my locker, when JP Tureau walked up to me and said, “You’re a bitch-faced pussy, Ryan Dean.”
At once, the following struck me:
1. Bitch-faced pussy. I have been called lots of things. This is high school, after all, and more pointedly, this was a high school boys’ locker room, where name-calling is as atmospheric as B.O. But I’ve never been called a “bitch-faced pussy” before. Also, I didn’t really know what “bitch-faced pussy” meant, but I had to give credit to JP Tureau for coming up with a name-calling name that sounded really, really bad.
2. Scanning my recently opened files. What the fuck did I do now? I couldn’t for the life of me remember having done something that would piss off JP since, like, last spring or so, unless he was still totally after Annie, and by some weird chance he’d followed us on our run into the woods the day before and saw what we had done—which was an extremely creepy thing that I never wanted to think about again.
3. Are you kidding me? I had been in a couple fights with JP Tureau last year. They were short, and I got lucky because JP should have killed me on several occasions, but—come on!—JP was still dressed in his sweaty rugby gear. There were actual chunks of grass and mud stuck to his knees. He had cleats on. And I really, really did not want to get into a fight with JP Tureau while I was naked. Nobody ever wants to get into a fight while he’s naked.
4. Witnesses. There weren’t any. My locker’s row was empty. All the other guys were either in the showers or had dressed and gone back to the dorms. This was JP Tureau’s golden opportunity to pay me back for everything he hated about me.
“What did I do to you, JP?”
“Spotted John got all up in my face. He said you were whining that I hit you too hard last week. He told me he’d fuck me up if I didn’t go easier on our stand-off, because the team needs you. Bullshit. You’re a fucking pussy. Nobody needs a fucking pussy.”
Okay. I knew JP didn’t like me, but that kind of hurt my feelings.
“Look, I never said anything at all to Spotted John about you, JP. I thought my ribs were broken is all, and I asked John for some painkillers so I could sleep. That’s all that happened. I never said nothing about you being an over-the-top, think-with-your-dick asshole, so fuck off.”
Yes, I really said that. It was pretty good, considering my inexperience with swearing out loud.
I also knotted my towel tightly around my waist because I was 99 percent certain I was about to get into an I’m-naked-and-you’re-in-rugby-gear fistfight with JP Tureau.
“Hey. Do you want a towel, JP?”
The Abernathy, our manager and towel boy, appeared at the end of the bench behind JP. He held out a nice, folded Pine Mountain towel and displayed an innocent little Shar-Pei puppy look on his face.
JP Tureau turned around. He looked at the Abernathy. Then he looked at me.
I didn’t say anything. I had my hands at my sides. I looked at the Abernathy, then at JP.
The Abernathy looked—at JP, then at me.
That was a hell of a lot of looking, considering we were inside a boys’ locker room, where excessive looking is a social felony.
It was like living through the pregnant few seconds just before a three-way gunfight in an old black-and-white Western.
Sam Abernathy’s presence was like a punch in the gut to JP Tureau.
JP mouthed “fuck you” to me. Then he said, “Thanks, Snack-Pack.”
JP took the towel from the Abernathy and sat down in front of his locker. Guys started coming back from the showers. JP had missed his moment.
And JP touched his eye and added, “You should be careful about wrestling around in bed with loser stand-offs, Snackers.”
JP unlaced his cleats. The Abernathy just stood at the end of our bench, watching us.
He said, “I know! Nobody should ever get into a fight with Ryan Dean!”
Did the Abernathy know what was going on?
No. There’s no way. The kid couldn’t have known I was about to be murdered. That would mean he’d just stuck his neck out for me, and that would never happen. After all, he was only twelve, and it would have been inconceivable for him to effectively decode the kind of shit that goes on between older boys, because the Abernathy just wasn’t that smart. And, besides, he had no reason to care about me.
Right?