Second Down - Chapter 8

While the game and conversation the night before were occupying a lot of my thoughts, it wasn’t the only thing I had to focus on. Football was a priority, but so was school now, and I’d been busting my ass to get the year started off on the right foot.

So Friday morning, I was sitting in the front row of my math class, trying very hard to follow everything Ms. White was putting up on the board and wishing I was a better student in my dream life. It had done a lot to get me ahead in football and deal with personal life problems, but it wasn’t doing me any good in class.

So I just struggled, trying to understand what was happening and hoping at least some of it would stick. I was focused enough that the bell ringing made me jump a little bit.

As with every time the bell rang, everyone started shoving stuff into backpacks and getting out as fast as they could. Passing periods were a good point to stop and talk to friends for a few minutes before heading to the next class, so the faster we got out, the more time we had to talk.

I didn’t move quite as fast, trying to copy the last few problems she’d worked out down in my notebook so I could refer back to the steps when I was doing homework.

I wasn’t the last one out, but I was close.

Even with that, as I headed for the door, Ms. White said, “Blake, could you wait a moment, please?”

I diverted and stopped at her desk, waiting until the last two kids walked out, hoping this wasn’t a bad ‘talk to me.’

She smiled and held up a paper. “I have your quiz from Wednesday. I wanted to discuss it with you.”

“How did I do?”

“You did very well, Blake. Take a look.”

She handed it to me, and I looked through it. It was only one page front and back, I guess since it was our first quiz, and only one of the questions had an x on it. The rest all had check marks. On the front, the number ninety-two was circled.

An A. I couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride.

“You told me you’d show me you meant business, and I’ve been watching you. You’ve been focused and paying attention every day, but this shows me that you really are taking this seriously. So, I’d like to give you some additional work to help accelerate your progress. I think with some extra effort, we can get you on level by the end of the year, but I want to make sure you feel you can handle it with your other obligations.”

“I think I can handle it. I want to do whatever it takes to graduate right so I can get into a good program.”

“That’s an unusual sentiment for a freshman. A senior … yes, but most freshmen see four years from now as an eternity away.”

I just shrugged. “I guess I’m not most freshmen.”

“First, I have to ask, how are you managing your time? Between football, schoolwork, and these new responsibilities, it’s a lot for anyone to handle.”

“To be honest, it’s been a struggle. I feel like I’m constantly running from one thing to the next, trying to keep up. But I know if I can stay organized and focused, I’ll find a way to make it work.”

“Have you considered setting up a schedule? Mapping out your time can help you prioritize and stay on track. And don’t be afraid to ask for help, maybe even a study partner.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” I said.

I wasn’t sure where I’d find a good study partner. No one on the team, that was for sure. And it wasn’t like he had time for socializing outside of football, not and get all his homework done.

“Well, think about it. If you can’t, you’re welcome to come by during lunch if you need help. Or if mornings work better, I’m here thirty minutes before first bell, since I know afternoons are out with football practice.”

“Thanks.”

“But, I expect all of the additional work to be completed by Friday each week. No exceptions.”

“I understand. But what if I can’t catch up fast enough? With football and everything else.”

“I think you can. Your progress has been excellent. If you maintain this focus, there’s absolutely no reason you won’t reach your goals.”

I nodded, hoping she was right. It was the everything else that was really worrying me. 

She must have seen something on my face, because she asked, “Is there a problem with that?”

“No, it’s just … not all my teachers are as willing to give me a chance. Especially Mr. Walsh.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He seems to have this thing against athletes. Like Tuesday, I gave the right answer about different levels of classification of organisms, domains, kingdoms, phylum, etc, and he just dismissed it. Acted like I must have been guessing and got lucky because, you know, football player equals dumb jock.”

I don’t know why, but something in her expression seemed like she knew what I was talking about. She pressed her lips together for a moment and her eyebrows dipped.

But she only said, “I see.”

“I mean, I get it. Some guys live up to the stereotype. But I’m trying to prove I’m different.”

“I’ll speak with your other teachers. See if we can coordinate to help you get completely back on level and see if there is some additional support available. But Blake, the ball’s in your court. You’ll have to prove you’re serious.”

“I will. I promise.”

“Good.” She gestured toward the door. “Now get to class before you’re late.”

I hurried out, just happy someone had listened to me, and hoped she’d have better luck with Mr. Alan than I had.

My legs ached as I walked up our driveway, still feeling the burn from Coach’s “special conditioning” after yesterday’s game combined with the walk home. He’d really torn into us, angry at how some of the guys had played the game. It annoyed me a little bit that, while everyone knew he was calling out Elijah, Hunter, and Jake specifically, he didn’t actually say any of their names. It was more of an admonishment for how mistakes made in general, as if everyone had dropped the handoffs or missed their blocks.

Then he’d run us like crazy, until some of the guys puked. I remembered a phrase from a documentary I’d seen in the dream life about prison camps in World War Two. Something about collective punishment.

It was bullshit then and it was bullshit now.

At least the rest of the day’s classes had gone well. Surprisingly well, actually. My afternoon teachers, at least those whose classes I had a chance to get back on level in, had pulled me aside to give me similar assignments to work on, just like Ms. White had, which suggested she had indeed talked to them.

It was a lot of additional work and I was going to be extremely busy with normal homework, the additional work, and studying plays. But it was what I asked for.

The screen door banged against the house in the September breeze as I reached for the handle. Before I could touch it, the crash of splintering wood inside stopped me cold.

“Where is it?” Joshua’s voice carried through the front door. “You took it! You always take my stuff!”

I yanked the door open to find our kitchen transformed into a war zone. One of the dining chairs lay in pieces near the fridge, its wooden slats scattered across the linoleum. Joshua stood by the kitchen counter, his face bright red, fists clenched at his sides.

“Sweetie, I promise I haven’t seen your binder,” she said, using that placating tone she always used with him, like she was talking to a toddler instead of a thirteen-year-old. “Let’s look for it together…”

“Shut up!” Joshua’s arm swept across the counter, sending the toaster and a stack of mail flying. The toaster hit the floor with a metallic crunch, pieces of plastic skittering across the tile. “You’re lying! You always lie!”

Mom took a step toward him, hands raised. “Josh, baby, please…”

The moment I saw Joshua’s muscles tense like he was about to raise his arm and swing at her, I dropped my backpack and moved, grabbing him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides before he could reach her.

“Let me go!” He thrashed against my grip, trying to twist free. “This is your fault too! You’re always trying to make me look bad!”

“Stop it,” I said, tightening my hold as he struggled. “You need to calm down.”

“Blake, let him go. He’s just upset.”

“He was about to attack you,” I said, nodding toward the destroyed chair. “Look what he’s already done.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Joshua would never hurt any of us. He’s just frustrated.”

“You’re such a kiss-ass.” Joshua’s elbow slammed back into my ribs, but I held on. “Always playing the perfect son, like you’re better than me. Like when you told Dad I was the one who dented his car. You’re not better than me. You’re nothing. Pathetic.”

“You did dent his car. You know damn well you rode your bike into it.”

“Blake, language,” Mom scolded, like that was the biggest problem here.

“I hate you! I hate both of you! Let me go or I’ll-”

The threat died as I pulled on his arms tighter, putting pressure on the joints, causing him to cry out in pain. Mom took a step toward him when he yelled out, reaching out her arm, which is when I saw them. Three angry red scratches running down her forearm, fresh enough that tiny beads of blood still dotted the skin.

“What happened to your arm?” I asked, nodding at her arm while I pulled him back a step so his wild kicks wouldn’t hit her.

Pulling her shirt sleeve down to cover the scratches, she angrily said, “Blake Andrew Sims, you let your brother go this instant!”

I grimaced, but she was really mad now. She only used my middle name when I was in serious trouble. It didn’t matter that I was keeping him from attacking her. She was always unreasonable, but when she got like this, she was almost as bad as he was.

I spun around and released Josh, shoving him away from both of us. He stumbled but caught himself, looking back between us with cold calculation that sent chills down my spine. I shifted my weight, ready for whatever he was going to do.

Thankfully, he stopped tensing and took another step back, although the look in his eyes didn’t diminish at all.

“You’ll regret this. Both of you. I’ll make sure of it.”

With that, he spun around and stormed toward his room, stomping with each step to let us know just how angry he was.

“What were you thinking?” Mom rounded on me the moment Joshua was gone. “He’s just a child! You could have hurt him grabbing him like that.”

“A child!” I said, gesturing at the destroyed chair. “Look what he did to the kitchen! And those scratches…”

“You’re only making things worse. You’re his big brother. You’re supposed to set an example, not escalate situations.”

“He was going to hit you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Joshua would never do that. This is just normal pre-teen hormones. You weren’t exactly easy to deal with at his age either, you know.”

“Yeah, I was a jerk in middle school, but this is different. This isn’t normal behavior. He needs help, real help. We should get him into therapy before…”

“Therapy?” Mom scoffed. “Don’t be dramatic. He’ll grow out of it, just like you did. He’s my son, Blake. I think I know him.”

“Mom, please listen…”

“That’s enough,” she said, rubbing her fingers into her temples. “I have a headache coming on. Just go. Get out of my sight.”

I opened my mouth to argue but stopped myself. It was pointless. She’d keep making excuses for him until something terrible happened. Just like in my dream. I grabbed my bag and went upstairs as she headed for her room, ignoring all of the broken stuff on the kitchen floor.

I’d go back down in a bit and clean it up. I just didn’t want to deal with her anymore tonight. Every excuse she made, every violent outburst she ignored, was just teaching Joshua he could get away with anything.

And doing nothing to stop him from becoming…the thing he became.

***

I managed to get all of my homework and extra assignments done early, which left me most of the week to focus on my regular homework and practice, which seemed like the go-to move. Ms. White was good with the schedule I showed her and agreed to give me new assignments on Fridays, but that she’d keep the date to turn work in on Fridays as well. She pointed out that I should always build in flexibility for weekends where something happened and I wasn’t able to get to it, although she said I should still try and be done on Sundays. That putting things off until the last moment would just end up with problems.

She had a point.

It also meant that, after a pretty busy weekend where I spent basically all Sunday doing homework, things would be easier for a few days, as long as I stayed on my homework.

I was still thinking this all through as I headed to lunch, when I rounded a corner and saw trouble. Well, I saw Elijah, which was the same thing. This time, instead of directing his dickishness at me, he and Mason had some kid pressed against the wall, leaning in to him, saying something I couldn’t hear.

They were a little old for the ‘beating up a kid for his lunch money’ routine, although I wouldn’t put it past them. Whatever they were doing, it certainly wasn’t good. I’d half turned around before they could see me and started the other way when I stopped.

I was drained, bone-tired from everything, but I couldn’t just walk past this. Ignoring it meant letting them win, letting them become more like the versions of themselves I remembered. Besides, I thought I knew this kid from somewhere, couldn’t place him, but the recognition was nagging in the back of my mind.

What was clear was that he looked terrified.

“Listen here, wetb…” Elijah was saying when I doubled back.

“Back off, Elijah.”

Elijah looked over his shoulder, glowering when he realized it was me. “Well, if it isn’t Saint Blake, here to save another loser. I’m gettin’ real tired of you showin’ up wherever I am.”

“What’s your problem? What’d this kid do to you?”

“That’s between us.” Elijah jabbed a finger toward the freshman’s chest before turning and getting up in my face. “Mind your own business for once.”

“Well,” I said, my voice steady, looking him hard in the eyes. “Now it’s between us.”

Without a word, he shoved the kid against the lockers hard enough that the kid slipped and slumped to the floor. Mason ignored the kid on the ground and moved to get on the other side of me, their threat very clear, as he clenched his fist.

“What’s going on here?” a voice came from down the hallway as Mason started to lift his fists.

All three of us turned to see a teacher looking our way. Mason dropped his hands immediately, glancing back at Elijah, who threw me a cold look, lips curling into a sneer.

“Next time, Sims,” he muttered under his breath as he backed off, slapping Mason on the shoulder.

As the two walked off, I reached down and helped the kid up, watching Elijah and Mason disappear down the hallway.

I held onto him for a second as he studied himself, before letting go.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, picking his backpack up and putting it on his back again.

“You okay? Those guys can be real jerks.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He shifted his weight, clearly wanting to bolt but trying to be polite.

“I’m Blake. Blake Sims.”

“Eduardo Guzman.”

The name hit me like a punch to the gut. Memories flooded in, not the vague half-remembered thoughts like I’d been getting, but sharp and clear like photographs. Eduardo’s face, older and harder with the baby fat mostly gone, sitting at the defense table at the trial. He would be the kid who, in another version of my life, took everything from me.

I must have stood there, staring at him with an open mouth, for a long time, because he shifted uncomfortably and asked, “You okay?”

“Uhh, yeah. I’m good.”

I managed a tight smile and turned, walking away from him, leaving him standing there, probably confused and dumbfounded by the entire confrontation.

“Hey… thanks again,” he called after me as I walked off.

I didn’t turn around, just lifted a hand in a quick wave.

I found myself heading toward the cafeteria without really thinking about it, my feet moving on autopilot. But the closer I got, the more my stomach twisted, making the idea of eating feel impossible. I peeled off and sank down onto one of the benches outside, the rough wood biting into my palms as I sat, staring at the cracked pavement. The memory of Eduardo’s older face in court replayed on a loop in my mind, his hollow eyes, the way he flinched at every mention of what he’d done.

Part of me wanted to get up, march back in there, find Eduardo, and break his hands so he would never be able to pick up a gun. Never be able to do what he did. Was going to do. The rage was hot, a fire that burned in my gut. But I clenched my fists until my knuckles ached, forcing myself to breathe, to think.

Eduardo hadn’t done anything. Not yet. He was just a scared freshman, backed into a wall and being picked on. And if I went off on him now, I would just be another bully, adding to the pile. I closed my eyes, the courtroom scene playing out in my head again. Eduardo crying as he apologized, the raw edge in his voice when he said he wished he could take it all back. I could still hear it, how genuine it had sounded, how broken.

And then another memory. News a year and a half later, after mom fell apart and they decided it was cheaper to emancipate me than put seventeen-year-old in the system. Eduardo hanging himself in his cell. They’d called it a suicide brought on by depression. I hadn’t cared at the time. I was at the lowest point of my life. My father was gone, my mother was gone, and my brother had been separated from me, put into the system, since he was a few years younger. Okay, Josh being separated didn’t bother me. Even in that life we’d never had a good relationship, but I was a young man without a family, all alone.

So I hadn’t really cared about the news.

But I could remember some of it now, if I focused on things I didn’t pay attention to at the time. He’d been destroyed by what he’d done just like my dad. I concentrated hard, trying to remember more. Something about a family member, a cousin maybe. They’d begged for mercy from the court. He’d been bullied and had been convinced a gang would protect him. In a way, looking at it objectively, it wasn’t hard to see how things could spiral out of control. How he’d be talked into something like that.

I rubbed a hand over my face. Hurting Eduardo wouldn’t change a damn thing. It might even make things worse. He was already getting bullied; if I pushed too hard, I’d just shove him into doing the very thing I didn’t want him to do.

My dad would still be out there, a cop on duty, walking into that scene one day like it was inevitable. Unless I did something. Unless I found a way to change Eduardo’s path so that he never got to that point.

There was an obvious answer. And a terrible one. It was quite literally the last thing I’d want to do, but it was also clearly the only way to save my dad.

I had to become friends with Eduardo.

I sighed and leaned back against the bench, staring up at the clear September sky.

Jesus. Friends with the kid who might kill my dad.

What the hell.