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LAST CHANCE FOR FIRST

Tom Hazuka

Brown Barn Books

Weston, Connecticut

A division of Pictures of Record, Inc.

119 Kettle Creek Road

Weston, CT 06883, U.S.A.

Last Chance for First

Library of Congress Control Number: 2007938351

ISBN: 978-0-979882-443-1

Hazuka, Tom

Last Chance for First: a novel by Tom Hazuka

Printed in the United States of America

For the women in my life:

Mom, Christine, Maggie and Olivia

Chapter 1

It started last fall, at the assembly to kick off the annual magazine drive. The whole school was packed in the auditorium to listen to this jolly old guy who looked like Santa Claus without the beard and red suit try to get us psyched up to sell enough magazines to keep the recyclers in business for another year. He said we should show our school spirit and sell a ton of subscriptions so each class would have a pile of money to do whatever it wanted, the yearbook wouldn't go in the red again, etc., etc. Big deal. I was a junior; I'd heard it all before. I'd do my part by selling half a dozen subscriptions to my parents and a few relatives, maybe nice old Mrs. Maruszak down the street.

Right now, though, I was more interested in watching Billy Hagan two rows in front of me as he stretched, then slipped his arm around Sarah Malinowski as casually as if he was at the movies. It was the first time in my life I regretted having 20-15 eyesight. The worst part was that she not only let him, but even snuggled a little closer. Sarah, the girl I dated most of the summer, who had sat with me like that at plenty of movies until she told me out of the blue she wanted to see other people. That was a couple of weeks ago, the Friday before Labor Day. We were parked down at the beach, not even making out or anything, just listening to the night. It was dead low tide, no wind at all, and the air smelled rank.

"It's not you, Robby," she said. "It's me." When somebody says that, you know it's you.

It was impossible not to watch. When I actually have a pretty girl first like me then dump me, and I can see no reason why she did either one, it's natural for me to be interested when she's cuddling up to some jerk I can't stand, the slimiest slimeball in the whole school.

My best friend Jim Dolan leaned over to me and whispered, "Guess he's got something you don't have."

That's the thing about a guy's best friend--he doesn't cut you any slack. That's not how we operate. A girl's best friend would have told her what a bitch the girl was who stole her boyfriend, how he wasn't good enough for her anyway. A guy just tells a joke and we pretend it's OK, though of course it's not.

"Yeah," I told him. "A rich old man and a new BMW."

"Don't forget the country club membership, and ski lodge in Vermont."

"If Sarah is that shallow, I don't want her anyway."

Jim shook his head. "You can't lie to save your life. It's sad, really."

"Shh!" Mrs. Joseph the math teacher was in the aisle scowling at us. Maybe she had stock in the magazine company or something. I wanted to yell to her, "Hey! What about Hagan the Degenerate over there molesting my girl friend?"

Suddenly this girl stood up, ten rows away from me across the aisle. I'd never seen her before so she was either a freshman or new here, because in a small school you know everybody, by sight at least. She stood up and raised her hand, and with a grin the pudgy magazine man pointed at her.

"What can I do you for, little lady?"

She hesitated a second. She had short hair so blonde it was almost white, with pale skin to match even after the summertime. Our town is on the beach, Long Island Sound, so it's strange to see a kid with no tan in September.

"Whoa," Jim said. "Is she an albino?"

Whatever she was, she talked too softly for me to catch what she was saying. Mr. Magazine cupped a hand around one ear and said, "You'll have to speak up, missy. These old ears aren't as sharp as they used to be."

Every eye was on this girl as she said, loud enough to reach every corner of the auditorium, "I don't think you care much about this school, or any school. You just want to make money."

For the first time in my life I saw a whole group of people shocked into dead quiet. Even the smart-mouth kids were stunned. The teachers looked on as surprised as everyone else--it's not like they could punish her, it's not like she did anything wrong.

Mr. Magazine smiled, but he didn't look happy. "Well, I can't deny that our company needs to make a profit or we go out of business. That's the American way."

"All I'm saying is the kids do almost all the work, and you get most of the money. I don't care if people want to sell magazines. But you don't care about Newfield. You say the same stuff at every school--I heard you last year at Baldwin. All we are is your job. Sorry." She sat down.

Mr. Magazine's smile looked faker and faker. "I understand your concern. But that's the great thing about our system. Everybody wins. Now let's go show the world Newfield High is the best!"

The cheerleaders, who were wearing their uniforms because of the football game that night, jumped up and started waving their pompoms and chanting, "New-field, New-field!" Some kids joined in--not everybody by a long shot, but enough to make plenty of noise, enough so if you tried to yell something different it would have been drowned right out. A lot of them weren't doing it for school spirit or anything, but for the chance to yell like lunatics in school and not get in trouble for it.

I just listened. I kept thinking of what the girl had said, and imagining how the Magazine Man went from school to school telling each one it was the best, trying to get the students to scream "Bald-win!" or "North-brook!" and go out hyped-up to sell subscriptions and make him money. She made me see things I hadn't thought of before, all by having the courage to stand up alone.

I looked over and tried to see what she was doing but couldn't find her. Two rows down, idiot Hagan was pumping a fist in the air with his other arm still attached to Sarah's bouncing shoulders. She turned around, all glowing and excited, then saw me and pretended not to. I waved, but she had already looked away.

"Don't they get it?" I asked. "Don't they understand what she just said?"

Jim shrugged. "People hear what they want to hear." He scanned the auditorium. "Good thing they had the sense to hold this sucker last period of the day."

The final bell rang and we were out of there, heading for the exits in big waves, and the teachers mostly just got out of the way. I wanted to find that girl, but she was on the other side of the auditorium and in the rush I lost her completely. No time to search--I had to catch the bus to our first soccer game of the year.

The game was at Baldwin, the town she came from ten miles down the coast. It's bigger than Newfield (we only have around five thousand people--double that in summer), and richer, and their soccer team had made the state finals three of the last four years. Riding over in the bus I felt nervous, like always, but it was a peaceful nervous, wound tight in one spot in the center of my body, pure power if I used it right.

Jim was an acrobatic animal in goal, making saves like a madman, and I scored twice. We upset them 2-1 in the biggest Newfield soccer win in years. My face was sore the next day from smiling so much.

Chapter 2

I had Mr. McLaughlin's creative writing class right after lunch. I slipped in just as the bell was ringing and grabbed a seat in the front row, rather than my usual one by the window. I respect Mr. Mac a lot and didn't want to disturb his class. He gave me this look that I think was appreciation, and started calling the roll because he wasn't sure of all our names yet.

"Petunia Armstrong," he said.

What? I thought I knew everybody. I spun around and there she was, solemnly sitting at my favorite desk in the back. The white-blonde girl from Baldwin.

"Please call me Pet," she said.

Mr. Mac nodded. "Pet it is. Welcome to creative writing, where words are royalty."

"Thank you," she told him, as solemn as ever. "I'll try to be a good peasant."

Kathleen Meier, who thinks she's hilarious but is almost always wrong, piped right up. "Pet? Does that mean you're like, really tame or something?"

Pet didn't miss a beat. "It means Petunia is a ridiculous name, and Pet is a lot better than Tunia."

"Tuna!" Jack Marshall laughed.

"See what I mean?" Pet said.

"Exactly," Mr. Mac said just stern enough, staring at Jack, then Kathleen. "So now that we've got this name thing under control, let's move on." He picked up The Catcher in the Rye and looked around the room, stopping at me.

"Robby, what sticks in your head from the first few chapters?"

"Old Mr. Spencer's chest in his bathrobe, and Ackley's green teeth."

"Good! And why do you remember them?"

"I don't know. Because they're gross, I guess."

"Did you laugh?" he asked.

"At Ackley I did."

Mr. Mac stepped back in fake horror. "So you find green teeth humorous?"

I didn't feel on the spot, because Mr. Mac isn't that kind of teacher. But it was a good question. What was so funny about green teeth? I wouldn't laugh at a real person with teeth that bad. I was trying to come up with an answer when I heard Pet's voice behind me.

"It's not the green teeth that's funny, it's the way Holden tells about them."

This was her first day in our class, so she must have read the book before. Mr. Mac looked real glad that she was there, which made me a little jealous. I was used to being the kid who said most of the smart things.

"Exactly," he said. "Like when your parents give you grief and tell you it's not what you say, it's how you say it. In fiction it's not so much your story that matters, it's how you tell that story."

That got me thinking about the story I was trying to write, about a kid whose older brother was valedictorian and a sports hero at his school, and how unfair the kid feels it is that everybody expects him to do the same. Which, if you want to know, is the way things are with me. My brother Paul played football for four years at Notre Dame and goes to law school at the University of Michigan. I gave up football for soccer a long time ago, which disappointed Paul and my dad--they congratulated me on making All-League last season as a sophomore, but wish I had done it in football instead. And though I get mostly A's I have no prayer of being valedictorian with Lori Peplowski around.

I raised my hand. "How do you find the right voice when you're writing about what really happened? What choice do you have when you're not making it up?"

"Any thoughts on that?" said Mr. McLaughlin. "Anyone?"

I glanced back at Pet. She had a little piece of a smile on her face, and her eyes on me. I sort of smiled back. Her eyes were bright--and for the first time I noticed the thin, gleaming gold ring in her nose. Body piercing at Newfield High is pretty rare, and it weirded me out for a second. But then I thought, Hey, it's kind of cool, actually. I guess.

"Well," Mr. Mac said. "The answer is that we do make it up--because our perceptions determine what we experience, and another person's perceptions of that experience could be totally different. For instance, I might think this is the most interesting class in the world, while some of you--and I know this is hard to believe--are bored out of your skulls."

"Whoa," Frank Fortunato said. "That's deep."

"You got it," Mr. Mac said. "Most things worth thinking about are. Keep that in mind as you search for the right voice for your stories."

We got into discussing The Catcher in the Rye, and whether we'd like Holden Caulfield if we met him in real life instead of in a book, and the class went by as fast as always. I hadn't looked at the clock once when the bell rang, and notebooks closed and a school's worth of kids poured into the hall.

I pretended to write something, but really I was timing it so I'd stand up right as Pet got to my desk. Not to bump into her or anything--I'm not a total geek--but just to naturally strike up a little conversation.

I did bump into her. Not intentionally, but because I jumped up at the perfect moment to meet her, didn't check behind me and got plowed into by Skunk Darwin, center on the football team. Like a domino I fell right into Pet.

"Sorry," I said.

"Jeez, Robby," Skunk said. "Why don't you look where you're goin'?"

Mr. McLaughlin shook his head. "Citizens, is it too much to ask that you walk out of a room without assaulting one another?"

"Please excuse them," Pet said. "They probably aren't sure where the football field ends and the rest of life begins." And she kept going, out into the hall.

"Nice nose ring, cannibal," Skunk said, because he's a mental midget and has trouble with girls who are smarter than him, which is virtually all of them. After all, he got his name when he was eight years old and tried to pet a skunk that came into his back yard. He was only taking this class because he stupidly thought it would be easy.

"Skunk," Mr. Mac said as I hurried after Pet, "doesn't Coach Malfetone give you guys any lessons in being gentlemen?"

She wasn't tough to find, being just twenty feet down the hall and the only one in sight with bright white hair. I jogged up to her, and matched her stride. "Hey," I said. "It was an accident. I apologize. And I don't play football."

She stopped at her locker, and looked at me like I was contagious. "I'm sorry. I don't like jocks."

That got me so steamed I forgot to be nervous. I can't stand it when people assume athletes are dumb. In cases like Skunk's it happens to be true, but the percentages are no different from anybody else. But then it hit me that she hadn't said anything about intelligence. It was a straight case of dislike for no reason, pure prejudice. What kind of crap was that?

"Well, maybe I don't like snobs who put down people for no reason."

"And maybe I couldn't care less what you don't like."

Taped to the inside of her locker door was a photo of a ballerina with a male ballet dancer, whatever they're called. The ballerina was on her toes, her arms crossed gracefully over her head. The guy wasn't doing much of anything.

"I'm not a jock," I said. "I'm a person who happens to play sports. How would you like to get stuck in some lame category?"

She closed the door and clicked shut her lock. "I already am," she said softly, without looking at me.

That floored me. There I was, completely in the right, yet I felt guilty. "Then you should know better," I wanted to tell her, but instead I said, "I'll see you, I guess. In class or something."

She tried to smile but her lips were trembling. Silently she walked away.

I watched her turn the corner, my stomach tight like right before I take a penalty kick in a soccer game. Then the bell rang and I ran to my next class, the words "I already am" whispering over and over in my head.

Chapter 3

We won our next two games, 3-0 and 4-1, and I scored four of the goals. I was stoked about the way we were playing, and how I was doing, and my co-captain Jim was a kamikaze wizard minding the net. Throwing his body around he made some tremendous saves, including two shots that looked like sure goals, and even a penalty kick. Keep this up and we had a real chance to win the league and do great in the state tournament.

The magazine drive was almost over. The thermometer on the big cardboard sign outside the gym was colored in red magic marker nearly to the top, showing that the school had passed its sales goal but still had room to climb if we weren't slouches. I did the usual, hitting up my parents and grandparents for a couple subscriptions, but I felt funny doing it this year. I kept thinking of Pet as I filled out the forms and collected the money.

"Y la señora Maruszak?" my mother asked me at the dinner table. She thinks learning Spanish might help her business, so she's always throwing in Spanish words to practice.

"She doesn't want any," I said. That was almost the truth; the fact was she didn't want any more, because some kid got to her first. Still, she looked sorry for me and might have sprung for Good Housekeeping or Modern Maturity if I'd pushed the issue, but I didn't. She was probably living on Social Security and didn't need my overpriced magazines anyway.

Mom gave me her skeptical look, the one I dislike even more when she's right than when I'm under suspicion for nothing. "That's strange," she said. "She always bought subscriptions from Paul."

See what I mean about getting compared all the time? It's so second nature to my parents I doubt they even realize they do it. They're not bad to me--they're nice, they're good. But sometimes I just want to scream, "Yes, but I'm not Paul! I'm me!"

Dad saved me by changing the subject, though I doubt that was his intention. "So," he said, "are you going to the football game tonight?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose. Unless there's something more interesting on Home Shopping Network."

When Paul was on the team and made all-state, Dad went to every game, and even now he rarely misses a home game. But he almost never sees my soccer games, because we play in the afternoon while he's at work. He's a machinist, and makes precision parts for all kinds of stuff, including NASA rockets. Mom used to go a lot, until she got her real estate agent's license when I was a freshman and started selling houses full-time.

"You should support your team," Dad said.

"It's not my team. My team is undefeated." The football team was 0-2.

Dad pursed his lips. "All the Newfield teams are your team. That's what school spirit's all about."

"Of course it is," Mom said. "I don't know why you've become so contrary all of a sudden."

"I'm not contrary," I said, realizing how ridiculous that sounded.

"Maybe you're not going to the game or anywhere else, because maybe you're grounded." Dad's voice was like a hacksaw on metal.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was just trying to be funny."

"Apology aceptado," Mom said. "Now let's celebrate that casa I sold today on Playa Walker." She wanted to defuse this argument before it escalated into something worse. It's scary how easy you can get on a path that leads to trouble. My parents raised their glasses (Mom chablis, Dad Schlitz) and I held up my milk, and we clinked them together. "To good luck," Dad said and I was smiling inside, because I knew that tonight I'd be drinking something stronger than milk.

"Be careful," Mom called as I jogged out to Jim's beat-up Dodge. I waved to her without turning around. Jim's parents had bought the car for him last summer after he was on the honor roll three straight marking periods. I'd been on the honor roll every marking period since seventh grade and didn't get a car, but I'm not complaining. My parents let me use one of theirs most of the time, and it's not like my brother had a car in high school either.

"What's up?" Jim said. He had a wicked bruise on his cheek, all purple and yellow.

"Yo, did you go twelve rounds with Mike Tyson, or what?"

He shrugged and began backing out of the driveway. "I got kicked diving for a ball today. The sucker swelled up on me."

That's a goalie for you, the most macho characters around. "I couldn't play keeper in a million years. I'm not insane enough."

Jim grinned. "Insanity definitely helps. So does not being a pussy."

"Meow," I said, laughing.

"So what's our plan for tonight?" Jim asked. "There's a party at Tricia Langhammer's, but not till after the game."

"Want to go?"

"To the game or the party?"

"Both, I guess."

"What the hey. Let's see how big a cheer we get when they announce that we won again. Maybe Lisa Birnbaum will finally realize I'm the man of her dreams."

"Yeah, right," I said. "And maybe they'll have a keg at the game, with free beer for students."

Jim obviously didn't feel like laughing about Lisa. I could never understand why he liked her. She was one of the hottest girls in the school but had a vacuum between her ears, was stuck-up and only dated football players. To give you some idea, she was Billy Hagan's girlfriend all last year. It doesn't get much worse than that. They even got their photo in the Newfield News after one of the football team's few wins, Billy the quarterback lifting Lisa the cheerleader in the air, both of them grinning like they just won the lottery. Jim was depressed for days after he saw that, though he liked her picture so much he cut it out (leaving Hagan behind in the paper except for his hairy arms around her) and taped it to his bedroom wall. I busted his balls the first time I saw it and I thought for a second he was going to deck me.

"Speaking of beer," I said to break the silence, "I could use a cold one right now."

Jim nodded toward my lap. "You're sitting on 'em."

"So," I asked, "where'd you get them this time?"

It was a running joke of ours. Jim had someone, who would buy him beer--no hard stuff, just beer--but he wouldn't tell me who it was. The person made him promise not to, and Jim kept his promises.

"The beer fairy," Jim said. "He put it under my pillow. And by the way, you owe me five bucks. The fairy's price went up."

I felt under the seat, and found two cans slipped into foam rubber huggies to keep them cold--and to keep them camouflaged, because to anyone who saw us they could just as easily have been sodas. Though we were driving the back roads, where no one was likely to see us. Away from downtown and the beach, Newfield is mostly woods, with two-acre zoning so there aren't that many houses. I popped both cans, kept the Notre Dame huggie and gave the UConn Huskies one to Jim. As always, the first sip was bitter, but the best part wasn't the taste or even the buzz--it was the excitement of doing something you weren't supposed to.

Jim took the seldom-used road to Pine Lake, the one that curves around the far side then turns to dirt and peters out after the last houses. The lake is real shallow at that end, so choked with weeds by the Fourth of July you can hardly fish there. My best friend and I sat on the hood, sipping beer and watching the sun set over the trees. Our team was undefeated, we were playing great, the whole world felt good.

I held my can upside-down, draining the last couple drops of warm swill onto the dirt. "I just might put on a buzz tonight," I said. "Let's celebrate."

Jim leaned back on the hood, looking up at the darkening sky. The stars were appearing, thick out here away from any light. "I already am," he said.

That floored me. Of course he meant something completely different than Pet did, but hearing "I already am" made me think of her. My stomach felt full of slick butterflies. I almost told Jim what Pet had said and how I'd been thinking about her. But I chickened out. Instead of opening up to what was important to me, I opened up another beer.

I had drunk three by the time we got to the game. It was already the second quarter, I saw on the scoreboard as we pulled in, and we had to park in the far corner of the lot. It burned me how we could win games, play excellent soccer and draw one-tenth the crowd that the hopeless football team did. Maybe it would be different if we played on Friday nights--a cheap date and all that, and the build-up of waiting all week for it. Or maybe people just prefer a sport where the athletes smash into each other on every play.

I dumped some Tic-Tacs into my palm, and passed the pack to Jim. We couldn't show up with beer on our breath. A whistle blew and the crowd groaned. The scoreboard changed from VISITOR 10, NEWFIELD 0 to VISITOR 16, NEWFIELD 0.

"The doormats are getting their butts kicked again," Jim said. It's not that we root against the football team, but we never forgave Coach Malfetone for what he did the summer after our freshman year. He knew Jim and I were good enough to start for his team, and behind Coach Reynolds' back he tried to convince us to quit soccer and play football. "Play a man's game," he told us. "Not some pansy European sport." He was so mad we turned him down that he gave us B's in gym that fall, though the football players got A's even if they were injured and didn't go to class. It was my lowest grade and Dad couldn't believe it. The last straw was this season, when Malfetone asked Jim and me to kick--just kick, not play from scrimmage--for the football team. Once in practice I nailed a 44-yard field goal, and Jim could punt the ball a mile, but after the crap Malfetone had pulled on us we told him to forget it. Dad was really disgusted with me for that. He would have understood if I'd told him my reason, but I didn't rat on Malfetone. Not because I didn't want to, but because I'm no rat.

As we crossed the parking lot, the VISITOR score changed to 17; obviously Baldwin, unlike Newfield, had someone who could kick extra points. After their rare touchdowns Newfield usually went for a two-point conversion, which they made about as often as Billy Hagan took a test without cheating.

"Do you feel bad for not playing?" I asked. I did, a little anyway.

Jim looked at me like I'd suggested running naked onto the field. "I've had four beers tonight--I don't feel bad about anything." He seemed to slur his words, but after three beers myself I figured the problem could have been my ears, not his mouth. Even so, I was glad we'd be sitting in the stands for awhile instead of driving around. The gory car wreck video they showed in drivers ed was not something I could forget. Seriously, I almost threw up. It was bad.

We got inside in time to see Newfield fumble the kickoff return. A Baldwin guy scooped up the ball and ran in for another touchdown. "Brutal," Jim said. We surveyed the stands for a place to sit. I knew Jim would pick a spot close to the cheerleaders and Lisa Birnbaum, and since I didn't care one way or the other I just followed him, trying not to do any moron thing to show I'd been drinking.

Newfield actually put together a nice drive for a touchdown. Painful as it is to admit, Billy Hagan made some sweet passes and a long run, though he got buried on a roll-out for the two-point conversion. So the half ended 24-6. Jim got up and looked around the stands. He waved at someone or other, then headed the other direction down the steps. "Be right back," he said.

"Where are you going?" I asked, to bust his chops. I knew perfectly well he was going to try and meet up with Lisa.

"To stretch my legs," he said. "And shut up unless you want to walk home, chump."

"Tell her Robby sends a big wet kiss."

"Were you born a douche bag or did you have to practice?"

We always kidded around that way. We didn't mean it, it was just best friend guy stuff. I watched him head down the steps, walking extra carefully because of the beer. Nobody else would have even noticed it, but we're not best friends for nothing. I felt like going to the car to sneak another brew myself, but they don't let you back in if you leave--they know the parking lot would turn into a party. The beer was going through me and I thought about hitting the bathroom, but the line is always long at halftime and I didn't need that. The Baldwin band was playing and they weren't half bad. I was actually tapping my foot to the music when someone from behind sat next to me. Please, I thought, don't let it be Sarah with her "We can still be friends" crapola. She only does that to rub it in that she dumped me.

"Hey, Mr. Goal Scorer." It was Pet, speaking in the happiest voice I'd heard from her yet. The nose ring was gone, replaced by a single stud like a shiny brass nail. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, same as me, except mine was plain gray and hers was black with AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL in white letters on the chest, which gave me an excuse to look there.

"Hi," I said, happy all of a sudden. I smiled and told her the truth. "I never thought I'd see you here."

She smiled back. "Old habits die hard."

"What old habits?"

"I can't even say. It's too embarrassing."

"I won't tell," I said. "Cross my heart."

Pet hesitated, but her eyes were shining. "You promise not to barf?"

I nodded, and she leaned closer like she was going to whisper a secret. Our shoulders touched. "I used to be a Baldwin cheerleader."

"No way!" I remembered what she said in the hall about jocks. "I mean, that's unbelievable. You like football."

Her eyes darkened. "I hate football! I was only a cheerleader because I was so insecure then I did what they wanted, not what I wanted."

"Who's 'they'?"

"Almost everybody! Jocks. Barbie Doll girls who think being popular is the most important thing in the world. Cretins who think the jocks and Barbie Dolls are cool." She looked away, down at the players warming up for the second half, the cheerleaders jumping around and mostly being ignored by the crowd. "And my parents, of course. Not to mention my big sister the prom queen who said to let guys beat me in tennis or they wouldn't like me."

She plays tennis well enough to beat guys and hates jocks? What's up with this girl?

"Pet, then...what are you doing here?"

"I don't know. I thought I might see some friends from Baldwin."

"Did you?

She shook her head. "No, just from Newfield."

"Really? Who?" I was curious to know who she was hanging out with already.

She looked up at the sky, then at me. "You?" she said.

My heart started thumping like when I call up a girl for a date. The pressure was on; I had to say something.

"So, um, does it hurt to get your nose pierced?"

You idiot! I screamed in my head. I can't believe you said that!

Pet threw back her head and laughed like I'd told the best joke ever, laughed so hard she started crying. As she wiped away tears with the back of one hand, she put the other on my knee. Not for long, but she put it there. And then it was gone, as if it had never happened. But we both knew it had.

Six Baldwin guys crunched the Newfield kickoff returner. "It doesn't hurt as much as that," she said. She pointed toward the sideline. "Your friend's been hanging around that bubble-headed chickie all halftime." Lisa was waving pompoms and hopping like a berserk pogo stick, while Jim reluctantly left her to climb back up the bleachers.

I took a chance. "Pet, why is your hair white?"

"Why not? I've already tried black and pink and green. I just felt like going white for awhile. OK, and I didn't have the nerve to show up at a new school with green hair. People would really have hated me then."

"What are you talking about? Nobody hates you."

Before she could answer, Jim was there. He nodded at Pet. "Hey," he said, kind of gruff.

I didn't want Pet to take that the wrong way. Jim wasn't mad at her, just in a sour mood from getting nowhere with a girl who wasn't worth his time in the first place.

"Pet Armstrong," I said. "Jim Dolan."

"Oh yeah," Jim said. "The magazine girl."

"I'm more the anti magazine girl."

"Whatever. That was pretty cool, what you said in front of everybody."

"Thanks." Pet touched her nose ornament. I doubt she even realized she did it, but Jim sure noticed.

"Does that thing itch?" he said. "What about when you blow your nose? It must get gunky as hell."

Pet gave a cold smile, and turned away to watch the game.

"Come on, I'm kidding. Don't you have any sense of humor?"

"Don't you have any sense of taste?"

"Oh, excuse me. Sorry I'm not cool because I don't wash my hair with Clorox."

"Yo, Jim," I said. "Let's chill, OK?" I knew it was the beer and the disappointment over Lisa making him talk this way. It wasn't him.

"I'd better go," Pet said. She put her hand on my shoulder as she stood up.

Jim saluted. "Take it sleazy, Whitey." He was trying to be funny, to cover up the tension, but it just came out more obnoxious. Pet hesitated, like she was thinking of saying something back. Then she headed down the bleachers.

Jim scrunched up his face. "What's her problem, anyway?"

"Her problem was that you were a complete douche."

"Whoa, listen to Loverboy. Got the hots for Miss Bleach Head or what?"

Pet hit the bottom step and walked toward the exit without even a glance at the game. I stood up.

"Man," I said. "You are rag city tonight. I'll see you later." And before I had time to think about what I was doing, I started after her.

"It's your funeral," was the last thing I heard him say, but I didn't turn around.

Chapter 4

What are you doing? I thought as I hurried down the steps. What do you think you're doing? I began wondering who else was asking that question. What's Robby doing leaving his friend, leaving the game, running after some bizarro chick with dyed hair who has a cow over selling a few magazines? And later, at Tricia Langhammer's party, or at school on Monday: Did you hear what Fielder did at the football game? Can you believe it?

I had no clue whether any of that was really happening, or would happen, but Newfield is small and gossip travels fast. And though I'm ashamed to admit I cared what people would think and say, the truth is I did care, at least a little. Enough not to make eye contact with anyone, and take the long route to the exit so I wouldn't pass in front of where my parents always sit. I heard my name called out once, but pretended not to and kept going.

"No returns," Mr. Barnett the science teacher told me at the gate. He looked like he could have played football himself thirty or forty pounds ago. "If you leave you'll miss the greatest comeback in Newfield High School history."

"I'll chance it," I said, already scanning the parking lot. Maybe Pet was gone, and I was stuck like Captain Bozo lurking around till the game let out.

Then headlights went on, back near Jim's junkmobile. I sprinted like a fiend, not caring if Mr. Barnett noticed or not, and weaved in and out of long rows of cars. No way I was going to let her get away. I cut across a stretch of grass by the entrance and barely beat the car to the stop sign. I ran up to the driver's window.

Instead of Pet, there were four ugly bruisers I'd never seen before.

They had to be from Baldwin, with no greater ambition than to beat the snot out of a Newfield kid in an unfair fight. My heart flip-flopped and I got set to run again. But they didn't rush out to beat me up four-on-one. Instead they locked their doors and peeled out, burning rubber into the street.

That's when I realized no one wants to mess with a crazy person--which is what I must have looked like from inside that car.

Tires screeched as their taillights disappeared around a bend. Those are the kind of guys you read about in the paper, I thought, kids who lose it after a few beers and end up wrapped around a telephone pole. They don't know how to handle it like I do. I wished I had the key to Jim's trunk, to get a beer to pass the time. How did Pet get away so quickly? Why did I hang back of her, even a little? Who cares what people think?

You do, I told myself. Unfortunately.

"Who? Who?"

What's that? An owl? A mourning dove? I stood still to listen. The crowd roared at the game, and I had to wait for quiet. It wasn't really quiet--I heard crickets, a car shifting gears down the road, a referee's whistle--but you know what I mean.

The owl changed its call. "Who? You? Who? You?" Trying to follow the sound, I walked backward on damp grass that needed mowing, turning in a slow circle. Overhead a huge full moon looked almost close enough to touch.

Then the tall maple tree on the side lawn started laughing. "OK," I said, "I've made a total fool of myself. You happy?"

The laughter stopped. "Relax," Pet said from somewhere in the branches. "You only made a partial fool of yourself at most. And I was impressed how you scared off those Baldwin creeps. Hey, come on up."

"I don't want to climb a stupid tree."

"Why not? Not sophisticated enough? Afraid someone will see and think you're weird? Good! The world needs more weird--everyone's so normal it's like they're asleep all day!"

I couldn't remember the last time I'd climbed a tree. But when she put it that way, like a challenge, I didn't have much choice. Still, when another car left the parking lot I slipped behind the tree and waited for the headlights to pass before I swung myself onto the lowest limb, and started playing monkey man up the trunk.

The maple bark was fairly smooth--not paper smooth like birch, but a far cry from rough-grooved oak--and it felt good to climb a tree. Though to be honest I was glad it was night and no one was likely to see us. I couldn't see Pet. She was a voice in the dark behind the leaves, and maybe she was right. Maybe weird was what the world, or at least Newfield, needed. I was so normal it was ridiculous.

I was so normal it was weird.

Pet was perched on a fat branch fifteen feet up. She gave me her hand and I sat next to her. I felt invisible and ready for something new to happen, like I was in a secret clubhouse or some magic place in a kids' book. Through a gap in the leaves I saw the stop sign, and imagined watching myself run up to that car and nearly getting my butt kicked. But nearly doesn't count. Those guys ran from me--and Pet saw it.

"You're grinning," she said. "I'm up here with the Cheshire cat."

"You must like Alice in Wonderland."

"I love Alice in Wonderland."

"Give me a break," I said. "If you love something you like it too."

Pet looked out through the break in the leaves. "I wish you were right."

I wondered what it would be like to kiss a girl fifteen feet up in a tree, in the dark, with the romantic sounds of a bad football game in the background. Pet touched my shoulder, and I hoped I'd soon be finding out.

"For example," she said, "I love my father, but I don't like him at all. I don't think anyone does."

"Come on. What about your mother?"

"She doesn't love him or like him. They got divorced last year."

"Is that why you moved to Newfield?"

Pet's knee grazed against mine. "No spit, Sherlock."

She kissed me quick on the lips, so quick it was over before I knew it happened.

"'Spit' doesn't mean 'spit,'" she said. "But I don't swear. Swearing means you don't have enough creativity to say it your own way."

"Or it means you're pissed off."

Pet ignored that one. "The next time somebody cuts you off in traffic, yell 'Duck stew!' at him."

"Or her."

"Right. Or 'you bucking brasspole.' I try to think of a different one every time. By the time I do, I usually calm down."

"Pet, I'm sorry but that's pretty lame."

"That's the point. People get all bothered by lame stuff and forget about what matters."

"So what matters?" I asked.

Pet smiled. "I don't know. Climbing trees at night with your friend. Getting to know somebody. What do you think?"

I looked over at her, feeling real warm inside. "I think you're right," I said.

We sat there on the thick limb, close as can be, and didn't talk for a minute or more. If you've ever been out on a first date, and I bet you have--not that this was a first date or anything--you know how long a minute of silence is. It feels like an hour. You're trying to think of something to say, but it can't be stupid because then you'll look like some dork who's trying to think of something to say. But the thing is, this wasn't uncomfortable. There was just the two of us in a tree with the night all around us, all the way to the stars.

Pet finally spoke. "Wouldn't it be strange to be a tree? You'd grow and grow and grow without knowing it until one day you'd die, without ever traveling even one inch."

"It's a good thing they don't have brains," I said, "or they'd be brutal bored."

Pet grinned. "And scared zitless when somebody comes with a chainsaw."

We sat close together up in that big maple, swinging our legs and talking and feeling great that the other one was there, and nothing else in the world mattered. We didn't even realize the game was over until cars started piling out of the lot, Baldwin fans honking their horns like they'd won the Super Bowl instead of one lousy slaughter of the weakest team in the league.

Pet nudged my shoulder. "Isn't that your friend?"

She pointed. Jim was in the line of cars, inching along, with Lisa Birnbaum in the passenger seat. They were both hiding cans of beer in their laps. Lisa bent over to take a secret sip, and I saw a wide smile on Jim's bruised face before they passed beneath us and out onto the road. I'd love to have broken his stones with a phone call, but Jim's parents hate cell phones so he doesn't have one. I didn't either, unfortunately. Over the summer I'd lost mine, and my parents wouldn't let me replace it till Thanksgiving, when maybe I'd "be thankful enough to take care of it."

"You dog, Jimbo," I said.

"Jealous?"

"No way. I'd rather be in a tree with you any day."

"Or night?"

"Especially night."

Pet looked me in the eye. "Me too," she said.

"Though I wouldn't have minded getting a couple of those beers before he left. I paid for half of them."

Pet didn't answer. But the quiet that followed wasn't peaceful like our silence a few minutes ago. This quiet was tense and nervous. The world was different, just like that, and I wanted it back the way it was.

"Is something the matter?" I asked after a while.

"No."

Why do people always say no, when everyone knows the truth is yes? Maybe for the same reason people ask if something is the matter, when they already know the answer.

"Are you sure?"

Pet shook her head. "Robby, have you ever hugged a tree?"

Hug a tree? "No, not that I can remember."

"You should do it. My cousin Donny, he was in the Peace Corps in Thailand and he told me about it. He said it's like the tree hugs you back, without any arms, just by being there for you."

"Did Donny do lots of drugs in Thailand?"

"Please don't think it's stupid. Please don't."

"I don't think it's stupid." But I was lying. I thought it was totally stupid.

"Let's hug this one," she said.