Out of Nowhere Read online

  I would’ve been good with hot geek.

  I hadn’t even made it to my first class when it started. Seriously, I walked into the crowded lobby and heard, “Hey, Bouchard! Maquoit sucks!” People laughed. Someone else called out, “Tom, you’re the man,” and a few others cheered. Of course, the vice principal was hall monitor that morning, and he moved right in. He materialized at my side like he’d been waiting for me.

  “That’s enough, people,” he said loudly. I felt his hand on my elbow. “Tom, you’re to head straight to guidance.”

  Four years at this place and it was the first time the guy had spoken to me. That’s because vice principals only deal with troublemakers.

  But now I was in that category.

  Instead of my guidance counselor’s closet-sized office, I was directed to the conference room. This is where they put us when college reps visit and make their pitch to five or six semi-awake students who are less interested in college and more interested in ditching that period’s class. Coach Gerardi was there, along with my guidance counselor, Mrs. Swift. And Principal Cockrell. Now, him I’d spoken to before. Usually after soccer games, when he’d shake my hand or slap me on the back.

  No backslapping that morning. He was all business.

  “Well, Tommy, I have to say I’ve had better Sunday afternoons,” Mr. Cockrell began. “I was on the phone with the principal at Maquoit High School. You don’t want to know how long.”

  “I’m really sorry about that, sir,” I managed to say before the expression on his face cut me off. “Furious” pretty much described it. Mr. Cockrell had had to eat major crow on my behalf, and he obviously didn’t like Maquoit crow any better than I did.

  “Now, when the police released you boys the other night, you understood there might be the possibility of charges, correct?” he continued, keeping his tone level despite the anger I knew simmered beneath the words. I nodded. Inevitability of charges, more like. Officer Smiley made it real clear that no one from Maquoit would cut us slack.

  Here it comes, I thought.

  “Well, I managed to convince him that since this is the first time you have ever gotten into anything remotely resembling trouble—though I can’t say the same for Mr. Plourde—pressing charges would be an overreaction.”

  A gush of air poured from my lungs. I’d been holding my breath.

  “How about ‘Thank you, Mr. Cockrell’?” Coach prompted. More growly than usual.

  “Thanks!” I said quickly. “So they’re going to forget the whole thing?”

  Mr. Cockrell held up his hand.

  “I didn’t say that. I said no charges. That doesn’t mean no consequences.”

  My lungs sucked back in. Shoulders tightened.

  “To begin with, we’ve arranged for you and Donnie to repaint the Maquoit rock. At your own expense. You’ll buy the paint and supplies, and paint it after school. And I expect you’ll have an audience, if you know what I mean.”

  Sasquatch. The whole Maquoit forward line. Wearing their Olympic Development Program shirts. Damn. Damn, damn …

  “You’ll also have to do some community service. One hundred hours each. And your graduation in the spring depends on whether you complete those hours.”

  “A hundred hours!” It burst from my lips.

  “You have a problem with that?” Coach Gerardi demanded.

  “No,” I replied instantly. “But … wow. One hundred. I mean, it took me through junior year to finish my thirty.” Thirty hours of community service is a requirement at our high school. We each have until the end of senior year to log them all.

  “Maybe if you were more involved in the community, a hundred hours wouldn’t seem so daunting,” Mrs. Swift said quietly.

  “Maybe if you were more involved in the community, you might think about how your actions affect the community!” Coach snarled. His face was red. “You are a captain! You represent this school, your team, and this town. I know your buddy Plourde has his head up his ass ninety percent of the time, but I expected better from you! You let us down, Tommy.”

  Something about the yelling turned my worried-and-humble into pissed-off. I mean, I got the whole role-model thing, and how doing this sort of stuff sets off bad feelings between schools. But it’s not like we broke anything or stole anything. No substances were involved. No one was hurt. I mean, c’mon: it was a joke.

  I looked Coach in the eye.

  “I know it was a mistake, sir. It won’t happen again.”

  Coach is no fool. He knew exactly what I didn’t say.

  “I should bench you,” he said.

  I didn’t reply.

  “You know why I’m not going to?” he continued.

  I paused. It felt like a trick question.

  “Because you’re … fair?” I said finally. I wasn’t trying to smart-ass him, but as soon as the words were out, I could see how he might take it that way.

  “Because I’m overruled!” he practically shouted. “Our athletic director wants to give you another chance, and I think if you were a less talented player I’d be able to convince him otherwise. But the fact is the team needs you out there, so consider yourself very, very lucky. And make sure your friend Mr. Plourde knows how lucky he is. He got off light because he was with you.” Coach pushed his chair back and strode from the room. Mrs. Swift and Mr. Cockrell said nothing, eyes focused on the table before them. As if Coach’s outburst had been directed at them, too.

  The bell signaling first period rang, and I got up. Before I left the conference room, Mrs. Swift handed me a slip of paper. She’d written “K Street Center” and a phone number on it.

  “This is an organization, walking distance from school, where you might start to volunteer some hours,” she said. “They need tutors for their homework helpers program.”

  “Thanks,” I told her, then folded the paper and shoved it into my pocket. K Street’s a long walk from the high school, pretty much in Saeed’s neighborhood. But if I had a hundred hours between me and graduation, it was as good as any other place to start.

  The halls were empty as I hurried to my first-period class. Then I heard his voice behind me.

  “Tom-boy!”

  He must have also been at guidance. Separate interrogation rooms again.

  “Wait up.” Donnie quick-stepped over to me.

  “So, didya get the good news?” he said.

  “A hundred hours of service plus public humiliation at the rock? What part of ‘good’ am I missing here?” I said.

  “Are you kidding? We are so off the hook! This could’ve gone down real bad.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they want you to think,” I said. “C’mon. We slapped some paint on a rock. Not a federal crime.”

  Donnie shook his head.

  “Not for you, maybe. But they know me, man. And shit adds up. So I was apologizing all over in there.”

  “And you told me you never lie.”

  Donnie stopped. Stared at me in the middle of the quiet hall.

  “I don’t. I am sorry. Not for what we did. I mean, Maquoit does suck.” He laughed a little. Brushed the hair from his eyes. Donnie’s hair always seems to need trimming.

  “But I’m sorry I dragged you into it. The Maquoit people could have been jerks, you know? Could’ve wrecked that spotless reputation of yours.” He punched me lightly on the arm, then sauntered down the hallway.

  I watched him turn a corner at the end of the hall and head in the opposite direction from me.

  Chapter Five

  Practice that day began with extra laps, which pissed me off.

  It was the Somali guys. Again. The same two, Saeed and Ismail, were slow to get laced up, and Coach always penalizes us with a few fast laps around the field if even one person is late. As captain, I try, seriously, to keep an eye out for this sort of thing and keep everybody moving, but sometimes? Motivating the people on this team is like herding cats.

  I was matched up with Saeed for quick passes and warm-up drills, whic
h should have put a smile on my grouchy face because the guy is the Tom Brady of passing accuracy. And yeah, I’m mixing my metaphors here, but hey, I like football. It just bugged me that I couldn’t say that to the guy. Couldn’t even compliment him. First, because there was no way he knew who the New England Patriots were, and second, because his English sucked. I thought he was totally faking it by tossing out a few random words at the right time, like “great pass” and “cool.” But most of what everybody said blew right by him.

  So late and pissed off were pretty much the themes of the day, and not only because I’d been hauled into guidance first thing and was late for first period. I’d been late to third period ’cause of the lost kid.

  He was slumped against the wall in the history wing, this skinny black dude, his head in his hands. He seemed young, maybe a freshman. People were changing classes and walking past him like he wasn’t there. Everybody—black, white—just ignored him. I don’t think it’s because they didn’t care. I think we’d just gotten used to the bizarreness of the whole situation. Girls praying on their knees in the stairwells while students stepped around them. Packs, sometimes five a day, of new black faces in the guidance office. They’d wait patiently while Mrs. Swift and Co. buzzed frantically in and out of each other’s little cubbies, waving wads of paper and trying to get everyone sorted out. Every single day they had to show new kids how to do totally simple things, like move through the cafeteria line to buy lunch, or open a locker, or change classes when the bell rang. Eventually they’d figure it out. But then more new kids would show up. Every. Single. Day.

  Liz Painchaud came up with the bright idea to get all of us in National Honor Society (she’s president) to wear these badges in the halls, so that students who needed help could ask us to point them in the right direction. Which turned out to mean walking them to class, because they didn’t understand what you meant by “Go down these stairs, turn left at the end of the hall, and follow the numbers.” Plus you had to put up with the jokers: “Help me, Bouchard! I’m lost! I can’t find my way to the bathroom!” Then, after the third teacher gave me crap for showing up late to class, even though I explained I was walking Somali kids to their classes, I threw in my badge and told Liz to stuff it. I mean, I got how hard it was on everyone, and we all needed to pitch in and be patient. But after a while you just wanted a break. You just wanted … normal. Even for one day.

  Anyway, there he was, a random kid sitting on the floor. People didn’t look twice.

  I crouched beside him.

  “Hey,” I said quietly. “You all right?” He lifted his head.

  He looked like he’d seen a ghost. I think he trembled. He didn’t answer my question; I don’t think he could. I didn’t know what was wrong with the guy, but it went way beyond not knowing how to get to his next class. He folded his legs up to his chest and rested his forehead on his knees.

  I sat with him until the halls cleared out, thinking the whole time that if my third-period teacher tried to give me a tardy slip I was gonna get ugly. As soon as it was quiet, I nudged him.

  “Think you can stand up?” I asked. No response. I hooked my hands under his arms and lifted. Surprisingly, he didn’t resist. He got to his feet. He let me pick up his backpack. I put my arm across his shoulders.

  “We’re going to walk to the guidance office now,” I told him, speaking slowly, carefully pronouncing each word. No response, but he came with me. He kept his head down and the scared expression switched to just plain blank. Like he had disappeared deep inside himself.

  At guidance, I found him a chair and went straight to Ms. Bernier, the woman at the front desk who basically runs the place. I explained the situation, she wrote me a pass for my next period, and as I left I heard her say in a loud, friendly voice to the lost guy, “I’ll be right with you, deah. Don’t worry; we’ll get you all fixed up.”

  Outside the guidance office, I had to take a deep breath and count to ten. I wasn’t upset with Ms. Bernier. Hell, I knew her. I was related to her somehow. She and her family are always at the big summer picnic we do at Enniston City Park each year, with all the third and fourth cousins and relatives twice removed, that sort of thing. Berniers and Bouchards and Thibeaults and Pelletiers … it’s a big party. And she’s a nice woman. She’s not stupid. And it wasn’t her fault that “we’ll get you all fixed up” was completely useless to begin to deal with whatever was going on with that kid. But it was the best she could do.

  Just like keeping him from getting stepped on was the best I could do. But being totally over our heads like that? Pissed me off.

  After drills, Coach set us up for corner kicks. He put our keeper, Pete LeBourdais, in goal, and our best defenders spread out in front of him.

  “Okay, I want to run what might be an actual corner kick situation. So in the box right now I want to see Saeed, Ismail, Jake, and Mike. Tommy and the other middies just outside the box. I want you boys to show me how you’re gonna get the ball into the goal off the corner kick.”

  He lined up the rest of the team at the corner, and one by one they sent it sailing to center. Or not. Most of the guys never took the corner kick, so the strikers waiting for the ball were stuck with some pretty lame options for scoring. Which annoyed me. Because I didn’t see the point, frankly, of trying to make a play off some weak-ass pass.

  Coach Gerardi obviously wasn’t seeing it that way. After every kick—which, incidentally, rarely made it near the front of the goal; Pete looked totally bored—Coach was commenting, correcting, suggesting what Saeed/​Ismail/​Jake/​Mike coulda/​shoulda/​woulda done. Finally he motioned to me.

  “Tommy, take the next kick.”

  I like to stand five steps back for a corner. I raised my hand, signaling that I was ready to go. Then one-two-three-four pow! Slightly under and slightly to the side of the ball, with the inside of my foot. It sailed up, not too high, to center. Descended into the scrum of players gathered before the goal. I saw Mike leap into the air to take the header. Ismail jumped, too.

  Talk to each other, people! I wanted to scream.

  Mike made no contact whatsoever with the ball. Ismail, who clearly had gotten in Mike’s way, let it fall. Used his chest, not to deflect it into the goal, but to deaden and drop it. It thudded against him and landed at his feet, and with the top of his foot he sort of caught and kick-flung it forward.

  Pete never saw it coming. It was in the net before he could wave at it.

  “Whoa-ho!” Coach yelled from the sidelines. “Nice job! Nice job!”

  He made me do it again (guess he figured it was time to put in someone who could actually kick a corner), and now Saeed got the touch. He didn’t head it. But while the ball was still pretty high he used his foot to control it. Touch, settle, two little taps of a dribble forward, then he fired it into the goal. That time, even though Pete was expecting it, it still ended up behind him in the net.

  Over and over I set them up from the corner. Sometimes the kick wasn’t so accurate, but when I did get it into the box, one of the guys could usually make something happen. It was good, even if some of it was a little unorthodox. Like, Jake and Mike tend to try to take the ball from up high and head it. Saeed and Ismail: no way. Feet, chests, backs, for sure, every which way and some pretty impossible ways, too. But I didn’t see that ball touch their heads. Not once. They definitely had some sort of finesse thing going that didn’t involve jostling brain cells.

  Coach switched us up. He put me in the box and Saeed at corner. The guy stood way back. Like, twice as far as I usually stand. He waited. He took his time. His hand went up and he advanced, deliberately, in what almost looked like slow motion. His foot connected neatly with the ball.

  Now, I’ve never seen angels. When I was a little boy at St. Cecilia’s, I used to watch for them. We believed, all of us back then, in angels. In the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, leprechauns … God, too. We believed and we waited, because that’s what kids do. We pretty much would not have been surprised if s
ome big winged dude walked into the classroom one day and began handing out crayons. Or at least flew by the windows outside.

  Eventually you figure out Dad’s been slipping quarters under your pillow at night and taking your old teeth. Santa Claus brings better toys to the rich kids’ houses. God’s debatable, and there are no angels.

  But when Saeed kicked that ball, I swear: someone guided it. Someone who appreciated the beauty and perfection of a white ball rising from the ground in a rainbow arc. A ball that didn’t whiz, didn’t soar, didn’t zip. It floated. It curved gracefully, the perfect distance away from furiously leaping legs and bobbing heads and waving, scrabbling goalie’s hands, until it descended, settling with a soft whoosh, like a waterbird landing on a lake, into a corner of the goal. The net caught it, embraced it.

  You couldn’t have done it better.

  Ismail screamed something I didn’t understand and ran toward Saeed. Every guy was on him, the whole team. Mike was losing his mind. Even Pete LeBourdais rushed him. I looked toward Coach, half expecting him to join the swarm, but the guy was motionless. He just stared at the ball entangled in the back corner of the goal.

  When our eyes met, there was an expression in his I’d never seen before.

  Like he’d just seen an angel.

  After practice I got a lift to the K Street Center. You’d have thought they weren’t expecting me. I had called, so they knew I was coming, but the crazy-ass chaos that greeted me when I stepped through the doors sure didn’t look like homework help.

  Sure didn’t smell like it, either. More like old sneakers. Unwashed sheets. Unwashed dudes. Seriously, the place was crawling with little kids, but these gray-looking guys in dusty jeans and broken shoes were flopped on some beat-up couch in the middle of the room, staring at the television. Judge Judy, scolding someone. So that was my first mental note about the K Street Center: they don’t get cable. Because there isn’t a guy on the planet, even if he’s an out-of-it guy with broken shoes, who would watch Judge Judy if he could flip to ESPN.