Читать книгу Don't Let Me Go - J.H. Trumble - Страница 9

Chapter 4

Last March 14

Things that scared us

ADAM:	Where r u?
ADAM:	Answer ur phone, dammit! Ur mom is worried sick.
ADAM:	Nate, pls call me.
ADAM:	Im coming to look for u.
NATE:	Im fine ok im fine no need 2 worry ... just nd some time alone k im fffiiinnneee!
ADAM:	Just tell me where u r.
ADAM:	Answer ur fucking phone!
ADAM:	Nate, pls, baby. Its 2 in the am. Tell me where u r. Ur scaring me.
NATE:	I HAV 2 GO! DAMN! IM FINE!
ADAM:	Im calling friends to help look for u.
NATE:	if u call... I will never forgive u.
ADAM:	If something happens 2 u I’ll never forgive myself.
NATE:	NO DO NOT CALL. I ND 2B ALONE FOR A REA SON! NOT TO WORRY THEM!!! DO NOT FUCKING CALL! PLEASE DON’T CALL. I DON’T WANNA WORRY ANYONE.
ADAM:	Then tell me where u r.
Long pause.
NATE:	Football field.

The moon was full and my eyes accustomed to the dim light, so I could see him when he climbed up into the bleachers and sat down, center field, six rows up. I hadn’t told him what football field. But he was here so quickly, it was obvious he’d guessed right. What other field would I have gone to but the one where I had suffered so many humiliations? The one where Coach Schaper, dear old Dad, had taunted me relentlessly—You’re throwing like a pussy. No son of mine is running like a homo. Don’t you dare cry. I didn’t raise a faggot—turning what might have been my field of dreams into his killing fields.

I dropkicked another football toward the goal. It veered to the right and dropped just a few feet inside the end zone. My bare toes stung from the impact. “I always wanted to be placekicker on the team,” I shouted. “Kickers have to have good form, nerves of steel. I would have been a good one too, you know. If I’d kicked, I might have even liked football. Maybe I’d still be on the team.” I sniffed and wiped at my dripping nose with my dirty, sweaty forearm. The pads on my shoulders were too small and pinched. I adjusted them again. “You wanna know why I wasn’t?” I picked up another ball from the six or seven lined up along the forty-yard line and dropkicked it cleanly through the goal posts. “Because my dad said placekickers aren’t real football players. And if you’re not a real football player, you’re not shit.

“Especially if you’re the coach’s son,” I muttered.

I picked up another ball and planted it on my hip and look at him through the darkness. “You want to play?”

Adam got up, slipped under the railing, and dropped to the ground.

I nudged the other footballs out of the way and met him at the fifty. “One on one,” I said. I showed him how to hold the ball, tuck it up snug in the crook of his arm where it was less apt to get loose, and then how to get in line position. Even in the semi-dark, it was obvious what a mess I was. He took it all in, but he did what I said without a word. When we broke, he dodged me and sprinted for the end zone, but I flung myself at him, just catching his left ankle with my outstretched arms. He went down with an umph.

“Shit, that hurts,” he muttered.

The next time, I carried the ball. I went down on my knuckles at the forty-five. When we broke, I faked right and easily slipped past him on the left and ran for a touchdown, then jogged back. “Let’s go,” I said, gutting him with the ball.

He planted the ball on his hip. “Nate, you can’t keep doing this.”

“Come on,” I said. “Again.”

I got down on my knuckles, but he didn’t budge. “This didn’t just happen to you,” he said. “This happened to me too.”

I scoffed. “Nobody yanked your pants down and shoved a wagon handle up your ass in front of a couple dozen people.”

“You know what I mean.”

I stormed back over to him, snatched the football from his hip, then stormed back and jabbed it down at the fifty again. “Let’s go,” I said furiously. I got down again, mentally preparing myself for my next move should he decide to call me on it. Instead, he hesitated for just a moment, then got in position and locked eyes with me. “This has got to stop, Nate. You can’t do this by yourself.”

“Snap the fucking ball.”

“You have to—”

“SNAP THE FUCKING BALL!”

He snapped the ball and dropped back a few steps. I threw myself at him and he went down again, on his back this time. He groaned and then grew quiet. And still.

“Adam?” I grabbed his leg at the calf and shook it a little. “Adam? You okay?”

Nothing.

“Adam?” I crawled up him. “Shit. Adam!” I laid my hand on the side of his face and slapped it lightly. “Oh, please, God. Be okay. You can’t leave me. Adam?” Panic swallowed me up whole.

“I am never fucking doing that again,” he said abruptly.

When he opened his eyes, I was smiling. He smiled back.

“You scared the crap out of me,” I said, wiping my damp eyes with the heel of my hand.

“I may never walk again, but other than that, I’m good.” He closed his eyes. “This game is barbaric. No wonder you don’t like it.”

“It’s not so bad when you’re padded.”

He opened his eyes again and fingered the mesh practice jersey I wore. “Speaking of which ...”

“The equipment room was unlocked.”

“Hmph.”

I laughed a little and rolled over onto my back next to him. We didn’t talk for some time. But the silence felt good, easy, simple. On the field, away from all the trees, the sky seemed so much bigger, so much deeper. The moon was low in the sky. If I tipped my head back, the sky was blacker, the stars more numerous. I picked out the Big Dipper and followed along the handle to the North Star.

“Why a dragon?” I asked. I had run my fingers along the tattoo on his lower back many times but never thought to ask about it.

“That was random.”

“What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure it means anything. Dragons are mythical creatures—powerful, free, evolved.”

“Like you.”

He laughed. “I’m glad you think so.”

“When did you get it?”

“Not too long ago. Early November. It was my birthday present to myself. Remember that first day you sneaked a look at me over your shoulder in government class? That was the first time I thought you might actually play on my team. You gave me a reason to come out of the closet, Nate. And the tattoo, well, it was my way of taking control of my body. My way of saying I decide who I give it to. And I wanted to give it to you.”

“Do you want to give it to me now?”

He turned onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “You’re kinda scary all padded up like that,” he said, tugging at the pads around my hips.

“They’re removable, you know.”

“I know.” But he made no move to remove them. I felt the subtle shift before he even spoke again. “What happened tonight, Nate?”

I looked away from him and fixed my eyes on a cluster of stars. How could I tell him that my own father, a man who hadn’t even bothered to visit me once in those weeks after I got out of the hospital, had suddenly shown up at the door, implying that I was somehow responsible for my own assault?

I want to know what you were doing in that backyard with those boys.

I don’t want to find out in front of an entire courtroom full of people that my son’s a whore, the way I found out in front of all those people at the hospital that he’s a fag.

The humiliation, the hurt. I couldn’t repeat his words, not even to Adam. I wouldn’t have told Mom either, but I didn’t have to. She’d walked in on the tail end of it, her shock and anger distracting Dad just enough for me to escape. I ran—no car keys, no shoes. God, why hadn’t I let her get the door? What chance did I have in court if my own dad was so willing to believe the worst?

“The defense attorney is gonna try to make us look like perverts,” I said finally. I took a deep, unsteady breath. “He’s gonna try and convince the jurors that I wanted it.”

“He’s just doing his job, Nate. You’re not on trial here.”

“They’re going to ask about us. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know. I have to testify too.”

“What will you tell them?”

“The truth. I’m not ashamed of anything we do. ‘I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at.’ ”

“Shakespeare?”

He smiled. “Othello.”

“Do you think the world is ready for the truth?”

“It’s not immoral to tell the truth, Nate. It doesn’t matter if the world is ready or not. Truth is truth.” He fingered the rubber bracelet on my wrist, the one he’d had made for me last fall as a reminder to stay true to myself. Stamped in the rainbow-colored band were the letters WWND?—What Would Nate Do? “You’re wearing it again,” he said.

“I want a tattoo.”

“A tattoo, huh? People are going to think I’m a bad influence on you.”

“Yeah, you’re so bad.”

Later, in the musty-smelling equipment room, which was really just a temporary building outside the field house, we made love. Afterward, he cleaned up my bloodied toes with some antiseptic wipes he found in a cabinet. “It’s just superficial,” I kept telling him.