Читать книгу Hooked - Liz Fichera - Страница 18

Chapter 11

Fred

THE NEXT FEW days proceeded almost exactly as the first.

Each morning before work, Dad dropped me off in front of the high school along with my backpack and sometimes my plaid golf bag, depending on whether I decided to take it home or leave it in the coach’s office. I could leave my bag in his office every night if I wanted, but I preferred to bring my clubs home and practice my swing after I did my homework. Sometimes Sam and Pete would ride with Dad and me. On those days, I relented and let Sam drag my golf bag out of the van, if I had it. It was like Sam to be nice.

Then I tried to ignore all the stares and practically nailed my chin to my chest as I trudged through layers of high school kids to reach Coach Lannon’s office. At least I had some new clothes to wear. I’ll admit that it was better when Sam walked beside me, but it nagged me that he looked like some kind of an escort. It was stupid. And I had my suspicions that somehow my brother had put Sam up to Bodyguard Duty.

I attended all my classes and study halls but kept mostly to myself. At golf practice, I was mostly ignored, although Zack Fisher did ask me once which country club my parents belonged to. I almost choked on my answer.

After a sleepless Wednesday night, I walked straight to the No Admittance metal door in the back of the gymnasium with my golf bag over my shoulder without stopping. I passed Ryan Berenger and his circle of friends in the courtyard. As I passed, their conversation stopped. Ryan pretended not to notice me and turned to his blonde girlfriend to hide his face. I figured he was probably rolling his eyes by the grin on his girlfriend’s face. Her perfect pale cheeks filled with air like she was trying to swallow a laugh.

Nice.

I reached the rear door quickly, considering all of the weight hanging on my shoulder.

I knocked twice. Ten seconds later, Coach Lannon opened the heavy door and stood aside. “Morning, Fred,” he said, yawning as he propped the door open with his back.

“Hi, Coach,” I said as I walked through the opened door. It was familiar to me now and still barely wide enough for the both of us and my golf bag.

Coach Lannon smiled down at me as I passed. “Ready for the tournament today?”

“I think so,” I said, too late, as we walked to his office.

I didn’t have to look at his eyes to know they widened.

“I mean, yes,” I clarified.

“Good.” He was all toothy smile again. “’Cause I think we got a real chance at beating Hamilton this year.” He rubbed his hands. “Glad to see you’re wearing your golf shirt. Hope it wasn’t too big on you.”

For real? It’s as big as a hogan.1

“It’ll do,” I said.

“The boys treating you okay?”

“Fine,” I lied.

“Good,” he said. “’Cause I expect you to tell me if they don’t. Okay?”

I nodded without looking at him.

When we reached his office, I scooted around the coach and dropped my bag in its usual spot while he plopped into the seat behind his desk. I stood back and frowned at it. My bag stood out like a laser light among all the stylish navy blue, black and gray bags with their trendy logos and shiny clubs that barely looked used. I tried to stuff my bag into the corner, but there was only so much you could do to make a thirty-year-old plaid golf bag look inconspicuous.

“Listen, Fred,” Coach Lannon said as he opened a yellow folder on his desk. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Privately. You want to have a seat for a minute?”

My stomach dropped.

He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. I sat down.

Had I done something wrong? Had he seen me muff the two short shots yesterday on the putting green? Was he angry already with my performance? Was he kicking me off the team?

My breathing quickened exponentially.

“I notice you wear tennis shoes instead of golf shoes.” He made a tent with his fingers.

I sat higher in my chair. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yes,” I said with an equally careful tone. It was like tiptoeing around Mom.

“Well, I just wondered if your play wouldn’t benefit from a pair of decent golf shoes—”

I interrupted him, surprising myself. “I haven’t had a chance yet to buy a pair.” I paused as my cheeks began to burn. “With school and practice and all. Maybe I’ll get to the mall this weekend.” Not a huge lie. It could happen.

Coach Lannon sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I see.”

I inhaled once, deeply, through my nose. The office walls began to shrink.

His palms lifted. “If it’s a question of money, let me help—”

“I don’t need any help with the shoes, Coach, really, I don’t. I just need time to get to the mall,” I said quickly.

The coach lowered his voice. “Okay,” he said, leaning forward again. “Didn’t mean to upset you. But if you should change your mind—”

“Maybe this weekend,” I said again, mentally calculating the tip money I’d already saved minus the money I’d just paid for two new pairs of shorts. And Mom had even promised to talk to the chef at the restaurant again. I’ll ask him when he’s desperate for extra hands, she’d promised the night before. Then he’ll have to take you back. Besides, Mom had said, you’ll need the job when you graduate. Her words had ingrained themselves in my brain like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

Coach Lannon lowered his chin. His tone was kind, and I felt a tiny lump grow in my throat. “You know, Fred, there’s no harm in asking for help. When you need it.”

I pulled away from his desk, swallowing back the lump. Then I popped up out of my chair like there was a spring in the cushion. Dad would be mortified if I ever accepted charity. “Thank you, Coach. I appreciate it, but I don’t need any help.”

“Would it help if I talked to your parents?”

I felt my face go ashen. That would be a thousand times worse. “No. Please, don’t,” I said. “They’re busy enough as it is.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Please, don’t. Please, don’t do anything.” I wanted to tell him to just leave me alone and let me play golf. I’d never needed golf shoes before. I could survive without them for a little while longer.

The crease in the middle of the coach’s forehead softened. I think he finally understood, but just as he was about to say something else, the first warning bell rang.

“I better get to class,” I said, eager to be anywhere but trapped with Coach Lannon and more questions.

The coach sighed and followed me reluctantly to the door. He leaned against it. “One other thing, Oday,” he said in his coach voice as I stepped into the hallway.

I was still breathing heavily through my nostrils, anxious to sprint. I turned.

“I’m pairing you with Berenger at the tournament today.”

“Ryan?”

“Yeah.” He squinted at me like he was surprised that I wouldn’t know. “You two are our best players. You’re in the top spot, and he’s in the second.”

“Oh.” My voice squeaked. “Right.” More unexpected news.

“Anyway, don’t forget the bus leaves here at two sharp.”

I nodded and then finally turned and charged down the long hallway. When I got to the end, I nearly knocked over Ryan and his stocky blond friend, another white boy at Lone Butte High School with a permanent snarl that contradicted his angelic face.

1 A traditional Navajo house.