All Good Children Part 10

I watch Chicago clap for Saffron's touchdown. He keeps a beat with all the other youngsters, Clap-clap-clap, pause, clap-clap-clap. "Neither," I say. "I wouldn't go near any of them."

On Monday morning, Mom leaves a note for Ally on the kitchen screen: Have fun at your new school. We love you. There's a picture of us waving, with Peanut pasted in.

Ally spills her cereal and juice in her excitement. "I have to get out all my giggles," she says. "They're not allowed in school." I tickle her to get them out, but they just keep coming, slipping through the gap of her missing tooth.

Lucas arrives at the door with another white boy my age. They wear gray polyester uniforms, paler and less stylish than minea"shapeless pants that bag at the knee, jackets with round metal b.u.t.tons fastened to the neck. I feel like they should lead me on a tour of some museum.

"h.e.l.lo, Maxwell," Lucas says. "We're here to take Alexandra to school." His voice is young and sincere, with no trace of a grudge.

"Thanks, Lucas. Get your bag, Ally."

Ally squares her shoulders. "I hope I like it there."

"You will if you take an interest," Lucas says.

She smiles. "I'm interested in animals."

"Good," Lucas says. "The school trains for trades in pest control."

"She likes animals," I say. "She couldn't stomach pest control."

He blinks repeatedly, disapproving. "There are detentions for being late. You should meet us in the lobby from now on."

I kiss Ally's cheek. She wraps her arms around my neck and says, "I'm going to like my new school."

"Yes, you will," Lucas says, b.u.t.ting into our goodbye. "Children who have trouble at academic school belong in trade school. You'll graduate earlier, ready to work in your field."

"I'm going to miss you so much," I whisper.

"Shh," Ally whispers back.

She steps lightly out the door and walks toward the stairwell. She looks tiny in the greasy hallway, with her red rubber boots and backpack, her hair a mess of short braids all around her head. She's six years old and already a throwaway. I just want to cry.

Lucas reaches out to shake my hand. I pull back instinctively. "We are not throwaways," he says as if he read my mind. "Our school has a higher job placement rate than yours. We're lucky to be there."

"Hear that, Ally?" I shout. "You're lucky to go to your new school."

"Alexandra!" Lucas yells. "Answer your brother!"

"Don't tell her what to do," I snarl. I step into the hallway, into his vacant face.

He looks over his shoulder at the surveillance camera, then back to me. The kid behind him does the same. I expect them to shout, "Help! You don't belong here!"

Ally turns around. She doesn't smile or frown. She looks as blank as Lucas. "I know I'm lucky, Max. Every child who goes to school is lucky."

"Exactly," Lucas says. "Goodbye, Maxwell."

Then he and his zombie friend walk away with my sister.

I used to complain about walking to school with Ally, stopping every ten paces to transplant worms or collect feathers, arriving at the high school just ahead of the bell, no time to socialize before cla.s.s. Now I'm jostled by crowds of elbows and laughter and nodding heads, and I hate it.

"h.e.l.lo, Max," Xavier says. "I never knew you came to school on time."

I message Mom seventeen times. What if Ally gets put in a trade she hates? What if Lucas ditched Ally in the middle of nowhere? What if Ally walks too slow and gets detention?

Mom replies once. I have to work, Max. The virus is. .h.i.tting hard. Elaine sends her love. Like that's going to cheer me up, a deathbed love note from the granny I'm neglecting.

I'm heading to football practice when Pepper takes my arm. "Walk me home?" she asks.

Dallas jogs toward the gym without noticing us. "Sure," I say.

She barely speaks on the walk but she lets me hold her hand. I'm almost p.i.s.sing myself with nerves.

She lives in a four-story row house. It's a bracket up from my apartment complex but nowhere near as nice as my old place. She has an end unit with a flower bed in front. We stand inches apart outside the door, saying goodbye under a security camera.

I reach my hand behind her head and lean in to kiss her. She smells like cherry candy. The back of her neck is the softest thing I've ever touched. She kisses me warmly but much too briefly before she pulls away. Her hands rest on my chest, small and delicate. I can't tell if she's feeling my heartbeat or holding me off.

"Thanks for walking me home, Max."

I stroke her hands, along her arms, up to her bare brown neck. I lean in to kiss her again, but she lowers her head so I end up smelling her hair.

"I just wanted you to know where I lived," she says. She uses the past tense.

My shoulders slump as history and gravity pull me down.

I stumble back and scratch my head, slap an arm in the air.

"I'll see you, Pepper." I walk away before I have to watch her shut the door on me.

I can't go home. Mom's there with Ally, and I don't want to hear how great trade school is.

I check the time. Late. I don't care. I run back to school.

The team's still doing drills when I arrive. I rush into the trailer for my gear.

"Why do you bother?" Coach Emery yells when I step onto the field. "You missed half the practice!"

I play hard, wiping Pepper and Ally and all my wasted hopes from my mind. The coach eases up on me eventually.

In the last play of practice, Dallas throws me the ball. I tuck it tight and clear a path down the field, dodging and dashing so fast I make it look easy. Bay plows through everyone who comes close, but soon he's far behind me. I've got a clear view of the end zone and I run like the devil's chasing me.

I see Brennan coming at me from the side, broken through his block. He's fast, maybe faster than me. He's huge, too, and if he tackles me from that angle at this speed I will certainly suffer.

I pump out an extra burst of speed as Brennan bends for the tackle. I spring into the air and leap over him, my hand shoving down his helmet, my legs scrambling above his arms. I clear his reach and land steady, running down the field. I throb with adrenaline through forty yards of open s.p.a.ce.

I slam the ball into the end zone. I scream and stomp and walk on my hands, kicking my heels and raining down dirt, until my team arrives and knocks me over. Dallas almost takes my shoulder off. He laughs so hard he drools on his mask.

Coach Emery and Brennan jog up together. When I see them like that, shoulder to shoulder, I wish my dad were alive.

Brennan slams my shoulder and hugs me, lifts me off the ground, drops me, slams into me again. "Royal escape, Max.

Premium. Award-winning. Do that at our next game."

I do some kingly prancing. I pat Brennan's back and say, "Good try." We all break into laughter.

I'm the first to walk off the field. Coach Emery catches up to me by the trailer. "I'm glad you made it today, Connors. I'll remember that jump for years."

I figure this is a good time to tell him I'll miss Thursday's practice.

His smile disappears. "For what reason?"

"The middle school has its first game."

He frowns. "It's good that you take your coaching seriously, but you can't let it interfere with your own practice."

"I need to be there, Coach. I'm asking my mom to come. You should come too."

My teammates pa.s.s us on their way to the trailer. "Way to go, Max," they say.

The coach lays a hand on my shoulder to hold me at the bottom of the steps. "Why on earth would I go? I have a practice to lead."

"To see the kids. There's something wrong with them. They're likea""

"I've heard about the good children at that school," he interrupts. "I'm glad you find them a pleasure to coach." He glances up at the security camera while he pats my shoulder. Then he steps backward and collides with Bay. It's strangea"even with weak peripheral vision, you can't miss somebody as big as Bay.

Coach Emery straightens up and says, "Let's get out of the way." He leads me to the back of the trailer where there's no surveillance. "What are you organizing at this game?" he whispers.

I'm used to him shouting, so I'm unnerved. "I'm just asking people to see the kids."

"Who are you asking?"

"My family. Dallas."

He gasps. "Richmond's family?"

"No. Just Dallas."

"Don't invite Arlington Richmond. And don't invite any other teachers."

"Why not? They should see these kids. You should see them. They're not right."

"Keep these opinions to yourself, Connors." He holds me by the back of the neck and stares into my eyes. "I mean it. Do not go around talking this way."

I don't know if that's a caution or a threat.

"I don't have time for a football game," Mom says. "Your games, yes, I love those. But the little kids? No. I'm tired at the end of the day. My shifts start at five am this month."

"You have to come, Mom."

"I know you've been working hard coaching thema""

"I told you, it's not like that!"

"My teacher says you shouldn't raise your voice to an adult," Ally says. She sits across the table from me, eating her sandwich crusts. "The kids in my new school barely speak at all."

"That's too bad, Ally," Mom says. "But Max and I are having a private conversation right now."

"My teacher says private conversations are not good," Ally says. "We work quietly all day long."

Mom stares at her sadly.

"It's not so bad," Ally says. "There's coloring and building."

I interrupt before I have to hear the lonely details. "I need you there, Mom. I need to know if I'm imagining things."

She sighs. "How long is the game?"

"An hour and a half. You could catch the end."

She considers the minutes of lost money and sleep.

"Please," I beg. "When have I ever asked you for anything?"

She thinks about that. "Never," she says in surprise.

The middle school erected bleachers for the Warriors' first game, and they're full of students, uniformed and neatly s.p.a.ced in rows.

A dozen parents stand on the sidelines, gabbing about the impending rain. Fathers scowl and pace with their hands on their hips, bellies sagging over polyester trousers. Mothers push the limits of their stretch pants and stare at the field with constipated squints.

The Chiefs bus over from the southwest quadrant. They're no bigger than the Warriors but they look premium in red and orange uniforms that shimmer when the sun breaks through a cloud.

Mr. Hendricks shakes his head. "They're a bit behind in Nesting. We're never going to beat them." Motivational leadership in action.

I shout at the Warriors as they pa.s.s by on laps. "Slow down, Frankie, save some for the game! That's right, Chicago, get those feet off the ground!"

Mr. Hendricks rolls his eyes at me.

"Where's Saffron?" I ask.

He points to the bleachers. Saffron sits at the end of the top row, watching her team jog around the field.

"Did she break a bone?"

"She quit," he tells me. "It's just as well. Boys slamming into her like they did? There was something about it that didn't feel right."

My mouth hangs open. I flap my hands around as if they're going to come up with a response on their own. I give up on Hendricks and run up the bleachers.

Saffron looks at me politely. "h.e.l.lo. How are you?"