Free Risen by Lauren Barnholdt, Aaron Gorvine Page B
Authors: Lauren Barnholdt, Aaron Gorvine
why I’m not out with my friends. Of course she knows I don’t have any real friends, just school acquaintances.
But it got to where I occasionally would lie and tell her I had plans to meet someone at the movies and then I’d just go sit in the theater alone or grab some food at Burger King by myself.
I feel a momentary pang of guilt knowing that I’ve once again lied to my mom and that she thinks I’m just doing the whole school spirit thing. But at least this time I’ve actually got a social activity going on.
So it’s not a complete lie.
And then I’m entering the field and the echoes of the announcements and the cheers of the hundreds of fans overwhelm whatever thoughts I was having.
This feels real, I think. I’m here for a reason.
At first, I stand beside the field on the opposing team’s side, trying to remain anonymous. On the bleachers across the way I can see so many people from our school cheering and talking and running around.
Jay told me that the kids I need to see will be on the lookout for me, and they’ll be especially nervous because Nate Diaz has actually shown up to the game with some of his dirt bag friends. And as it turns out, I almost immediately spot Nate and three other guys stalking the grounds over by the concessions stands.
But they’re really only here to act tough and scare people, not to actually do anything. Jay assured me of it when he explained everything to me earlier.
After taking a few minutes to psych myself up, I walk across to the home bleachers. I act casual, sit down on one of the topmost rows, close enough to everyone that people can see I’m here, but far enough away that I’m out of earshot of most of the crowd.
I pretend to watch the game, which is closely contested despite the fact that Hudson is known to suck balls. Maybe the rivalry is too strong and Hudson doesn’t want to throw in the towel this early.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone pointing in my direction and then a small contingent of boys clomps up the metal bleachers and over to where I’m sitting.
They’re sophomores. I think they all play on the JV basketball squad.
The clear leader of the group is Robbie Wilson, sporting a shaved head and large fake diamond in one ear. “Jay told us to come see you with the chedda,” he says in his fake thug accent. He’s one of those kids who listens to 50 Cent and DMX and acts like he lives in the projects instead of a fancy gated community in Meadows Circle.
I keep looking out at the game. “You’re seeing me.” I pretend to be one of those fat mafia bosses from the movies. They always act casual in these situations. Can’t let any of these guys know that I’m nervous as hell. Let them be nervous.
“Is it cool if we sit down?”
I shrug. Shrugging seems right.
The little group of basketball players exchange looks and then slowly they all take seats around me.
Robbie is sitting on my right. He turns to me. “Nate Diaz is going to give someone a beat down tonight, or this coming week. But Jay said if I pay you—“
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I give him my best impression of an ice grille. A stone-cold stare, which surprisingly has the opposite effect of making me want to laugh. Suddenly I’m trying not to giggle.
Mafia dons don’t giggle, I tell myself. Not even a little. I shake my head and grin as if exasperated by his conversation. “Don’t talk business to me. I’m just here to say hi.”
He seems to get it. “My bad son.”
“Just…take whatever you’ve got and wrap it in something. Paper, a t-shirt, whatever. Then leave it on the bleachers and go.”
Robbie sits there for a moment. “But don’t you want to know how much—“ he says, confusion making his voice subtly switch back to that of a normal suburban kid.
I shake my head and fold my arms. Stare straight ahead. I know enough to realize that if someone rats me out, I won’t be caught on some
But it got to where I occasionally would lie and tell her I had plans to meet someone at the movies and then I’d just go sit in the theater alone or grab some food at Burger King by myself.
I feel a momentary pang of guilt knowing that I’ve once again lied to my mom and that she thinks I’m just doing the whole school spirit thing. But at least this time I’ve actually got a social activity going on.
So it’s not a complete lie.
And then I’m entering the field and the echoes of the announcements and the cheers of the hundreds of fans overwhelm whatever thoughts I was having.
This feels real, I think. I’m here for a reason.
At first, I stand beside the field on the opposing team’s side, trying to remain anonymous. On the bleachers across the way I can see so many people from our school cheering and talking and running around.
Jay told me that the kids I need to see will be on the lookout for me, and they’ll be especially nervous because Nate Diaz has actually shown up to the game with some of his dirt bag friends. And as it turns out, I almost immediately spot Nate and three other guys stalking the grounds over by the concessions stands.
But they’re really only here to act tough and scare people, not to actually do anything. Jay assured me of it when he explained everything to me earlier.
After taking a few minutes to psych myself up, I walk across to the home bleachers. I act casual, sit down on one of the topmost rows, close enough to everyone that people can see I’m here, but far enough away that I’m out of earshot of most of the crowd.
I pretend to watch the game, which is closely contested despite the fact that Hudson is known to suck balls. Maybe the rivalry is too strong and Hudson doesn’t want to throw in the towel this early.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see someone pointing in my direction and then a small contingent of boys clomps up the metal bleachers and over to where I’m sitting.
They’re sophomores. I think they all play on the JV basketball squad.
The clear leader of the group is Robbie Wilson, sporting a shaved head and large fake diamond in one ear. “Jay told us to come see you with the chedda,” he says in his fake thug accent. He’s one of those kids who listens to 50 Cent and DMX and acts like he lives in the projects instead of a fancy gated community in Meadows Circle.
I keep looking out at the game. “You’re seeing me.” I pretend to be one of those fat mafia bosses from the movies. They always act casual in these situations. Can’t let any of these guys know that I’m nervous as hell. Let them be nervous.
“Is it cool if we sit down?”
I shrug. Shrugging seems right.
The little group of basketball players exchange looks and then slowly they all take seats around me.
Robbie is sitting on my right. He turns to me. “Nate Diaz is going to give someone a beat down tonight, or this coming week. But Jay said if I pay you—“
“Shut up.”
“What?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I give him my best impression of an ice grille. A stone-cold stare, which surprisingly has the opposite effect of making me want to laugh. Suddenly I’m trying not to giggle.
Mafia dons don’t giggle, I tell myself. Not even a little. I shake my head and grin as if exasperated by his conversation. “Don’t talk business to me. I’m just here to say hi.”
He seems to get it. “My bad son.”
“Just…take whatever you’ve got and wrap it in something. Paper, a t-shirt, whatever. Then leave it on the bleachers and go.”
Robbie sits there for a moment. “But don’t you want to know how much—“ he says, confusion making his voice subtly switch back to that of a normal suburban kid.
I shake my head and fold my arms. Stare straight ahead. I know enough to realize that if someone rats me out, I won’t be caught on some