Free Deadwood by Kell Andrews Page B

first touchdown of the season. He stutter-stepped, and his knee crumpled beneath him on the hard turf. Even from a distance Hannah heard the solid thwack of flesh against plastic against flesh. She wasn’t sure if the grunt came before the hit or after, but then the groan turned to a wail.
    The spectators fell silent. The wail grew louder. Defenders peeled off, and she could see Chase sprawled on the field, clutching his leg and twisting in pain. He was Nick’s best receiver, down after the first play.
    The trainers jogged out, Coach Schmidt following, his belly and neck rolls bouncing with each step. A circle of players formed around the outer ring of trainers. After a few minutes, Chase emerged from the wall of shoulder pads, hobbling under his own power, a trainer and the assistant coach each with an arm around him as they escorted him to the sidelines. After a few moments bending over Chase’s leg as the player’s face contorted in agony, a trainer called over the ambulance, standing by as always on the side of the field. The EMTs shuffled Chase into the back, silently turned on the lights, and rolled out of the parking lot.
    â€œWhoa,” said Libby. “Bad luck.”
    Bad luck , Hannah thought. The team had enough bad luck already. Injuries happened on athletic fields every day, but she couldn’t help thinking of the curse. Hannah stared at the field. In the middle of the once-immaculate green was a scorched brown patch, the size and shape of a body. The grass was dead where Chase had lain writhing in agony. Burnt dry.
    She caught a flare of light in the corner of her eye. High above the end zone, sparks sprayed from the ancient electronic scoreboard. One light bulb shattered in a blaze of fire and a spray of glass, then another, then all the lights blazed on and faded slowly. The scoreboard went dark. Broken down and worn out, like everything else in Lower Brynwood.
    After a few minutes, the grounds crew wheeled out a portable scoreboard and the teams resumed play, but Nick had nowhere to throw.
    The Black Squirrels lost, twenty-eight to ten.

13
    The Yearbook
    T he cursor blinked, and Martin waited. In a hot, dry room on the other side of the world, his mother was typing.
    H OW’S SCHOOL?
    C OOL . I ALREADY LEARNED WHAT THEY’RE DOING IN MATH . He drummed his fingers while he waited.
    I MEANT HOW DO YOU LIKE THE KIDS? WHAT ABOUT THAT KID YOU MENTIONED MEETING THE OTHER DAY? STILL HANGING OUT WITH HIM?
    S HE’S ACTUALLY A GIRL – H ANNAH . W E’RE WORKING ON A COMMUNITY SERVICE PROJECT 2 GETHER .
    I NTERESTING .
    N OT REALLY .
    W E’LL SEE . W HAT ABOUT SPORTS? M AYBE X COUNTRY?
    N O TEAM FOR KIDS MY AGE . B UT I ’M JOINING A NEW CLUB . J UNIOR J UNIOR E XECUTIVES OF T OMORROW . As he waited for a response, the doorbell rang.
    H A ! T HAT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE YOU .
    I T’S A UNT M ICHELLE’S IDEA .
    He listened to his aunt open the door and cheerily address whoever stood there.
    â€œWhat are you selling, sweetie?” she said. Martin couldn’t hear an answer.
    T HAT SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING M ICHELLE WOULD LIKE, Martin’s mother typed. He snickered, picturing her rolling her eyes like she always did when she talked about Aunt Michelle. Then Aunt Michelle’s voice chased the image of his mother from his head.
    â€œThen do you have a petition you want me to sign?” Aunt Michelle said in her fakest sweet voice to the person at the door.
    S HE THINKS BUSINESS TRAINING WOULD HELP ME FOCUS, Martin typed.
    â€œMartin? Yes, he’s here.” He heard Aunt Michelle’s high heels clacking toward the room.
    F OCUS IS THE LAST THING YOU NEED . B UT MAYBE YOU’LL MEET MORE NICE KIDS LIKE THAT H ANNAH , his mom typed. She was always nagging him to meet new people, spend time on something other than video games.
    The footsteps came closer. Was it one person or two? He hurriedly typed, G OT TO GO, M OM . I LOVE YOU .
    I LOVE YOU TOO . V