Free Stick by Michael Harmon Page A

that day with Tilly and the eggs. The first time I’d noticed Preston. They didn’t know what they were doing. Just a prank. Just some eggs. No harm, no foul, except that the kid they did it to was in more pain than any human being I’d ever known. The world had taken a shit on him, and the clouds just kept gathering, raining and raining in a torrential downpour of crap. I fought back my tears, feeling the warmth of rage course through me. “You can’t do that to yourself, Preston. It’s not your fault.”
    He folded the rest of his burrito up neatly, placed it in the plastic bag our food came in, and held it out to me. “You want the rest? I’d better go.”
    I took it, studying his face. He opened the door, got out, and walked away, and as I watched him go, my appetite disappeared with him.

W hen I got home, my dad was still snoring in the living room. I looked at the keys in my hand, trying to decide what I should do with them. Fear. Fear to do the right thing. I realized then that I was petrified of my father. Then I thought of Preston, and with a twinge of guilt I realized I was jealous of his relationship with his father. Even if he was dead.
    I went to bed, and I decided right then I wouldn’t steal from myself anymore.

I left early, before he woke up, and drove to school. Word was finally all the way out that I’d quit. No, I hadn’t just quit—I’d ruined the team. I was single-handedly responsible for life on the planet ending. Three guys told me Killinger was going to kick my ass at some point, and I took it for what it was.
    Serious.
    After school, I walked across the grounds toward the gym. The longest walk of my life. I carried my helmet under one arm, my uniform under the other, and my heart in my throat. I’d waited in my car, thinking about it for a good couple of hours. Turning in the red-and-white uniform, I knew, was the last and final straw. There’d be no going back.
    As I got closer to the doors, Lance Killinger and Tilly Peterson came out. My stomach shriveled.
    They both stopped when they saw me. There were no smiles. I kept walking, my eyes straight ahead, my chin up. I had quit for a reason, it was a good reason, and I wasn’t going to be afraid of it. I also knew what would happen now, which was me getting my face beaten inside out. I kept my eyes straight forward, and as I passed them, Killinger sidestepped, shoulder-checking me into Tilly. When I hit Tilly, he shoved me back in the only way Tilly knew how. Hard.
    My ass hit the ground, my helmet skittering away as I braced against the fall. Both guys stood over me in the deserted courtyard. Killinger smiled. “You always thought you were better than everybody else. Now we’ll see.”
    “You’re gonna be my bitch for the rest of the year,” Tilly said.
    I looked around, and through the glass doors of the gym, I saw Coach. He was standing there, watching. He did nothing. I reached for my helmet, and Killinger kicked my hand away. “You don’t deserve it, man. You don’t deserve those colors.” He ripped the uniform from me and held it up. “Number seven. The great Stick Patterson,” he said, then spit on it. Tilly laughed.
    The next thing I knew, a slender arm reached down from over my shoulder. I turned my head, and Preston bent next to me, offering his hand.
    Tilly and Killinger stared at the kid like he was insane. They’d been intent on me and hadn’t seen him walk around the corner. I shook my head. “No. Go.” One person getting his ass kicked was always better than two, and at least I could fight back.
    Killinger laughed. “Look at this. Patterson has a new friend. Little faggot boy. You like eggs, faggot boy?”
    Preston ignored them. He stared at me, and I saw complete and absolute fear in his eyes, which surprised me. In an instant, I understood everything he’d said the night before. About being afraid to do the right thing. I took his hand. He helped me up.
    Tilly laughed. “Looks like you got some