Free Cody's Varsity Rush by Todd Hafer Page A

He slid forward on his seat. “Hop on,” he said. It sounded like a command, not a suggestion.

    Cody slid off the bike as soon as it rolled and crunched to a stop in Baker’s gravel parking lot. Nick Baker was at the counter. Cody pushed past a mother and two pudgy, waist-high twins to get to him.
    â€œMr. Baker,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Call police. Ambulance. There’s a wreck!”
    Mr. Baker kept his eyes on Cody as he reached under the counter and produced a cell phone. “How many cars?” he mouthed to Cody.
    Cody looked at him helplessly. “Huh?” he said.
    â€œIn the wreck,” Mr. Baker said, annoyance creeping into his voice.
    â€œIdiot,” Cody mumbled, labeling himself, not Mr. Baker. “One,” he said. “Just one. It’s Gabe Weitz.”
    Cody gripped the counter with both hands. He listened as Mr. Baker reported the accident. Occasionally, the store owner looked to Cody to confirm something or to provide missing information. Finally, he pushed a button on the cell phone and returned it to its place.
    He looked at Cody and nodded. “Help is on the way,” he said.
    Cody turned and sank to the floor, gulping the disinfectant-laced air. He wondered how long it would be before he heard the catlike yowl of sirens. From his sitting position, he was almost eye-to-eye with the twins. They were both studying him, with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Finally, one of them tugged on his mother’s running shorts. “Is that boy sick?” he asked.

    Cody and Pork Chop sat in a back booth at Dairy Delight on a Sunday following a morale-sapping 10–8 Saturday afternoon defeat at Lincoln. Coupled with a narrow homecoming win over St. Stevens, Grant’s record stood at 2–3. The team’s goal of a league title was drifting from the realm of possibility. Chop looked tired. He sported a gash over his left eye. His helmet had been ripped from his head during an all-out blitz late in the St. Stevens game, but he continued to battle, taking on two hard-charging pass-rushers.
    But Chop wasn’t interested in football. His eyes were intent on Cody. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So, dawg,” he said, deep-set brown eyes widening. “Tell me what it was like.”
    Cody drew in a deep breath. “Well, Dad drives me to the prison. We go to this reception window, kind of like the ticket windows at the movie theaters. There’s a tired-looking guy sitting there. He pushes a form to me and says ‘Fill this out.’”
    When I’m done, Dad and I pass through a metal detector into this huge room. People are milling around, including a woman with two little boys, who take turns socking each other in the arm—harder each time. A guard directs me to a cubicle, kind of like the ones in the library, only when I sit down I’m staring at a Plexiglas wall. On the other side of the wall is a cubicle just like mine. It’s like I’m looking in a mirror, but I’m missing from my own reflection.”
    Pork Chop raised his eyebrows. “Trippy,” he said. “Then what?”
    â€œA door opens on the other side of the glass. A line of scary-looking dudes in orange jumpsuits files in. In order, they start filling up the cubicles. The people on my side of the room start pointing and shouting, pushing past each other to get to the right cubicle. Weitz is last in line. I sit opposite him. He looks tired. But he’s put on some muscle. Been hitting the weights, I figure. I pick up this phone. There’s one just like it in his cube. He says, ‘Hey.’ His voice sounds all tinny and faraway, even though he’s three feet from me.”
    Pork Chop drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “And?”
    â€œHe starts to talk, but without looking at me. He mumbles, ‘What do you want?’ No apologies. He doesn’t ask if I got hurt when he tried to run