Chapter 3: Wednesday, Aug. 15

Would someone please find out where that infernal racket is coming from and make it stop?

If I ever find out who thought it was a good idea that I should wake up at 5 a.m., well, I knew of an abandoned silage pit out in Buchanan County where they’d never find the body.

Scratch that. The abandoned silage pit is where I’d dump Ralph Franks. The coyotes and rattlers could keep him company. It wasn’t a totally desolate place. There was plenty of mesquite scrub and prickly pear growing out of the limestone. And there was something called a river curving around the base of the hill. It might even have some water in it, but probably not much at this time of year. Especially if we were in a drought.

The best part was the location. Remote only begins to describe it. The nearest paved road was a good 15 miles away in a straight line, but you couldn’t travel in a straight line in that country. There wasn’t a town within 25 miles in any direction and none of them had a population exceeding 2,000.

There was a little community of about 300 people located 20 miles west as the crow flies, but if the crow had to walk there was this reservoir in the way. Going around it made the trip more like 30 miles.

Such were the thoughts running through my head as I struggled to get out of bed. An excessively warm bed. Whoever had helped me with the cramps I suffered overnight had turned on the heating pads I was lying on. I was already sweaty, about to get sweatier and didn’t have time for a shower to begin with.

I dug out some of the workout clothes I’d worn during the summer and packed a polo and pair of cargo shorts in my little gym bag. I’d just wear my running shoes all day. It was too much trouble to fit deck shoes in the bag at this hour.

Covered enough to go out in public, I staggered to the kitchen for what I told myself was breakfast — two bananas and a cup of yogurt. I didn’t need to lose another meal in the barf barrels after last night.

As I was sucking down some pineapple juice, I realized I would probably need my car keys if I was going to drive today. When I got back to my room, I figured I should also grab my wallet. It held my license.

I was almost out of my room when I remembered my backpack. It contained two assignments I had to turn in this afternoon. Then I noticed the big-ass bottle sitting next to it. Oh, yeah, the water bottle. I was supposed to stay hydrated.

The thing actually had its own little backpack, but I already would be carrying the one with my laptop, which doubled as my bookbag. I could put the bottle in the computer bag for now and figure out how to make it all work later. It was too early to think that much right now.

I think that’s everything I’d need to survive the day. If it wasn’t, well, I felt half-dead anyway. At least I remembered to turn off the heating pads. Mom wouldn’t like it if the house burned down because of my forgetfulness.

Gathering the backpack and gym bag, I headed out to the carport and dumped them in the trunk of my Beemer, which I hadn’t driven since Sunday. I didn’t realize how sore I still was from last night’s torture session until I tried to get in. I really should have been allowed to take Dad’s Buick again. It was much roomier.

That reminded me of another thing. The fucking parking ticket still stuck under the wiper blade of the Buick. That meant extracting myself from the Z4, getting the damn ticket, which I stuffed in the one pocket of my running shorts, and getting back in my car.

A couple of slaps to my face helped wake me up enough to drive and I backed out of my spot. There was just enough room once I’d cleared Dad’s car to execute a three-point turn and drive forward down the driveway. It would probably help if I turned on the headlights.

I arrived at the fieldhouse right at 5:30, pulling my car into my parking spot for the first time. Only 177 more class days to go after this one until graduation.

After making sure everything was buttoned up, I grabbed my bags out of the trunk and went off to begin another day of pretending to be a high school football player. The thought was almost enough to make me laugh. And I could use a laugh after yesterday.

I changed out of one set of workout clothes into another and went to get my ankles taped. Whichever student trainer who performed the task did a good enough job that I was confident my feet would stay attached to the rest of me. I went back to my locker and donned the spirit rag for my head, followed by socks and cleats, grabbed my helmet and was on the field stretching by 5:50. I was on time, but somebody still needed to suffer horribly for making me be here this early. I already felt the need for a nap.

The damn college fight songs blaring from speakers around the field didn’t help any, either.

When Coach Tucker tooted his whistle to signal the start of another workday, I was already covered in perspiration. Then I started getting really sweaty.

The practice went much the way the previous two morning sessions had. I ran through a series of drills, tried to catch passes that always seemed to he just out of my reach and endured the shouts of assistant coaches who seemed to be having way too much fun in doing the shouting. At least the other players looked like they felt as miserable as I did. We were having anything but fun.

The end of the workout finally came. Coach Tucker said we showed him something with the way we performed after last night. I don’t know exactly what we showed him or if he particularly liked what we showed, but he was a lot calmer than last night. Of course, he probably didn’t get a full eight himself.

After being reminded of what we’d be doing in athletic period, we were sent to shower and prepare for class. I was almost feeling human as I grabbed a banana after my shower. I dressed in my school clothes, remembering to dig the parking ticket out of my running shorts. Before I headed for class, I asked Trapper where I could fill my water bottle. He was nice enough to not only do it for me, but throw in a couple of scoops of ice as well.

I thanked him and grabbed another banana on my way out the door. I don’t know how much weight I was lugging around, but it was enough. I figured the filled water bottle added about five pounds to the total. The laptop and two schoolbooks were heavy enough by themselves.

I had enough time before Economics to go deal with the parking ticket. The office was just as much a madhouse as the day before, but at least I got out of there without having to deal with Dr. Franks. There seemed to be a certain buzz in the hallways, like there was an extra bit of excitement in the air.

The only excitement I remembered from a Wednesday was the time back in my freshman year when the cafeteria’s walk-in freezer broke down and they distributed all the ice cream to the classrooms before it could melt. I wouldn’t mind a little more of that kind of excitement.

I swung by my locker to dump my Algebra II and Western Civ books and pick up my Economics book. I walked into Mr. Cochran’s classroom just before the tardy bell rang only to be told I was supposed to report to my homeroom.

“Let me guess,” I said, “they sent out an email about it, didn’t they?”

I really needed to remember to log in to my school account one of these days. It would be interesting to see if I was receiving as much spam about penile enhancement as I did on my personal account.

“This is a little embarrassing,” I said as quietly as I could and still have Mr. Cochran hear me. “Could you tell me where Mrs. Rittenberry’s room is? I never thought to ask her on Monday during the assembly.”

Of course, it was in the West Wing, almost exactly opposite where I was standing. Like I hadn’t covered enough ground in the last 14 hours. At least Mr. Cochran was nice enough to issue me a hall pass before he sent me on my way.

The purpose of our homeroom period was rather anticlimactic, but necessary. They were distributing our school ID badges. They even came with a little lanyard so we could hang them around our necks. I wouldn’t have to pay cash at the cafeteria today, unless their little card readers were down again. That seemed to happen rather frequently.

If only getting the ID was as simple as showing up to homeroom. I was the last to enter the room, but was hardly the only late arrival. I just had the most distance to cover. Mrs. Rittenberry didn’t look like she was buying it, though, even after I handed her my hall pass.

“Take a seat,” she huffed, tossing the slip of paper on her desk without even looking at it. “This is the second time you’ve been late. I’ve heard you’re something of a troublemaker.”

Now where could she have heard that, I wondered. I’d never so much as been sent to the office until yesterday. I believe Ralph Franks was the common denominator in the equation.

I grabbed an empty seat and began the process of claiming my ID. I didn’t remember it being this involved the last three years. There was a form to fill out, which was something new. It seems we had to prove our identity before receiving the badge that would prove our identity.

The form was simple enough — name, Social Security number, home address and phone, parents and their contact info — all info the school already had on file. Except for Mom now working at Prairie Star Country Club, there wasn’t much that had changed since the start of my freshman year.

Once all of us had completed and handed our forms in, Mrs. Rittenberry called out names in alphabetical order. I don’t know how many seniors there were whose last names started with R, but there were about 30 of us in this homeroom. I noticed there were none in our group that started with Ra. Hunter Reynolds was among the first called. Jed Richards and Luke Riley were somewhere in the middle. I was toward the end, just ahead of a girl named Hannah Rosen and a guy named Pete Rowell.

Mrs. Rittenberry couldn’t resist making a comment about how much different I looked without hair. She hadn’t said anything to the other football players in the room. At least I was now officially a member of the student population. The ID badge was my proof.

Despite all the rigmarole, we were done relatively quickly. Now I could get on with the rest of my day.

I wish I could say my classes were stimulating endeavors that had me eager to learn more. The truth was I battled to stay awake throughout the morning. Economics was rather dry and Mr. Cochran’s monotone delivery didn’t help. Western Civ was a little better. At least I’d done the reading and had a semblance of an idea of what Mrs. Edwards’ lecture was about. The only thing I could remember about English IV was watching a very pregnant Mrs. Albracht waddle around as she wrote something on the board behind her desk.

Somewhat surprisingly, none of the teachers mentioned the water bottle from which I took occasional sips. I guess they had enough other football players in their classes doing the same thing. Or maybe Doc had sent out a note about it. At least no one cramped up during class.

I sucked down about half the bottle over the course of three classes, which resulted in making trips to the restroom after each period. Thank God I had decent bladder control. My teeth were floating by the end of English IV.

There was just enough time after third period for me to dump my books from the morning classes in my locker and grab my Algebra II and Chemistry books before I headed to the fieldhouse for athletics. My plan was to get started on the 300 gassers I’d have to run for being in detention the next three days. With luck, I could get 50 in, though doing that many would probably cut into my lunch period.

Coach Tucker had other plans. He called me into his office before I even had a chance to change clothes.

“Yes, sir?” I asked as I entered.

“Have a seat,” he said, then seemed to gather his thoughts for a moment.

I was fully prepared to hear my services were no longer needed, but he surprised me.

“I want to hear your side about what happened between you and Dr. Franks yesterday,” he said.

I quickly recapped the morning events, of which he was at least aware if not a witness to.

“What happened in the cafeteria?” he asked.

“Kelli Thornton and several other cheerleaders said they wanted to thank me for supporting Sherry Parker,” I said. “I had an idea for helping them raise money to help with her medical expenses, which seemed to go over well. Then they all kissed me on top of my head. I didn’t realize they’d all left lipstick prints until Mrs. Tijerina told me to go wash it off.

“Dr. Franks caught up to me as I was leaving the restroom, said he’d heard I was causing a disturbance and told me to follow him back to the cafeteria, where he caught Kelli kissing Andrew on his head. He gave them both detention right then and told them and Miss Wilkes to follow him to the main office. I was left standing there and figured I’d better get to my next class.”

“And what happened then?” he asked.

I repeated what I told Mom and Dad last night, that I’d been called out of class to the office, chewed out and given detention for the rest of the week.

“He said if there were any more incidents, I’d be sent to ISS,” I said. “It was like he was trying to provoke me into doing something so he’d be justified in doing that.”

“Did you kiss any of the cheerleaders?” he asked.

“No, sir,” I said.

“And he didn’t tell you to go to the office with the others?”

“Not that I heard,” I said, “and he wasn’t exactly whispering.”

“What about your confrontation with Coach Dunwoody during detention?” he asked.

Confrontation? There was no confrontation!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” I said. “Mr. Dunwoody told me he’d been told to keep a close watch on me and to come down extra hard if I caused any trouble. That was the extent of things.”

“Did you say anything to him?”

“I said ‘yes, sir,’” I said. “Nothing else.”

“What did you do after that?” Coach Tucker asked.

“My Algebra II homework,” I said. “Then I did some reading for one of my other classes. The only other thing I heard from Mr. Dunwoody was when he told us it was time to go.”

“Did anything else happen yesterday afternoon?” he asked.

“Mrs. Cohen gave me an extra assignment for Creative Writing,” I said. “I actually spent more time researching the subject than I did writing. It’s a pretty interesting topic.

“I also had another parking ticket on my dad’s car. I drove mine today.”

Coach sat and ruminated for a bit before speaking again.

“Something just doesn’t smell right,” he finally said. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you aren’t the only one Franks has in his sights. I advise you to avoid further trouble.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“What are you supposed to be doing now?” he asked.

“I was probably supposed to spot for someone in the weight room,” I said. “I was going to see if I could get started on the gassers I’ll have to run for missing practice these next three days. I thought I’d get as many as I could during the athletic period, maybe 50 even if I had to skip lunch, and the rest after I get out of detention.”

“You’d better get on it, then,” he said. “Just don’t be late for your next class.”

“Yes, sir.”

I went and changed into the clothes I’d worn this morning, electing to wear my running shoes instead of cleats. I made sure to take my phone with me and set the alarm for 12:20. That would give me time to shower before fifth period.

Doing the math in my head — 200 yards per gasser times 100 gassers divided by 1,760 yards in a mile — I figured I was looking at a little over 11 miles per day. That would have been a little more than 45 laps on the track that surrounded the field, but with a lot more stopping and starting. I had my work cut out for me.

One of the apps on my phone counted steps taken and miles traveled. I set it to zero and got started. If I could average 30 seconds per gasser, I could do 100 in 50 minutes. That, of course, did not account for any breaks to rest and catch my breath.