Харлан Кобен: Found

Brandon said, “You sure you’re—”

“Off you,” Troy said. “It hit your face and went out of bounds.”

“Then your ball,” I said. “Let’s play.”

But right then, Coach Stashower, the assistant coach, hurried back into the gymnasium. He whispered something into Coach Grady’s ear. Coach Grady’s face lost color.

“Okay, that’s it,” Coach Grady said. “Practice is over. Take a lap and shower up.”

I took the lap quickly and headed into my solo locker row. I grabbed my cell phone and checked the messages. Only one text — it was from Ema: coming over after practice? let me know time.

I quickly typed that practice had just ended and, yes, of course I’d be over.

After all, we had to find her missing “boyfriend.”

There was still nothing from Rachel. I didn’t know what to do about it. I was sure some “helpful” adult would say something like “give it time,” but I hated that advice. I had blown it. Uncle Myron had warned me that even the ugliest truth was better than the prettiest of lies. I had listened to that advice. I had told Rachel the ugly truth about her mother’s death.

Now, it seemed, she didn’t want to see me again.

I thought about that. I thought about Spoon in that hospital bed. I thought about the ashes in my father’s grave. I thought about my mother in rehab. I thought about basketball, about my dreams of finally playing on a real team and how, now that it had come true, all my teammates hated me.

I sat by my locker. Sweat dripped off me. I could hear my teammates making jokes and enjoying that easy, laughing friendship I had never really known. Emotionally drained, I stayed where I was. I decided that I’d wait it out. I’d let the rest of the team shower and get dressed, and then when everyone was gone, I’d get ready.

I just didn’t have the strength to face them any more today.

Troy was in the middle of some long-winded story when Assistant Coach Stashower stuck his head in the door. “Troy? Coach wants to see you in his office.”

“I’m just finishing up a joke—”

“Now, Troy.”

Everyone made a friendly mocking “oooo” sound as Troy headed out. Then the rest of the guys showered and got dressed. I pretended to check my iPhone for important messages. Ten minutes passed. The guys started to file out with back slaps, figuring out who would ride in whose car, figuring a time to meet up at the Heritage Diner and then hang out at whose house.

I’d thought that the entire team had left when Brandon Foley came around the corner and sat on the bench next to my locker.

“Tough practice,” Brandon said.

I shrugged. “No big deal.”

“Troy isn’t really such a bad guy.”

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s a real prince.”

Brandon smiled at that one. I knew that Brandon Foley was one of the most popular kids in the school. He was president of the student council, president of the Key Club, president of the local chapter of the National Honor Society, and as I mentioned before, co-captain (with Troy) of the basketball team.

You know the type. Good guy, but he wants everyone to like him.

“You need to understand the situation,” Brandon said.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“It’s mild hazing,” Brandon said. “You’re the only sophomore.”

It was a lot more than mild hazing, but I didn’t see much point in continuing with this conversation.

“Mickey?”

“What?”

“You know that this team won the county championship last year, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And that we were within one game of winning the states,” Brandon continued. “Do you know how long it’s been since Kasselton High actually won it?”

I did. The big win was memorialized all over the walls of the gym in the form of banners and retired jerseys. Twenty-five years ago, Uncle Myron, the school’s all-time leading scorer and rebounder, led the Kasselton Camels to their only state championship. One of his teammates — the second leading scorer and second leading rebounder on that team — was none other than Edward Taylor, Troy’s father. He was now the town sheriff.

Bad blood across two generations.

“What’s your point?” I said.

“The point is, last year our team started five juniors, so we’re all back. The five of us have all played together since we were Biddy All-Stars in fifth grade. Troy, Buck, Alec, Damien, and me — we grew up together. We’ve been the starting five since we were eleven years old. This may not seem like a big deal to you.”

But it did seem like a big deal. I never had anything like that. My parents had lived overseas my entire life. We jumped from place to place, country to country, mostly in the Third World. We lived the life of nomads, backpacking, setting up tents, living in small villages. I had no idea what it was like to have friends like that. As I said before, Ema and Spoon were my best friends ever, and I had only known them a few weeks.

“So now,” Brandon said, in his calm, rational, mature voice, “the five of us are seniors. This will be our last year together. We will go off to college and never be on the same team again. We’ve been waiting for this moment pretty much our whole lives. And now, because of you, one of us won’t be a starter anymore.”

“You don’t know—”

Brandon held up a hand. “Please, Mickey, let’s not play humble. You know how good you are. I know how good you are. Troy has always been our leading scorer and best player. Soon it will be you. So he knows it too. You’ve been at this school, what, a few weeks. In that time, you’ve taken his girlfriend and soon you’ll have his spot on the team.”

He was talking about Rachel. I wanted to correct him — I hadn’t taken her away and she wasn’t my girlfriend — but maybe it was better to just stay quiet.

Brandon stood. “Give him time to get used to that, okay?”

“I didn’t steal his girlfriend,” I said.

So much for staying quiet.

“What?”

“Rachel broke it off with him before I ever got here.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Of course it is. And I can’t help it if I’m a better player than he is.”

“I didn’t say you could,” Brandon replied. “I’m just letting you know what’s going on.”

“I don’t care,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Troy is a jerk. You’re justifying his bullying behavior — not just of me, but of Ema and Spoon too. He’s been on my case since day one — before he ever saw me take a shot — and he just intentionally whipped a basketball at my face. So, sorry, Brandon, I’m not really in the mood to hear someone excuse his bullying.”

“I’m not excusing it.”

I stood up. “Yeah, you are. And you let it happen. You, the big co-captain and president of everything in this stupid school, just stood there today and let it happen.”

Brandon didn’t like that. “Look, Mickey, I came over here to help you.”

“You’re a little late, Brandon. And if your help is to justify why your old best friend hates me, I’m good, thanks. He’s the one you should be talking to, not me.”

Brandon looked down at me another moment or two. I wanted to take it back. He had been the only one to reach out a hand in friendship, and I had slapped it away. But I was also angry and tired and jet-lagged and just sick of all the crap that kept piling on me. I didn’t want to hear about Troy’s problems. I had enough on my own.

Still, I ended up saying, “Brandon, I didn’t mean—”

“See you around.”

He turned and left without another word.

Fine.

I really had nothing to say to him anyway. I was finally alone. I got undressed and headed into the shower. Have you ever been alone in a locker room? Every sound echoes like it’s been miked up. I turned on the water and stepped under the wonderfully harsh spray. I took my time, letting the water pound on my back and head, closing my eyes and breathing deeply.