The Crossroads of Logan Michaels Page 4

  Besides regular weekend parties, I spent a lot of my time shooting hoops at the Thompson School across the street. It was my elementary school. I could spend hours there working on my crossover and imagining the fortune and fame that I would gain when I went to play in the NBA.

  •••

  The day that really made me realize that high school would be different was when I met Rory. “Hey, let’s play one-on-one from a distance.” He flicked a cigarette out of his mouth and opened his hands for the ball. Who was this loser? I wondered.

  “I’m Rory, what’s up man,” he said. He told me that I didn’t look familiar.

  “I’m in eighth grade,” I said.

  “Oh, I’m in tenth; maybe I’ll see you next year.”

  “You smoke, you choke.” The commercial popped into my head. This kid was so winded that he couldn’t even score a point, and he must have coughed every ten seconds. He said, “Nice game,” as I beat him 11-3. When we ended the game, he lit up another cigarette. The smell was different this time though, and the paper burnt when he lit it. It smelled almost as if a skunk was passing by us; he asked if I wanted a hit.

  I calmly said, “I’m good, man,” as he laughed.

  “What, you don’t smoke?”

  “No,” I said, confidently.

  “You will once you go into high school; I was the same way.” He hopped on his BMX bike and rode away as I whispered under my breath, Loser. No way would I ever smoke or drink.

  “Mom,” I yelled, smelling the meatloaf cooking in the kitchen. She was on the phone and looked worried; I saw her face pale as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

  “Okay, bye; I’ll let him know,” she said into the phone.

  “Who died?” I asked instantly, praying I was wrong. “I know that look.”

  Her voice shook. “Grammy passed away.” How could this happen? Jared walked into the room with a confused, sad look. Dad was coming home any minute, and how could we tell him? The door handle turned and opened up slowly; Jared and I ran into the other room. “Hi, Clint,” my mother said as he came in with his work boots and lunch box and hugged her.

  He cautiously asked, “What’s wrong? Maria, what the hell is it?”

  “It’s your mother—she passed away an hour ago.” Jared and I turned the corner as my dad found out the news and, looking him in the eyes, for once I understood how young my father appeared. He looked like a young kid who had lost everything. We walked up to him and hugged him in the kitchen as he squeezed us all tightly and remained strong for us. I could tell that he wanted to cry, but, instead, he sadly stumbled into his truck and went for a drive.

  I couldn’t sleep much that night, tossing and turning, thinking about my father. As my eyes started to finally close, I heard a cry coming from downstairs. I ignored it at first, until it got louder. It had finally gotten so loud that my mother woke Jared and I to tell us that our father was crying downstairs and that we should go support him. I was scared; my father and I had always played baseball and basketball together, and we would watch TV together, but to see him cry touched me in a way that I didn’t know how to handle. I turned the corner to find him, and he opened his arms as we hugged him. The feeling was hard to describe, but that night I saw that my father was so scared to lose his mother and I knew that one day this might be me. My eyes watered as tried to fall asleep.

  The ceremony was sad; Grammy died from a heart attack just three weeks after my Nana passed away.

  My mother had started classes and was having a difficult time. I understood, and with all of the events that had recently taken place, I didn’t blame her. A couple of weeks later, I saw her crying, with her books scattered all over the table, and she told me that wanted to quit. “You can do it, Mom; I believe in you,” I told her. “Be strong.”

  She smiled, closed her books, and said, “I know.” For some reason, with all of the death around me lately, my heart had opened up to realize that we all needed to support our family if we wanted to make it through these hard times.

  Eighth grade was flying by, especially with all that was going on in my life. All I could think about was spending the summer on the Cape again this year, even though it would be different. Everyone was getting older and growing up. I would be going into high school and Jared would be entering middle school; where had the time gone? AAU, baseball, and basketball didn’t matter to me much anymore; next year, I needed a fresh start. Keep practicing, Logan, I said to myself, keep practicing.

  Next year, I believed, I would see Katie again; she would be a junior and hopefully she had left her boyfriend. I also envisioned making the varsity teams during my freshman year in both basketball and baseball. Katie would come to my games wearing my varsity coat; she would be sitting in the stands watching me, smiling and blowing kisses.

  My parents were so proud on the day their first son graduated from middle school. The ceremony was inside the gym where I had hit all my three-pointers, where I had had my first dance with Katie. My suit had been pressed and looked sharp for the ceremony. Jared, my dad, my mother, and my aunt and uncle joined us that day. The day was ecstasy, and I will never forget the feeling of walking up to the stage and shaking the principal’s hand while the auditorium cheered my name.

  Cape Cod was only a couple of weeks away, my uncle reminded me at my after-party. I was excited to ride the bumper cars and to jump on the trampolines. The smell of the beach, the feeling of sand getting stuck between my toes, and the look of my skin peeling from a sunburn doesn’t sound like much, but for me, the Cape was completely relaxing. And, after all, I thought that I deserved it. If I had known that this would be my last trip to Cape Cod as a child, I would have cherished it even more.

  Chapter 3

  CHAIN OF EVENTS

  In three months I would be turning fifteen and, in about six months, my brother would be turning twelve; time was flying. So much had happened this year, but everything was starting over now that I was in high school.

  I was average height, five-eight, which was surprising because my father was over six feet tall. I was slim but had reflexes like a cat. I weighed one hundred fifty-five pounds. My jeans fit loose but not baggy and I usually wore a baseball cap. My hair was gelled perfectly as it stood up and curved to the side. I had an infectious laugh; people liked to be around me.

  The first day arrived, and my dad dropped me off at the front of the building. Embarrassed, I hopped out and looked immediately for my friends. Intimidated by the seniors and juniors and realizing that I didn’t recognize anyone I knew, I wondered, Am I at the right school?

  “Logan,” Thank God; there was my friend, Tim, from basketball. We both looked nervous. A girl gently brushed by my elbow, and glanced back quickly, and then moved along. She didn’t even notice me, I thought, and then it hit me that this was my love, Katie. Was it possible that she had forgotten me already?

  The bell rang as I looked at my schedule; I had no clue where anything was. I wandered the halls, seeing only faces of strangers before noticing a couple of buddies who looked familiar. Was that John?

  Jason and John, however, had both gotten into private schools that year. Jason attended Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts and John went to Saint John’s. These were both high-class schools for wealthy families. My mom and dad worked hard just to keep a roof over our heads.

  Sitting in class, all I could think about was basketball tryouts later that day. Would I be good enough? Would things be like they were in middle school? I wasn’t concerned about my classes too much, since I always managed to study hard and maintain mostly B’s—I wasn’t a genius, but I was definitely not dumb.

  Lunch came quickly after a couple of class periods, and I walked in nervously searching for a place to sit. I walked over to the guys on my basketball team and smiled, grabbed a couple slices of pizza, and sat down. Deep breath, I thought, hopefully now I can just sit here all year and not have to worry about moving seats. I wanted to establish myself in the “jock” c
ategory. At the table, there were a couple of new faces, people from different towns and states who had moved into the area. Apparently, some of them played sports and so they sat with us.

  One girl was amazing; Gina had jet-black, long, curly hair and big curves. She was dark-skinned, maybe Italian. She had dark, deep eyes with mascara applied almost excessively, but on her, it was just enough. Then, of course, my love Katie was sitting three tables down, laughing. It’s just a matter of time before I make the varsity team and ask her out.

  I decided to walk home after school with a couple of friends who lived on the way. It was a bit longer walk than I would have liked, but I wanted the freedom and wanted to avoid being embarrassed by having my mom pick me up. There was a long overpass connected from the schoolyard over the highway, where kids could walk over the highway without having to cross traffic. At the end of the overpass there was always a group of juniors who would be smoking cigarettes, wearing loose jeans, and comparing piercings and tattoos. They were just punks, if you asked me, not the kids I wanted to hang out with. My buddies and I would walk by quietly, trying to avoid them; of course, we weren’t nerds so they always left us alone and picked on weaker kids. I always asked myself, What had to have gone wrong in their lives to lead to them sinking so low?

  I got home that day and grabbed my basketball to start practicing my jump shot. Tryouts were not far away, and I needed to make Varsity in order for Katie to notice me. Jared got home a little after me with a couple of new buddies and they ran around the house, laughing and playing video games. His friends seemed pretty cool: they played sports like Jared and were overall decent kids.

  My mother was studying in the house and had to stop once Jared and his friends came over; they were so loud that I didn’t know how she got any work done. Dad arrived home a couple of hours later and kicked everyone out as my mom served dinner. We sat down and discussed our days; I described high school as a movie and Jared said that middle school was okay. My mom started to clear the table and returned to studying while my dad went down to the basement to focus on wood carvings and other projects. I was never really into it, but Jared would spend hours down there with him. I was closer to my mom and would share my whole day and my dreams with her after she finished studying.

  Basketball tryouts arrived and I was ready. Coach Mangella was about six-five and skinny like a string bean, with a perpetually mean, serious look. He introduced himself to all twenty freshmen. We scrimmaged to start; he split us up into two teams. It was different than normal tryouts. The first time that I got the ball, my palms were so sweaty I had lost the ball. Shit! Not a good start, I thought as I nervously ran back. “Okay, defense,” I said, “Let’s go!” Damn. The kid on the other team ran right past me; I was frustrated that I had been fooled, allowing him to score.

  “Logan, sub out with Tim,” Coach Mangella said. How am I playing so badly? I practice more than anyone here. I took a five-minute break, shaking my knees on the bench while waiting to get back in the game and prove myself.

  “Okay, let’s do this; pass the ball!” Crossover, behind-the-back three-pointer! Swish!

  “Ice,” I heard as I looked into the bleachers to see the seniors I had known from fifth grade calling my name. I smiled and ran back on defense. That’s all I needed, I thought, just a little boost.

  “Steal by Michaels, breakaway layup! SCORE!” I looked over at Coach Mangella, but he showed no emotion and didn’t give me much credit. The scrimmage was over and I was pretty happy with my performance. The tryouts ended with a couple of dribbling and shooting drills until I heard the whistle blow. Everyone gathered around Coach Mangella and took a knee.

  “Team,” he said, “Twelve of you will make the team; the roster will be in the gym tomorrow at three. Also, all freshman—there will be no spots on varsity, no matter how good you are because the varsity team already has too many people.” My heart sank, but I understood and thought that maybe I could show him how good I was in my games and make the team later.

  •••

  School was a drag the next day. I didn’t pay any attention to my classes, and all I could think was, Is it three yet? Running to the gym immediately, I saw Coach Mangella posting the roster. I stood behind most of the kids, waiting until it cleared out. You could tell right away who had made the team and who hadn’t just by their expressions. In the third row down, I saw Logan Michaels; my eyes glowed. Also posted was the schedule for practice, which would be every day after school at four. It was exciting to be able to travel to compete against rival teams and to see what kind of other talent was out there.

  Arriving home that night, I saw that my mother was crying at the table again. My dad seemed to ignore her. Her books were scattered and I learned that she had failed her first test. I couldn’t bear to see the sadness in her face; she wanted to succeed so badly, but had to provide for two sons at the same time. My father would always go downstairs after they got in a fight, and it seemed to me that they were separating, but I told myself that it must be a phase. People say that happiness doesn’t have anything to do with money, but it seemed like money was dividing my parents. Jared seemed clueless.

  My weekends when I was fifteen were pretty simple. My friends and I would go to the high school football games at Hayers Stadium. Everybody would be at the games, and it made me want to be a football star. I hoped that the basketball and baseball games would attract this many people. Most of the seniors and older kids would sneak in alcohol and would drink behind the stadium fence while the hippies would smoke marijuana under the bleachers. Girls and guys would make out and hook up in the woods, and fights would erupt between guys from rivaling towns, which the cops would usually have to break up.

  Friday nights were when all of the parties happened, usually hosted by football players. I always wondered where the parents were when these parties happened. I mean, I could barely talk to a girl on the phone without my whole family overhearing the conversation. I’d usually hang out with my friends and watch the games; I never tried marijuana or alcohol. I thought of Rory, the kid that I had met last year, and reflected on how he predicted that I would be into drugs and alcohol. Screw him, I thought.

  My first real high school party was after one of the football games against neighboring Methuen. We had won the game and there was going to be a huge party afterward at the home of one of the linebackers. Apparently, his parents were always away on business trips, leaving him with his older brother, who was in college. His brother would buy kegs of beer for the team and they would celebrate, getting wasted after every game. Most of the high school’s student body would show up at his mansion of a house to party on a regular basis.

  A couple of my basketball buddies and I were driven there that night by some of the older kids. I was pretty nervous while walking into the party, since I had never been to this kind of scene. There were kids smoking marijuana right outside the house; girls were falling down and yelling, and the football players were doing keg stands. It was tough to understand what was happening because I didn’t drink or smoke, and neither did my friends.

  “Ice!!” I heard from a distance as one of the seniors grabbed me and said, “This is Ice!” He introduced me to a couple of his buddies and put a beer in my hand. I laughed and smiled and nervously faked a sip of beer. I put the can of Bud Light to my lips, tilted my head, and then spit the beer back into the bottle slowly. I didn’t want them to see that I was a dork. If my mom knew that I was drinking at a party, she would have killed me. As the night went on, it was becoming harder to pretend that I was drunk. I was walking outside to dump my beer into the woods when I heard my name called.

  “Logan!”

  I turned to see a girl standing there, looking confused and tipsy. I squinted my eyes to see that it was Kelly, smiling, with a beer in her hand. She jumped on me and started to kiss me, and I could smell the alcohol on her breath.

  “Hey, how are you?” I said. She kissed me and started to grab me as I became hard and I beg
an to breathe heavily. “Kelly, you’re drunk,” I said.

  She responded, “So what?” as she licked my ear and kissed my neck. It feels so good, though, I thought to myself. I imagined Katie being the one who was licking my ear, as I kissed Kelly back and started to slip my tongue into her mouth.

  We made our way to the garage as we made out. Her breath smelled like beer, but my hands caressed her breasts as she grabbed me. My hands started to slip down her skirt. It was warm and wet as she moaned and breathed heavily, sighing.

  “Logan,” I heard.

  Shit. “Who is that?” I asked.

  “We need to leave; my mom’s picking us up, and the football players are wasted.”

  “Coming,” I said as my penis went soft again. “Bye, Kelly,” I said as she tugged on my arm, trying to get me to stay. “I gotta go; I’ll talk to you Monday, bye.” Great party, I thought to myself, and I think I was the only one who hadn’t been drinking.

  •••

  Monday arrived, and Kelly walked by me in the hallway. As I raised a hand to wave hello, she completely ignored me. What the hell, I thought to myself; did she even remember what had happened? Tim then came up to me and said, “Did you hear about Kelly and Josh?”

  “No,” I said.

  “They hooked up Friday night after you left.” I slammed my locker and walked to class. Apparently she would have hooked up with anyone, since she had been so drunk. Whatever, I’m going to focus on basketball now, I thought, I don’t like her anyway.

  So, Josh knew that Kelly and I had a thing going on, and he had hooked up with her anyway. I tried not to think about being stabbed in the back by Josh, especially since he was a junior and a lot bigger than me. Practice came and I was missing shots, dribbling poorly and just losing focus overall. Coach Mangella pulled me aside and told me to sit while Tim took my spot. Tim was good, but he wasn’t as good as I was; he had a nice jump shot and was decent at dribbling, but he never practiced and had a poor attitude. I couldn’t let this situation affect me—I had practiced way too hard to let one girl ruin this. The week continued like this, with Tim and me switching in for one another; on some days he did well and on some days I did well.