Fighting Chance Page 2

  The doctor got there in seconds, and he did his best. He sent someone running to call 911, prodded Coach Colson’s throat with expert fingers, crouched on the floor to try to force air into his body. It was no good.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, voice heavy with regret. “His larynx is crushed. He’s dead.”

  Two

  I wish I could say the next few hours rushed by in a blur. They didn’t. Every moment was distinct—every image, every sound, every feeling.

  People came running—referees and judges from other circles, everyone on our team, the security guard Coach had hired. In the bleachers, coaches and teachers jumped from their seats, and Mr. Quinn helped Dr. Lombardo down the steps. I saw the guys on the basketball team pointing down at us and talking, saw Paul Ericson sitting rigid and silent. As people started to realize what had happened, gasps and whispers spread through the gym. Children raced to their parents—maybe they felt like they needed protection now. Their parents clutched at them, faces stunned by new fears.

  Nobody left. After the first few minutes, almost nobody spoke. I heard someone crying, though, loud and broken. I glanced at the other side of the bleachers and saw Marie Ramsey sitting with both fists clenched in her lap, her chest heaving forward as sobs ripped through her, lines of black makeup streaming down her face. It didn’t seem like she was even trying to get control of herself—it seemed like she’d given up on staying in control.

  The paramedics arrived, then two uniformed police officers. The paramedics hovered by Coach Colson, checking things, shaking their heads the same way the doctor had. They’d take him to the hospital, they said. I guess they have to do that. The head basketball coach went along, and so did my English teacher, Ms. Nguyen.

  I looked around for Bobby Davis and spotted him standing near the door to the boys’ locker room, arms at his sides. I couldn’t read his face. He had to be feeling something, but I couldn’t see it. An officer stood nearby, keeping an eye on him but not saying anything.

  Referees and floor judges crowded around the other police officer, talking fast. Hoping nobody would notice, I moved closer.

  “It was a tragedy,” one judge said. “A fluke.”

  “A fluke.” The referee from Coach’s match seized the word. “Exactly right. A fluke. Everything was going fine. Colson was ahead by three points. Then Davis kicked him in the arm, Colson slipped, and Davis came up with this wild kick.”

  “Right at the worst possible moment,” a woman judge put in, “when Colson had his neck stretched back. So when Davis aimed a kick at his chest, he caught him in the throat. If Colson had been standing up straight, it would’ve just been a hard kick to the chest.”

  The referee rubbed his forehead. “I keep wishing I’d stopped the fight. But I had no reason to. Both men were on their feet, neither was hurt, and I didn’t see that kick coming.”

  “Nobody could’ve seen it.” The first judge patted his back. “I mean, that kick came out of nowhere. You can’t blame yourself.”

  The officer glanced up from her notes. “So you’re convinced this was an accident?”

  They stared at her. “Absolutely,” the first judge said. “What else could it be?”

  “Just checking. The detective should arrive soon. I’d like you all to wait here until—”

  “Excuse me.” Berk pushed through the judges, his face red and puffy. “It wasn’t an accident. He meant to do it. He kicked Coach in the armpit to stun him, and then he aimed straight for his throat and kicked hard.”

  “Ridiculous,” the referee said. “He aimed for his chest, and he didn’t kick him in the armpit, just the arm. If it’d been the armpit, I would’ve stopped the fight.”

  It didn’t feel like the right time to start all this, but I had to back Berk up. “No, the kick was to his armpit. It happened fast—it’d be easy to miss—but that’s why Coach staggered back. He didn’t slip. He staggered back because Davis kicked him in a pressure point.”

  The first judge’s voice turned angry. “Listen, son, you look like a nice kid, and we’re all sorry about what happened. But you’re a green belt. Your friend’s an orange belt. You’re not experts. We’re experts, and we all agree. When nine black belts tell you the kick was to the arm, you oughtta listen.”

  A judge who hadn’t spoken yet half-raised his hand. He was middle-aged and medium height, with dark brown hair and a close-trimmed beard. “I thought the kick was to the armpit. I was judging in an outer ring, my fighters were taking a break, and I glanced at the center. It looked like a hard side kick to the armpit. And that last spinning hook kick—”

  “It wasn’t a spinning hook,” the referee said. “It looked like one, yeah, but it wasn’t really any particular kind of kick. It was just wild. You weren’t close enough to see clearly.”

  The other judge held his hands chest high, spreading his fingers, like he was backing off. “Maybe not. But from where I stood, it looked like a deliberate side kick to the armpit, followed by a deliberate spinning hook to the throat.”

  “It didn’t look that way to me, Aaron,” the first judge said, “and I was much closer. It was an accident. In sports, accidents happen, despite all the precautions we take: the helmets, the chest shields, the leg pads—”

  “But we don’t pad the throat,” the judge he’d called Aaron said. “It’s the one vital spot left unprotected. And the gloves keep almost any punch from being lethal, but the foot pads don’t cover the heel. So a well-aimed spinning hook kick would land with full impact. If I wanted to kill someone during a tournament, I’d use a spinning hook to the throat. Wouldn’t you?”

  The first judge sighed impatiently. “If I wanted to kill someone,” he said, “I wouldn’t do it during a tournament. The whole idea is crazy.”

  The officer tapped her pen against her notepad. “I’d like you all to wait for the detective. In the meantime, please don’t compare notes or try to convince each other. Keep your own memories clear.”

  She walked over to join her partner. Berk turned to me, face twitching with rage. “Those guys must be blind. Why didn’t—”

  “We’re not supposed to talk about it. Let’s join the others.”

  It wasn’t only because the officer said not to discuss what happened. I didn’t want to. I knew what I’d seen, but nothing made sense. I wasn’t up to trying to figure things out. I didn’t have room in my head for anything but feeling miserable.

  The other kids still stood around the team bench, their parents clustered nearby. Berk’s mother gestured us over.

  “I saw you talking to the police,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “She wants us to wait until the detective arrives,” he said, “but she doesn’t want us to say anything yet.”

  Suzette’s father frowned. “Bad idea. We need to get you kids home. You shouldn’t have to wait around after witnessing such a terrible accident.”

  “I’ll straighten things out so we can leave,” Berk’s mother said. “You kids are still coming for dinner, right? I’ve made so much lasagna.”

  The lasagna dinner—it was supposed to be a party, to celebrate Ridgecrest High’s first tournament. Coach had said he’d come. We’d planned to brag about our wins, analyze our mistakes, start planning for next year. Now, all that felt like a bad joke. “I don’t know, Mrs. Widrig. Considering what happened—”

  “Obviously it won’t be a party anymore,” she said, “but you can share your feelings, comfort each other, all that. And if you want to keep your club going, you should talk about finding another teacher to replace Mr. Colson.”

  To replace Mr. Colson. How could she say those words? Mrs. Widrig and Berk have lived down the street from us for over ten years, and she’s one of the nicest people I know. Last year, when I didn’t want to be at home much, I practically lived at their house, and she never seemed to mind. But sometimes, compared to her, even my parents see
m sensitive.

  “The kids need time to think,” Suzette’s mother said. “We could go home and talk things over, and later—”

  “God, Mom.” Suzette rolled her eyes. “I’m not a baby. I don’t need you to tell me what to do. I don’t need instructions. Back off.”

  Mrs. Widrig gave her a sharp look. “Well, if you kids decide to come, great. If not, I’ll park the lasagna in the freezer. I’ll go talk to the policewoman.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Mr. Link said. “Let’s get this settled.”

  Minutes later, Dr. Lombardo came over. She’s around fifty, tall and lean, and you can tell she always makes a point of looking professional. Most people had worn jeans and sweatshirts to the tournament; she’d worn a pantsuit and a pearl necklace. But she looked shaken. This must be hard on her, I realized. For ten years, she’d worked hard for Ridgecrest High—people said the school was her whole life. Now, this would be one of the last memories she’d take with her. I felt so awful about Coach, I wouldn’t have thought I could feel bad for anybody else. But looking at her tense shoulders, listening to how tired her voice sounded, I felt bad for her, too.

  She walked from student to student, from parent to parent, talking softly. When she got to me, she put a hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Colson was your social studies teacher last year, wasn’t he? And assistant basketball coach, advisor for your martial arts club. This must be hard on you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Dr. Lombardo, Coach once said his parents live in Vermont. Should someone let them know?”

  “I’ve called them. They’re flying down tomorrow to take him home. It’s good of you to think of them. Have you called your own parents?”

  “No. I guess I should. Thanks.”

  She moved on. Calling my parents—God. I hated the thought of answering their questions and listening to their sympathetic little comments. They wouldn’t understand how I felt, couldn’t say anything that’d help, so what was the point?

  I didn’t have to call yet, I decided. Telling them in person might be easier.

  Mr. Link and Mrs. Widrig joined us again, looking satisfied. The policewoman had said only those who thought they had information for the detective needed to stay. Derrick and Suzette gathered their stuff, but the rest of us decided to wait.

  On her way out, Suzette paused. “Are you coming to Berk’s tonight, Matt?”

  “I haven’t decided.” I noticed Coach’s yellow pad still sitting on the bench. Somebody, probably the paramedics, had taken his gym bag, but they’d missed the pad. Without thinking, I shoved it into my own bag. “I’m pretty confused.”

  “Me too.” She tilted her head, letting her long blonde hair fall over her shoulder. “I mean, it’s so sad. Maybe it’d help to get together. To talk, you know?”

  “Maybe.” I looked past her. A gray-haired man in a suit—the detective?—was talking to the policewoman. Farther back, Bobby Davis said something to the officer standing next to him. The officer shrugged, and Davis walked into the boys’ locker room. I stood up. “I should call my parents.”

  “Okay.” Suzette smiled this quick little smile. “I hope you come tonight, Matt.”

  I nodded and walked on. I’d left my phone in my locker, so that gave me an excuse. This is dumb, I thought. Davis won’t do anything worth seeing. But I couldn’t stop.

  I reached the door to the locker room. “Okay if I get my phone from my locker?” I asked, and the officer nodded. I pushed the door open.

  At first, I didn’t hear anything, didn’t see anyone—just long rows of dull green lockers, narrow wooden benches bolted to the floor, the scale, the first-aid cabinet on the wall, trash cans and towel hampers. He’s here, though, I thought. The man who killed Coach is back here somewhere, and nobody else seems to be around. I didn’t feel scared, exactly, but my body went tense. I couldn’t have said why I was there. Maybe, I thought, I want him to try something, to give me a reason to hit him back. That’s crazy, I know. He’s way out of my league. Right then, though, I felt like I could’ve ripped him apart.

  I went to my locker and turned the combination, straining to hear something. No luck. Slowly, I walked between rows of lockers, toward the office at the back. Then I did hear something—a voice, low and angry. I froze.

  “Damn it, you’ve gotta find me one,” a man said. “A good one. I don’t like the way these cops have been looking at me.” He paused. “No, now. I don’t care how ‘awkward’ it is. The detective’s here. I need someone to take charge.” Another pause. “Okay. But make it fast.”

  Before I could turn around, Bobby Davis came out of the office and stood facing me, not ten feet away. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “What’re you doing here?”

  Now I was scared. The first time I’d seen Davis, I’d thought he looked silly—the baby face, the slicked-back orange hair. Standing this close, I could see how built he was, see the snake tattoo covering most of his chest, see how hard and little his eyes were. He seemed to be sizing me up, and I could tell he wasn’t impressed—just a tall, medium-build kid with legs that always feel too long for the rest of me.

  I held up my phone. “I’m Matt Foley. I came to get my phone from my locker.”

  “Yeah? So why are you still hanging around?”

  “I’m not. I was told to wait.”

  He stepped closer. “You’re on his team, aren’t you? And afterwards, you talked to the lady cop—you, and your little friend. What’d you say to her?”

  He won’t do anything, I thought. He’s in enough trouble. He won’t make things worse by picking a fight in the locker room. “We told her what we saw,” I said, looking at him straight. “What we both saw.”

  “You weren’t close enough to see anything.” He glanced at my belt and sneered. “And nobody cares what some kid with a green belt thinks he saw. You’ll only make yourself look stupid.”

  “I’ll risk it,” I said, and turned away.

  He grabbed my shoulder, yanking me back to face him. “Listen to me carefully, and make sure you get this straight. It was an accident, it’s over, and you can’t do anything about it. All you can do is get yourself in trouble. Trust me—you don’t wanna do that. Not with me.”

  He shoved me aside, just enough to make me bump against a locker, and walked out. I leaned my back against the wall, catching my breath. It’d been dumb to follow him, dumber to mouth off. But I’d got what I’d wanted, what I hadn’t even realized I’d wanted. The cool edge to his voice, the calm in his eyes—I knew now. He’d killed Coach on purpose.

  Three

  When I got home, they were all in the living room—Mom at the piano, Dad with his clarinet, Cassie with her viola. They were laughing. Naturally, they were laughing.

  I hadn’t called home. Too many decisions about what to tell them and what not to tell them, too many other things to think about. My talk with the detective had been brief. When I closed the front door, Mom looked up, blinked, and smiled.

  “Hello, dear,” she said. “We’re at our wits’ ends here. We’re working out an arrangement for a Scarlatti sonata, and our first efforts, I’m sorry to say, have not gone well.”

  Apparently, that was a hilarious statement, because they all burst out laughing again. I didn’t catch the humor, personally, but tried to smile. “Too bad.”

  “Oh, we’ll manage,” Dad said. “How was the tournament? Say—is that a trophy?”

  “Second place.” The trophy’s pretty ridiculous—red and blue stars winding shakily around the base, some winged gilt lady perched on top, stretching her arms high for no reason I could see. I stuck it in the coat closet. “And the tournament turned out awful. This guy from Richmond kicked Coach Colson in the throat and killed him.”

  That stopped the laughter. They all glanced at each other, and Dad put down his clarinet. “That wouldn’t be a good thing to joke about, Matt.”

 
“I’m not joking. He’s dead. That’s why I’m late. We had to talk to the police. Look, I’m tired. I’m going upstairs.”

  Mom walked over. She reached out to touch my face, but I drew back. “Matt, I’m sorry. He meant so much to you. Would you like to talk? Why don’t we—?”

  “Maybe later. Right now, I want to rest. Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” Dad said. “But Matt—this happened during a sparring match, right? It was an accident?”

  “That’s the theory.” I trudged upstairs.

  I knew I was being a jerk. I was making them feel like lousy parents, and they’d probably spend the next ten weeks talking about how it’s sad their son didn’t want to communicate with them after a traumatic experience. I don’t enjoy making them feel that way. Basically, they’re decent parents, at least compared to other people’s parents.

  But the fact is I don’t want to talk to them about things. They’re nice, but it’s like they live on a different planet, their own happy, perky parent planet, where the biggest problem they ever have is that not enough classical musicians composed pieces for piano, clarinet, and viola. My sister’s the same way—Little Miss A-in-Everything, a genius seventh grader who likes all her teachers, walks around the house reciting Emily Dickinson poems, and thinks nothing’s more fun than spending Saturday night playing charades with her parents. I know Cassie’s a good kid. I just can’t stand being around her for more than thirty seconds.

  So this is my life right now. Living in the same house with the happy threesome, feeling like an alien life-form, feeling guilty because I don’t appreciate them more, feeling like I’d go shoot-through-the-roof crazy if I tried to really talk to them. It could be worse. Lots of my friends have it much worse. But it makes me nuts.

  I threw myself on my bed, grabbed my iPod, and tried to go blank. It didn’t work. I paced around the room, spotted my gym bag, and took out Coach’s yellow pad. I’d meant to give it to the detective, but he had shown so little interest. Pages filled with scribbled notes and with doodles of dogs, of two flowering trees, of cars and bikes and pizzas. I smiled a tight, sad smile. In some ways, Coach was like Berk. He’d had so much energy he couldn’t ever just sit, always had to be doing something with his hands. I flipped pages, reading his comments about our matches. “Suzette—have a strategy, don’t just block, don’t argue with judges.” “Joseph—nice, high roundhouse kick. Work on flow.” “Graciana—good at anticipating opponents’ moves. Work on power.” “Berk—quick techniques, but keep control. Don’t let emotions choose your moves.” “Matt—work on jump-front kick. Great balance. Ready for spin kicks. Really quick back fist—wow.”