few hours in his head, imagining what Forbes might say about his first day at Brookdale High. It wasn’t as if Keegan didn’t understand the importance of the prime directive. Hadn’t Forbes hammered it into his head repeatedly? And hadn’t his father echoed the same thing that very morning as Keegan left for school?
He reached the sidewalk on Gates Avenue and followed the high chain-link fence separating the street from the school’s field, where already dozens of guys stood listening to Coach Cameron. Soccer tryouts were being held this week, something he’d learned fourth period during phys ed. Taught by Cameron, the period had been more of an information session than a class—stuff about safety issues and individual performance goals—and most of the people in his class were guys. Last week, Cameron had sent out an email about the tryouts, but Keegan hadn’t received it, probably because new students weren’t in Cameron’s database yet. Even if he
had
gotten it, though, it wouldn’t have mattered. He couldn’t play.
Three of the guys taking phys ed were Jaffrey’s boyfriend and his two buddies, and all three had given Keegan weird looks when he’d walked in, muttering to one another as he’d passed. Keegan hadn’t heard what they were saying, but after that scene a few minutes ago in the hallway he figured he’d been a hot topic of conversation at lunchtime.
A whistle shattered the air, followed by Cameron’s deep voice shouting commands, and Keegan watched as guys lined up taking turns performing manoeuvres. Balls arced through the air, some of them bouncing across the grass toward the fence.
“Vancouver!”
He turned to see d’Entremont jogging toward him, trapping a ball neatly with his feet and then dribbling it expertly toward the chain-link. “Yeah?”
“You not trying out for the team?”
Keegan shook his head and kept walking.
“Why not?” D’Entremont paced him on his side of the fence,the ball constantly moving between his feet. “They don’t play soccer out west?”
“They play it,” Keegan replied. “I don’t.”
“Figures.” This from Todd Thomas, who had also retrieved a ball and, like d’Entremont, hadn’t thought it necessary to trot back to Cameron. It was clear to Keegan that neither of them was too worried about not making the team, which didn’t surprise him. Just another example of how things worked around here.
As if proving that point, Jay Underwood loped up, ignoring Cameron’s shout to bring the balls in. “Vancouver not trying out?” he asked the other two, as if Keegan couldn’t answer for himself.
“He doesn’t play,” said d’Entremont.
“Doesn’t or can’t?” Underwood asked.
“There’s a difference?” d’Entremont snorted.
Underwood guffawed, and Keegan wished he’d cut through the student parking lot after all. He’d swallowed entirely too much shit for one day. He lengthened his stride.
“What you see is pretty much what you get,” said d’Entremont, still pacing him.
Keegan forced himself to keep walking. Why hadn’t he listened to Forbes?
“The same go for you?” d’Entremont asked him.
Keegan bit back a reply, kept his feet moving.
“Because if that’s the case, you’re way outta your league here. You know that, right? If I were you, I’d be checking out bus tickets to B.C. One way.”
Keegan’s stride faltered. “If you were me,” he said, turning to face him. He repeated it more slowly—”If
you
were
me
”—and suddenly found himself struggling not to laugh. He failed.
D’Entremont’s face darkened. “What’s so funny, asshole?”
Keegan ignored him and resumed walking, the laughter bubbling up from nowhere and everywhere. Behind him, he could hear d’Entremont fuming—”You’re lucky there’s a fence between us, Vancouver!”—but that only made him laugh harder.
Lucky.
If luck was something he’d ever had, it had run out a long time ago.
By the time Keegan reached his house
He reached the sidewalk on Gates Avenue and followed the high chain-link fence separating the street from the school’s field, where already dozens of guys stood listening to Coach Cameron. Soccer tryouts were being held this week, something he’d learned fourth period during phys ed. Taught by Cameron, the period had been more of an information session than a class—stuff about safety issues and individual performance goals—and most of the people in his class were guys. Last week, Cameron had sent out an email about the tryouts, but Keegan hadn’t received it, probably because new students weren’t in Cameron’s database yet. Even if he
had
gotten it, though, it wouldn’t have mattered. He couldn’t play.
Three of the guys taking phys ed were Jaffrey’s boyfriend and his two buddies, and all three had given Keegan weird looks when he’d walked in, muttering to one another as he’d passed. Keegan hadn’t heard what they were saying, but after that scene a few minutes ago in the hallway he figured he’d been a hot topic of conversation at lunchtime.
A whistle shattered the air, followed by Cameron’s deep voice shouting commands, and Keegan watched as guys lined up taking turns performing manoeuvres. Balls arced through the air, some of them bouncing across the grass toward the fence.
“Vancouver!”
He turned to see d’Entremont jogging toward him, trapping a ball neatly with his feet and then dribbling it expertly toward the chain-link. “Yeah?”
“You not trying out for the team?”
Keegan shook his head and kept walking.
“Why not?” D’Entremont paced him on his side of the fence,the ball constantly moving between his feet. “They don’t play soccer out west?”
“They play it,” Keegan replied. “I don’t.”
“Figures.” This from Todd Thomas, who had also retrieved a ball and, like d’Entremont, hadn’t thought it necessary to trot back to Cameron. It was clear to Keegan that neither of them was too worried about not making the team, which didn’t surprise him. Just another example of how things worked around here.
As if proving that point, Jay Underwood loped up, ignoring Cameron’s shout to bring the balls in. “Vancouver not trying out?” he asked the other two, as if Keegan couldn’t answer for himself.
“He doesn’t play,” said d’Entremont.
“Doesn’t or can’t?” Underwood asked.
“There’s a difference?” d’Entremont snorted.
Underwood guffawed, and Keegan wished he’d cut through the student parking lot after all. He’d swallowed entirely too much shit for one day. He lengthened his stride.
“What you see is pretty much what you get,” said d’Entremont, still pacing him.
Keegan forced himself to keep walking. Why hadn’t he listened to Forbes?
“The same go for you?” d’Entremont asked him.
Keegan bit back a reply, kept his feet moving.
“Because if that’s the case, you’re way outta your league here. You know that, right? If I were you, I’d be checking out bus tickets to B.C. One way.”
Keegan’s stride faltered. “If you were me,” he said, turning to face him. He repeated it more slowly—”If
you
were
me
”—and suddenly found himself struggling not to laugh. He failed.
D’Entremont’s face darkened. “What’s so funny, asshole?”
Keegan ignored him and resumed walking, the laughter bubbling up from nowhere and everywhere. Behind him, he could hear d’Entremont fuming—”You’re lucky there’s a fence between us, Vancouver!”—but that only made him laugh harder.
Lucky.
If luck was something he’d ever had, it had run out a long time ago.
By the time Keegan reached his house
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