Kick Read online

  I watched as Dolores stopped at a small grocery store. She made a few purchases and bought a newspaper. She walked slowly, and I could see her easily from a block away. I wasn’t sure what I would learn that could help Sergeant Brown, but I was getting an idea of how she lived. As we walked, I saw more and more children playing in the street. Men sat on milk crates outside the shabby tenements. The neighborhood no longer looked familiar to me. It was starting to get dark, and my mom would probably be worried if I wasn’t home when she got there. Abuela would already be looking at the clock. I was debating whether to turn back when Dolores stopped at an old brick apartment building. It was run-down.

  Dolores lived far enough away from Christy to have taken a bus, but she had walked the entire distance.

  She opened the door with a key. I wanted to know which apartment Dolores lived in. I knew if it had a slam lock, I’d have to hurry. I sprinted forward and stuck my foot inside just as the door was closing. I listened for a few seconds before pushing the door open. The hallway was empty and quiet. I listened for footsteps and heard light steps just on the floor above and then the sound of keys opening a lock. I waited for a moment and then tiptoed up the stairs. I stopped on the second-floor landing just in time to see a door close behind Dolores. I peeked at the door. Apartment 2C. I listened at the door and could hear people speaking in Spanish.

  I quickly ran down the stairs and out into the street. I felt good, as if I had scored a goal, but it was going to be a long walk home and I was going to be in trouble . . . again.

  Wednesday. Game day, third round of the State Cup, and a call from Sergeant Brown. He didn’t sound happy.

  “Kevin, I’m sorry, I’m not going to make it to your game today,” he said, letting out a sigh. “I’m having lunch with my in-laws.”

  “You don’t like them?” I asked.

  “It’s just a family obligation,” he said. “Look, Kevin, I don’t want to hear from your coach or anyone else, and I sure don’t want to have to call Judge Kelly.”

  “I’ve got it under control, sir,” I said. I was sorry that I wouldn’t see Sergeant Brown. I wanted to show him that I could play without losing my cool. I also wanted to give him Dolores’s address in person, so I could see his face. Then he could go interview her and maybe whoever she lived with. I’d give it to him the next time I saw him.

  I filled up three bottles with ice water from the fridge, grabbed a few pieces of toast, and ran upstairs.

  “¿Abuela, dónde están mis medias?” I asked Abuela where my socks were.

  I looked in my top drawer, where Abuela said she put them. As I pulled the socks out, I glanced at myself in the mirror above my dresser. I was starting to get a lot taller and more muscular, really fast. I was going to be tall like my dad, with the same green eyes, but with darker skin and black hair like my mom.

  I went to my closet and reached all the way to the back, where I kept an old shoebox. I opened it and took out a pair of worn-out size twelve soccer cleats. Pretty soon they would fit me.

  It was a cool and breezy October day. A few trees were starting to turn color, and some had already started dropping leaves on the ground. The game started at twelve thirty. Coach wanted us to be there at eleven. He said that the half hour before team warm-ups was for bonding and building team spirit.

  Calvin’s mom drove me to the game. Abuela was busy doing housework. My mom promised to take a day off from work if we made it to the semifinals.

  We had a home game again. Our team chose a shady spot. I sat beside Cal, leaning against a tree.

  “The Merredin Mustangs. What do you think, Cal?” I said.

  “We can beat them,” he replied. “Remember, we played them once last season, but you missed that game. We only lost because the ref blew a call. Besides, our team wasn’t as good as it is now. They’ve got a few good players, a little weak on the offensive side, but they make up for it with their defense.”

  “They got anybody special?”

  “You see that kid over there?” Cal said, pointing to a far corner of the field at number 4. “He’s a defensive monster,” Cal continued. “Travis something—I forget his last name. He plays dirty, really dirty. He was the one that got suspended for punching that kid in the face last year down at the Baltimore tournament. The kid’s face was all bloody and they had to take him away in an ambulance. Do you remember him?”

  I did.

  Coach Hill walked over to us. “All right guys, time for warm-up. Put your shin guards on and lace up your cleats.”

  We started with a light warm-up, jogging around the field a couple of times and then stretching after the jog. Then Coach had the team sit down while he gave the lineup. He pointed to Nick as goalie and ran off the defenders, but I was waiting for him to name the forwards.

  “Ricky and Robby are going to start at forward.”

  Cal and Shawn shot glances at me. I looked at them and rolled my eyes. I could feel the anger rising in me.

  I had been expecting to hear the name that hadn’t come. Mine. Other kids looked back at me. I looked away.

  When the game started, I sat on the cold bench. I could see right away that Ricky was getting dominated. He couldn’t handle Travis. He was getting intimidated, and beaten to the ball. As soon as Ricky received the ball, Travis would push him with his shoulders down. If Sergeant Brown had been at the game, I’d have had to explain that this was considered a fair move. Travis was built like a tank, and he acted like one. But I could have handled him, if Coach had put me in.

  But Merredin’s forwards couldn’t penetrate our defense. One of their forwards hit a powerful shot from outside the box and Nick dove for it. The post rang as the ball hit it dead on and bounced off. Nick got up from the ground and recovered the ball.

  That kid can kick, I thought.

  Ricky was chickening out big-time. He would give Robby the ball as soon as he received it to avoid getting hit. Travis picked up on this and was double-teaming Robby. Robby was an okay player. He was always tripping over himself and was a little clumsy and uncoordinated, running with his arms flailing, but he tried really hard so nobody minded. We all liked Robby.

  Two minutes later Travis and another defender switched guys, which put Travis on Robby. As soon as Robby got the ball, Travis nailed him right in the calves. He tumbled to the ground, clutching his legs.

  “Kevin, get ready!” Coach yelled. He walked onto the field to check on Robby.

  It’s about time, I thought. I jumped up from the bench and tucked in my shirt. Now I’d show him. I had to score. I was going to score.

  Robby limped off the field with Coach, and I ran into position. I knew that if I could pull this off, it would have to be with my speed.

  Travis switched back to defend Ricky. The first time I got the ball, I dribbled toward a defender, who knocked the ball away. I ran back and tackled him from behind.

  The ref blew his whistle.

  “Number thirteen, watch the tackles from behind!” he called to me.

  Travis switched from Ricky over to me and gave me a grin.

  Ty passed me the ball. Ricky was wide open. I wasn’t going to pass the ball to Ricky, because I wanted to show Travis and Coach that they were wrong about me. I took the ball and went at him. I knew what I wanted to do.

  The move, if you do it right, works and looks great. If you screw it up, you look like a fool.

  I couldn’t let Travis get a good look at the ball. I put my right foot on top of the ball, then quickly turned my back and spun the ball with my left. I heard a bunch of oohs and aahs from the spectators. Travis came right behind me and slid into me, hard. I fell to the ground, and the ref blew the whistle. He held up a yellow card.

  “If I have to warn you again, you’ll be gone, number four!”

  Travis cursed just loud enough for me to hear him.

  I got up and was about to clock Travis but stopped myself in time. I wasn’t going to go there again. I thought of Sergeant Brown’s reminder. There was
too much at stake for me to lose my temper. I walked away and got into position.

  The ref gave our team a free kick. Cal placed the ball down. He raised his hand as his foot connected with the ball. No one even touched the ball as it glided into the net under the diving goalie.

  I looked at Coach while the rest of the team cheered. He was smiling—an expression we’d rarely seen since the game had started.

  Next possession we got the ball and I went to the outside of the field, the flank, to receive it. Ricky was open, but my plan was to run down the field and then cross the ball in to Ricky for the goal. I breezed by everyone and went toward the goal. I wanted this goal for myself, but Ricky was on the other side of the goalie, running with a defender. I drew out the goalie, taking the ball almost out of bounds next to the side of the net before I made a short quick pass with the outside of my right foot to Ricky, who tapped it into the net with his toe.

  Ricky and I slapped hands and jumped up, bumping our chests together, as the rest of the kids surrounded us.

  “Terrific plays, guys, I like the teamwork! Kevin, way to draw the defender out for the assist. Good unselfish play!” Coach yelled.

  We went on to win the game 3–1. It felt great.

  Chapter 09

  “Carolyn, I started this little adventure with a clear head and as much patience as I could muster,” I said, looking at my half-finished breakfast. “Now my head isn’t clear, my patience is gone, and this kid is jeopardizing my job.”

  “Jerry, how is Kevin—”

  “If something had happened to him while he was playing Sherlock Holmes yesterday, it would have looked bad on me because I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on him,” I said. “What I think I want to do is to pack it in. I’ll just call Judge Kelly and tell him that this kid needs to be in custody.”

  “You went into this thinking that these kids don’t always think things through, but that they deserve a chance,” Carolyn said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “I’m going to talk to him today,” I said. “And if one answer is shaky, I’m finished with him.”

  “Is he coming here?”

  “No.”

  I knew I didn’t want to bring Kevin to the house or any other place where we would be sitting down talking like normal people, because the boy wasn’t normal. He had called me at half past eight, all excited, to tell me that he had followed the woman who worked for the McNamaras to her house and into her building.

  If there had been something fishy going on, if what we had suspected about illegal aliens being mistreated was true, he might have found himself in a situation he couldn’t have come close to handling.

  Human Resources had posted a notice of state physicals down at Sea Girt. It was a bit of a trip, but I knew I needed time to cool off. I called Buddy Wright and asked if I could bring Kevin down and let him take a physical.

  “He a good candidate?” Buddy asked.

  “No, he’s just a kid, but I want to bust his chops a little,” I said.

  “Bring him over,” Buddy said.

  There hadn’t been any mistaking my anger when Kevin called. The conversation had started with his bubbling over about how clever he had been to trail Dolores from a distance and had ended with me yelling into the phone. When I picked him up in front of his house, I just unlocked the door and didn’t even look at him.

  We drove for ten minutes with him leaning against the passenger’s side door, as far away from me as possible. When we reached the Garden State Parkway, he finally spoke.

  “We going to juvenile prison?”

  “What were you thinking?” I asked. “Just tell me what you were thinking so I can try to wrap this old head around it.”

  “I was thinking . . . ”

  “You weren’t thinking!”

  “I thought I was thinking that you were trying to help me,” he said. “You were telling me good stuff about how to stay out of jail and you talked to Mr. McNamara. I just wanted to do something that was useful to you.”

  “By playing junior detective and putting yourself in danger?” I asked. “Or by alerting anybody who might have been doing something illegal that the police were watching them?”

  “I thought you said that the investigation had ended.”

  “If there’s possible criminal activity going on, we don’t stop investigating until we know it’s not going on,” I said. “That shouldn’t be too hard for you to understand.”

  We pulled off the Garden State and took 34 into Sea Girt. I knew being mad didn’t help anything, but I was furious with Kevin. I parked and he followed me into the front door of the Sea Girt Barracks.

  I signed in and found Buddy in the gym. He and his staff were putting some applicants for state trooper through their physicals. I told Buddy what I was facing with Kevin.

  “Put him on the line,” Buddy said. “Let’s see what he’s made of.”

  I knew Buddy was trying to give me a chance to calm down, so I motioned for Kevin to get on the line of men and women trying out for the next rookie class.

  “And after every station, come back over here and talk to me!” I said.

  Kevin looked a little confused, but he joined the first line.

  The police department physical consisted of four timed tests. The first one consisted of push-ups. Each candidate was given two minutes to do as many push-ups as possible. The minimum standard was eighteen.

  “He looks like a nice kid,” Buddy said as we watched the guys doing push-ups.

  “Nice, but clueless,” I said. “The only reason I’m around him is that his father fell on duty.”

  “Not state?”

  “Highland.”

  I watched when it was Kevin’s turn. He got into position, and when the signal was given I could see him pumping furiously. He did twenty-seven push-ups, his face turning a bright red from the exertion. He was breathing hard when he came over to where I was sitting on a fold-up chair near the wall.

  “Talk!” I said.

  “I want to be useful,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Really, I do. About six months after my dad died, some people came over to the house. One of them was my cousin Jorge. I think he was my cousin; maybe he was just a friend of the family. He said I was the man of the house. He asked me if I had a job. I didn’t. I was thinking about getting a part-time job to help out.”

  “Group B, line up!” a cadre was calling.

  Kevin looked around. “They said I was in Group B,” he said.

  “So what are you doing over here?”

  I watched as he ran over to his group. The task was sit-ups, and I watched as a man in his thirties struggled to reach a sitting position, The cadre timing him looked down at the candidate, holding the clock so that the man could see it. The cutoff was twenty sit-ups, and it was clear the guy wasn’t going to make it. He didn’t, and you could see the disappointment. If you failed one of the cutoffs, you were automatically disqualified for the state police.

  Kevin was young and light and started the sit-ups as he had the push-ups, in a furious spurt. He slowed down at the end but he made the cutoff. He walked back to me.

  “Next time, run back to me!” I said. “Talk!”

  “There was a poem by an Irish writer—my dad was Irish—that said that when things went really wrong, the bad people would be active and the good people would sit around and do nothing.” Kevin looked around the barracks, and I could see he was feeling bad. “He used to say to me that all he ever wanted was for me not to be somebody who sat around and did nothing when there was something that needed to be done.”

  “Even if you had to do something stupid?” I asked.

  “He mentioned . . . that there were a thousand excuses,” Kevin said. “All you had to do was to put your hand out . . . ”

  “You remember the name of the poem?” I asked.

  “‘The Second Coming,’” he said. “By Yeats.”

  Group B was being called again, and Kevin took a deep breath and went back to where
the cadre was standing with the stopwatch. There was a group of people gathering along the paneled walls of the gymnasium. They had failed the tests and were already on their way home. The test wasn’t that hard for youngsters, I thought. It was good to weed them out.

  The third test was the mile-and-a-half run. I was pretty sure that Kevin could do it. They took everyone outside and put them into two groups. One group of about fifteen would start first and then the other group would start two minutes later. They had to do the mile and a half in no more than 14.25 minutes.

  I watched the first group take off and then saw Kevin go to the side of the track. It looked for a minute as if he was going to vomit, but then the cadre whistled for his group to go and he started.

  It was strange to think of him running around with all those wild thoughts in his head, all that extra weight. I could imagine him sitting on the edge of a field with a father who taught him how to kick a soccer ball, who gave him little speeches about life, and even read him a poem that defined the role of a good human being. For all the world could see, there was simply a skinny kid with a temper running around the track with the older people, his long strides slightly more graceful than theirs, his body a lot less muscular but still growing, but inside there was a young man stumbling toward an uncertain future with a boldness that sometimes wasn’t clear even to him.

  He raced back and I saw the sweat on his forehead and brows. The kid was in good shape.

  “Make sure to drink some water before the next event,” I told him.

  He went to the cooler, lined up behind two other guys gasping for air, and took a drink.