Mitch came in once. His skin was drawn down tight on his skull. He asked if I remembered what had happened and I said I didn‘t know, which was mostly true. He said the way I staggered, it looked like I‘d gotten shoved, only we were going so fast and were so close together, the refs couldn‘t be sure and said it was an accident. I told him that was probably right.
―You‘re sure?‖ If he blinked, his skin would rip. ―You‘re absolutely positive.
Nothing else happened.‖
―Nothing. We got tangled up. We were crowding each other.‖ That was true. ―We should‘ve known better. It was an accident. I messed up.‖
―No,‖ he said. His lips thinned. ― No. I won‘t let her hurt you again. She can‘t keep doing this, she—‖ Then he was turning on his heel, wrenching the curtain out of his way so hard the metal rings chattered. Danielle and David were two bays down. I heard Mitch‘s angry rap and then her muffled reply, something else from David, but I couldn‘t make sense of the words. But I do remember her voice going watery as she began to cry, Mitch‘s low murmurs after that, and a whole lot of nothing from David. Then Mitch left them alone.
They‘d called my parents and Danielle‘s and told them we weren‘t dead or anything. Since we‘d come up in a bus, the doctors didn‘t see much harm in letting us go back that way. I don‘t know about Danielle‘s father, but Psycho-Dad went all doctorly on the phone with the ER people. I think he‘d decided I needed exploratory brain surgery or something. As things shook out, I got an MRI, which the ER doc told me was completely bogus but did anyway, probably to avoid more headaches with my dad. So that delayed us leaving for another couple of hours. If we hadn‘t been in Wausau, I think a bunch of parents would‘ve shown up to take their kids home. By the time our hobbit-sized bus pulled into the hospital breezeway and they wheeled me and Danielle out, it was dark, cold, snowy, and windy.
No one said much during the long ride back. Danielle sat up front on the left, with her right leg propped in David‘s lap and an ice pack draped over the knee which they‘d Ace-wrapped. She even had crutches. (Me, they let gimp onto the bus, and I was the one who‘d, you know, actually bled.) Mitch sat in the very back. I had a seat to myself and dozed off a couple times, but the girl across the aisle kept waking me up because she‘d heard it was bad to sleep when you had a concussion.
Even though David had driven her to school, Danielle‘s father and brother were waiting when the bus finally chugged into the school lot at ten. Her dad was this hulking guy with stubby fingers. As soon as the bus rolled to a stop, he was hammering on the doors and then bullying his way on board, ignoring everybody: Danielle, when she said she could walk; David, who was trying to explain; Mitch, who‘d started down the aisle.
―We‘re fine; we‘re fine,‖ Mr. Connolly barked. He scooped up Danielle like she weighed nothing, which was just about true. David followed with her crutches, and then Mitch was blowing past my seat, right on their heels. I watched through fogged glass as Mr.
Connolly handed Danielle off to her brother and then snatched the crutches from David like he was a servant. David was talking, but Mr. Connolly hacked at the air with the side of his hand to shut David up and was turning aside just as Mitch got there.
It might have ended right there, if Mitch had stayed out of it. But Mitch just couldn‘t let it go—not before, not then, or later—so we all saw the same thing.
Mitch put his hand on Mr. Connolly‘s shoulder and said something. What, I couldn‘t hear. You could tell from the sudden set of Mr. Connolly‘s back that it was some zinger that really stung. Because, all of a sudden, Mr. Connolly spun around, planted his hands on Mitch‘s chest and shoved.
Mitch. I gasped. My heart lurched into my throat. Mitch, no.
―Holy shit,‖ someone on the bus said.
Mitch staggered. He would‘ve fallen if he hadn‘t grabbed onto the car door and then Mr. Connolly was right there, in his face, screaming, jabbing his stubby fingers into Mitch‘s chest, bunching a fist just inches from Mitch‘s nose. Mitch was tall, but Mr.
Connolly was a very big man and I didn‘t know if Mitch could take him.
No one tried to help. Danielle‘s brother stood to one side, wiping his mouth over and over again with the back of his hand, like there was a taste that wouldn‘t go away. I saw a bunch of other parents pop out of their cars like jack-in-the-boxes, but no one made a move, not even Mitch. He stood there and let Mr. Connolly scream. Call me crazy, Bob, but for just a second, I thought that, maybe, Mitch wanted him to take that swing. Like Mitch somehow thought better him than someone else, like Danielle or David.
The only time Mitch made any move at all was when David finally tried get in the middle. Mr. Connolly pivoted, elbow cocked, ready to let go with a backhanded swat, but Mitch got his hands up, fast, and snagged Mr. Connolly‘s wrist. Mr. Connolly‘s bull-face twisted; for a second, I thought he‘d take that swing.
That was when Danielle leaned out of the car and screamed at her father. Whatever she said made all the fight drain from Mr. Connolly. He seemed to deflate, like a spent balloon, and then he jerked free of Mitch before whirling on his heel and shouting something at Danielle‘s brother, who followed Mr. Connolly to their car. And then they just drove away.
Mitch and David watched them go. Mitch‘s face was a stone. David looked like he wanted to cry. After a couple seconds, Mitch put an arm around David‘s shoulders the way a coach does to comfort a kid who‘s dropped the winning touchdown. Or as a dad might for the son whose suffering he can‘t bear.
b
Of course, my parents hadn‘t bothered to come for me. Actually, that‘s not fair; that‘s a lie. I‘m sure they would have, considering I was banged up and all. But since I couldn‘t drive with the concussion, Mitch told them my car would be safe in the school lot and he‘d drive me home, which was the best news I‘d gotten all day. We could keep driving to Canada, as far as I was concerned. We could drive forever.
The snow was really coming down now, slanted ribbons slashing through Mitch‘s headlights. He took it slow, his eyes fixed on the road. I found a Louis Armstrong CD and slipped it into the player. After a couple minutes, Mitch said, roughly, ―How you doing?‖
―I‘m okay. My head hurts a little.‖
―You should sleep.‖
―No. Mitch . . . I‘m so sorry.‖ Maybe it was the concussion, but I got all weepy. I bit my lip. ―I really wanted to win for you.‖