Swagger (25 page)

I looked around. Where was I supposed to go? I couldn't stand around for an hour, not without catching the notice of somebody. The only safe place I could think of was the library, so that's where I went.

I found an empty table in the back and tried to read a book about airplanes that was lying on the table, but that was hopeless. I dreaded the rest of the day: American government, lunch, Spanish, health. And if I got through today, what next? Another day, and another, and another—all the way until June. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. How could I survive all those days?

I felt like a trapped animal, so I looked around for a way out. The main library door led back into the school, but a side door to my left opened out to the parking lot. A sudden thought came to me. What was to stop me from walking out that very minute and never returning? I had no real friends at Harding High. Nobody would miss me. I could take a couple of classes online or at a community college and get my diploma that way. I didn't need Harding High.

Right then a girl who'd played on Celia's volleyball team entered the library. She glanced around, spotted me, smiled, and started walking toward me. She was a junior, but she looked more like a seventh-grader—round face, freckles, eyes that were a little too wide open. I couldn't remember her name, but I knew she was an office TA because I'd seen her the day before. “You're Jonas Dolan, aren't you?” she asked when she reached my table.

“Yeah, I'm Jonas.”

She laughed nervously. “I don't know why I asked. I know who you are. Everybody knows who you are. I went to all the basketball games. Well, not all of them, but the ones at the end. You played great. It was so exciting.”

“Thanks.”

She stood still for an instant, and then she shoved a blue piece of paper toward me. “This is for you. When I didn't find you in your chemistry class, I thought you might be here, and I guessed right.”

I took the pass from her, opened it, and read it. Her voice became serious. “That policeman is with Mr. Diaz again—the one who was here yesterday. He had Cash with him all of second period. You guys aren't in trouble, are you?”

“No, we're not in trouble.”

She smiled again. “Good.” She paused. “I think they want you there right now.”

I took a deep breath and then walked to the main office. I handed my pass to Mrs. Wiley, and within minutes I was back in the small conference room telling Detective McDowell the same exact things I'd told him the day before. As I spoke, he flipped through his notebook, checking my new words against my old ones. I could sense his irritation from the angry way he turned the small pages.

“I spoke with Cash this morning,” he said when I finished. “Do you know what he told me? That there was no party on Labor Day. Or beer. Or raunchy movies. He said there was no hint of anything inappropriate in Coach Hartwell's behavior at any time during the entire season.”

“He's lying.”

“So what you're saying about Coach Hartwell has nothing to do with the fact that he caught you cheating?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Nothing to do with the fact that because of him you're going to lose your basketball scholarship?”

“No.”

“Hartwell turns you in for cheating, and then five minutes later you just happen to walk into Mr. Diaz's office with your accusations. It's all a big coincidence.”

“I've explained everything. Over and over, I've explained it.”

McDowell put his fingertips on his forehead and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He sighed and then opened them. “So we're right back where we were yesterday. You, Jonas Dolan, are telling the truth. Everyone else is lying.”

I didn't bother to answer.

McDowell stared at me for a long time. Then, abruptly, he stood. “Come with me,” he said, and he was out the door so fast that I had to hurry to keep up.

I followed him to the conference room where he had spoken with me the day before. He opened the door and pointed. “In there.” I slid past him and then stopped quickly. In front of me was Cash. He was slouched in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, his arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face.

Cash did a double take when he saw me, and then we both looked to Detective McDowell for an explanation. McDowell's eyes were heated, and so was his voice. “I've got lots to do, gentlemen, and I have no more time for this nonsense. I tap-danced around yesterday with two contradictory stories, and I've tap-danced around today with two contradictory stories, but I'm not tap-dancing anymore. You two were the team captains. You pulled together and won a state championship. If you get along on the court, then by God you can do it off the court too. I'm going to leave you alone in here for ten minutes. When I come back into this room, I expect to hear one story. The true story.”

Before either of us could object, McDowell was gone.

I
LOOKED TO CASH. HIS HEAD
was down, his eyes fixed on the carpet, his face blank. I waited. “Why are you doing this, Jonas?” he said at last.

“For Levi.”

He looked up, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “For Levi? You've got to be kidding. Right now Levi is a legend, and he could stay a legend, if you don't ruin it for him and for us.”

“I'm not the one who ruined it.”

He put his head in his hands and stared at the floor again. “That cop—McDowell—he's asked me the same questions over and over.
Did Hartwell have us over to his apartment? Did Hartwell give us beer? Did Hartwell show us dirty movies?
You want me to rat him out and get him fired over a couple of beers and some movies? After all he's done for us?”

“Come on, Cash. It's not over a couple of beers and some movies, and you know it. It's more than that. McDowell must have told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cash snapped, “I know. You say Hartwell's a pervert.”

“Levi said it. He said it to me.”

Cash frowned. “Hartwell called me last night. He says you're making up this stuff because he caught you cheating in chemistry. He says you're trying to get back at him.”

“It's true that I cheated. But the rest of what he said is a lie.”

“So I'm supposed to believe you and not him? That's what it comes to, right?”

“I guess. But do you really think Levi got lost that night? Or that he was drunk or on drugs? Because I don't.”

“I don't either,” Cash admitted after a long pause. “Not Levi.” Then he leaned toward me and spoke, almost a whisper. “But don't you see, Jonas. If it comes out that Hartwell is a pervert, and that we were at his house drinking with him and watching sexy movies with him—you know what everybody is going to think? They're going to think he was doing stuff with us, too.”

“They won't think that,” I said.

His nostrils flared. “Yeah, they will. You know they will. And if you don't know it, then you're a fool.”

He stopped, and the room went quiet. I looked at the clock; McDowell would soon be coming through the door again.

“Did you hear I got a basketball scholarship to Western?” Cash said, the anger gone from his voice.

“No. I didn't. When did that happen?”

“A couple of days ago. That's why I wasn't at school yesterday. I drove up to Bellingham to meet the head coach and sign the papers. He had somebody else lined up, but that guy switched to a different school. The Western coach was at the Tacoma Dome and saw us beat Garfield. He says he likes my game, likes the fact that I was a team player.”

“That's great, Cash. That's fantastic.”

Cash stretched his legs out in front of him and then sat up straight. “I was never a team player until you came along.”

His words—his praise—took me by surprise. I didn't know how to answer, but I didn't have to reply because the door opened and Detective McDowell stepped inside. Our ten minutes were up. McDowell looked at me and then looked at Cash. “So which one of you is going to tell me what happened?”

Neither of us spoke. Seconds ticked away. Each second seemed like a minute; each minute felt like an hour.

“Do you need more time?” McDowell said at last. “Because I can go outside and wait for another ten minutes, and for another ten minutes after that. I'll wait all day if I have to, but I will get one answer.”

More silence. “Okay. See you in ten minutes.”

He opened the door and was about to leave when Cash spoke. “There wasn't
one
party,” he said.

I felt the blood rush out of my face; a roaring started in my ears. I looked into Cash's face. I was expecting to see ice, but instead he sort of nodded to me, a nod of reassurance, and then he turned away so that he was facing Detective McDowell. “There were at least four parties, and maybe more that I don't know about. Levi and Jonas weren't invited after they walked out of the first one, but Coach Hartwell kept asking the rest of us to his apartment. Each time he had more beer for us; each time the movies got raunchier. The last time—this would have been about a month ago—he said we could stay overnight, but nobody did.”

McDowell sat down, took out his small notebook, and calmly wrote for a few minutes. When he finished, he looked at Cash. “So why didn't you tell me this earlier?”

Cash shrugged. “I promised Coach Hartwell I wouldn't tell. I gave him my word of honor. We all did. And . . .” His voice trailed off.

McDowell tilted his head. “And what?”

“And I like Coach Hartwell. Or at least I used to. We all liked him.” Cash turned his eyes to me. “You liked him too, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I liked him.” I turned to face McDowell. “He was the coach I wanted.”

O
NCE CASH TOLD THE TRUTH
, Nick and DeShawn stopped lying too. In a TV show, McDowell would have arrested Hartwell, there'd have been a trial, and then a jury would have sent him to prison for fifty years.

But life isn't a TV show.

Instead of arresting Hartwell, for the next few days McDowell repeatedly called me out of class and into the conference room, where he questioned me, checking and rechecking everything to get it exactly right. Finally, after three separate interviews, he flipped through his notebook and closed it up. “That's it, at least for now.”

“You mean I'm done?”

“For now.”

I started to leave but then sat back down. “There's going to be a trial, right? Hartwell won't get away with it, will he?”

McDowell sat frozen for a moment. I could feel him thinking. At last he leaned forward toward me. “The alcohol is where we're sure to get him. He provided it to minors repeatedly over months. I'm not going to lie to you, though. That's a class-one mis- demeanor charge, which means it's serious, but it's not a felony. Hartwell might go to jail for a year but no longer. The important thing is—the conviction will be on his record forever. He will never teach again. He will never coach again. And I promise you that I will do everything in my power to keep him from having anything to do with kids in any capacity. This man is on my radar, and he's on my radar forever.”

“But Levi? What about the things he did to Levi? Won't there be a trial about that?”

McDowell slowly shook his head. “Probably not. As far as we know, Levi was his only victim. That's good, Jonas. Nobody wants victims. But . . .” McDowell stopped and looked at his hands.

“But Levi is dead,” I said, calmly finishing his sentence for him. “Levi can't testify. It would be my word against Hartwell's, and that's no good in court. Hartwell told me that, and he was right.”

McDowell sat straight up; his eyes honed in on mine and held them. “Listen to me, and listen good. Don't ever think that what you did was for nothing. You stood up to Hartwell, and you stopped him. Okay, maybe he isn't going to prison for what he did to Levi. But that doesn't change the fact that you saved people. You'll never see their faces or know their names, but you saved them. You're a hero, Jonas. Do you hear what I'm saying? A hero. Don't ever doubt it, and don't ever forget it.”

W
HEN I LEFT SCHOOL THAT
day, I had one thing left to do, and that was to explain everything to my parents. They'd hate Hartwell, but what would they think of me?

As I was heading up the steps to my home, my dad was just opening the front door to leave for work. I wanted to get it over with, so I asked him to stay a few minutes. “I need to talk to you and Mom.”

There must have been something in my face or my voice, because he didn't ask any questions. He simply stepped back inside the house and walked to the kitchen, with me a few steps behind. My mom looked at the two of us. “What is it?” she asked.

Telling the story didn't take long. My mom's eyes welled up when I described the night at the Good Shepherd Center; my dad's eyes got fiery. When I finished, my mom told me that it took courage to speak up and that she was proud of me. “You got yourself lost,” my dad said. “The important thing is to find your way back. I know you can do it.”

 

That conversation happened three weeks ago. Since then, I've been up and down, as if I'm on a never-ending roller-coaster ride. Sometimes I believe the good things that Detective McDowell and my mom and dad said about me. Sometimes I think about Levi and Hartwell and what I could have done differently, and I feel more lost than ever.

Which brings me to today. For weeks the sky has been gray, but this morning came up warm and sunny. After all the gloomy winter months of Seattle, it is as if the houses and trees are inching out of the shadows and into the light.

As usual, I walked to school, passing Levi's house along the way. Bikes and toys are still strewn around the front lawn. It seems somehow impossible that the house should look the same, but it does.