The playbook, p.14
The Playbook, page 14
Palmer jumps up to leave but Dirk grabs his arm and holds him in place.
Lacy, in faded yellow pants and a green flannel shirt, slouches barefooted and makeup-less on the edge of a plain, single bed in a small room with no decorations. “I ain’t gone take no for a answer this time,” she warns Dirk. “Put Palmer on the phone.”
She stands and peeks out a thin, rectangular window toward the mountains in the distance. Palmer comes on the line a few seconds later.
“I told you to stop bothering me,” he says firmly.
“I ain’t done nothing wrong this time, Son. I promise. Just want to hear your voice. We don’t need to talk about nothing serious.”
Palmer stays quiet, so she continues. “I won’t hang up till you talk to me, Son. What you been doin’?”
“Fine, Mama. You have one minute.”
“You like it there?”
“I go to school. Play football. Work. I’m living large.” Sarcasm drips with every word but Lacy ignores it.
“You never took too good to school,” she says.
“I’m not exactly Einstein.”
“You’ll finish school soon enough. Find a job after that, make some money.” From her shirt pocket, Lacy pulls a cigarette and lights it. “I wish you’d visit me.”
“You said we wouldn’t talk serious.”
“I know it’ll be hard for you to come here. But you almost grown. Old enough to face what is, ugly or not.”
“Your minute’s up,” he says, his tone still cold. “I’ll put Dirk back on.”
“It’s lonesome here, Son.” She plops back on the bed, tears rolling onto the pillow where she lays.
Palmer hands Dirk the phone and throws another log into the firepit. Dirk talks to Lacy another few seconds, then hangs up and faces Palmer.
“You need to visit her, dude,” Dirk says firmly. “Soon.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one thing, she’s your mama. You can’t stay mad at her forever.”
Palmer faces Dirk, his fists clenched. “Look, Uncle, you been good to me, so I prefer not to go against you. But you don’t know the junk I’ve been through… a lot of it caused by your sister. True, she’s my mama, and that ought to mean more than blood. But blood is about all she’s ever given me. So yeah, I might stay mad at her forever. And nothing you or anybody else can say will make me change on that.”
“Gosh, Palmer,” says Dirk. “That’s the longest speech I ever heard you make.”
Palmer stares into the fire. “I don’t speak out everything that’s inside of me.”
Dirk stands up, eases over, and lays an arm across his shoulder. “Maybe you ought to say things out loud more often.”
“You a therapist now?”
Dirk laughs, kneels by the fire, and warms his hands. “Here’s the deal, Palmer,” he says. “Seeing your mama is the price you have to pay if you want to perform with me at Georgio’s. No visit with Lacy, no play at Georgio’s.”
Palmer stares at his shoes, feeling sadder than in a long while. “I never said I would play with you,” he says, his voice barely audible over the breeze.
Dirk shrugs. “All right. Suit yourself.”
The wind whips outside Ty’s window, scuttling clouds across the night sky. Ty lays in a reclining chair, The Nickel Boys book in his hand, his crutches beside him. Vanessa enters with a tray loaded with a salad, a piece of salmon, and a bed of rice. Ty closes the book and reaches for the tray. Vanessa notices the scratches on his elbow.
“What happened there?” she asks.
“I tripped,” says Ty, offering a small lie as he arranges the tray on his lap. “Not steady on my crutches yet.”
“Your limp seems worse today.”
“I bumped my knee when I tripped.” Another lie, which is not like him at all, but he’s never had to hide much from his folks and doesn’t know how to do it well.
Vanessa perches on the bed and watches as he starts to eat.
“Where is Pops tonight?” he asks between bites, steering the conversation away from his injuries.
“He’s speaking at a conference in Atlanta.”
“He’ll be home later?”
Vanessa nods and clears her throat. “This girl, Tanya,” she says. “Tell me about her.”
“I like her,” Ty says tersely.
“I need more than that.”
“What if I don’t want to say more?”
Vanessa laughs. “Let’s see. You drop the skinny on that girl, or you can cook your own meals, wash your own clothes, clean up your own room, live with no allowance… Should I stop or finish the list?”
“You’re a hard woman, Mama,” he chuckles.
“I use the tools I got,” she says.
“Okay. Tanya.” Ty bites into the salmon. “Her mom works as an administrator for the Bishopville schools.”
“Her dad?”
“He’s not part of her life from what she’s said.”
Vanessa wags a finger. “Tanya seems nice, Son. But you need to watch yourself. A lot of girls see you, your house, the car you drive. And they see their meal ticket.”
Ty stops chewing. “That what you saw when you met Pops?”
Vanessa tilts her head. “Maybe it’s what your Pops saw when he met me.”
Ty chuckles. “Tanya likes to laugh, Mama. That’s good for me. And she’s got a pretty smile.”
“That’s not all she’s got that’s pretty.”
Ty eats a bite of salad, not eager to talk to his mama about Tanya’s obvious hotness. “What else you want to know about her?” he asks.
Vanessa weighs the question but then shrugs. “That will do for now. Was that so hard?”
Ty forks some salad to his mouth but doesn’t respond.
“Is Palmer learning the Playbook?” Vanessa asks, changing the subject.
“Not so much yet. But we’ll keep working.”
“He might make a good receiver,” Vanessa suggests. “He’s fast enough. Once your heath returns, the two of you will make a strong combination next year.”
“Next year is a long way off, Mama. We got a championship to win now.”
Vanessa stands. “Just take it slow with Tanya,” she says. “A mistake now can play the devil with your future.”
“Go on, Mama,” says Ty, dismissing her. “Let me eat in peace.”
She kisses him on the cheek and walks out as Ty turns his attention back to his food.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A bell rings and students sag into their seats as the first class of the school day starts. Tired from work the previous evening, Palmer rubs his eyes as he slouches in his chair near the back of the room. The math teacher, Mr. Stone, is a slim man with long blonde hair and a flamingo-thin neck. Getting up from his desk, he steps to the chalkboard and scratches out a math problem. Half the class is paying attention and half isn’t.
“All right, everybody,” announces Mr. Stone, his voice perky as he faces the class. “It’s Monday morning, bright and early.” He claps his hands. “And what do we do every Monday morning? The thing all of us look forward to all weekend?”
Nobody speaks. “That’s right!” Stone says as if everybody just answered. “We start every Monday by inviting one of you to prance on up here and solve a problem so everybody else can see how it’s done. So, who’s the lucky mathematician who will dazzle us today?”
Stone walks back to his desk and lifts an I-pad from it. “Okay. We’re down to the N’s,” he announces as he studies a list on the tablet. “And that means it’s Palmer Norman’s turn to impress us!”
He faces the class as Palmer straightens up, his body on alert. “You da man, Palmer,” Stone says as he waves Palmer up.
His nerves jangling, Palmer stands and slowly comes forward. At the board, he accepts the piece of chalk that Stone hands him and pivots to study the problem. The numbers on the board appear jumbled, a mishmash he can’t fathom. He squints, focuses harder, and hopes for a miracle, but none appears. He looks back at Mr. Stone.
“Go ahead,” encourages Stone. “Take your best shot.”
Palmer examines the problem again, but it makes no sense—just a bunch of numbers and symbols which mean nothing to him. The chalk shakes in his fingers and his face turns red as he realizes how totally lost he is.
“Give it a shot,” urges Stone. “You start and I’ll guide you through it.”
Palmer wants to refuse but knows he needs to try, so he nods and starts to write on the board. After a second, Mr. Stone shakes his head and Palmer erases what he’s written and examines the problem again. The problem’s still gibberish to him but he tries again, the chalk scratching over the board. Mr. Stone shakes his head again and Palmer stops again, the chalk in hand. “I can’t,” he finally mumbles.
“Yes, you can,” says Stone. “We’re solving for X. Remember the formula. It’s a simple equation.”
Palmer drops his eyes and whispers: “It ain’t simple to me.”
Stone eases closer. “What’s that?”
“The problem ain’t simple to me.”
Stone sighs, his disappointment obvious, and faces the class. “Everybody listen to me,” he says firmly. “I’m not trying to pick on Palmer, but this is what happens when you don’t pay attention in class, when you don’t do your homework, when you don’t ask questions. You end up at the board and things that we’ve worked on, things that I’ve taught you, things that should be simple to you, aren’t.”
He faces Palmer again. “Isn’t that right, Palmer? Things that should be simple … aren’t?”
His body shaking, Palmer stares at his shoes, totally humiliated. He remembers other times at other classroom blackboards with other teachers, some nice, some not, but all of them the source of public embarrassment for him.
“Isn’t that right?” repeats Stone. “Things that should be simple aren’t.”
Palmer faces Stone and his lips quiver as he whispers, “Yes.”
“Say it so the class can hear you,” orders Stone.
Palmer closes his eyes and tries to fight his shame and anger, but they’re too strong a brew, and a lifetime of moments like this finally boil over. He whips the chalk against the wall, where it shatters into a hundred pieces. “YES!” he yells. “Things that should be simple aren’t!”
Her face flustered, Chelsea hurries into Counselor Towe’s office less than an hour later. Palmer’s already there, his eyes down, sitting in front of Towe. A second later, Principal Roberts pops his head in also. “I need a full accounting of what happened,” he orders Towe. “Before the day ends.”
“I’ll email everything to you,” agrees Towe.
Ignoring Palmer, Roberts shakes his head at Chelsea and hurries out.
Staring hard at Palmer, Towe slurps from a soft drink and addresses him matter-of-factly. “All right. Palmer Norman. Eyes up so I can see you’re listening to what I’m saying to you.”
Palmer raises his head and Towe continues. “The facts are clear, so there’s no reason to rehash what happened in class a little while ago. The question we must face is—what do we do about it?”
Palmer glances at Chelsea.
“You need to apologize,” she says. “That’s the first step.”
Palmer nods. “I’m sorry, Mr. Towe. I got frustrated. It won’t happen again. I promise.”
“That’s a good start,” Towe says. “But one apology won’t solve everything.”
“I’ll punish him,” Chelsea assures Towe. “He’ll run stadium steps until he pukes. And I promise that this, or anything like it, will not happen again.”
“The student must take responsibility for his or her own actions,” says Towe.
“I just did that,” says Palmer, clenching his fists in his lap. “Took responsibility.”
Towe stares at Palmer as he slurps from his drink. “Okay,” he finally says, turning to his computer and clicking a few keys. “School policy states that an outburst of this type calls for first, an apology to all offended parties. Second, restitution for any destroyed objects or property. Third, twelve hours of mandatory counseling with me or a certified therapist of the student’s choice. And last, we have a No-Tolerance Policy for any repeat violent offenses or any threat of a violent offense.” He looks up, slurps his drink again. “Everything clear?” he asks.
Chelsea eyes Palmer and he shrugs.
“Bottom line is this,” says Towe. “Mr. Norman will apologize to Mr. Stone and the math class. He will replace the piece of chalk. He will see me or someone like me for six weeks for at least two hours each week. And last, if Mr. Norman screws up again in any way, he’s suspended. Done. Finished. Kaput. No school, no football, no anything. You catch my drift?”
He glances from Palmer to Chelsea, and they both nod. Towe waves a hand to dismiss them and they silently stand and leave, Palmer’s shoulders slumped as they go.
When Palmer and Chelsea reach the hallway, she stops him, and they face each other. “What’s up with you?” she asks, her frustration evident. “The fight on Friday night. Now this.”
Palmer studies his boots.
“You hear what Mr. Towe said?” Chelsea asks. “You have no room for another mistake. If he finds out about your fight… I’m afraid to even think about it. The walls are closing in on you fast, Palmer. You get that?”
Palmer pivots to leave but Chelsea grabs his arm. “Look,” she says. “I’m new here too. And I lost a football game Friday night. We’re both in a tight spot right now. But we can fight through it.”
Palmer pulls his arm away.
“Trust me, Palmer,” pleads Chelsea. “Talk to me. About anything. Let me help you.”
Palmer stares hard at her and starts to speak but then hesitates and stalks away.
A few hours later, most of the football team is on the field. Some stretch while others catch up after the weekend. A handful of stragglers drip out from the locker room, a couple moving slowly because of injuries from Friday’s game. The coaches wait in the middle of the field until exactly 3:30, when Coach Paul blows his whistle and practice officially begins. The team quickly gathers around, Palmer on the edge of the group.
A football in hand, Chelsea steps forward and scans the team. Knowing the players aren’t accustomed to losing, she isn’t sure whether to go easy or rain hellfire and brimstone on their heads. “Okay, gentlemen,” she starts, deciding to stay positive. “First thing: Last week is over. Flush it. We’re not talking about it anymore.”
Everyone relaxes a little as she continues. “Second, this is a bye week, so we can all rest up, recover from injuries.”
The players nod, letting their guard down a little more. But Chelsea’s next words jerk them quickly back to attention. “But know this,” she says, her face tightening. “A bye week doesn’t mean it’s a ‘jerk-around and waste-time’ week. Or an ‘act-like-an-idiot and get-in-trouble week.’ Use your time wisely. We clear on that?”
The players stand straighter and Chelsea turns to Coach Paul. “Coach Paul has the schedule.”
Paul holds up a stack of notecards. “Here’s the outline for the week!” he shouts, handing out the cards. “Plus, we’ll e-mail it to you, text it, leave you a voice mail. No excuse for you to miss anything.” He faces Chelsea again.
“We’ll practice light today,” she says. “Harder on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Friday and the weekend are days off. Return to the grind on Monday. Any questions?”
Nobody responds. Chelsea’s eyes move from one player to the next as she stares around the circle. “Make the most of your free time, gentlemen,” she says firmly. “If your body hurts, take extra treatment. If your grades suck, study more. If you’re fighting with your girlfriend—well, I have no advice on how to deal with that.”
The team laughs. Chelsea stops and everyone stills. “Okay.” Her voice rises as she concludes. “We need to win three games to earn a championship ring that you’ll wear with pride the rest of your lives. Zone in hard right now! Prepare your mind and body! Do that and nobody can stop us!”
She faces Swoops. “Swoops, break us down!”
Swoops hustles to the center of the circle. “Championship on three!” he yells.
“One, two, three! Championship!” The team shouts and breaks away, everyone headed to their practice groups.
Chelsea hurries to Palmer and tosses him the football. “Come with me,” she orders.
“Where to?”
“Don’t ask questions.”
Palmer drops his head like a prisoner headed to death row but quickly follows her off the field, his helmet in hand.
Sitting in front of Dub’s desk, Ty raises a crutch in greeting as Palmer and Chelsea enter the office. Chelsea points Palmer to a chair beside Ty, grabs the Playbook from the desk, and drops it in front of Palmer. “Here’s the deal,” she tells him. “We keep working on the Playbook because you’ll eventually figure it all out.”
She turns and pulls three thin binders from a desk drawer and hands one to both guys. “But since we have to win the next game and Palmer is starting, we’ll focus on these plays for right now.” She holds up her binder.
“Whoa. Wait,” Palmer says, not believing what he just heard. “I’m doing what?”
“You’re starting at quarterback in the quarterfinal.”
“I ain’t ready for that.” He lays his binder down, but Chelsea grabs it and hands it back.
“I’ve drawn up twelve plays,” she explains. “In this binder.” She points to it. “Six run plays and six passes. We’ve got two weeks. We’ll practice these twelve until you can run them in your sleep. Open the binder.”
Too shocked to argue, Palmer slowly obeys and flips through the binder. Twelve pages. Twelve plays. Palmer closes the pages and faces Chelsea. “Just twelve plays,” he says. “You think I’m a moron.”
“Would I make you the starter if I thought you were a moron?”
Palmer thumbs through the pages again, trying to decide what to say. Do I even want to start? To deal with this pressure?
Ty speaks for the first time. “We might win the next game with twelve plays,” he offers cautiously. “But a championship? Not likely.”
