Raiders Night by Robert Lipsyte Page B

really care about.”
    Never happened with Mandy, even after a game,floating on beer and Vics. In bed, he and Mandy shared the zone. They knew each other’s moves.
    Sarah held him for a while. He felt small, childish. Like she was his mom. When she went to the bathroom, he pulled on his underpants. He needed to be covered.
    â€œYou want something? Beer, wine. There’s Diet Coke, orange juice.” She was smiling as if it were no big deal, he thought. It was a big deal. Was she trying to make him feel better because she felt sorry for him? “Ice cream?”
    â€œI’m sorry.” He felt ashamed. His father’s face, twisted with anger at Junie, popped into his head, then Sarah comforting Junie. She’s good with boys who aren’t normal.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œYou know.”
    But she didn’t. Or pretended she didn’t. Finally, as if remembering something from long ago, she said, “Oh, that. You’re tired and all beat up. You’re not a machine.”
    â€œI should go.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt’s late.” He had no idea of the time.
    â€œWe could watch some DVDs.” She didn’t want him to leave even though he couldn’t execute. Why? So she’d have something on him? “Let me put more salve on the bruise.”
    He needed to get out of here. Now. He followed the trail of clothes they had dropped, dressing piece by piece in different rooms. Back in the bathroom, he poppedanother Vicodin and washed it down with water cupped in his hand.
    She followed him in. “Was it something I did?” She sounded desperate. That scared him. “Please, let me—”
    â€œGotta go.” He didn’t look at her as he hurried out.
    He felt better outside. There was just enough of a breeze to dry the sweat. He was dizzy. He bumped his head getting into the Jeep.
    He thought about getting on the highway and letting the traffic take him somewhere, anywhere, but he was having trouble focusing on the road ahead. He didn’t want to go home. Nowhere to go. Too much to think about.
    A siren sliced into his brain. Flashing red and white lights grew into a poisonous flower in his rearview mirror. He pulled over.
    â€œMatt?” The cop poked his head through the open window. “You’re all over the road. Been drinking?”
    â€œPain pills.”
    â€œBeen there.” Big guy, thick neck. He had played. “Some shot you took today.”
    â€œYou at the game?”
    â€œNever miss ’em. You live on Harrington, right? Can you follow me? I’ll get you home.”
    â€œThanks.” Some part of him wanted to say, Bust me.
    He had to concentrate to stay in his lane. A memory popped up, Dad waking him up to show him off to the poker game in the rec room. Mr. Heinz and the mayorwere there. They were all smoking cigars. He had scored three touchdowns in the PeeWee championship game that day. Dad gave him a cigar. They all laughed as he started to get sick on the second puff.
    He tasted the vomit again as he followed the cop home.

EIGHTEEN
    On Sunday, the e-mails starting piling up from screen names he didn’t recognize. He never got that many messages except from the football coaches and managers, mostly schedules and reminders and pep talks. He was no writer, so he never encouraged e-pals. He preferred quick cell phone calls or even text messages. But by the time he checked, late on a long, sluggish Sunday, there were at least two dozen unopened messages. The sight of them drained what little energy was starting to seep back from protein shakes and amphetamines. He hadn’t felt like eating and his ribs ached. The Vics were making him nauseous.
    Dad had left early for a wedding. After a while, Mom and Junie had given up trying to drag him out of bed. They were going to church and then to a town fair. Junie loved fairs. But there was no way Matt was going to be around people today.
    Brody had called