Second Down - Chapter 4

I was lying on my bed, the playbook Coach Heidemann had given me open on my chest. In middle school, we’d just kind of learned plays and run them. There hadn’t been all this homework. I’d forgotten how much work it was at this level.

The thought almost made me laugh out loud. The thing I’d ‘forgotten’ hadn’t actually happened to me. It had only been a week since the dream, and already I was starting to think of things from it as my past, as much as just a dream.

The past week had been wild. The first week of practice had been a major moment in my dream, the start of the career I’d never had, and it really stuck with dream me. Now that I’d lived it for real, everything I remembered from that week in the dream had happened. Not just happened, but had been identical.

The only things that had been different were how I’d done that first day. Instead of getting sick and screwing up, I’d done much closer to how I’d always thought I should, and that had rippled out into me getting a lot more time through the week, which in turn had me pegged as a starter for the freshman team. That and all the stuff with Elijah and the rest.

But again, that had been a conscious choice. They’d done exactly what he’d remembered them doing in the dream. The difference was that in the dream, he’d gone along with it as opposed to being annoyed by it and standing up to them. That had, again, rippled out into other things being different.

But everything not connected to those two things had been identical in every way, down to the order things happened and what people said.

Not that I believed in that crap, but was it like... prophecy? Was my dream showing me the future?

It wasn’t just this week. I could remember everything from that life. Not just remember it, I could feel it. I was almost certain that, if I tried, I could do some half-decent welding from those last few years before I got sick, when I’d finished that welding program and jumped careers.

But if I was seeing the future, how did things end up differently? Wouldn’t the dream take into account the changes and show me what actually happened, and not the slightly different version?

Honestly, it was making my head hurt just trying to think about it. But I couldn’t stop. So much was the same, and I’d made decisions based on that, like not eating the sandwich, that had actually worked out in my favor.

Should I be taking this more seriously? Should I be actively trying to make decisions based on the dream to change things for myself?

Maybe not with everything, but some things. Like Brandy. That was already heavy on his mind. True, it was probably not great to break up with someone based on a dream, but I’d seen how she’d looked at Mason. In my gut, I knew I wasn’t imagining it.

Brandy wasn’t the worst part of my dream, nor the part that had been occupying my thoughts the most. Every time I saw my dad, I relived his death in my dream. The phone call that shattered my world, the chaos that followed, Mom breaking down completely, and Josh becoming more... Josh.

I remembered the funeral and how awful that had been, dropping out of school early the next year when Mom started having her episodes and couldn’t work anymore. Arguments were made that Josh really started his descent into what he became with Dad. It destroyed all of our lives.

Was my dream telling me Dad was going to die? Was it real? Was this why I’d had the dream, to do something about Dad? I had a pit in my stomach every time I thought about him being gone, but it was more than just me. It was everyone.

Should I try to stop something I didn’t even know would happen? But that wasn’t really even the question. The real question was, could I afford not to?

So much else had come true. If I tried to pretend this wouldn’t and then it did... I wouldn’t ever be able to forgive myself.

I started to think through what I knew about the night my dad died. The details were fuzzy because nearly all of my memories were wrapped up in a depression haze that kind of obscured everything.

I don’t remember it, but I know he’d gone to work that day pretty much like any other, driving the fifty miles down to Midland for his shift. Dad had come across a group of people, kids the paper called them, stealing a car. I seemed to remember something about it being a gang initiation for new members of the gang. He’d tried to arrest them, and one of the kids pulled a gun. They said he was killed at the scene.

There was something else. The gang was based in Midland, but there were stories about the kid who did it living right here in Wheaton. People talked about how weird it was, that Dad and his killer were both from the same small town but never met until that night fifty miles away.

But what could I do about it?

Telling Dad, or really anyone else, wouldn’t work. “Hey, I had this dream where you were shot next year and I think it’s true.” They’d never believe me. Hell, I barely believed it.

I also couldn’t just wait until the day of the shooting and run in to save the day. For one, I didn’t know exactly where it happened in the city. For another, I could just as likely get shot as save Dad. Of course, if I couldn’t think of anything, that would still be an option, but I needed better options.

I lay there the rest of the night, thinking through everything I could remember. Over and over.

By the time I fell asleep, I still hadn’t thought of anything.

***

I slouched in my seat as I tried to focus on the teacher’s voice. The classroom felt stuffy, even with the windows cracked open to let in the late August breeze. It seemed like hardly anyone was paying attention. Half the people in the class were on the team with me; the rest were people I had only ever seen in passing. Stoners and idiots. The one thing we all had in common was we were terrible students. 

Which was why we were all sitting in remedial math. 

“Good morning, everyone!” the teacher, who seemed on the young end for a teacher, maybe not even thirty yet, said after the bell rang. “Welcome to pre-algebra. I am Ms. White, and I will be working with you this year. Now, I know math is not everyone’s favorite subject, but I promise, by the end of this year, you will all have a solid foundation in the basics we need to tackle more advanced concepts.” 

She set a stack of papers for us to take and pass back on my desk, which was a first for me. I had not sat at the front of class since I was in third grade and had picked it on purpose as part of my promise to myself to not end up like I did in the dream. 

In that other life, I had sat at the back of class and blown it off. I had always thought I would end up being a famous NFL player. What did I need with algebra? It is how I ended up in this class in the first place. I had barely paid attention last year and skated by with a C minus. 

Of course, sitting in the front of class was not going to be what fixed this. I had been a terrible student for basically ever, and it is not like the stuff I remembered from my dream life would bail me out. There was not much math in construction. If I was going to get out of this class and into on-level classes, I needed to do more than just want to do better.

Which was why, when the bell rang and everyone else got out of class as fast as they could, I grabbed my backpack and stopped next to Ms. White, who was erasing the whiteboard, her back to the room.

“Ms. White? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“What can I do for you …”

“Blake,” I supplied. “I have been thinking a lot about this class, and I would like to discuss the possibility of moving out of remedial math.”

“Getting into on-level classes? Blake, you are here because this is where your grades placed you. This class is for students who struggle with more advanced material,” she said in a somewhat dismissive voice.

“I know my past grades were not great, but I really want to do better.”

“Blake, I appreciate you wanting to do better, but the last thing I want is to move a student into a class they are not ready for. Most of your friends are in this class. Do not you all call it math for jocks? No one is pushing you to be valedictorian. Just do your best and they will let you get your play time. I have been teaching long enough to recognize patterns, Blake. This class is typically the right place for students like you.”

“That is not what I want. I mean, I get it probably looks like that, that you have had a lot of ‘students like me,’ but just because I play football does not mean I am the same as the rest of your students. I am really trying to improve this year. I know I can handle on-level work if I apply myself, and maybe get a little help.”

She studied me for a moment. “You are not the first student to try and charm me into helping them get better grades, you know.”

“That is not what I am doing,” I insisted. “Look, I know I am never going to be a math whiz. But I can be an okay student. I just... I was not trying before. I want to change that.”

“That is commendable. But talk is cheap. I need to see real effort.”

“If I show it in my work, will you believe me then? Will you help me work towards moving up?”

“Show me you can do the work first, and then we will talk.”

“Deal.”

***

My morning did not stay as positive as it had after that first reaction. I found my English teacher, Ms. Mace, to be alight. She had been as skeptical as Mrs. White had been at my sudden interest in moving up to on-level classes, but she had listened. If anything, she had been more receptive than Mrs. White had been, although she also made it clear I needed to put my words into practice if anything was going to happen.

Mr. Walsh, the science teacher, on the other hand? That guy was a piece of work.

I had gone at him the same way I had Ms. Mace and Mrs. White, that I knew I was in remedial classes for a reason, but I had realized over the summer that I did not need to be there, and I wanted to do the work to get back on level.

He had cut me off before I even got started. He had given the same spiel of “If you want to get into on-level classes, you have to show you are capable first,” but then he had added that he thought it unlikely. In the most condescending way possible, he had made it clear what he thought of athletes and where they belonged in school. Which was a weird counter to how he taught his class, which was pretty good. He was engaged with the students who were there for reasons other than sports. Patient, empathetic, giving easier toned-down explanations that still got the message across.

He just, apparently, hated athletes. Or, as he put it, jocks. Like he was in an eighties teen comedy.

The lunch lady slopped the lunch on my tray, some kind of meat and noodle thing. I wrinkled my nose. This was what I imagined prison food to taste like. Then I had another flash of stories from when I was older about how school lunches had “gone downhill” after lunches went through a “getting healthy phase,” with regulations limiting cheap, unhealthy ingredients. That might have been all well and good, but then school budgets had been slashed while the limits stayed in place, which ended in schools walking a narrow path of virtually inedible food.

So maybe I did not have it so bad.

I stopped as I got out of line, looking across the line of tables and kids. If this had been middle school, I would have known exactly where to sit. This being the first day of a new school, I did not know the lay of the land. I looked over the faces, kids who were definitely freshmen and kids who looked like adults compared to them.

Except he did know where everyone was sitting, he realized. He knew which were the band kids, which were the theatre kids, which were the nerds. He was still getting used to this “accept the dream” plan he had made, so it took him a minute to remember where all the groups were sitting.

Including the athletes.

A table for basketball kids, a table for baseball, and so on, all sitting pretty close since there was crossover between them.

Blake made his way over to where football players sat, remembering they kind of divided it into a table for freshmen, a table for JV, and a table for varsity. Except not all the freshman team was at one table like he remembered. Elijah and the rest were sitting with the bulk of the freshman team, but the walk-ons were off one table over, separate, even though there was room for them with the other freshmen.

I could feel Elijah’s eyes boring into me, waiting to see what I would do. Although we had had that blow-up on Friday and had not spoken about it since, it was not the first time we had had a big argument. Maybe one of the biggest, but it was not unfixable yet.

It was getting there, however.

If I went to sit with Elijah and did something to show them I was still “one of the guys,” they would probably get over it. If I snubbed them, it would be a nail in the coffin.

It was not even a question, though. I had made my decision already.

I turned and headed for the walk-ons. “Hey guys, mind if I join you?”

They looked up at me, clearly surprised. Connor’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hair.

“Uh, sure,” Miguel said hesitantly, looking over at others, everyone trying to decide if everyone else thought it was okay with no one saying anything.

I could feel the eyes on me as I sat down. Even people not involved in it, mostly other football players, were watching the drama.

“You know you are making enemies over there, right?” Connor asked.

I shrugged. “Yeah, but they were not really my friends anyway, so it does not really matter.”

I had barely sat down, though, when I saw Miguel, who was facing the table with Elijah and the rest, get a look in his eye. Apprehensive and worried. For a second, I thought it was Elijah, and things might get physical. 

And then Brandy said, “Blake? What the hell are you doing?” 

I swung around and looked up at her. She looked to me, then to some of the other guys, and then back to me. 

“I’m sitting with these guys. They are new on the team.” 

“You do not need to do that. I am sure they are fine,” she said, giving them a look like they were something she wanted to clean off her shoes. “Come on, let us go sit with Elijah and everyone else.” 

“Nah, I am good here. Actually, let me introduce you—” 

“I do not need to know their names,” Brandy interrupted. 

The guys shifted uncomfortably, everyone trying to look anywhere but at us. 

“Look, it is clear they are never going to be important. No offense,” she added, glancing at the freshmen. “But seriously, Blake, you need to go patch things up with Mason and the rest.” 

“I have no plans on patching anything up,” I said. “I have just realized they are jerks, and I have no interest in hanging out with them.” 

“You cannot be serious.” 

“Dead serious,” I replied. “You do not have to sit with us if you do not want to.” 

For a moment, Brandy hesitated. I could see the wheels turning in her head as she weighed her options. 

As she stalked off towards Elijah’s table, I turned back to the guys. They all looked various shades of uncomfortable. 

“Sorry about that,” I said, smiling. “So, uh, how has your first day been so far?”