CARTER'S SHADOW
Chapter 34 - By Christopher Patrick Lydon
The week had been unremarkable; West had returned to a very
sombre school, the attack still fresh on everyone's minds. The looks of sympathy
he got bugged him; he wasn't an invalid, he wasn't broken. It had been a fight,
he'd bled, they'd bled and now it was over.
Brad had been expelled, the other participants suspended. West
wasn't sure what that would do for Brad's academic chances--getting suspended
in the last few weeks of school--but rightly, he found he didn't care. The
friendship between them had been dead a long time, it had died the moment
West had been elevated to a C.
He was standing in the coach's office, in front of Thorburn's
desk, his arms folded repeating, defiantly, "I want to play!"
"You can't play, Harding," Thorburn reiterated. "You're
still injured."
"You need me out there," West insisted. "Come
on, Coach..."
"No," Thorburn looked up from his papers, his aged
eyes hardening firmly, "I can't put someone in your condition out on
the ice..."
"I don't care about my condition," West said setting
his jaw. "Players in the NHL play with injuries..."
"In case you haven't noticed," Thorburn said, standing
up so that he was face to face with the team captain, their noses just inches
apart, "this isn't the NHL; I am not going to put an injured kid out
on the ice, no matter how much I 'need' him out there." His voice was
cold, "You're benched."
West sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing with old
Thorburn once he had made up his mind. That was just the way it went, the
man's decision was final, he'd already given up on the League final in Toronto
that weekend. He was down a large part of his team, and had run out of time
to train replacements.
He turned and walked out of the office, passing Coach Highmore
as he ambled up the corridor towards the gym. West avoided eye contact; he
felt guilty, guilty for being the one to end their team's dynasty of wins,
a dynasty that Andrew Highmore had helped forge.
"Harding," Highmore called as they passed each other,
turning his head slightly, "you want to do this?"
West felt a flicker of hope as he turned his head, "Yes."
"He can't," Thorburn said from the doorway of his
office.
"He can if he wants it bad enough," Highmore said
pointedly. "A wise man once said anything is possible if you want it
bad enough."
"I said that," Thorburn said gruffly.
"That's my point," Andrew nodded, pushing his hair
back from his eyes, and nodding appraisingly at West. "I think he's proved
he's tough enough. Not everyone gets up from a beating by five guys and demands
to go back on the ice."
Thorburn's eyes narrowed. "Come with me, Harding,"
he gestured to the doors to the gym beside him where the morning basketball
scrimmages were going on. Balls were bouncing around under Mel's watchful
eye; she was keeping West's seat warm for him and talking to Matt.
"If you can play basketball, you can play hockey."
Thorburn's eyes were still firm, adamant that he was going to prove exactly
how unfit West was to play.
"Sir?" West asked, frowning.
"Bobby, Jesse, haul ass," Thorburn said, the piercing
sound of his whistle stopping the bouncing balls as he gestured for the two
basketball players to come over. They approached, balls tucked under their
arms.
"Are you sure?" Highmore asked, glancing at West,
who swallowed realizing exactly what he was going to go through.
Bobby McCormick was so like his twin brother the likeness was
uncanny; sure he wore his hair differently, and dressed with a more jockish
style, but those same blue eyes, and shy smile dominated his features. West
realized suddenly that this 'test' was going to be a whole lot harder than
he first thought.
* * *
"You kissed him?" Blake asked, a grin playing across
his face as he turned his dark hair, amusement lighting his eyes. "Way
to go, Vickie Vale!"
"Who?" Peter asked in confusion. They were sitting
in the lobby of the school and Peter had finally worked up the courage to
say something to Blake about what had happened the weekend before.
"Vickie Vale, Batman's first girlfriend," Blake explained.
"I thought you said Batman was after some guy called Dick..."
Peter said uncertainly, Blake's comic book references always threw him.
"Dick Grayson, Robin, yeah, but that's not the same,"
Blake explained patiently. "Matt's West's Robin, you're more the true-love
type. The one that makes Batman get up and do what he does night after night."
"Right..." Peter chewed his lip and shrugged. "So
what does that make you?"
"Well, there was this 'Elseworlds' comic that paired Dickie
up with Selina Kyle..." He looked up and grinned, "Catwoman... But
typically he is paired up with Barbara Gordon, Batgirl..."
"I don't see you in leather with a whip..." Peter
stopped and thought about it, looking at Blake's grinning face. "Oh god,
I can..." he scrubbed his eyes and shook his head. "Eww!"
"Hey, your sexual fantasies are nothing to do with me,"
Blake nodded firmly. "But yeah, you're Vickie Vale."
"Hey," Peter said frowning suddenly, "how come
everyone thinks of me as a girl? Why can't I be Robin?"
Blake chewed on his lip thoughtfully, "There's nothing
saying you can't. There were actually three Robin's. The first one went on
to become his own superhero, that's Matt..." He shrugged, "The second
one was Jason Todd, he went a little psycho, and Dick was a bit jealous of
him..." Blake shook his head; "I don't see you as the violent type,
that has to make you Robin 3, or Tim Drake."
Peter was going cross-eyed at all the Batman lore being doled
out, and so he just nodded, "So I'm not a girl, right?"
"No," Blake grinned, shaking his head, "you're
just a bottom..."
They were suddenly both acutely aware of the crowd pushing towards
the gymnasium end of the school, and Peter blinked at Blake, who in turn blinked
back, before they too were a part of the crowd heading towards the gym.
"What's going on?" Blake asked, grabbing a guy's arm.
"Thorburn's got West playing two-on-one basketball against
Bobby and Jesse."
"What?" Peter gaped. "He's still hurt..."
The guy just shrugged as they all continued through the hall,
Blake suddenly grabbing Peter and dragging him through the weight room, a
short cut of sorts that connected to the far end of the gym. At least they
wouldn't have to fight through the main body of the crowd to see what was
going on.
* * *
West gritted his teeth as he sank another shot. His head was
swimming from the exertion, and he was drenched in sweat. At his best, he
could beat Bobby and Jesse; he knew the game, knew their weaknesses and could
usually outmanoeuvre them.
This time, his side hurt like hell, making him favour the other;
it cut down on his full range of motion, and every time he went to take a
tip shot, his side burned angrily.
Thorburn was watching intently, the old man's eyes burning strangely,
and West wasn't sure if he wanted him to win, or to prove him wrong. Coach
Highmore stood alongside him, the younger man's arms folded and his whistle
in his mouth to ref the small game, the crowd forming up along the lines jostled
one another to get a better view of what was going on.
West was losing; Jesse and Bobby, working together, were attacking
from his weak side, trying to force him onto that leg, to use that arm. Each
time he moved, a lance of pain shot up his side, causing stars to explode
behind his eyes. Undeterred, he kept up, moving to intercept the ball, trying
to hustle them for it.
Then his world exploded into black as he crashed to the floor.
Bobby arched the ball over him to score again, as West struggled to sit up,
knowing that he'd collapsed like a deck of cards at the first jostle.
Thorburn's shoulder's sagged as he stared a moment at West sitting
on the hardwood, disappointment quickly being masked by feigned indifference
as he turned to walk away. Coach Highmore looking down at the floor as he
lifted the whistle to signal that the game was over.
West locked eyes on Peter, standing at the far side of the court,
Blake beside him, looking at him with worry and concern... and something else
that made West smile as he stood up. The pain was almost unbearable, and he
hobbled a bit before finding his feet, gesturing to Bobby to pass him the
ball.
Bobby glanced at Coach Highmore, who simply nodded his assent
as play was resumed.
"That's why he's Batman," Blake murmured to Peter,
as West fought back, taking the ball around Bobby and Jesse, dribbling it
to the left, to give him a clear shot. "He gets hurt, but he keeps getting
up again 'cause he has to. He doesn't need super powers, he's a real man..."
The net swished as the ball sank home, bouncing a couple of
times towards the door, past Coach Thorburn, who turned slowly to stop it.
He looked up towards where West was standing, his teeth gritted tightly, his
forehead a mask of perspiration, ready to keep going. Anything to prove he
deserved to be on that ice in Toronto, anything to lead his team to the victory
they deserved.
Thorburn looked at Highmore, the junior coach nodding his head
in assent.
"Ok, Harding," Thorburn said looking back at West,
"you're on the ice in Toronto!"
The gymnasium went nuts.
* * *
"Are you okay?" His voice was musical, tinged with
worry, a smattering of awe thrown in for good measure.
West cracked open an eye and looked up at Peter. "I'm good,"
he lied. He didn't want Peter worrying about him as he lay in the school's
nurse's station resting, "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"
"I ditched," Peter blushed. "I had to feign a
stomach cramp so they'd let me back here..."
"Ah-ha!" West smiled, "you were concerned about
me."
"Nope," Peter shook his head, sitting on the edge
of West's bed, his eyes darting to the door of the sick room, in case the
school nurse decided to check up on her two patients. "Not me, uh-uh..."
"I wanted to kiss you today..." West managed, reaching
out to touch Peter's hand as it rested on his blankets, "right there,
after Thorburn said I was going on the ice. I wanted to celebrate, and the
first thing I wanted to do was kiss you..."
"In the gym?" Peter balked. "Right in front of
everyone?"
"Well, I could have told them to all go away and let me
have some privacy..." West grinned. "Closet case."
"Bastard..." Peter smiled back, blushing.
"Closet case..." West sat up on his elbows.
"Bastard...." Peter said grinning as he leaned down,
their lips meeting.
They both jumped as the door swung open. "What is it with
you two?" Greenwood asked as he walked into the nurse's station to check
on West, only to find him lip-locked with the McCormick kid again.
"You know," West said settling back onto the bed,
"I think I like the nurses around here, their bedside manner..."
"If you're well enough to be making out, you're well enough
to haul your ass to class," Greenwood said firmly, eying Peter suspiciously.
"And you... you have no excuse."
"Yes sir," Peter squeaked as he bolted for the door
like a frightened jackrabbit.
Greenwood had his hands on his hips as his eyes followed the
young blond as he sprinted past him. "You're lucky I don't give you detention!"
Greenwood called after him, turning to fix his eyes on West. "And what
are you grinning at, Mister Harding?"
"Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books;
but love from love, toward school with heavy looks." West quoted.
"William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act Two, Scene
Two," Greenwood replied. "How about this one," Greenwood ached
his eyebrow, "The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. Now get up
off that bed and get to class."
West smirked as he sat up and reached tenderly for his coat,
picking up the red and yellow coat, running a thumb over the gold letter C
on it. He smiled as he nodded and followed Greenwood through the halls.
"Have you given thought to what you are doing for next
year?" Greenwood asked as they crossed the Lobby heading for the auditorium.
West nodded. "I've been in touch with a Marine recruiter
out of the States," he admitted warily, knowing Greenwood's hippy roots.
"Right," Greenwood grunted, "any other choices?"
"I have a back-up at Carleton U," West replied with
a shrug, "but the Canadian army is..."
"Underfunded, and lacking in real opportunity," Greenwood
finished, holding open the auditorium doors a moment before entering. "Do
you have your recommendations for the recruiter?"
West shrugged, "I was thinking of asking Mister Chiasson..."
"Right," Greenwood said. "Well, if this is what
you want to do, I'll give you the reference you need." He met West's
eyes and West frowned.
"Sir?" he sounded a little uncertain.
"Well," Greenwood said with a shrug, "if this
is what you want, it might help if you have the head of the English department
for a recommendation instead of a second-rate chemistry hack." The friendly
rivalry between Greenwood and Chiasson was well known around the school, each
man trying to one-up the other in a wide assortment of pranks and jokes that
often put their students' pranking attempts to shame.
"Thank you sir," West replied sincerely, "I appreciate
it."
Greenwood reached out to clap West on the arm. "Good, now
get into class," he smiled.
* * *
Blake was pouring flour into a bowl, creating the kind of mess
normally reserved for first graders, when Peter entered. Blake looked up and
grinned as he wiped his itchy nose with the back of his hand, smearing flour
across his face.
"Hey!" he called, as Peter came to join him in the
lab.
"Hey," Peter said, smiling faintly.
"Uh-oh," Blake nodded, "I take it Nurse Petey
kissed Wessy-poo all better."
"Shut up," Peter said, flicking flour at his friend.
"So did you give him an enema?" Blake chuckled as
he leaned down to read the recipe book.
"A what?" Peter asked, confused.
"Naive, so wonderfully, wonderfully naive...." Blake
said looking up from the book, his eyes lighting up. "Pass the eggs."
Peter handed him the two brown speckled eggs, "What are
you making?"
"Cookies...I think," Blake said, poking the book and
walking over to the fridge and pulling out a can of anchovies.
"Wait," Peter frowned, "are anchovies supposed
to go into cookie dough?"
"Well I don't know," Blake replied turning back. "That's
what it says in the book."
Peter glanced down at the book and turned the pages--sure enough
it went from saying add chocolate ships, to adding anchovies. Peter shrugged,
"Maybe they're gourmet cookies or something."
Blake opened the can and dumped them in whole, looking down
into the goo, "I'm not sticking my hands in there..."
Peter peeked in as well, "Why not?"
"It's all slimy..." Blake said, "you do it."
"If I wanted to stick my hands into something gooey and
smelling like fish...." Peter began.
Blake looked about the kitchen lab and spotted the potato masher,
"Give me that, will ya?"
Peter nodded and handed his friend the masher, and in moments
Blake was happily whaling away on the mixture in his bowl, successfully keeping
his distance from it. "So you were saying about West and kissing?"
Blake smiled up at him.
"Yeah, Greenwood caught us again," Peter grinned,
checking the recipe and adding cloves. He blinked at the goo, and looked at
the recipe again, "It says here we're supposed to pipe these onto a tray..."
"Pipe? Like a hash pipe?" Blake leaned over Peter's
shoulder.
"I think it means like the bag you put icing onto cakes
with," Peter said, fishing about in the cupboard for one.
"That's supposed to go on like icing?" Blake said,
poking the goo again with his potato masher. "It's way too dry."
"Well add more water or something," Peter said not
paying attention as he pulled out the piping kit, checking it over and pulling
out the bag. The pair of them gingerly wrestled the now sufficiently wet ingredients
into the bag, as Blake pulled out a freshly greased cookie sheet, and Peter
set about squeezing out the goo.
"It looks like crap," Blake observed.
"It looks okay..." Peter said defensively, looking
at the goo as it coiled out of the piping kit.
"No," Blake shook his head, "I mean it really
looks like crap." He gestured to the brown piles that Peter was creating.
"Oh," Peter replied, shrugging, "maybe its supposed
to look like that." He pushed out the last one, and they stared at the
tray apprehensively.
"So do we cook it?" Peter asked.
"It doesn't say in the recipe," Blake replied, "but
we got to, right? It's cookies..."
Peter shrugged and bunged them into the oven, turning the gauge
arbitrarily up to four hundred--that was what his mom always set it for when
she made cookies.
"Oh...wait..." Blake said lifting the book and picking
at the pages with his thumb, pulling the two stuck-together pages apart and
staring at them... "Uh-oh..." he commented looking first at Peter,
before they both turned to stare at their creation in the oven.
