Rutledge nodded, looking down at the paper. He was spooked.
“I knew another kid, years ago,” he said finally. “He took an entire bottle of aspirin. His mother found him home midday, unconscious on his bed, and rushed him to Hoag emergency.” Rutledge swallowed before continuing. “They pumped it out of him, thank God, but his parents pulled him out of school once he was healthy; had to finish at the alternative school with the losers and thugs. In the summer, the family moved away. I was his homeroom teacher. He was pretty popular, had good grades until junior year. Then he started failing classes, girlfriend broke up with him. His mother came to talk to me, asking me to keep an eye on him. I met with his teachers, his coaches, asked them to let me know if anything seemed out of sorts, you know? Just six hours before he ate those pills, I asked him how life was treating him, and he says, ‘It’s a long, strange trip, Rutledge.’ It was our little joke.”
He folded up the Rancho Santa Elena World News and turned the front page facedown on the tabletop. Ben could still see the headline in his head, though, the picture of Lucero, his electric smile.
“This kid who took the pills,” Ben said. “Was he a swimmer?”
“Yeah.” Rutledge nodded slowly, staring at his scrambled eggs.
Ben’s stomach turned to water.
“This Lucero kid,” Rutledge said. “He was a swimmer, too. I imagine you know that.”
“Yep.”
“Maybe as good as you,” Rutledge said. “Maybe better.”
“So I’ve heard.” Ben sipped his coffee, though he had the caffeine shakes by now. “What’re you trying to tell me, Bryce?”
“There’s this one day six months or so ago,” Rutledge said. “I had been working with our goalie late, twenty minutes, thirty maybe, after water-polo practice. So I send him home and come into the locker room. Everyone’s gone, but I hear shuffling around the corner of the lockers and Lewis comes out, nervous, asking me all about my classes, about my family. Mr. Jovial, you know?” He paused. “I like Lewis. We go to the same church, United Methodist over on Universidad. His kids are great—polite, good in school. Known Lewis for twenty years. Before he met Diane. Going back to before you were in school.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t think much of it then,” Rutledge said. “He was always there after practice. You don’t build a great program without putting in the extra time.”
“But something’s eatin’ you.”
Rutledge turned his neck and the bone cracked. Ben could actually hear it pop into place.
“I got to my office and saw the boy, this Lucero kid, come out of the corner of the locker room.” Rutledge shook his head. “He didn’t have his shirt on yet and he was holding the towel in front of him, but, you know, he just got out of the swimming pool, so that wasn’t unusual. The boy glanced at me, though, and I could tell something wasn’t right. There was just…there was a look in his eye.”
“Like he was embarrassed?”
“No,” he said. “Like…he was wondering what I was going to do.”
“Well? What did you do?”
“I asked Lewis about it later and he said the boy’s parents wanted him to quit the team; the kid was upset and Lewis was trying to talk him through it.”
“And that sounded reasonable to you?”
“Yeah, it did,” he said. “I mean, you line up all the students Lewis has helped get into good schools and it’d stretch from here to downtown L.A.” He hesitated a moment. “This kid, Lucero, was up for a big scholarship. Wakeland was excited about it. USC, I think.”
“Does it seem strange to you that the parents of an illegal would tell their kid to quit the team when he was up for a scholarship at USC?”
“Shit,” Rutledge said, looking down at his cup of coffee. “I didn’t know the boy was an illegal.”
Rutledge said he needed to use the facilities. He got up and headed for the restroom and Ben sat in the café, his coffee going cold, his stomach roiling. He watched a group of water-polo players clear the table of tacos and baskets of tortilla chips. The kid nearest him was huge, his shoulders straining the trainer jacket, the white letters of the S and A stretching against his shoulder blades. “My dad’s got a .45 under his bed,” one of the boys facing him said. “Blow his fucking head off if he tries our place.”
“Boom, man,” the big one with his back to Ben said, gunning his finger in the air.
Even from here, Ben could smell the chlorine on their bodies, that chemical stink that bleached your hair, soaked into your pores, and dried your insides out. He remembered the August before his freshman year in high school, when he was invited to preseason training with the swim team. Maybe that’s what Voorhees and Wakeland had talked about that night after Wakeland drove him home. His mom and stepdad were all gung ho for it, and by the end of the second week of training Ben was blowing by the frosh-soph kids and sticking close with the JV. By Wednesday of the third week, Ben was chasing down a junior, Russell Paxton, in his lane. Russell was a big kid, as Ben recalled, at least six foot three. Russell was fast, but no way in hell would Ben let him pull away. If he started to lose the kid’s toes in the bubbles, Ben kicked harder, shoved more water out of the way.
“You should be with the frosh fags,” Russell spat at Ben once while they hung from the pool edge between sets.
“Nah,” Ben said. “I like it here with the junior pussies.”
That afternoon, the university diving team was doing flips off the platform, chopping waves across the surface of the pool. Russell came off a turn and met one of the waves mouth first. He pulled up, gagging, and Ben slipped by him, not missing a stroke. Five strokes in, Russell grabbed his ankle, yanking him into the water mid-breath. Ben sucked a gallon down his throat, and when he kicked to get to the surface, Russell’s chest was there, blocking his way. Ben thought he was going to drown, his lungs clogged, his limbs leaded weights, but then his head punctured the surface and he got air again and a surge of fury electrified his limbs. When Russell came off the wall, Ben punched down through the water, nailing him on the back of the head. Russell got Ben by the balls, the kid’s fist clamping down, sending stars into his eyes, but Ben kept throwing punches until Wakeland and the assistant coach got their tentacles around them and yanked the two apart.
Inside the locker room, Wakeland let him have it.
“I’m not having any of that bullshit in my pool,” he said. “You got it?”
Ben nodded, his balls throbbing in his stomach.
“I’m calling home,” Coach said.
“No, don’t,” Ben said. Things had been relatively calm between Ben and his stepfather, and he didn’t want to go back to the old days. “Please don’t.”
“You’re better than Russell,” Wakeland said, his face softening. “Faster. That’s why he did it.”
Ben smiled. Damn right he was better.