Chapter 9
"Mom, I'm home," Cory shouted as the garage door dropped shut behind him. He wondered what mood his mother would be in after he ran out so quickly this morning. His practice with Banks was worth the chance of getting in trouble. His mother didn't answer. Cory grabbed a soda out of the refrigerator and walked into the living room.
"Mom?" he called again. "You here?"
At the doorway to his mother's room, he heard a tiny beep. The kind a cell phone makes. Cory stopped. His mother was sitting on the far edge of her bed and put the phone down quickly as if she were trying to hide it from Cory.
"Hi, honey," Mrs. Towson said, folding her hands on her lap.
"Who were you talking to?" Cory asked. "Allen?"
"Yes, I was. I didn't hear you come in. How was practice?" she asked, quickly changing the subject.
"How did you know I had practice?" Cory asked, puzzled.
"Oh," she said, a little jump in her voice. "Didn't you tell me this morning you had practice?"
"No," Cory answered slowly. "I don't think so."
"Well, I just assumed, honey, since you went to Lions Park."
"Oh."
She got up and walked out of the room to the kitchen. "She's acting weird," he thought, then blamed it on the phone call. He followed her, slurping loudly from the can of soda.
"You must be starving, honey," Mrs. Towson called from the kitchen. "Let me fix you a sandwich?" She opened the breadbox and pulled out a loaf of bread.
"Sure," Cory answered. He took another slurp, realizing he was talking casually with her again. The practice with Tony Banks had changed his mood. He shuffled into the living room, feeling some knots in a few muscles, and switched on the television. Once he sat down, though, exhaustion washed over him. Every muscle seemed to ache from the workout.
"So," Mrs. Towson looked up, mayonnaise perched on the end of the knife. "How did practice go?" Cory forced his heavy eyelids open.
"Fine," Cory said, fighting to stay awake. "I worked on goalkeeping."
Mrs. Towson brought Cory's sandwich out. He was stretched out on the couch now, fast asleep. She quietly placed the sandwich on the small end table by his head, picked up the soda and set it next to the sandwich. Bending down, she brushed off some dried mud from his forehead, clicked off the television, then left the room. A faint beep came from his mother's bedroom.
That night, Cory called Gene.
"What was it like, man?"
"Great!" answered Cory. He felt wide awake after the afternoon nap. "I'm really sore, though. Mr. Banks sure knows his stuff. He covered how to block the ball with my body and how to dive to each side to stop shots. He also showed me the correct way to catch the ball and how to land. It was awesome!" Cory stopped talking to catch his breath.
Silence.
"I have those same fundamentals on my goalkeeper software," Gene said quietly. "Don't you remember? We looked at them that night you came over."
"Yeah, but a computer can't show you how to dive and block," Cory interrupted. "This was for real!"
"Really?" Gene answered, subdued. "Well, gotta go. My mom's calling me for dinner."
"Oh," Cory said, surprised at Gene's abrupt change. "Ok . . . ." He was sure the Van Sykes ate dinner at 6:30 every night. Without fail. Gene had even joked how he could set his watch by it. Cory's clock said 5:45 p.m. "See you tomorrow."
"Yea," Gene answered and hung up. It seemed so sudden.
Cory walked into the living room, the cell phone dangling in his hand. On the couch, his mom read through some paperwork to be entered online later. She looked up at Cory.
"Why the glum face?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"
Cory avoided her eyes, not wanting to talk. "Oh, nothing," he said. "Just thinking."
He moved to the kitchen, not so much hungry as lost in thought wandering, and grabbed a brownie from the glass dish on the counter. He walked back to his room, stuffing most of the brownie in his mouth. Mrs. Towson stared after him, then went back to her paperwork.
Cory sat at his desk and looked out his bedroom window. The willow tree was changing color with the cooler weather, the leaves limp and scraggly. Like some old man losing his hair. Cory liked that tree. No matter what was happening in his world, the willow was always there, outside his window. His mind went back to Gene. What was his problem, anyway? Cory took a last bite of brownie, thinking about the conversation. "I thought he'd be happy for me," he said to no one as he stared at the willow's spidery branches moving in the autumn breeze. Gene was the only real friend he had, and now he, too, was upset with Cory.
"Damn." He rested his head on his arms and stared out the window.