In Beta Page 11

  “Tryouts are over.” Mr. Amrine’s attention jerked back to the field. “Hogburn, be smart. McManus, take a lap.”

  “Mr. Amrine?”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to play against the team.”

  Mr. Amrine stared at Jay, then scanned the bleachers, searching for an audience or a hidden camera.

  “This a joke?”

  “I can beat them.”

  Coach Amrine took off his sunglasses. His eyes were small and squinty as they peered down.

  “You got a death wish or something? I got a hard enough time keeping these guys focused. I don’t need a cat in the dog pen.” Coach Amrine glanced back to the field. Jay saw that practice had paused. The Johns were pointing and snickering at him.

  “Look who’s back.”

  “Where’d you get the new clothes? Salvation Army?”

  But the jeers quickly tapered off. Jay saw them noticing his new muscles, and he heard whispers.

  “Does he look different?”

  “What’s up with his arms?”

  Coach Amrine clapped. “Hey, this ain’t a peep show! Make it move!”

  Mr. Amrine stepped away, ignoring Jay. The Johns moved back into the rhythms of their practice, giving Jay careful glances now and then.

  Jay picked up a bat and fished a ball out from the team bag. He measured the weight of it in his hand, then scanned the horizon until his gaze fell on Coach Amrine’s dusty gray Jeep in the C-Court parking lot. He threw the baseball into the air, brought the bat over his shoulder, and swung.

  Crack! The bat connected. He watched the ball sail over the field and smash the Coach’s windshield. Thick spiderwebs blossomed from the sides of its impact. Jay’s eyes widened. He looked down the field and saw the Johns staring, mouths open. Mr. Amrine stared from his Jeep to Jay. He spun around and stormed over to Jay, his figure growing more imposing with every step.

  Coach Amrine ripped the bat from Jay’s hand and threw a finger in his face.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Jay brought a hand to his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.

  “I can pay you. Plus, I can donate $10,000 dollars to the new equipment fund. If you let me scrimmage the team.”

  Coach Amrine stared. The Johns trotted in from the outfield. Jeremy’s muscled jaw clenched as he spat out a stream of tobacco. Jay turned to them.

  “I’ll give you guys a thousand bucks apiece if you beat me. One inning. If you win, you get the money. If I win . . . I win.”

  Jeremy laughed and looked at Coach Amrine. “Let him do it.”

  Mr. Amrine’s nostrils were still flaring. “You’re gonna take on the entire team? Sure, go ahead. You’re out in the field first.”

  The Johns trickled off the diamond, leaving Jay alone. He felt suddenly nervous, realizing he’d never actually played baseball before in his life.

  “Uh, can I borrow a mitt?”

  Coach Amrine shoved a mitt into Jay’s chest. Jay slipped his fingers in. The ragged piece of leather felt like it would rip to shreds at the first grounder.

  Jay watched the Johns leer at him from behind the batting fence and wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake. They were Cascadia’s best athletes, after all. Even with fully boosted stats, could he possibly take on all fourteen?

  A whistle blew, and the cheerleaders broke formation, pooling around the edge of the field to watch. From up in the courtyard, bodies began to fill the bleachers. Word of his challenge had evidently gotten out. Jay gulped.

  John B stepped up to the plate. He was one of the lesser Johns, whose pimpled face wore a constant sneer. Coach Amrine moved across the infield until he was ten feet from Jay. Without taking his eyes from the Johns, he muttered to Jay:

  “Loosen up. Widen your stance.”

  Jay glanced over in surprise and shifted his feet a little, grateful for the advice. He leaned back, cocked his arm, and let the ball fly. It flew across the plate, right under John B’s nose.

  “Strike!” yelled Amrine. He shook his head in disapproval. “C’mon, Becker.”

  The other Johns shifted, agitated. Mr. Amrine moved behind home plate, taking catcher’s position, and tossed the ball back to Jay. John B squeezed his bat tighter. Jay reared back and hurled another pitch. John B’s bat whistled as the ball smashed into Coach Amrine’s mitt.

  “Strike two.”

  The Johns shook the metal fence, shouting.

  “C’mon!”

  “It’s frickin’ Jay Banksman!”

  “Don’t choke, you reject.”

  Coach tossed the ball to Jay, who caught it in the fold of his glove. He socked the ball in his mitt, like he’d seen in the movies, and then threw his third pitch. This time, John didn’t swing.

  “Strike three!”

  John B spun on his coach.

  “That was a ball!”

  Coach Amrine simply jerked his thumb at the dugout. “Let’s get a real batter in.”

  A dejected John B swapped spots with John W, “the handsome John.” He was taller than Jeremy, with sad doe-eyes and big lips.

  “Kid’s got an arm,” Coach Amrine cautioned him.

  “It’s Jay,” John W spat.

  Jay looked up at the stands and was surprised to see they were now half-full. The crowd saw him look back and erupted in a cheer. Sitting at the end of a bleacher, Jay saw Stevie and Colin, and some other kids from Tutorial. He scanned the crowd for other familiar faces and was surprised to see Liz leaning on the fence. She wasn’t shouting or cheering; she was just staring. It was impossible to tell at that distance, but Jay felt like she was sizing him up.

  The shrill sound of Coach Amrine’s whistle jerked his attention back into the game. John W’s lip curled with a hint of malevolence, his bat circling the air.

  Jay tried to remember anything about baseball. For years he had scorned the sport, as anything that the Johns loved must be inherently stupid. He now regretted refusing to watch it. Images of Bull Durham and The Natural flashed through his mind, with clips from the trailer of Rookie of the Year. But his mind kept wandering back to Major League, picturing Charlie Sheen in glasses. It wasn’t helping.

  Jay wound back his arm and pitched. John W swung and his bat connected with a crack. The ball bounded over the ground, inside the first-base line. Jay dashed after it, pumping his legs. A cheer erupted from the bleachers, but it was muted by the roar in his ears. His gaze fixed on the ball as it rolled and bounced past first base. He got in front of the ball and scooped it up. He raced back toward the infield as John W rounded second base with a long, steady stride. Jay aimed his body toward the empty space between third base and home plate, picking up his pace, faster than he’d ever run before.

  Behind the fence, the Johns were screaming, all traces of smugness gone.

  “C’mon! Pick it up, W!”

  “C’mon, Warner!”

  “Run!”

  A dull chant rose out of the bleachers. It took Jay a moment to realize the crowd was shouting for him.

  “Jay! Jay! Jay!”

  He glanced over his shoulder and the school broke into a cheer. Jay flushed, grinning, barreling down the field.

  John W rounded third and glanced at Jay. His face fell into shock, and Jay saw him falter. He slowed, turned, and leapt back onto third base. The spring air tunneled into Jay’s lungs, and he walked to the pitcher’s mound, winded and smiling. He was doing it.

  Behind the fence, the Johns shuffled back and Jeremy stepped out. He strolled to home plate and scooped the bat from the ground with the same cruel smile Jay had learned to fear. The smile that had stolen Jay’s milk in middle school, pantsed him, chased him into Jewett Creek sophomore year. Jay felt his stomach sink as deep, desperate breaths took his throat, and he wound back and threw a wild pitch.

  “Ball!” Coach Amrin
e yelled.

  Behind Jay, the bleachers quieted. He tried to calm his breath. He caught the ball Mr. Amrine threw back to him and forced himself to look at the ground, steadying his nerves.

  He drew himself up and hurled a pitch. This time Jeremy swung, knocking the ball through the air. Jay ran after it. The ball dropped past second, bouncing twice, and then Jay grabbed it in his mitt. He turned to see John W walking past home plate, into the cheering Johns. Jeremy rounded second, running faster than anything Jay had ever seen. Jay dashed toward home, urging his body forward. Jeremy hit third, his strides lengthening, as Jay crossed the pitcher’s mound.

  He willed his adrenal glands open, flooding his body with energy. His legs hit the grass in staccato rhythm. Jeremy looked over in surprise at the rapidly approaching Jay. Then Jay flew over home plate, touching a gloved hand to Jeremy’s chest.

  “Out!” Coach Amrine shouted.

  The crowd burst into a cheer.

  “What?!” Jeremy screamed.

  Jay leaned onto his knees, gasping. The Bickleton Vandals had scored, but he’d managed to shut down their team. He smiled. The cheer from the bleachers grew deafening. Kids were on their feet now, stomping. Jay turned to watch, blushing. Then, suddenly, something huge plowed into him. He toppled over and felt fists raining down into his chest. Jeremy’s snarling face was inches from his own, and Jay realized with calm detachment: he’s beating me up. The pain was distant, ethereal. Smiling, he reached out and grabbed Jeremy’s hands. He flipped Jeremy off and climbed on top as if it were the easiest, most natural thing in the world. He was only vaguely aware of the Johns’ screams and the cheers of the crowd. He pulled a fist back and let it slam into Jeremy’s face. Jeremy’s head jerked aside in surprise. Jay saw blood running down his lip where his hand had split it. Jeremy glanced up at him, big blue eyes wide. Jay hit him again. His whole body tingled with pleasure.

  He hit Jeremy again and again, until Jeremy was no longer struggling and had a dazed look in his eyes. Then Jay felt hands on his shoulders, and he was being dragged away from Jeremy’s body. He looked up to see Coach Amrine and Principal Oatman shouting at him. He tensed his shoulders, ready to fight them. But he heard the sounds of the crowd cheering his name, and he smiled, letting himself be pulled off. He threw his hands into the air, and the bleachers once again erupted into cheers.

  Principal’s Office

  Jay had never been in Principal Oatman’s office before. Now he sat in one of two rigid chairs in front of Oatman’s desk. He idly wondered whether they’d called his mom. Not that he was worried about it. Even if she’d gotten out of bed by now, she probably wouldn’t answer the phone. Jay settled into the chair as best as he could, waiting to hear what Mr. Oatman would say.

  The room was an oppressive dull brown, and it felt like an extension of Mr. Oatman’s personality. What was with this guy? How could any man be so into beige? Brown desk, brown picture frames with photos of brown mountains. Brown files. Lots of brown files.

  The only black objects in the room were a fax machine and a small black-and-white television with a stern Bernard Shaw speaking quietly on CNN. It was a story on Night Trap, the video game where players are a police officer trying to save scantily clad teenage girls from being eaten by vampires. It had been dominating the news lately, because its release caused parents to demand that Congress regulate video games. Jay craned his neck with interest.

  Principal Oatman sat on the other side of the desk, hands folded, browner and graver than usual. The skin around his mouth hung in two saggy jowls, like Richard Nixon. A thin wisp of hair crowned his bald head, like cotton balls glued onto a diorama. Mr. Amrine sat in the corner of the room in a brown armchair, slouched, looking at Jay with half-lidded eyes. Jay couldn’t tell whether he was upset or impressed. Probably both. Mr. Amrine rubbed a stubbled chin; he looked like a man who needed a drink. Ms. Rotchkey had once let slip in front of Tutorial that he was a heavy drinker.

  Jay wondered if they had to sit quietly until the sheriff arrived. He realized, with some surprise, that the adults might actually be scared of him now. This was a bit like playing chess, he reflected. They had the advantage of intimidation. He’d made it his whole high school career without being sent to the principal’s office, and to defy Principal Oatman went against his very nature. But what could they do? They could expel him, keep him from graduating. But why did he need their high school diploma?

  He cracked his knuckles, resolving not to speak first. He saw Jeremy’s blood soaked through the small channels in his skin and realized, with shock, that he had dethroned the most popular kid in high school. He smirked.

  “Something funny?” Principal Oatman broke the silence.

  Jay didn’t look at him, but turned his smile up to the ceiling, studying the cork tiles. “To an absurd degree.”

  Mr. Oatman picked a framed photograph off his desk. Inside the frame, Jay saw, was a starchy, faded photo of a bunch of kids he didn’t recognize, wearing loose-fitting baseball uniforms. Mr. Oatman held it out for Jay to see, and under the bottom was a placard: Class of ’69. Some of the faces clicked into place. Sheriff Jenkins, without his telltale gut, was first baseman. And there was Principal Oatman, thin and full of hair.

  Jay squinted, staring. In the smack-dab center, there was Jeremy McKraken. Jay blinked. But how could that be? Mr. Oatman tapped the frame.

  “That’s John McKraken. Jeremy’s dad.”

  Jay shook his head in disbelief. Except for some different faces and the old-fashioned uniforms, it may as well have been Jeremy and the Johns.

  “As it was, is now, and ever shall be,” he muttered.

  Mr. Oatman placed the photo back on his desk.

  “That was the finest baseball team our school ever had.”

  “Yeah? You guys actually played?”

  Mr. Amrine sat forward suddenly. “How’d you man the entire field?”

  Mr. Oatman cocked his head slightly. “Or learn to fight like that?”

  “How come”—Jay felt his temper lodge in his throat—“when Jeremy gives me a black eye, I get sent to the guidance counsellor? Everyone saw Jeremy throw the first punch, yet somehow I’m the one in the principal’s office.”

  Mr. Amrine leaned forward. “Two rights don’t make a wrong.”

  “You guys on the baseball team make all the rules. You keep people like me, Colin, and Todd from getting what we want.”

  Principal Oatman slammed a fist into his desk. “We don’t make the rules.”

  “Then who does? God?”

  “Yes.”

  Jay burst into laughter. “Are you serious? That’s the world’s biggest cop-out.”

  Mr. Oatman purpled.

  “Never have I seen such a reasonable, promising young student take such a turn for the worse. I strongly encourage you to reconsider your position if you want to graduate. You are suspended, and will not leave this room until Sheriff Jenkins arrives.”

  A malevolent grin spread over Jay’s face. He had an idea how to get himself off the hook. “Do you want to know how I did it?”

  Mr. Oatman went rigid. “No.”

  “Oh, I think you do.” He began his familiar story, now watching eagerly. “See, I have this disk. And any changes I make with it show up in the world. I can give myself money. I can delete people. I can do whatever I want, and you can’t stop me. God doesn’t make the rules. I make the rules.”

  As Jay had expected, the color drained from the men’s faces. Their eyes went slack, as if they were listening to distant music. It was just like when he tried to tell Colin, his mom. Whatever the disk was, it was something too powerful for the rest of the world to comprehend. Jay thought back to all the H.P. Lovecraft short stories he read in middle school. Always, a person encountered some creature inconceivable to the human mind. Characters broke down, their minds melting. The disk was some sort of Lovecraftian artifact
, and he alone had the power to endure it.

  Jay waved a hand in front of Mr. Oatman. He didn’t blink.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  “Hmm?” Mr. Oatman waved back vaguely.

  And Jay walked through the principal’s door and down the narrow hall to the main office. Ms. Shirell looked at him harshly, and he just shrugged. She stomped off to find the principal.

  “Principal Oatman?” she yelled suspiciously. “Everything okay?”

  Jay hummed as he reached the school’s entrance, feeling better than he had in a long time.

  Look Out

  Jay drove his Miata slowly through the main Bickleton drag. It was 6:13 p.m., the clear, cool kind of evening that made anything seem possible. He watched a small line of students form outside the Golden Flour Bakery. On Tuesday nights, they made pepperoni pizzas, and their small wooden storefront became a high school hub. Jay watched the two tables on the sidewalk swell with nearly twenty high school kids. He considered getting out to join them, just to see how they’d react. But his adrenaline was still pumping from that meeting with Mr. Oatman. He felt a small pang of guilt for manipulating his principal, but it was far outweighed by his newfound sense of power.

  The sun was lowering in the sky, turning the distant mountains over the Skookullom a beautiful aqua orange. Some of the kids turned to look at his Miata, and Jay saw smiles on their faces. He shook his head. Was it a software bug? Was it spreading? He drove farther down the bluff, where the houses grew fewer and far between. He found himself thinking of Todd. Todd’s disappearance had to be connected to all this. But how?

  He slowed. Ahead was the scenic turnabout that looked down at the Skookullom. It wasn’t big, just a semicircle of two-foot-tall brick-and-mortar wall that fit maybe six cars. The stone guardrail had been laid ages ago and was covered in moss. Nobody ever bothered to stop and look at the view anymore, so Jay was surprised to see a single white Jeep Cherokee. He recognized it immediately as Liz’s car. He slowed down his Miata, straining over his passenger seat. Through the windows, he saw dark hair in the driver’s seat, and a faint wisp of smoke floated out the tailpipe. What was she doing? Her engine was on? Was she alone? He swerved into the gravel lot to get a better look.