Leverage by Joshua C. Cohen Read Free Book Online Page A

Todd Pullman jams his arm higher up his back. Just then, I see Coach Nelson turn back into the room, glance quickly around, and our eyes lock.
    â€œJANKOWSKI!” Coach Nelson barks so loud the whole weight room vibrates. The grip around my neck magically releases, and I bolt for my coach, grateful and hating him at the same time. I’m trailed out of the weight room not only by Ronnie but also by the laughter of the other football players.

8
    KURT
    I ’m veering toward a far corner table, away from as many people as possible, when Scott calls me out. “Brodsky! Hey, Brodsky!” he shouts across the lunchroom. “Get over here!”
    Sitting on either side of him, two beautiful girls giggle while picking at a plate of french fries, sending a spasm of panic through my belly. Across the table from Scott sit Jankowski and Studblatz. Both twist their thick, pimpled necks to watch me over their shoulders.
    â€œBrodsky! Whatsa matter? You got no love for your quarterback?” Scott yells, waving me over. “What’s wrong with you? Studblatz ain’t angry no more, are you, Stud?” The plan to eat and leave unnoticed dies as every single person in the lunchroom stops chewing, talking, listening to music, drumming on tables, joking, texting, or laughing to wait and see where I’ll sit. “Come on, man. My fullback’s got to eat with me. Team rule. Get your ass over here.”
    I’d hoped to go unnoticed by sitting at the empty end of a table mostly populated by goths dressed all in black with pierced faces and skin the color of vampire flesh. Thanks to Scott, they spot my approach and stare at me like I’m the freak. One of the goths, a girl with spiky black hair and shaved eyebrows, wrinkles her nose so harshly I automatically tuck my own nose into my shoulder for a quick armpit whiff.
    â€œWhat?” Scott asks real loud. “You gonna sit next to Count Dykeula, instead?”
    I stand there, deciding, feeling all eyes on me.
    â€œBrodsky, I ain’t asking again,” Scott shouts even louder, pretending to cry. The whole lunchroom—his personal audience—snickers. “You’re going to hurt my feelings.” He’ll go on, I can tell, unless I come to him. Surrendering, I change course toward my quarterback’s table. Scott jabs the redheaded girl, the one leaning against his arm, with a sharp elbow to her side that makes both her and me wince.
    â€œCindy, make some room for our fullback,” Scott commands. Cindy slides over a space while Scott pats the empty bench next to him. “Sit down, man. Sit!”
    Cindy’s eyes do a little dance while taking in my scars. I squeeze my legs between the bench and table while she gets her fill. After I sit, Scott drapes an arm over my shoulders and leans close, talking with a mouth full of french fries.
    â€œOh, yeah, man,” he says, “make some room. Let this boy eat. Stuff it down your throat. We want you nice and big. I hear Ashville’s got a defensive linebacker—Tommy, what’s his name?”
    â€œChandre,” Tom Jankowski answers. “Chandre Jackson.”
    â€œYeah, Chandre Jackson. What kinda ghetto-ass name is Chandre? Anyway, I hear Chandre chomps down on fullbacks for breakfast, puts a little skull on his helmet for every fullback or tailback or receiver he knocks out during a game. Ashville’s coach gives him a little bone as a reward. You believe that? I mean, sheeyit! That’s hard core, yeah?” Scott asks, now chewing up his burger. A fleck of meat or bun sprays my ear.
    â€œBut you put a lick on ol’ Chandre Jackson like you did Studblatz here,” Scott continues, “and we got nothing to worry about. In fact, I’d be willing to bet money that maybe you could lay superbad Chandre out cold. Maybe punch a little hole in his chest, pile-drive him into the turf, and make everyone’s life a little easier. Whaddya