Overpowered Read online

“That’s what they all say. It’s just one game. But it’s the gateway sport. Next thing you know . . .”

  I let out a small, involuntary laugh. I was just getting to know him and wasn’t sure he was actually joking. “Wait, you’re actually comparing watching football to getting addicted to drugs?”

  For dramatic effect, he shook his head like a parent scolding a naughty child. “Don’t you get it, Nica? This is how they hook you. After football, it’s basketball games. Then baseball and hockey. And then maybe even cheerleading. Who knows where all this school spirit will lead?”

  He looked at me with a most serious expression. I stared back. Okay, maybe he was serious. But then he burst out laughing.

  “You had me going there for a minute! You’re seriously warped, Oliver. You know that?” And I thought I was weird.

  “Highly imaginative, according to my mom and all standardized exams.”

  Even though I didn’t know his mother, I thought she was right. I was learning that Oliver had a wicked sense of humor, and he could make me laugh hard. Which counted for a lot.

  “And your dad? What does he think?”

  “Not much. What I mean is I don’t know, since he died before I was born.”

  “That’s awful. What happened?”

  “An accident or something. I’m not really sure.”

  His tone was matter-of-fact and casual, but when I asked him why he wasn’t sure, I immediately saw that he was putting on an act.

  He shook his head and shrugged. “My mother doesn’t like talking about it. Too many painful memories, I suppose. Anyway, no dad.”

  “Sorry. I really am.” I felt terrible about raising the subject and pressing him on it. Sometimes I was as clueless as my mom. Like the way she could grill me about sensitive topics, like boys or sex, as if I were the subject of some article she was writing.

  Oliver shrugged it off. “You can’t miss what you never had.” But then he kept talking. “I guess. I mean, I don’t remember my parents ever being together. You know, married. And yet I’ve always felt like something’s missing. Like there’s a big void I keep trying to fill.”

  It was as if he was confiding in his dearest friend, but we’d only met a day ago. I realized I had never admitted such deep dark feelings to anyone before. But even though we barely knew each other, Oliver trusted me, and I him. Still, I wasn’t sure why.

  “Curse of the only child,” said Oliver. “We’ve got no older siblings to fill in the blanks. The things we missed.” Oliver’s face suddenly crinkled. Sadness mixed with regret.

  I nodded, thankful to have found a friend who understood what it was like to feel alone in one’s own family. Even though I loved my parents, I didn’t think they knew me or understood me. Not what I was really feeling, otherwise they never would’ve shipped me here to live. It was like we were these three planets orbiting the universe, occasionally coming into contact with one another. I took a big gulp of Vitaminwater, suddenly uncomfortable with the awkward silence that hung between us.

  Quickly changing the mood, Oliver smiled brightly and said, “By the way, how excellent are these wraps?”

  “They’re genius,” I replied, as I finished mine off with an approving smile. But I was still wondering why Oliver’s mother would be so mysterious about how his father died.

  • • •

  After school I persuaded Oliver (begged, bribed, then bullied, actually) into tagging along with me to the football game. As cool as I pretended to be about the whole event, I knew I wasn’t quite brave enough to stomach sitting near Maya and her friends for the entire game by myself. And forget about hanging out afterward. I needed Oliver’s moral support. All this togetherness, perpetual grinning, and rah-rah school-spirit stuff was still alien to me (in Thailand team sports like basketball and soccer were popular, but after-school games weren’t big deals. Neither were they in most of the other places I’d lived either). Plus being a social butterfly didn’t come easily to a natural loner like myself.

  Turnout was surprisingly huge. The thousand-seat bleachers were filled to capacity. It seemed like at least half the school was in attendance, along with parents and friends. Oliver said it was always that way, though he’d only gone once before. Going to the game was a major social event. Especially for Maya and her girls, who did an impressive job stoking the enthusiastic crowd with lots of cheers, high-flying moves, and fancy routines. I was exhausted just watching them.

  The game started promptly at four p.m. That seemed a bit on the early side to me but no surprise given the town curfew was ridiculously early too. The game was a real nail-biter as high school games go, or so I was told. Fairview High was a pretty tough opponent. The score was tied 7-7 until late in the fourth quarter, when our star quarterback, Chase Cochran, threw an epic pass to his buddy Kyle that helped the Cougars score the winning touchdown. Game over.

  The bleachers erupted with a chorus of cheering, bringing everyone to their feet. Even me. I had to (begrudgingly) admit it was all sort of fun. Not that I was intending to make a habit of attending football games, but even Oliver got into the spirit. By the final seconds we were both on our feet, shouting at the top of our lungs along with everyone else.

  I looked around at all the kids in the stands, respectfully cheering and incredibly well behaved. There was no raucous shouting or name-calling like I had witnessed at soccer games overseas. “So what’s the deal with this town anyway?”

  “What do you mean? It’s just a town.” Oliver looked truly puzzled, like I had just asked him a question in Swahili.

  “One where all the teenagers are relentlessly cheerful, well dressed, and polite. It’s sort of bizarre, like we’re in some sort of time warp, from fifty years ago.”

  Oliver scoffed. “Only fifty?”

  “What about this curfew? It’s ridiculous,” I snapped back. I couldn’t believe he was actually debating this point.

  “Keeps the riffraff off the streets,” he replied flippantly.

  “Hasn’t stopped Rebel Boy from cruising about at all hours.” I looked over at Jackson, who much to my delight and surprise was watching the game alone from way across the field.

  “Some dudes are just asking for trouble.” Oliver sighed and shook his head as we climbed down the stands toward the field along with everyone else.

  • • •

  We met up with Chase and Maya, and I congratulated them on their stellar performances. It was nearly six fifteen p.m. They asked me to join the team and cheerleaders for their ritual postgame pizzas, but I had already promised Oliver we’d do something after, so I declined.

  “You’ve got to come,” Chase insisted. When he saw me steal a glance at Oliver, he added, “And Oliver can come too.”

  Oliver shrugged and replied, “Whatever.”

  And so the matter was settled. It was a quick half-mile stroll to the center of town from school. We took over Violetta’s, a traditional pizzeria with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, empty wine bottles recycled as lamps, and walls lined with black-and-white photos of old-time singers like Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. I felt like I was watching an old American movie, except I was in it. Chase and Maya sat at the center of a long table like a king and queen. Everyone was joking and laughing, while scarfing down seven delicious pepperoni-and-extra-cheese pies in record time. I had three slices. Who knew that merely watching a football game could make you so hungry?

  When it came time to pay the bill, Chase threw down two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, picking up the hundred-forty-nine-dollar tab for everyone without discussion.

  “You rock, Chase,” a couple of the kids said. It was ridiculously generous. But I felt a little weird about him paying for me along with sixteen others. Back in Thailand and most of the other places I’d lived, people would invite each other over for lavish home-cooked meals, but none of the kids I knew walked around with more than just a few dollars in their pockets. I slipped an extra five dollars into the tip jar as we all left and went our separate wa
ys home.

  • • •

  “Does Chase always do that?” I asked Oliver as we hiked through some dense woods at the edge of town. It was 7:05 p.m. and I was conscious of the hour. This town did have that annoying curfew. Oliver conveniently lived just a few blocks away from my dad’s house, so he was showing me this shortcut as we walked home together.

  “Do what?”

  “Pick up the check like it’s no big deal?”

  “It isn’t a big deal to him. He’s rich. As in rich rich. His dad owns most of Bar Tech Industries. And Chase likes to spread the wealth among friends.”

  “Which explains his extreme popularity.” Not that I was envious or anything. In fact I was always pretty careful when it came to spending money. Super frugal, according to my mother. Some kids might be impressed with Chase’s ostentatious display of wealth, but not me. Living in third-world countries like India, Tanzania, and Morocco, I saw real poverty and suffering, and I never took anything I had for granted.

  “That and the fact Chase is also a total hottie,” Oliver quipped with a shrug of his shoulders. “According to most girls.”

  “If you like that sort of thing. Muscles and all,” I joked, even though I had to begrudgingly admit that Oliver was right. Chase was hot.

  • • •

  I was surprised to find my dad at home when I walked up the driveway a few minutes later. It was not even 7:25 p.m. He was in the backyard busily grilling some kind of white fish for dinner—halibut I think.

  “You’re home late,” my dad commented as he expertly flipped the fish on the grill. I had texted him not to pick me up after school.

  “My friend Oliver showed me the scenic route,” I admitted as I opened the door to go inside the house. “That’s allowed, isn’t it? Walking home from school?” I couldn’t help but make a pointed remark about curfew and all the rules in Barrington.

  “Of course it’s allowed,” he replied with an unusual trace of paternal concern. “I just like to know where my daughter is.”

  I nodded, though I was a bit surprised by my father’s unexpected overprotectiveness. He then said he had to get back to the hospital later and didn’t want to miss having dinner with me. Which was kind of sweet but also very much my dad.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was so stuffed on pizza that I might not eat for a week. Instead I sat with him at the kitchen table and forced myself to eat fish and salad while telling him about my eventful day, football game and all.

  “Sounds like you’re really settling in.” He acted pleased and maybe even a bit relieved by my apparent social evolution from outsider to (almost) Miss Popularity in a matter of days. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the whole situation, so I just nodded back, which seemed to reassure him that his only child was happy.

  • • •

  My father left the house to go back to the hospital. He had patients to look in on or something medical to attend to; he wasn’t very specific. Later that night I was feeling pretty antsy and took a break from homework. I went online and checked e-mails. There were two from my mother, both asking if everything was okay. She was traveling to Tierra del Fuego at the tip of Argentina, so she said it would probably be several days before I’d hear from her again, but if there was an emergency I could contact the magazine and they would track her down. I told her that I was fine and not to worry. Lai texted me to say she’d had a great second date with Pak and she’d give me the details later. Just as I was replying to Lai, my dad called and said he’d be home late and not to wait up. No other explanation. I was still jet-lagged, so I told him not to worry.

  I sat on my bed and sighed, just staring at the four walls, assessing my somewhat limited amusement options. It wasn’t even eight thirty. My dad had an ancient TV set with only basic cable and marginal picture quality. I was hardly in the mood to watch the super-thrilling CSI marathon or equally exciting MTV VJ Hunt: Exposed. Nor was I the least bit tired.

  I slipped out the kitchen door into the backyard. It was nearly pitch-dark except for a tiny sliver of a crescent moon hanging high in the blue-black sky. I stood there and gazed up at it. A sea of stars surrounded the moon, twinkling and sparkling, way too many to count. It was a beautiful, warm night. I really had no intention of doing anything other than just lazing on a chaise, when I noticed that the garage door was open. I realized my father must’ve forgotten to close it when he left for the hospital.

  The two-car garage was a separate, freestanding structure at the back of the property. I hadn’t bothered to pay too much attention to it before that night. It was only a garage, after all. I walked over, intending to hit the electric button to shut the door, when something inside caught my eye.

  It wasn’t my father’s impressive set of power tools, which were neatly displayed on the left wall. My dad prided himself on being pretty handy around the house. He always hated calling a plumber or electrician, convinced he could fix any problem big or small. Judging by the leaky faucet in the downstairs bathroom and the two unhinged cabinet doors in the kitchen, the jury was still out on whether he could.

  What drew my attention was the black tarp that was covering up something in the middle of the garage. I lifted it up, ever curious. Underneath I was stunned to discover a beautifully restored Indian motorcycle—a relic from my father’s more adventurous youth, no doubt. I recalled my dad once telling me that Indian was the first American motorcycle company, even before there ever was a Harley-Davidson. This bike in particular—a gorgeous, copper-colored, completely restored 1948 Indian Chief Roadmaster—was all shiny steel and curvy fenders.

  I hopped aboard the molded black leather seat. It felt amazingly cushy and comfortable, as did those sleek handlebars, which elbowed out and down at a forty-five-degree angle. When I glanced down at the speedometer and fuel gauge, I saw a key dangling from the ignition.

  The key.

  I couldn’t help but touch it. My fingers couldn’t resist temptation. I bit my lip, debating whether I should jump off the bike, pull the tarp back over it, and just close the garage and forget I ever saw it . . . or turn that little key. . . .

  • • •

  Under the dim glow of the streetlights, I wheeled the bike down the driveway to the deserted street. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, and there wasn’t a person in sight. I turned the key in the ignition and heard a click. Then a purring like a tiger waking up—a low, guttural sound.

  My dad had taught me how to drive smaller bikes before—mopeds and 125cc motorcycles, mostly in Chile and Thailand—so I wasn’t too worried about being able to handle my dad’s bike. I only intended to take her for a quick spin around the neighborhood. A few short blocks—ten minutes max and then back into the garage. I’d be home before curfew. No one would need to know, least of all my dad. But once I was on her and we got going, I lost track of what time it was. I felt totally revved up. Forget about being jet-lagged and getting a decent night’s sleep.

  I turned the corner and just kept going . . . feeling free, wind in my hair. Born to be wild, as the song says. I realized it was something I hadn’t felt since arriving in Barrington.

  • • •

  I had been riding on the old service road for what felt like just a few minutes when suddenly bright red and white flashing lights whirled behind me.

  At first I thought it must be the Barrington police. Great. Just what I needed: to get arrested for riding a motorcycle. My dad would be furious. I could already imagine his massive disappointment: his good girl gone bad. For a split second I thought about racing off. But even I knew better than to try and outrun the cops—even on a fast bike—so I quickly pulled over, prepared to face the grim consequences. Like being grounded for a whole year without my cell phone or the Internet, or something equally horrific.

  But when I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw that these guys weren’t the police at all. Their large white van was inscribed with the red BTS logo. They were Bar Tech Security—Barrington’s private security patro
l. I remembered what my dad had said about them. I wondered if they were more like mall cops or if they had any real authority.

  Two security guards in navy-blue uniforms got out of the van and walked toward me, shining flashlights in my face. The first was a big beefy dude with a goatee and huge hands who looked to be maybe thirty. He wore a school class ring, a big badge with his name on it, and a very stern expression. He was a lot more threatening than I’d expected.

  “You have any idea what time it is?” Officer Lorentz glared right at me.

  “Sorry, Officer. I left my watch at home.” Which was totally true, I never wear one, but Officer Lorentz wasn’t buying my lame excuse.

  “Which is where you should be. That your bike?”

  I shook my head rather guiltily. “It’s my dad’s.”

  “Does he know you’re breaking curfew?”

  “Of course. He thinks curfew is for losers.” That’s what I wanted to say, but no words would come out of my mouth. The truth was, I was terrified. I had lost track of time and had had no idea that it was already after nine p.m. I just shook my head.

  The other guard, a young brunette in her late twenties, shone her flashlight right in my face, probably to see if I was drunk, or high, or just plain nuts. She introduced herself as Officer Korey, and she looked even tougher and meaner than her partner, despite a beautiful French manicure.

  “Can I see your license?” She held out her hand, demanding it.

  I fished through my pockets and pulled out a ratty slip of paper, which I handed to her. She scrutinized it, then gave me a cold look. I started to imagine what the punishment could be for curfew infractions—a huge fine and maybe being locked up in jail for a week—when I heard her speak again.

  “This is only a learner’s permit. From Thailand.” She exchanged a harsh glance with her partner. They didn’t say a word, but I could almost read their thoughts. They were going to teach me a lesson.

  Feeling desperate, I started rambling, pleading for mercy. “Officers, I’m really, really sorry. I got lost. You see, I just moved here from Thailand—only a few days ago, in fact . . . and, um . . . well, I didn’t realize how late it was, not to mention I am totally planning on taking the driving test here as soon as I can. Weather permitting.”