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All around him people were screaming and crying, but Danny didn’t know what all the fuss was about. He looked down at Jackson’s body lying still and lifeless on the green. It was Jackson. He would be fine, Danny thought distantly. They’d all been knocked loopy a few times while playing the game, Jackson included, but they’d always got up and shook it off. That’s just how it worked; it’s what lacrosse players did.
But Jackson wasn’t getting up and there was blood. So much blood, on his chest and stomach, on his hands, and Danny had no idea what was going on. He watched McCall’s mother and Lydia try to resuscitate Jackson, but he couldn’t understand why that was even necessary because Jackson should be breathing. Why wasn’t Jackson breathing? It made no sense.
Someone beside Danny was crying, sobbing, and… Greenberg? It was Greenberg, bawling his eyes out and Danny thought that maybe Greenberg had lost it for real this time. Greenberg was babbling and blubbering and there were tears and snot on his face and it was gross, man. But then, Lydia was crying, too and that woke Danny up in a way that Greenberg’s weird, emotional diarrhea hadn’t, because Lydia didn’t do that. Lydia was the ice queen, the one who was always in control. Even with some of the weird shit she’d done lately, she’d always reined it in quickly, held her head high and defiantly, and pushed on.
But now she was sobbing over Jackson’s body, petting his hair over and over, kissing his forehead, and saying, “Please, Jackson, please.” And then McCall’s mother was shaking her head sadly and moving aside for the paramedics who’d finally arrived.
They worked on Jackson, pushed a tube down his throat and put a mask on his face and squeezed a bag to force air into him, to try to make him breathe (why wasn’t he breathing) but nothing happened. They used a defibrillator on him and Jackson’s body twitched, but then… nothing. Danny wondered if the machine was working right because it was nothing like it was on TV and in movies. There was no loud noise, Jackson’s body didn’t arch up off the ground, he just… twitched.
Suddenly, Danny started feeling sick. Like, really sick and he sucked in a few deep breaths to try to quell the nausea. The extra air just made him lightheaded and even more nauseous. He had the thought then that it must have been the pizza that he and Jackson ate before the game. It must have been off or something, and he thought he should probably tell the paramedics because if they knew that Jackson just ate bad pizza, maybe they could help him. But then Lydia stood and with a shaking hand, wiped away the sweat that had beaded above her upper lip and her hand left a dark smear of blood behind. A little blood mustache. And Danny thought, ‘blood’, and he knew that there was nothing wrong with the fucking pizza.
Dimly, he heard people whispering beside him, heard a low, soft voice say, ‘Danny?’, felt a warm hand on his arm. There was more murmuring around him and then he heard McCall saying in a worried-sounding voice, ‘I don’t know, man, he’s lookin’ kinda green,’ and that was when Danny’s stomach decided to check out.
He spun around and fell to his knees and his stomach just heaved, and he got to see that pizza again, up close, along with the pre-game cookies Jackson’s mom always made for them. His stomach kept contracting painfully, over and over, until he was seeing big black spots in his vision and all that was coming out of him was a pitiful stream of frothy liquid. He almost blacked out, or maybe he did just a little, but he never hit the ground because there was a hand supporting his forehead and a strong arm around his shoulders holding him up. Whoever was keeping him upright started easing him down to the grass, maneuvering him into a sitting position and pressing his head down between his knees.
Danny glanced up. It was Lahey, looking at him with concern, and then McCall was there, holding a bottle of water to Danny’s lips. He took a sip and swished it around in his mouth and Isaac held him up when he twisted around to spit it out into the grass behind him. He put his head back between his knees and tried to breathe normally but all he could do was suck in shallow little gasps of air, air that reeked of blood and vomit. He felt that warm hand again – no, not warm, hot – this time rubbing circles on his back, and the heat leaching through the thin fabric of his lacrosse jersey was soothing.
Lahey was murmuring, “Slow down, Danny. Slow, deep breaths, man,” and his hand came up to grip Danny’s shoulder firmly. It was a little weird, really, how tightly Lahey was holding on but then Danny thought that everyone was probably kind of messed up and acting weird right then.
Isaac’s grip eased, though, after McCall whispered something that Danny couldn’t quite make out. It sounded like, ‘That only works with physical pain, dude,’ and his voice had sounded sad, but none of that made any kind of sense to Danny. Nothing was making any kind of sense.
And then Danny’s dad was there and he was kneeling in the grass beside him, his hand stroking through Danny’s hair, and his dad kissed him on the side of the head and said, “Come on, son. Come on, let’s get you home.”
“But…Jackson,” Danny said and when he looked up at his dad, his dad was crying and that was when Danny knew for sure. For real. Suddenly, reality came crashing down around him and he knew. Jackson wasn’t going to shake this off. Whatever this was, Jackson wasn’t going to be getting up, he wasn’t going to be okay.
And then Danny did something he hadn’t done since he was nine years old. He cried.
His dad and Isaac helped him stand and as his dad put a strong arm around his waist and started to lead him off the field, Danny felt Isaac’s and McCall’s hands patting his back, rubbing his shoulder. They didn’t say anything, though. What was there to say? But their faces were sympathetic and sad, and Danny gave them a little nod before turning and making his way slowly off the field.
Danny leaned heavily into his dad and halfway to the bleachers he stopped and turned, looked back at Jackson’s body, and said, “I should go back…Jackson…I should…”
But then his dad’s hands cupped his face, turned his head away from the spectacle on the field, and he said, “He’s gone, keiki,” and Danny’s dad hadn’t called him ‘keiki’ since he was maybe five years old and hearing it again now made Danny’s eyes prickle and burn. “There’s nothing you can do. The deputy said someone would call tomorrow, probably ask you some questions, but there’s nothing we can do tonight. Okay?”
Danny nodded, his eyes watering, and he put his face against his father’s broad chest. His hands clung tightly to his dad’s shirt and he just rested there for a minute and let his dad make him feel small again, safe and protected.
When Danny raised his head, he glanced toward the crowd around Jackson one last time and saw Lahey watching him, his eyes large and dark. Danny turned away, letting his dad steer him toward their car.
His back still felt warm from Isaac Lahey’s hands.