Making Faces(17)

“I thought you weren't drinking anymore!” Grant frowned.

“Season's over, man, and I am officially drinking again,” Beans declared cheerfully, taking a long pull and wiping his grin with the back of his hand. He offered it to Jesse, and Jesse gladly took a swig, shuddering as the fiery liquid burned a path to his stomach.

The only one who didn't seem to have anything to say was Ambrose. But that wasn't abnormal. Ambrose spoke up rarely, and when he did, most people listened. In fact, he was the reason they were there, in the middle of nowhere on a Saturday night. Since the army recruiter had come to the school, Ambrose hadn’t been able to think of anything else. The five of them had sat on the back row of the auditorium, snickering, making jokes about boot camp being a walk in the park compared to Coach Sheen's wrestling practices. Except Ambrose. He hadn’t snickered or made jokes. He had listened quietly, his dark eyes fixed on the recruiter, his posture tense, his hands clasped in his lap.

They were all seniors, and they would all be graduating in a couple of months. Wrestling season had ended two weeks ago, and they were already restless--maybe more than they had ever been--because there would be no more seasons, nothing to train for, no more matches to dream about, no victories to enjoy. They were done. Done . . . except Ambrose who had been highly recruited by several schools and who had the academics and the athletic record to go to Penn State on a full-ride. He was the only one who had a way out.

They stood on the precipice of enormous change, and none of them, not even Ambrose–especially not Ambrose–were excited about the prospect. But whether or not they chose to take a step into the unknown, the unknown would still come, the yawning precipice would still swallow them whole, and life as they knew it would be over. And they had all become highly aware of the end.

“What are we doing here, Brosey?” Jesse finally said what they'd all been thinking. As a result, four pairs of eyes narrowed in on Ambrose’s face. It was a strong face, a face more prone to introspection than jest. It was a face the girls were drawn to and the guys secretly coveted. Ambrose Young was a guy’s guy, though, and his friends had always felt safest in his presence, as if just by being near him, some of his luster would rub off on them. And it wasn't just his size or good looks or the Samson-like hair that he wore to his shoulders in defiance of the style or the fact that it bothered Coach Sheen. It was the fact that life had fallen into place for Ambrose Young, right from the start, and watching him, you believed it always would. There was something comforting in that.

“I signed up,” Ambrose said, his words clipped and final.

“For what? School? Yeah. We know, Brosey. Don't rub it in.” Grant laughed, but the sound was pained. There had been no scholarships for Grant Nielson, though he'd finished in the top of his class. Grant was a good wrestler, not a great wrestler, and Pennsylvania was known for their wrestlers. You had to be a great wrestler to get a scholarship. And there was no money in some savings account for college. Grant would get there, but he would have to work his way through . . . slowly.

“Nah. Not for school.” Ambrose sighed, and Grant's face twisted in confusion.

“Ho–ly shit.” Beans drew the words out on a long whisper. He may have been on his way to being drunk, but the kid wasn't slow. “That recruiter! I saw you talking to him. You wanna be a soldier?”

There was a shocked intake of breath as Ambrose Young met the stunned gazes of his four best friends. “I haven't even told Elliott. But I'm going. I'm just wondering if any of you want to come with me.”

“So, what? You brought us out here to soften us up? Make us feel all patriotic or somethin'?” Jesse said. “'Cause that ain't enough, Brosey. Hell, what are you thinkin', man? You could get a leg blown off or something. Then how you gonna wrestle? Then it's over! You got it made! You got Penn freakin' State. What? You want the Hawkeyes? They'd take you, ya know. A big guy that moves like a little guy–a 197 pounder that shoots like he's still 152? What you bench pressin' now, Brose? There isn't anyone who can hang with you, man! You gotta go to school!”

Jesse didn't stop talking as they left the makeshift memorial and pulled back out onto the highway heading for home. Jesse had been a state champ too, just like Ambrose. But Ambrose hadn't just done it once. Four-time state champ, undefeated the last three years, the first Pennsylvania wrestler to win a state championship as a freshman in the upper weights. He'd been 160 pounds as a freshman. His only loss had come early in the year at the hands of the reigning state champ, who was a senior. Ambrose pinned him at state. That win had put him in the record books.

Jesse threw his hands up and swore, letting loose a string of obscenities that made even Beans, Mr. foul-mouth himself, feel a little uncomfortable. Jesse would kill to be in Ambrose's position.

“You got it made, man!” he said again, shaking his head. Beans handed Jesse the flask and patted his back, trying to soothe his incredulous friend.

They rode in silence once more. Grant was at the wheel out of habit. He never drank and had designated himself the driver and caretaker ever since they all started driving, even though Paulie and Ambrose hadn't partaken in the comfort that Beans had to offer that night.

“I'm in,” Grant said quietly.

“What?” Jesse screeched, spilling what was left in the flask down the front of his shirt.