Left Out Read online

  DEDICATION

  For my beautiful and amazing wife, Illyssa,

  the kindest person I’ve ever known

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Author’s Note

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Tim Green

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  The moving van pulled away from the curb, puking a charcoal cloud that spilled down onto the street. The only thing darker than the diesel exhaust was the sky, boiling now with purple clouds and the distant rumble of thunder. Amid shouts of “good-bye” from neighbors and friends, a breeze kicked up, scattering leaves and the exhaust into the yard next door.

  Moving was a good thing. Landon’s mom had gotten an even bigger job in an even nicer place. At least, that’s how she and their dad had tried to sell yet another move to Landon and Genevieve.

  Landon glanced over at his little sister, who leaned out the car window taking pictures of her teary-eyed friends on the front lawn. Good at everything, she was like Landon’s opposite. Genevieve had so much power over her friends that as they waved they were careful to shout not only, “Good-bye, Genevieve, we’ll miss you!” but also, “Good-bye, Landon! Good-bye!”

  Landon could only guess what Genevieve had done to get those good-byes for him. He could easily imagine her threatening that if they didn’t think cheering up her brother was important, obviously they wouldn’t mind if Genevieve removed them from her list of friends. Landon wouldn’t allow himself to enjoy the attention. He saw the show, felt a pang of jealousy, and turned his attention to the book he was reading on his iPad.

  Genevieve nudged him. With tears in her eyes, she pointed out the window. “Look, Landon. They’re saying good-bye to you, too.”

  Landon shrugged and went back to his book, feeling a bit guilty, but knowing that if he acknowledged her friends it would be too painfully obvious he had none of his own. Kip Meyers, standing there with his mom, didn’t count. Landon knew Mrs. Meyers had insisted that Kip make a show of saying good-bye. Her son stood slouched, his hand held up half-heartedly, his beady eyes hidden under long, shaggy hair blown by the wind. Although he had hoodwinked his own mom and Landon’s parents into thinking he was nice, Kip was among the worst of Landon’s tormentors at school.

  “Creep!” “Doofus!” Those were the best of the taunts Landon endured. And he had to admit that with the big earpieces he had to wear along with the thick magnetic discs stuck to the sides of his skull so he could hear some sounds, he often felt alien himself. Like the Wookiee from Star Wars or some other weird monster.

  Whenever he could, he tried to hide the cochlear implants that were attached to his head by wearing his Cleveland Browns cap. But hats weren’t allowed in school, and his mom insisted they not ask for the rules to be bent.

  “Rules are made to be followed, Landon.” His mother would pucker her lips in a prissy manner. “We don’t want anyone to think you need to be treated differently than anyone else. Asking for exceptions suggests ‘special needs,’ and you’re not that.”

  The phrase “special needs” was a red flag in Landon’s home, mostly because of his mother’s guilt. Because she had refused to have Landon tested for any problem when he was a baby, at age four he was diagnosed as a special needs child. People said he would not do well in school. But Landon’s mom insisted he was smart and that the doctors needed to figure out what was really wrong. They finally did, and discovered that Landon couldn’t hear—he was deaf in both ears. After months, he was fitted with cochlear implants, devices that helped him to hear. But the training involved in using them forced him to begin school a year late. That’s why he and his little sister were in the same class. Even though he got good grades, most people still mistook his trouble with hearing and his slightly garbled speech as a sign of mental slowness that meant he had special needs, so whenever those words came up his mother denied them with great gusts of anger.

  The downside to his parents’ insistence that he not be different was that Landon couldn’t wear his cap in school to cover his implants, but the upside was that he could play off his mom’s guilt just like other kids. That age-old strategy of parental manipulation had created a wonderful opportunity when his mother announced that she’d gotten a great new job at SmartChips, which wasn’t a high-tech company but one that made organic snacks.

  When she told him and Genevieve about their next move, from Cleveland to New York, over a dinner of spaghetti and meatballs, Landon faked distress and sadness, but in that instant he’d decided to make a big change. His mother didn’t know that, though.

  Over the next few days, he played the role of a victim with heavy sighs and frowns—all with one big goal in mind. And then he made his move, asking for his mom’s commitment that when they arrived in Bronxville—where she could take the train in and out of the city to work each day—he would be allowed . . . to play football.

  Landon loved football. It was a visual symphony sprinkled with violence that looked like it didn’t really hurt because of all that padding. Landon watched religiously: Sunday, Monday, and Thursday nights. His team was the Browns, but he’d watch anyone and visualize himself in the midst of the fray
. Being big was one of the most important things about football, and Landon knew he was big—really big. But what attracted him most about football was that its players were heroes, universally beloved by the cities in which they played and sometimes nationwide. Landon craved that same universal acceptance and felt sure his goal of being liked would be achieved by becoming part of his own football team.

  As she had every time he’d brought up the idea of playing football in the past, his mom argued again about the dangers of the sport. But Landon insisted that he’d do what she wanted and stop sulking about the move, if she would let him do what he wanted when they got to their new home. He tried to reassure her by saying, “Mom, look at me, I’m huge. I’ll be great on the line.”

  “Well,” she finally said, “you and your father have tired me out. I don’t know if it’s even possible with your implants, but if a doctor says it is, then I don’t see why not.”

  His mother now sat ramrod straight in the driver’s seat, ready for action and adventure. Laura, Genevieve’s best friend, kept waving good-bye to Genevieve, and her mother, Mrs. Meyers, leaned in through the window with one arm on the roof of the car. As if on cue, a crack of lightning split the sky and the girls shrieked and headed for the garage overhang. The wind whipped even harder.

  “Well, Gina.” Mrs. Meyers leaned in for a good-bye hug and then glanced up at the sky. “You and Forrest timed it perfectly, getting out of here in front of this storm.”

  Landon’s mom angled her head to assess the weather up through the windshield.

  “Actually,” she said, “it looks like we’re heading straight into it.”

  2

  As they left the Cleveland suburb with its wide old streets, thick trees, and bright green lawns amid the crack and rumble of thunder, Landon leaned his head against the window and thought about what was to come. He smiled to himself and kept thinking back to his mother’s expression when he made his big move to talk about football.

  “Football?” Her face had gone from shock to amusement and she’d nodded her head like a bobble-head doll before giving him a knowing look. “Your father never played football, you know?”

  Landon had nodded. He knew all about his father, a great big bear of a man who was nearly finished with his third unpublished novel. At six foot ten, Landon’s father was a gentle giant, with fists the size of holiday hams, a peaceable man without a violent bone in his body. Landon’s mother never tired of comparing him to his father.

  “He’s so . . . so . . . calm. That’s Landon. Calm as a summer day!” his mother would say, beaming at him and then back at whoever she was speaking to.

  But Landon knew better. Although he’d never thrown a punch in his life, he fantasized often about getting revenge on his school tormentors on a football field. And what was so pleasant about a summer day? Swimming was the only plus he could see. Give him a pool and a diving board and he became an impressive human cannonball. But because of the extra weight he carried around and the fact that summer heat made his implants more noticeably uncomfortable, he liked fall better. The air was cool and crisp and the surge of football gushed from the TV. Now at his new school, he’d be like one of the NFL stars he’d watched but could never think of being.

  He stared at his mother’s dark curly hair as she guided their Prius carefully out of town with two hands firmly on the wheel, eyes glued to the road, lips tight. In the passenger seat, his father sat hunched over and squished by the confines of the little car, the back of his head snug against the roof and hands folded in his lap. His father would sit that way for hours on end without a peep of discontent. In fact, he’d be wearing a simple smile as he soaked in the nearness of his family and agreed with Landon’s mom on a barrage of ideas.

  Landon leaned toward his sister, who was still looking back, saddened by the loss of so many friends.

  “It will be okay, Genevieve. You’ll make new friends. I know you will.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “It will be good. You’ll make friends and I’ll play football. Yes!” he said with a grin. “That’s what I really want to do.”

  In the mirror he saw his mom’s face tense up, and she shot a glance at Landon’s father as if the whole thing was his fault. “Are you happy now, Forrest? Landon’s looking forward to football. Football.”

  “Right,” his dad said. “He’s a big boy; he’ll be fine, Gina. Watch, it will be good for him.”

  “I told him you never played.”

  His father laughed. “I told him they couldn’t find a helmet big enough for me, and I wasn’t all that keen on it anyway, so I played the tuba in the marching band. Talk about good times. . . .”

  “A marching band . . .” Landon’s mom drifted into a blissful state as she obviously imagined the delights of the marching band.

  “Well, I can’t play music,” Landon reminded them. “But I bet I can block and tackle.”

  Before his mother could reply, the dark sky opened up with a torrent of raindrops that hit the car like bullets. She redoubled her grip on the wheel and set her body against the storm, leaning into it like a hunter. They were on the highway in the passing lane, and a tractor-trailer raced up behind them blaring its horn.

  Landon’s mom made it into the right lane, and the ghostly shape of the truck cruised past like a sea monster, its taillights barely visible through the backsplash.

  As they crawled along in silence, hazard lights blinking on and off, Landon grinned to himself about his victory in being able to play football. The idea of beginning practice in just two short weeks gave him goosebumps.

  Over an hour later, they finally got clear of the storm and his mother was able to increase their speed. Then she picked up right where they’d left off.

  “What do you know about blocking and tackling, Landon?” she asked.

  Landon took a breath and surprised everyone. “Keep your head up. Hit ’em hard. Chop your feet!”

  Landon started stamping his feet on the floor in a quick staccato rhythm, the way he’d seen it done on YouTube. He got carried away until his mother shouted, “Stop that, Landon! Just stop.”

  They rode in silence again before his mother reminded Landon of the deal. “All we have to do is make sure the doctor will allow it. Football is okay with me, I said that, but we will have to make sure the doctor is all right with it. We’ll see him the week after next.”

  Then she latched on to a new idea. “And what about a helmet? You might not be able to find one. Your head isn’t as big as your father’s, but the implants might be a problem, Landon. I didn’t even think of that, and I’m sure you didn’t either.”

  Landon nodded and grinned. Without speaking, he stroked his iPad a few times before handing it up to his father, who studied the page in front of him. “Actually, he has thought of it, Gina. Here’s an article right here about an Ohio kid named Adam Strecker. They’ve got helmets for kids with implants. Football helmets. Look . . .”

  His father held up the iPad for her to see, but she swatted it away. “I’m driving, Forrest.”

  Landon took the iPad back. He’d scored points and taken a big lead against his mother, but he knew it wasn’t over. She would fight to the end. That was her nature. But Landon knew he could fight too, just as hard.

  He tabbed open his book and pretended to read as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He did have cares, though. Even though he’d spent his life pretending nothing bothered him, many things did. It bothered him that because of how he talked people thought he was special needs. It bothered him when people snickered at his clumsy size or whispered and pointed at the discs magnetically attached to his head. It bothered him that he had no friends, and it bothered him that there’d been no group outside of his family where he’d ever fit in.

  That could all change now. The hope sent a shiver up his spine. He stared at the words on the screen without reading them. In his mind he was dressed in shoulder pads and a helmet, and he was marching out onto the field with his teammates, a band of brothers. They were tall
and proud and ready for anything. When they all put their hands in for a common cheer, Landon’s would be right there, one of the many.

  That’s all he wanted: to be, at long last, one of the many.

  3

  They’d stopped halfway to New York to sleep in a motel but were on the road again early the next day. That afternoon they drove through town and pulled up through a pair of gates and along a long driveway past a big front lawn bathed in sunshine. The house, huge and impressive sitting among a host of trees, had thick brown beams, white plaster, and a heavy slate stone roof.

  “Wow.” Genevieve pushed her face to the glass. “Are we rich?”

  “No,” their mother said in her fussy way. “We are comfortable. I wouldn’t say rich.”

  “Okay.” Genevieve’s green eyes were alight as if she didn’t believe it. “But we have a pool, right? You said there’s a pool.”

  “It’s out back!” Their mother couldn’t hide her pride at bringing her family to such a great spot. She stopped the car outside the triple garage door on the side of the house. The moving van was already there, backed up and unloading furniture.

  “When you said ‘Bronx’ I didn’t think it would be like this,” Landon’s sister said. “All these trees.”

  “It’s Bronxville,” their father said, slipping out of the car and stretching as he assessed their new home.

  “The Bronxville Broncos won the New York State Championship,” Landon said, referring to the high school football team. He’d play with them when he was old enough.

  “I need to keep an eye on these movers,” their mother said. “Forrest, can you take the kids and get some lunch and some groceries?”

  “What about you?” Landon’s father asked.

  “Bring back a salad, spinach if they have it. I’ll take care of things here.” Their mother walked away, already organizing the movers.

  “Well . . .” Their dad looked at the Prius as if it were a dangerous dog, and Landon knew he didn’t relish the thought of wedging himself back inside. “Let’s take a walk. Good? We’re not far from the center of town, and my legs could use it.”

  Landon tucked his iPad under one arm, tugged on his Cleveland Browns cap, and set off with his father and sister. They lived on Crow’s Nest Road, which fed right into Pondfield, the main street of Bronxville. The sun warmed the tree-lined street, but it wasn’t too hot. The big houses stood mostly silent. Only an occasional car cruised by. It was as if they had Bronxville mostly to themselves and the pleasant summer day was a greeting to them, a new beginning.