Painting the Black (10 page)

Bo Jackson made it from home to first in something like three seconds. I wasn't doing that, not by a long shot. But I wasn't taking six seconds either. And nothing hurt. As I walked home, I could have sung with joy. Josh, for all his touchdown passes, couldn't have felt better than I did.

That was an amazing time. Everything seemed possible. Josh was living out his dream; I was getting ready to live out mine. I look back at those days now and wonder if I somehow could have stopped what happened later, if I should have seen it coming and done something about it. But the little things seem harmless. Who can know where they will lead?

Take the lunchroom tables' being pushed together. I didn't see it happen. I came into the cafeteria the Monday after we'd beaten Lakeside 49–0 and it was done: three long tables right in a row. Every senior and most of the juniors on the football team were sitting at one of those tables. Josh was at the center of them all.

Moving tables is against the rules. It's got to do with gangs—with keeping large groups from forming. Whenever anybody else had pushed even two tables together, Mr. Phelps, the cafeteria supervisor, had pulled them apart. But Phelps looked the other way when the football players did it. You win six games and you get to bend the rules.

It was strange what pushing those tables together did. Josh and Jamaal and Bethel and Colby and Brandon had sat at that center table all through the winning streak. Nobody would have called them quiet, but they weren't out of control, or anywhere near it. But once three tables were pushed together, once five guys had become fifteen or twenty, everything changed.

There was some arguing, and a little food throwing, but it was girls mainly. Every time one walked by, guys would whistle or stomp their feet or hang their tongues out. Sometimes one of them would fake-grab for her as she passed, or maybe even grab at her a little, depending on who he was or who she was.

Once in a while a girl would complain to Phelps. Then he'd go over and tell them to settle down. He'd always talk to Josh. Josh would talk to the other guys, who would be quieter for a little while. But only for a little while.

Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Josh threw three more touchdown passes as we crushed Blanchet 41–12 to go 8–0. That set up the showdown game with O'Dea, the season-ending finale. The winner would be the league champion and would go to the state tournament as the favorite. The loser would go home.

Monday morning the halls and classrooms were buzzing with football talk. The football players roared to one another in the halls, roared and banged forearms and chanted: “Beat O'Dea!” Other kids took up the chant. All you heard was how we were going to swamp O'Dea, how this was our year, how nothing could stop us.

In the cafeteria, Josh and the other football players started a whole new thing. Whenever a girl walked by, they would rate her, screaming “Nine!” or “Eight!” if she was nice looking. If she wasn't, they'd get nasty. “Minus Two!” “Minus Six!” It wasn't that funny, but the whole bunch of them would howl and pound on the tables with their fists.

I was just bussing my dishes when Celeste Honor began her little walk. She was wearing one of those tops that are half a top, a little white thing that barely covered her. As she neared the football players, they started whistling and laughing and chanting “Ten! Ten! Ten!” and calling out other things too.

Celeste didn't blink. She strolled by, chin up, chest out, a little smile playing on her lips. As she passed him, Josh stood and tiptoed up behind her, his eyes wide with excitement. He grinned at the other football players, and he put his index finger to his lips in the classic “Shhhh!” gesture. His buddies all went quiet. The whole place went quiet. Josh slowly reached forward, gently taking hold of the sides of Celeste's little top in his fingertips. In an instant he pulled it up. I saw a splash of pink bra before she jerked her arms downward, sending her tray and all the food on it crashing to the floor. She wheeled around and looked at Josh for an instant. Then her face turned bright red and she ran out of the cafeteria. The football players exploded in riotous laughter. Josh grinned back at them.

A second later Monica Roby was up in his face. “That was a real jerk thing to do,” she shouted.

“Really?” Josh said, laughing and looking back over his shoulder at his friends.

“Yeah, really,” Monica answered scornfully.

“I thought it was pretty funny,” he said, finally looking at her.

“Well, you're wrong,” she snapped, and her eyes bore into him, fixing him the way a hunter fixes his prey.

“Oh, is that right?” he shot back at her.

“Yeah,” she said, still burning him up with those eyes. “That's right.” Then she walked past him and out of the cafeteria, leaving him alone with Celeste's spilled tray of food at his feet and the eyes of the school on him.

Phelps finally showed up. “What's going on here?” he asked. “What happened?”

Josh shook his head. “Nothing's going on,” he said. “Nothing happened.”

I did my typical workout after school that day. Normally it would have worn me out, but after dinner was done I was still wound up. I walked over to the Community Center. I needed to blow off some steam.

The field lights were on, so I decided to work on running from first to third. There's an art in catching second base just right, in stride and on the inside part of the bag. It can be the difference between being out or safe on a close play at third, but it's hard to do. Even major leaguers blow it.

I was lousy at cutting that corner, and I didn't get any better that evening. The whole time I was running my mind was going a mile a minute. I wasn't thinking about baseball; I was thinking about Celeste.

You could say she'd been asking for it, at least a little. Dressing the way she did, strutting around every lunch period—she liked the attention she got. She liked it a lot. But doing what Josh did, right in front of everybody, humiliating her like that—it wasn't right.

I don't know how many times I went over that scene in my mind. And I don't know how many times I ran from first to third. My mind shut off and I went into a kind of trance until a voice snapped me out of it. “Not bad!”

I looked up to see Josh sitting in the bleachers.

“How long have you been watching me?” I asked, a little embarrassed.

“Not long,” he answered. Then he paused. “I didn't know you were doing stuff on your own.”

“I'm just trying to get in shape.”

“Keep going,” he said. “Don't let me stop you.”

“No,” I answered, heading off the field. “I'm done.”

“Let's go to Robertino's,” he said. “We can get something.”

I knew he'd searched me out because he wanted something. But it wasn't until we were eating that he spilled it.

“Ryan, what's Haskin like?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Haskin? You mean the principal?”

“Yeah. Him. What's he like?”

“I don't know. I've never spoken a word to him. Why?”

Josh frowned. “He left a message on the answering machine. He wants to meet with me and my parents tomorrow.” He paused. “You were in the cafeteria today, weren't you?”

“Sure. I was there.”

“You don't think he'd suspend me, do you? He wouldn't do that, not with the O'Dea game this weekend. I mean, he wants to win too, don't you think?”

“I don't think he'll suspend you,” I said, “but I don't know for sure.”

He frowned. “It was your friend Monica Roby who made a stink about it, you know.”

My chest tightened. I felt as though he was somehow blaming me. “You did a dumb thing, Josh. And I warned you about her.”

He scowled. “I think about that first time I saw Monica and how I was going to move on her. What a joke!”

We sat for a while, both of us thinking of the summer, neither of us saying anything. “Let's go home,” Josh said at last.

When I stepped into Ms. Hurley's classroom the next morning, I looked for Josh. He wasn't there. Every time the door opened my eyes shot over to it. But when the tardy bell rang, Josh's desk was still empty. Ms. Hurley took roll, and then she started talking about
Walden
and how Thoreau moved out of his house and into a cabin in the woods because there was too much junk cluttering up his life.

She asked us to consider what clutters up our lives, and a million things came to my mind. Television, radio, billboards, 7-Elevens, clothes, shoes, magazines, books. It suddenly seemed to me that almost everything in the world was junk.

I was about to raise my hand when the door opened. Josh stepped quickly up to the front of the room, handed Ms. Hurley a pass, and then took his seat next to me.

“Everything okay?” I whispered.

He rolled his hand back and forth in front of him in a gesture that meant “so-so.” Then he slumped into his seat.

I kept peeking at the clock, waiting for the end of the hour when we could really talk. With ten minutes left in class, Ms. Hurley passed out discussion questions. “Form small groups and talk about these among yourselves.”

I pulled up next to Josh. “Tell me what happened.”

He shrugged. “Haskin gave me a lecture. My old man gave me a lecture. My mother gave me a lecture. Coach Canning gave me a lecture. I told them all I was sorry. Then Haskin told me I couldn't eat in the cafeteria for a month and that I had to write a letter of apology to Celeste.”

I was amazed. “Nothing else? Just a letter?”

He frowned. “Canning made some noises about sitting me down on Saturday, but—” He stopped midsentence. Monica Roby was looking at him. “Disappointed?” His voice was challenging. “Did you think they were going to expel me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said.

“Don't act innocent. You reported me. I know it.”

She laughed scornfully. “I didn't report you.”

“Yes, you did,” he said with conviction.

“Listen,” she answered. “I'm not sorry that someone reported you. And if I'd thought about it, I might have done it. But it wasn't me.”

He pointed his finger at her. “You did it and I know it.”

She sniggered. “You can believe what you want to believe. I don't really care.”

School was different the rest of the week. Teachers patrolled the halls, making sure nobody started with the “Beat O'Dea” cheer. In classroom after classroom we got the standard pep talk about how academics come first and how football is only a game. The cafeteria was strangely quiet too. Josh wasn't there; tables weren't pushed together. The other football players ate in small, scattered groups.

In the hallways kids talked about the “Celeste thing.” Most thought the whole incident was a joke, but some—especially some of the girls—were pretty hot about it. “The whole bunch of them are animals.” “They treat girls like things, not people.” You heard that sort of stuff.

Nobody ever asked me what I thought. I suppose everyone figured I was on Josh's side. But I'm not sure I would have defended him if anybody had ever asked. I'm not sure what I would have said.

And then it was O'Dea. The championship game. In the stands before the kickoff you heard one thing. Was this the year? Was this finally the year that it was our turn?

We won the toss and received the opening kickoff. It was a squib kick that one of our upfield guys handled on a bounce. He cradled it in both arms and returned it to the thirty-three before they brought him down.

As the offense trotted on the field, a murmur went through the crowd. Brandon Ruben was at quarterback.

Then the questions really came. “Is Daniels hurt or something?”. . .“What's Ruben doing out there?”. . .“It's not because of that Celeste thing, is it?”. . .“Is he going to play the whole game?”

On his first pass attempt, Ruben got crunched just as he released the ball by Number Forty, a big, quick linebacker I'd noticed during warm-ups. The pass floated out into the flat, a dying quail. An O'Dea safety intercepted it on the dead run, and before anyone had even settled into his seat, the safety was crossing the goal line. Touchdown O'Dea.

I looked back upfield to Ruben. He was down on one knee, the wind knocked out of him. Kittleson was helping him up.

O'Dea kicked off again, and again Ruben had a rough series. He fumbled one snap, only to recover it himself. On third and eight he misfired on a quick pass over the middle. Number Forty leveled him again right after he released the ball. I'm sure Ruben was glad to see our punter come onto the field and kick the ball away.

There was nothing fancy about O'Dea's game plan. They used the I-formation, and they pounded the ball right down our throats. They had two tailbacks—both of whom were big and fast. One guy would run the ball for three or four downs, then go to the sidelines for a blow while the other guy came in and racked up the yardage. Watching their offense cut through our defense was like watching a tank roll over a doghouse.

They drove all the way to our six-yard line—every yard gained on the ground. On first down, their quarterback faked a handoff. All our defensive players bit, shooting the gaps to try to stop the run. Their tight end slipped into the end zone. There was no one within ten yards of him when he pulled in the pass. Six minutes into the game we were down 14–0.

The rest of the first half was a nightmare. It was Ruben, Ruben, Ruben—the guy who couldn't win. And all the time you could see Josh—the guy who could—standing there, itching to play. When the score reached 24–0, the chanting started: “We want Daniels! We want Daniels! We want Daniels!”

At halftime everybody had it figured out. Josh was sure to start the second half. Canning had made his point, but enough was enough. Twenty-four points was a ton of points, but if anyone could bring us back, it was Josh.