Painting the Black (8 page)

“Canning can't put me back on the bench now, can he?”

“No,” I said. “No way can he do that. Not now.”

For the next ten minutes he talked on and on, describing his passes, the final run. “I was in a zone. Oh, Ryan, it was the greatest feeling in the world.”

I could have listened to him forever, but the night air was cool. He rubbed his arms. “I'm freezing.” Then he laughed. “And I'm tired too.”

An idea came to me. “The Seahawks are playing the Bengals tomorrow. You want to go to the game? I'll bet we can pick up some tickets cheap.”

He gave me a thumbs up. “Sounds great. Let's do it.”

I was knocking on his front door at eleven.

“Hey Ryan!” he said as he stepped out on the porch.

“You ready?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I'm going to have to pass. I called Jamaal Wilsey. We're going to work out at school. I'd like to get Santos over there too, but he's Ruben's best friend. I don't know if he'll come.” He paused. “Sorry about the Seahawks.”

“No problem,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “It'll probably be a lousy game anyway.”

I returned to my own house. My father was hosing the dogwood berries off the sidewalk. He stopped when he saw me. “I thought you and Josh were going to the game.”

“Josh can't make it.”

I went up to my room, sat at my desk, and started reading
Walden,
the next book for Ms. Hurley. I was on page two when my dad knocked on my door. “Can I come in?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn't feel like talking.

He took off his glasses, sat down on my bed, and started cleaning them with his handkerchief. I closed my book and turned my chair to face him. “What's up?” I asked.

“Nothing, really.”

“There must be something,” I insisted, “or you wouldn't be here.”

He stopped polishing his glasses and looked at me. “Okay, Ryan. Here goes. I'm delighted that you finally have someone your age in the neighborhood.” He stopped.

“So what's the problem?” I asked.

“Well, how to put it?” He breathed deeply, sighed. “Ever since football season started, you've been a lost soul. You're always looking across the street, hoping to see Josh. You're totally wrapped up in him, but he's got no time for you. It's not healthy.”

“Is all this because Josh backed out on the Seahawks game?” I said angrily. “Because I can explain that.”

His eyes went right to mine. “It's deeper than that, Ryan. It's always been there, right from the day you met him. There's something in your voice when you talk about him—something I've never liked. It's like . . . like you think he's above you. Like you think he's doing you a favor by being your friend.”

I could feel the blood pounding in my head. “Listen, Dad,” I said, my voice rising as the words spilled out. “I
am
lucky he's my friend. Josh has greatness in him. Do you understand what I'm saying? Greatness.”

My father tilted his head a little and looked at me. “From what you tell me, he's got talent. That doesn't make him great, though. That's nothing but good luck. It's what you do with what you're given that makes you great.” He paused. “You might find some greatness inside yourself, you know.”

My mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Me? You've got to be kidding. There's nothing great about me.”

A little smile came to his face. “I don't know about that,” he said. Then he stood, and left the room.

He's my father and he loves me, but I hate it when he tries to boost me up. Only little kids fall for that. When you're ordinary, you know it. And nothing your parents say can change it.

Most Crown Hill High kids are pretty tough looking. You wouldn't think too many cared about something as old-fashioned as football. But come from behind to win, as we did against Franklin, and before every class it's: “Were you at the football game?” There was an electricity in the halls I'd never felt before.

I couldn't wait to see Josh fourth period. Because if I'd heard the talk, then he must have heard it too. I was sure he'd be in the stratosphere.

Still, when he walked in the door, I did a double take. It wasn't that he looked all that different, because he didn't. He looked the way he'd looked when I'd first met him, back in the summer. Eyes bright, shoulders straight, cocky smile playing on his lips and in his eyes. He was the same Josh all right. It's just that he was more Josh than ever before, if that makes sense. It was as if a bright light had gone on inside him, making all his features more vivid.

Before class started, about eight kids surrounded him, shaking his hand and patting him on the back and telling him how great he'd played. Rita Hall was so close they were just about dancing. He beamed and talked about how it was the team that had won, and not him. The bell rang, but nobody sat down until Ms. Hurley clapped her hands and called for attention. Josh sidled into the desk next to me and grinned.

That day we were supposed to discuss
Walden.
It was pretty serious going, and I wasn't in the mood, not with Josh glowing beside me.

Ms. Hurley talked about protecting one's “innermost identity against the onslaught of negative images,” whatever that means. Most of the class tuned out, but Monica stayed right with her. The book somehow reminded Monica of the Miss America pageant and the clothes girls wear in beer commercials.

I didn't follow much of what Monica said, but Josh followed none of it. He was laughing and joking with Rita Hall. Once the two of them were giggling together while Monica was making some point. Monica stopped midsentence and glared at Josh. “Do you have something to say?”

Josh put his left hand on his chest. “Me? No, I don't have anything to say.” Then he made a grand, gentlemanly nourish with his right hand and bowed his head as if he were showing her into a ballroom. “You go right ahead.”

Rita giggled. Monica glared, then finished whatever point she was making.

When the lunch bell rang, Josh grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the cafeteria. “What's the hurry?” I asked. “Are they serving steak or something?”

“You'll see. You'll see.”

After we'd filled our trays and paid, I headed toward our usual table. “Not over there, over here,” Josh called, grinning wickedly, and leading me to the center table—Brandon Ruben's table.

My heart started pounding. “You sit there if you want,” I said. “I'm sitting where I always sit.”

But he was in high spirits. “No, you're not, Ryan. You're my buddy, and I don't forget my buddies. You're sitting right here, next to me.” Laughing, he pulled me down onto the plastic chair next to him.

Jamaal Wilsey and Colby Kittleson came through the line and started for their table. When they saw us, they slowed for an instant, but then came over and sat down. Bethel Santos and Brandon Ruben came later, trays in hand. But those two stopped dead once they saw Josh.

“Sit down, Bethel, Brandon,” Josh called, sliding his chair toward me. “We've been waiting for you.”

I could feel Ruben's humiliation. “It looks a little crowded,” he said. “We'll sit someplace else.”

Josh kept at him. “Stay here, Brandon. We're a team, aren't we? We should all hang out together. Sit down.” He pulled a chair out. “Come on.”

Ruben looked around the table at Wilsey and Kittleson, who were nodding at him, encouraging him. Finally he sat down.

For a moment there was a tense silence. Then Josh scanned the table. “You guys all know Ryan, don't you?”

It was the last thing I expected or wanted him to say. Suddenly all eyes were on me. I nodded to them, trying to think of something to say, hoping that my face wasn't turning bright red.

Then I caught a break.

“Look!” Josh said, his eyes flashing. “Here she comes!”

Everyone turned to watch as Celeste Honor, wearing a purple halter top, put on her show.

“She is something, isn't she?” Josh said, when she'd passed.

“She is indeed,” Colby answered. “My idea of heaven is a whole world filled with girls like her to look at.”

That brought some comments about whether heaven might include a little physical contact. Nothing that was said was particularly funny, but I laughed anyway, glad to have the focus off me.

After that Josh assumed his place at that center table every lunch. Ruben, Santos, Kittleson, Wilsey—they came and sat around him as though he was King Arthur and they were his knights. They weren't necessarily happy about it, but they did it. I was there, too. I don't know exactly what my role was. A squire or a page, I suppose. But I didn't think about that. I was just happy to be at the table.

It wasn't only with the football team that Josh took center stage. In the hall, in the classroom, kids gravitated to him. “Great game!” they'd say, or “Go get 'em next week!” He'd toss his head a little and smile and say, “Hey, thanks.” Sometimes, if a nice-looking girl was gazing his way, he'd joke with her a little. He must have done a lot of joking with Rita Hall, because by Friday she was leaning her softness into him in a way that made me stare.

I would have sworn that Josh was as cool on the inside as he seemed on the outside. That's why Saturday was such a shock. He showed up at my front door around noon, and I could see fear in his eyes. “Let's go to the Center,” he said. “I've got to burn off some energy.”

As I laced up my shoes, he kept drumming his fingers on our coffee table, and on the walk to the park, he kept spinning the football in his hands.

Even when he was throwing the football he was off. He had way too much zip on the ball. It was as if he was trying to throw it through me. Finally I stopped. “Easy, Josh. You better save something for the game.”

He sighed loudly. “You're right. We'll quit.”

We sat on the retaining wall that bordered the pathway. “Don't worry,” I said. “You'll do okay.”

He looked at the ground. “Okay won't cut it, Ryan. I've got to be good or I'll be back on the bench.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I'll tell you what I'm talking about. This is Ruben's fourth year in the football program; I've been here for four weeks. He's paid his dues, and I haven't. I'm stealing his job, and the coaches don't like it and the guys don't like it. I've got to be good right away or they'll bail on me. Fast.”

He was exactly right. As soon as he said it, I knew it. And I also knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

Josh looked at his watch. “I've got to go. How about meeting at the Godfather's on Fifteenth after the game? I'm going to need somebody to talk to, and you're the only real friend I've got around here.”

I nodded. “I'll be there.”

I arrived at Memorial Stadium early. I wanted to make sure I got a good seat, high enough so that I could see the whole field, but not so high that the players looked small.

All around me Crown Hill kids were eating junk food and laughing together in the late afternoon sun. Stereos played rap music. There was a party atmosphere in the air. And why not? Cleveland was a weak team. And we had Josh Daniels, the new kid with the cannon for an arm, the kid who had single-handedly beaten Franklin.

I wished I didn't know how tight Josh was, how scared he was. Then I could have kicked back and enjoyed the last rays of sunshine and the music and the talk. But I did know, and my own stomach churned out acid by the quart.

We won the coin toss and Curtis carried the opening kickoff out to the thirty-five. On the first two downs Kittleson ran twice, picking up about five yards total. On third and five Josh had Santos open over the middle, but threw the ball high. Around me, kids groaned and then went back to eating popcorn and joking with one another. It was the opening minutes of the first quarter. I was the only one who was worried.

And I stayed worried, even though Cleveland didn't do much of anything. They were slow and small, and a first down was a major accomplishment for them. But throughout that quarter Josh couldn't get our offense into gear either. One drive stalled when he missed on a third and three pass in the flat to Curtis that even I could have completed. And the next drive ended when he fumbled the snap on two consecutive downs.

“They'd better put Ruben in pretty soon,” a kid a couple of seats away from me said. “This Daniels is doing nothing.”

The guy next to him nodded.

Josh was still at QB when we got the ball back early in the second quarter, but everybody in the stadium knew something good had to happen or he was out of there.

On third and four at our twenty-six, Josh dropped back and uncorked another wild toss that sailed over Curtis's head and out-of-bounds. Even worse, after he'd released the ball, he'd taken a vicious hit from a blitzing safety. The guy had stuck his helmet into Josh's ribs and had driven him to the ground.

For a long time, Josh lay on the turf, his hands cradling his mid-section. Canning hovered over him, and so did the trainer. Finally he stood, and applause came down from all around the stadium.

That's when I saw the yellow penalty flag. “Unsportsmanlike conduct: roughing the passer,” the referee announced. Then he marched off fifteen yards.

You wonder about sports sometimes, about whether one play can change a whole game, even a whole season. Take that penalty. Say the guy doesn't cheap-shot Josh. We have to punt, and on the next series Brandon Ruben is playing quarterback. But those fifteen yards gave us a first down, and they gave Josh another chance.

He made the most of it, too. It was as if that late hit had somehow knocked all the nervousness out of him. On the very next play he hit Santos for fifteen yards. Kittleson busted one for another ten yards, and then Josh hit Wilsey on the numbers for thirty-four yards and a touchdown. After that the rout was on. We led 14–0 at the half; 29–7 at the end of three quarters. The final score was 35–13.