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  I push across the line and quietly say, “Oh, I give up.”

  “That’s the problem with you, Manning.” Stahl points. “You always give up. You look for the easy way out. You’re too smart for your own good.”

  He turns to the linebackers. “Don’t give up, men. Don’t give up.”

  I have no idea why I said that. Maybe because the idea of sprinting four hundred yards and giving up on the final five seemed so idiotic. Who’d give up then? But why would I say it? Maybe I am too smart for my own good.

  In the locker room, Zach shakes his head. “Why’d you do that?”

  “I don’t know. What Stahl said seemed so stupid. It just came out.”

  “Well, what you did was stupid.”

  I throw my helmet in my locker. I’ve got an empty feeling in my stomach, like everything’s been sucked out. I sit on the bench with my head in my hands.

  chapter ten

  On game day, my locker is decorated with a blue and white sign that says: JAIL THE PIRATES. Clifton is the Pirates, which makes no sense because they’re nowhere near an ocean. They don’t even have a lake. I like it when team names have something to do with the town. Deer Rapids, for example, being the Bucks shows they’re trying. Pirates for Clifton is lame.

  As I walk to Halloran’s class, Kyra Richman laughs with her friends. Why do they always travel in a group? If she weren’t surrounded all the time, I could talk to her.

  In history, Halloran tells us to take out our homework. I forgot to do it. I rip out a piece of paper, write my name, and ask Strangler for the answer.

  “Indians,” he says. “Already here.”

  Halloran circles the room collecting papers. He looks at my blue jersey. “Big game tonight,” he says. “Who are we playing, Miles?”

  “Clifton.”

  Halloran pretends he’s not into sports, but I know he and Coach Sepolski are friends. “We talked about reasons immigrants came to America.” Halloran stands at the board. “What is the one group for whom none of these apply?”

  Strangler raises his hand. “Indians.”

  “Let’s explore this.” That’s one of Halloran’s favorite expressions. “How many people wrote down ‘Indians’?”

  I raise my hand, along with most of the class.

  “Why Indians, Miles?”

  “Because they were already here.”

  “Yes,” Halloran says. “Indians or Native Americans were here when Europeans arrived, and they’d been here for thousands of years. But had they always been here?”

  Lisa Williams waves her hand wildly. “They came across the Bering Strait land bridge. I saw a show about it on the National Geographic Channel.”

  “That’s one theory,” Halloran says. “Many Indians don’t agree, but most archaeologists believe that ancestors of Indians came here thousands of years ago. Why would they have come?”

  “For food.”

  “For better hunting.”

  “For more land.”

  “Surprisingly, some of the same reasons that we listed on the board. There is one group, however, for whom none of these reasons apply.”

  Lucia raises her hand. “Slaves,” she says softly, but we all hear.

  “Yes,” says Halloran. He pauses. In the silence it sinks in how obvious this is and how I missed it.

  “Africans,” Halloran says, “came to this country in chains and were sold as slaves. This is fundamentally different from any other group. They were forced to come here. They didn’t choose to.” While Halloran talks, I look around the room at the white faces.

  “The trip to the Americas was called the Middle Passage,” he says. “Research this and write a five-page paper for next Thursday.”

  After lunch, Kyra dials her combination, and for once, she’s alone.

  “Hi, Kyra.”

  “Oh, hey, Miles.”

  “Bad news about Jonesy, isn’t it?” I shift my books from one arm to the other and try to relax.

  “Yeah, like it’s bad, but I think we’ll still be good.” She doesn’t seem too concerned. You’d think as a cheerleader she’d show more sympathy.

  “Kyra.”

  “Yeah.” She takes her books from her locker.

  “Well, homecoming is coming home. I mean coming up. Homecoming is coming up in three weeks. Homecoming.”

  “Yes, Miles.”

  “I…was…wondering,” I start out slow and then go fast, “if you’d go with me.”

  Kyra smiles her perfect orthodontist’s daughter smile. “That’s like sweet of you, Miles, but I’m already going with someone.”

  “Oh. Oh.” I want to disappear. “Who? Who?” I sound like a lost owl.

  “I’m going with Josh Stillwell.” She tosses her hair back as she closes her locker. “He’s the new quarterback, you know.”

  As if I didn’t know who the quarterback was. As I walk away, five of Kyra’s friends giggle by the drinking fountain.

  chapter eleven

  The best thing about football is smashing into guys. After my total humiliation with Kyra, I can’t wait to unload on a Pirate. On the bus, I sit next to Zach. He’s already heard about Kyra shooting me down. Her friends wasted no time in spreading the news.

  “That’s why I waited,” I say. “To pick the perfect time to be turned down.”

  “You can’t find out if you don’t ask.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Zach reaches into his shirt pocket and takes out four capsules. He drops two onto my palm. “A little Blast. It’ll help you play great again.”

  I remember my promise to Mom.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Zach slaps my thigh. “Gives you that aggressive edge. That’s what wins games.”

  Zach’s right. Football is about being aggressive, but I’ve never needed help with that. Zach puts the capsules in his mouth, takes a swig of water, and passes the bottle to me. I roll mine in my palm. Just caffeine, like drinking Red Bull. I pop them in my mouth, gulp some water, and swallow.

  I look out the window at green fields of corn and wait to feel different. Everything’s the same. Mom doesn’t need to know about it. She doesn’t need to know everything I do.

  Coach Sepolski gathers us in the locker room. “Clifton’s a good football team and they’re always tough at home. Fellas, this is your time. Set the tone of the game. Play hard. Play smart. Have fun.” Coach’s hand chops the air. “Dedicate this game to Jonesy. Go out and win it for him.”

  “Yeahhhhhh.” The yell rips through the room. I’m ready to hit a Pirate so hard he’ll have to hunt for his teeth. I want to push their tailback out of bounds and drive him into the metal fence that surrounds the field.

  Coach shakes hands with each guy as we leave the locker room. We line up behind Jonesy, who leads us onto the field through a tunnel of screaming cheerleaders. Kyra Richman keeps her eyes on Josh Stillwell. I spit at her feet.

  I grab Jonesy on the sideline. “I’ll get you a Pirate.” Is that the Blast or am I just psyched?

  A roar rises from the crowd when we kick off. I sprint straight for a Pirate blocker and hit him as hard as I can. He crashes over backward.

  “Reverse.” The play’s coming back my way. I’ve kept my contain lane, so the runner cuts in. I grab his white jersey and spin him around. The pursuit races in and we gang-tackle him at the twenty-one.

  “Way to contain, Manning,” Sepolski hollers.

  On second and nine, Coach signals a blitz. I go up to the line, like I’m playing bump and run. When the quarterback looks over, I back off a couple of steps. He checks the other way. “Hut one.”

  I race in free. The quarterback’s following a receiver on Zach’s side. No one picks me up. I lower my shoulder and hammer him before his arm moves forward.

  “Fumble.” Tyson jumps on the ball.

  Zach pounds me on the shoulder. “Way to lay a lick, Man.”

  Clifton coaches and trainers rush to check the quarterback.

  “One Pirate for you, Superstar.” I
point to Jonesy as I bounce off the field.

  “Awesome blitz, Man. I watched you all the way. That’s one screwed-up Pirate.” He pushes me with his good arm.

  Our ball at the Clifton twelve. Nice way for Stillwell to start. Two running plays gain six. On third and four, Coach calls a pass to Brooksy in the flat.

  “Down, set, hit.” Stillwell spins and Brooksy is wide open. Stillwell tosses a strike. Touchdown.

  “Yeahhh.” We’re rollin’. We’re going to be okay.

  Clifton brings in a new quarterback. I want Coach to call the blitz so I can knock him out, but we play it straight. Three downs and the Pirates punt.

  We keep giving the offense good field position, and Stillwell looks sharp. At halftime we’re up 21-0, and we roar into the locker room. “Let’s hold them to zero,” I shout. Coach Stahl nods.

  Jonesy uses his left hand to diagram pass patterns for Stillwell. It must be hard for him not to be playing.

  When we go up 28-0, Coach pulls first defense and puts in the second string. He stays with first offense, though. I’m sure he wants Stillwell to get more work with them.

  “Watch the hook and go,” Zach calls to Bachman, his backup.

  “Tell them to sharpen their cutlasses,” I yell. I’m still buzzing from the Blast.

  Bachman looks confused and Zach waves him off. “Hook and go,” he says.

  Jonesy and I are pretending to swordfight when Coach Stahl notices. “Don’t celebrate early,” he says. We haven’t given up any points, but he has to warn us about something. I’m glad to see Jonesy laughing.

  On the first play of the fourth quarter, Stillwell drops back on a center screen. It’s a timing play, and he waits an extra second for Monson to get open. Stillwell plants to throw, and the Clifton end slams into his leg. Everyone on our bench stares in silence. Stillwell squirms in pain as coaches and trainers push to get to him.

  Instantly the energy of the game changes. On their sideline, Pirate players exchange high fives. Celebrating someone getting hurt is wrong. Then I remember. That’s exactly what I was doing with Jonesy in the first quarter.

  Across the field, Dad stands along the fence. He hadn’t told me he was driving all the way over here. He’s shaking his head as Stillwell is wheeled to the ambulance. People in the stands clap politely. What are they clapping for? Relief their son isn’t hurt?

  Coach Stahl walks over. “That’s why we don’t celebrate early. Anything can happen in a football game.”

  Our celebrating had nothing to do with Stillwell getting hurt, but I don’t respond. I look over at Jonesy, who’s rubbing his eyes with his head down. Who’s our quarterback now?

  “Fox,” Sepolski hollers. “Get in there.”

  chapter twelve

  Zach leans over on the bus. “We gotta turn it up on D.”

  “Yeah.” Maybe Stillwell’s injury won’t be serious, but from the way he was wheeled off, it looks bad. Two quarterbacks down. Going to State is going to be a lot harder. I bite my nails as we drive through the dark.

  Zach and I swing by Izzy’s. The usual crowd is there yelling and celebrating.

  “Confluence rules,” a girl in a blue Bug yells.

  So many people don’t know anything about football. They see 28-7 and think it’s great. They have no idea that Stillwell getting hurt is worse than losing the game.

  Strangler’s saved us the booth in back. “How’s Stillwell?”

  “He’s at the hospital in Clifton for X-rays.” I don’t feel hungry.

  Jonesy comes over with a large Mountain Dew. “Bad news. Stillwell’s leg is broken in two places.”

  “How’d you find out?” I slide over to make room.

  “We called his house and his brother told us. He has to have a screw put in.” Jonesy can’t get the paper off his straw, so I rip it.

  “Who’ll be the new quarterback?” I look to Zach.

  “I think it’s Fox. Nobody else was any good in tryouts.”

  “What do you think, Jonesy?”

  “If it’s Fox, we’re screwed.”

  “There’s a party at Tyson’s tonight,” Zach says. “Let’s check it out.”

  I remember Tyson shoving us around as freshmen. Maybe Zach’s forgotten. “Who’s going to be there?”

  “Guys from the team. Sophomore girls.”

  “Let’s go.” Jonesy throws his cup at the trash with his left hand. “Depressing sitting here.”

  Tyson greets us at the door holding a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. “Grab a Bud, boys.”

  The living room is full of senior linemen eating Doritos and drinking beer. I knew Tyson partied after games, but I didn’t know this many guys did.

  “Hey, guys.” Seniors greet us. We’re the only juniors here.

  Zach hands me a beer. “Drink up.”

  I twist off the cap.

  “To Eagle football.” Zach raises his Bud.

  “To Eagle football.” We clink bottles, and I take a swig of beer. I don’t even like the taste.

  At the dining room table, guys try to bounce quarters into a glass of beer. Tyson’s lands in the foam and he points to Jonesy.

  “Chugalug, chugalug,” they chant. Jonesy downs the beer.

  Everybody seems to have forgotten about Stillwell. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe they’re scared about Fox being the quarterback. Maybe they’re drowning their fear.

  It’s getting hot, so I pull off my sweatshirt. Zach grabs me around the shoulder and pulls me to the bathroom. “I’ve got something for you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a packet of pink pills.

  “What’s this?” I catch our reflection in the mirror. Zach looks confident. I look worried.

  “D-Bol.” He shakes one out for me.

  “What?”

  “Dianabol.” He takes one for himself. “You’ll put on five pounds in a week.”

  “I don’t know.” I look at the pill. How does something this tiny make you big?

  “It works. You’ll add muscle fast.”

  I need to be bigger. Five more pounds would help. Zach swallows his pill. “C’mon, Man.”

  I put mine in my mouth and wash it down with beer.

  “Take three a day. Doctor’s orders.” Zach hands me the packet. “I’m getting another Bud. Want one?”

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  In the living room, the DVD of Gladiator is playing. Each time a gladiator is injured, everyone drinks.

  Strangler comes over. “No girls. Just football players drinking. I’m heading out.”

  “I’ll go with you.” I grab my sweatshirt. I wave to Zach as we leave. He gives me a thumbs-up while he, Jonesy, and Tyson drink to Gladiator.

  When Strangler drops me off, I let myself in. Dad’s snoring in the TV room. The volume’s loud, but I don’t dare turn it off. Instead, I tiptoe upstairs.

  In bed, my mind bounces like a pinball. I close my eyes and see pink pills. I remember signing the Conduct Code with Dad before summer practice. Dad said, “You’ve given your word. Keep it.” I broke it tonight. But so did a lot of guys. If that party got busted, we wouldn’t have much of a team.

  “Doctor’s orders.” Does Zach know what he’s doing? Can I trust him on this? I turn on my light and go to the dresser. In the back of my underwear drawer is the packet. I examine the tiny pentagons. They look like little pink houses. Is it cheating to use them if other guys are?

  I can’t fall asleep. My body’s exhausted, but my mind’s wired. I see Stillwell plant his foot and the Clifton guy slam into his leg. That’s how fast your season can end. Not just your season. That’s how fast football can end.

  I see myself smashing into the Pirate quarterback on my blitz. I still get a rush from hitting him that hard and causing the fumble. I wonder how he’s doing?

  One other scene: I’m at Kyra’s locker asking her to the dance. Did that happen today? I see a dark drain and watch myself swirl down. Why did I think she’d go with me? “I’m going with Josh Stillwell,” she s
ays. “He’s the new quarterback, you know.”

  Not anymore, Kyra. You’re going to the dance with a guy on crutches.

  Mom and Martha are shooting hoops in the driveway Saturday morning. Mom shows Martha how to aim for the square on the backboard. Mom makes five in a row. She played in high school and still has a good shot. She’s tall and thin. I’m built more like her than Dad.

  I eat my cereal and look at the sports section. Underneath the headline “EAGLES LOSE ANOTHER QB” is a picture of Stillwell on the ground. Coach Sepolski says, “We have to dig down deep to see what we’re made of.” I don’t know about digging deep. What we need is a healthy quarterback.

  I go outside and call for the ball. Martha tosses it, and I launch a three pointer. Nothing but net.

  “Nice shot,” she says.

  “Hold your left hand still.” I demonstrate. “Your left hand just holds the ball. Push with your right hand. Hit the corner like Mom showed you, and it’ll go in every time.” I bank it in off the board.

  Martha makes two in a row and jumps up and down. “That helps, Miles.”

  Mom turns to me. “Your dad wasn’t happy after the game.”

  “Yeah, we lost another quarterback.” My mind races. Is there anything else?

  “Your dad forgot some printer software. He’s coming by to pick it up.” Sounds like a warning. She didn’t tell him about the Blast, did she? Or did he find out about the party?

  Martha rebounds for me and I make three jumpers in a row. I wipe my face with my T-shirt. It’s already hot out.

  Dad pulls in the driveway, and it takes one second to realize he’s angry. He comes straight at me and seems bigger than his three hundred pounds. “That was a pisspoor performance last night.”

  “I know. Stillwell broke his leg in two places.”

  Mom and Martha pick up the ball and leave.

  “I’m not talking about Stillwell. I’m talking about you. You make one play and spend the rest of the game screwing around. What were you doing dancing on the sideline with Jones?” He’s pointing his finger in front of my face. “I was trying to cheer him up.”