Slugfest, page 10
Jesse has a suggestion. “My older brother drives the courtesy shuttle for the Clarington Inn. He could probably give us a ride.”
Out comes Jesse’s phone and guess what: Keith Darrowick is already on his way to pick us up. Everything always works out for the quarterback. It’s a rule.
I decide to tag along with them. Why not? The worst that can happen is that Jesse’s brother is just as flaky as Jesse and we get stranded across town and miss PEE. But since the entire class is going, nobody can blame it on me.
As we head outside to wait for the minibus, I sidle up to Yash. “You may think you solved the Bella problem, but all you did was kick it down the road. If Ms. Landkammer likes her project, all this starts up again at the end of the summer.”
“You’re right,” he agrees. “But I had to buy time. We can worry about that when we get there.”
Real talk: That must be how star athletes view the world. One crisis at a time. So long as I’m good right now, everything’s fine.
Keith looks like an exact copy of Jesse that’s been stretched on the rack to become taller and skinnier. They also share the same six-year-old’s sense of humor. Jesse tells him about #NoToiletsNoKidding, and the elder Darrowick howls with laughter.
The drive takes just a few minutes. Keith drops us off at Clarington High, promising to return in time to get us back to PEE.
The practice is underway when we get to the bleachers—helmeted figures who are 90 percent shoulder pads, smashing together like bumper cars, with plenty of grunting and “nice hit, bro!”
Some of the Comets recognize Yash, and there’s a flurry of waving and finger pointing. Coach Basil shuts that down though, and soon the players are back to business. We almost lose Fiona through one of the openings in the bleachers, but Yash rescues her just in time. Settling at the top of the stands, the others gather around Yash like he’s about to hand down the great wisdom of the ages. Cringe.
As we watch the practice, I’m surprised that the PEE kids seem to know what they’re looking at. I guess that’s from the drills they’ve been running with Yash. And while it’s not exactly the same, they get the basic ideas of running, passing, and defense.
They don’t understand everything though, and I’m amazed at how patient Yash is with their endless questions. He never gets exasperated with Arabella’s complaints about how violent football is, and he has a tolerant smile for Kaden, who, for all his brains, can’t seem to keep track of what down it is.
I think back to open house night, when we were up against each other in the obstacle course. He could have made a joke out of competing against a girl—as the top athlete, he would have gotten away with that. Instead, he did his best to win—and didn’t mind showing everybody how hard it was. He gave me the respect of treating me like a real opponent—just like he’s respecting the PEE kids right now. I have to say I’m a little surprised.
During a break, Arabella points to number 5, a tall blond player, drinking Gatorade on the sidelines. “Who’s that?”
I’ve noticed him too—partly because he’s the only team member I don’t recognize, but also from the way the other players gather around him. He’s clearly important and well-liked.
“That’s Nate,” Yash supplies with a slight grimace. “He’s new in town. Quarterback—my position.”
“Nate,” Arabella repeats, as if committing the name to memory.
I cock my head at Yash. There’s something up between him and that guy Nate. I can tell. And pretty soon I see why. I’m no football expert, but it’s pretty clear that number 5 is a star. In spite of everything, I feel a stab of sympathy for Yash. No wonder he hates summer school so much. Not only is he missing out on these workouts; he’s being replaced.
Arabella bursts into applause as quarterback Nate drops a perfect pass into a receiver’s outstretched hands.
I raise an eyebrow in her direction. “You said football promotes violence.”
“I can still admire somebody who’s good at what he does,” she defends herself.
The practice breaks up a few minutes after that, just as we hear the honking of the minibus—Keith calling us for our ride back to summer school.
“That was amazing, Yash!” Kaden exclaims as we pull out of the parking lot. “Thanks so much for bringing us.”
And everyone else joins in, heaping their appreciation on Yash like he’s done us a great favor by allowing us to watch someone else’s football practice.
As an afterthought, we also thank Keith for the ride, and Jesse for having a brother who happens to drive a courtesy shuttle.
We’re about halfway back to school when a lone figure on a silver mountain bike streaks by, pedaling like mad.
“That’s Nate!” Arabella exclaims excitedly.
She’s right. He’s traded his football helmet for the bike kind, but there’s no question the cyclist is none other than the Comets’ replacement quarterback. And he’s in a big hurry to get somewhere.
“No wonder he’s in such great shape,” Arabella observes. “Look at him fly!”
It’s true. Legs pumping like pistons, Nate beats us to the intersection and wheels into a wide left turn, disappearing down County Road 14.
“Where’s he going in such a hurry?” Fiona muses.
“Home, I guess,” Stuart suggests. “Practice is over.”
“Impossible,” Kaden pronounces. “County Road 14 leads to Forsberg. If he lives there, he’d go to Forsberg schools.”
I’m getting impatient. “So he’s not going home. He’s got a friend there. Or an aunt. Or he’s running an errand. It’s none of our business.”
Yash doesn’t say anything. But he’s frowning.
14
Arabella Hopp
It isn’t easy when everybody hates you.
I guess it’s a burden we investigative journalists have to bear. Ms. Landkammer understands. I’ll bet those car wash owners were pretty mad when she exposed them on the hot-wax thing.
It hurts, but it’s worth it. For example, if more reporters talked about climate change, maybe that poor little island wouldn’t be sinking into the Indian Ocean. And if Mom had made a bigger deal about it, my father might have been too embarrassed to dump his existing family and run off to start a new one. Not that I’m blaming Mom. She’s one of the toughest people I know. It can’t be easy every Christmas, when she puts the holiday card of Dad with his new wife and kids right there on the mantel with the others. I’m just saying that the minute you see something wrong, you have to speak up. Because after that, it could be too late.
I have nothing against Mrs. Finnerty. She’s always been nice to me—to everybody, I guess. If it wasn’t for her, open house night might have been a disaster. Without her, there might have been a stampede for the auditorium door. But because people had to line up for her cookies, they were already in perfect position for an orderly exit. Dr. Carmichael, the superintendent, and the school board were all there—totally helpless. And our teacher effortlessly managed the whole thing with a rolling cart of baked goods.
That still doesn’t change the fact that she’s teaching without being qualified. And if you look the other way at one example of unfairness, pretty soon you’re up to your knees in water. Pretty soon you’re looking at a holiday card of your father with the wrong family. Pretty soon you’re in a world you don’t recognize anymore.
I guess I’ll just have to get used to the dirty looks from the others. Ms. Landkammer warned us about that too. You make a lot of enemies in the investigative journalism business.
Meanwhile, I’m training with Yash, which takes some of the heat off. The whole class is, except Cleo. It’s gotten better since we watched the JV team that day. Just knowing what practice is supposed to look like helps. And even though most of us aren’t athletes, there are random football things we’re not so bad at. Stuart can catch. Sarah can run. Jesse has good footwork and natural balance. Kaden can always predict where a pass or a kick is going to come down. Fiona is super agile, so you never know where she’ll turn up next. Yash says that’s a great skill because, in a real game, a pass rusher can come from anywhere. I’m not entirely sure what a pass rusher is, but it sounds important.
Even I have a talent, believe it or not. I’m the snapper. That may not sound like such a big deal, but Yash insists that top centers are worth their weight in gold.
Not that I care, but it’s nice to be good at something.
My mother is a fan of this series called Frontier Flames and she’s totally hooked. It’s like when Dad left, she replaced him with cheesy Wild West romances. There are about a million books in it, each one more passionate than the next—Mom’s word, not mine. I’d use a different word. Like barf.
The books are all the same. Some schoolteacher in Boston or New York—like those are the only two places to live—moves west in the 1800s and falls head over heels in love with a cowboy, a rancher, a sheriff, a saloonkeeper, a gambler, an outlaw, a banker, a blacksmith, a covered-wagon driver, and a few jobs I’ve never even heard of. Like farrier, whatever that is. There’s always a lot of kissing. I mean a lot.
Anyway, as I said, Mom is addicted to Frontier Flames, but she’s too embarrassed to borrow them herself, so she sends me to the library when she’s at the dry cleaner’s, which is right next door.
I’m standing in the checkout line, when a voice in front of me asks, “What’s Affection in Abilene?”
A really tall kid about my age is squinting down at the cover of Mom’s book, which shows a masked outlaw handing a wild rose to a woman as he holds her at gunpoint.
“It’s not for me,” I stammer. “My mother swallows these like peanuts. Well, she’s allergic to peanuts, but—you know what I mean.”
He laughs easily. “Don’t be embarrassed. People have different tastes.” He shows me the book he’s borrowing—a football biography.
The cover photo of a stalwart quarterback, arm cocked in a throwing motion, triggers it for me. That’s why he looks so familiar! This is number 5 on the Comets—Nate, who’s filling in at quarterback while Yash is in summer school.
“Yeah, but this isn’t for me.” For some reason, I need him to know I’m not a Frontier Flames fan. I can’t help noticing that, even though Nate has light brown hair, his dark eyes are almost a match for the hero on the cover of Affection in Abilene.
Nate has to pay an overdue fine before the librarian will let him check out the football book. He accepts his change but hands back a dollar. “You gave me too much,” he tells her.
It’s only a buck, but that kind of honesty really impresses me. I know a lot of people who would have kept their mouths shut and pocketed that dollar. On the surface, Nate and I don’t have much in common, him being a football player and all that. But he’s ethical, just like me.
“I saw you play the other day,” I blurt. “Football,” I add quickly. “I was with the group that came over with Yash.”
That gets his attention. Yash is the magic word around here.
“Are you guys in summer school together?” he asks.
“I’m in investigative journalism,” I explain. “It’s summer school, but not the bad kind. It’s an interest class.”
“I hear a lot about Yash,” Nate says stiffly. “I guess he’s kind of the man.”
“In football, maybe. In investigative journalism, he’s just another average Joe.”
“Yash is in investigative journalism?” Nate’s eyebrow shoots up. “What’s he investigating?”
“Who knows?” I tell him. “Mostly, he’s just waiting for the summer to be over so he can go back to the Comets.”
It’s pretty clear that I’ve said something wrong. I can see from his expression that Nate doesn’t like the sound of that.
The librarian scans his card and hands it back to him. That’s when I see it. I have great vision, which—come to think of it—is going to come in handy in my future career as a reporter.
His name is Nathan Breitmann and—I squint at the address printed in tiny type on the plastic. My mind returns to our ride in the hotel van. There was Nate, pedaling like a Tour de France champion down County Road 14. Now I know why.
Nate’s address isn’t in Clarington. It’s in Forsberg, the next town over.
So how can he play for the Comets if he doesn’t even live here?
15
Arnie Yashenko
CITY OF CLARINGTON
OFFICE OF THE MAYOR
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: We have discovered that the soil under our town is becoming unstable due to the number of underground pipes. Therefore, as of noon tomorrow, toilets are officially illegal within Clarington city limits. Violators will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. . . .
Stuart glances up from the paper in amazement. “Is this real?”
Jesse tries to look solemn, but pretty soon a big grin breaks out, followed by a loud guffaw. “I got you!” he cheers. “It took me three hours to get the town letterhead exactly right!”
Cleo is disgusted. “Don’t tell me you’re really going to do this.”
“It’s already done,” Jesse says proudly. “This letter is all over social media. You can see for yourself. Check #NoToiletsNoKidding.”
“Nobody’s going to believe it,” I assure him.
Jesse folds his arms in front of him and favors me with a smirk. “That’s the whole point of the project, isn’t it? To prove that even the dumbest rumor can still spread.”
“But plumbing making the ground unstable?” Stuart persists.
“And where are people supposed to go to the bathroom?” Fiona adds.
The question delights Jesse to the point where he has to treat himself to a long bout of laughter. It’s about what you’d expect from the kind of kid who puts firecrackers in pizza.
“You’re trying to treat this like it makes sense,” he tells us. “It doesn’t. That’s why it’s going to be ten times more awesome when #NoToiletsNoKidding goes viral.”
“Any likes yet?” Sarah asks.
“Not yet,” Jesse admits. “And no reposts either. But all that’s coming. I know it.”
After investigative journalism, Arabella sidles up to me as we’re leaving class. “I know you’re reporting on the football workouts,” she tells me in a confidential tone, “but I think you might be overlooking the bigger story.”
“Yeah?” I reply without much interest. “What’s that?”
“An ineligible player on the Comets.”
That captures my attention. “You watched half a practice from Row Z of the bleachers. How could you know who’s eligible and who isn’t?”
“I ran into that kid Nate at the library yesterday,” she reports. “You know, the quarterback?”
“One of the quarterbacks,” I amend.
“I got a look at his library card,” she goes on. “His address—it doesn’t say Clarington. It says Forsberg.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Nate just moved here. Maybe he hasn’t changed his card yet.”
“Yeah, but remember when we saw him biking home from practice? He was on County Road Fourteen, heading toward—”
“Forsberg,” I finish, almost dizzy with this news. “And if he lives there—”
It’s her turn to complete the thought. “Then he should go to a Forsberg school and play on that team, not ours.”
It’s like I’ve been struck by lightning. If this is true, so many of my problems disappear. The quarterback’s job on the JV Comets this fall—there’s only one kid who could take that away from me. When I confronted Hammond and Amir about that razzing on open house night, all they did was crow about the wonderfulness of Nitro Nate. Nobody was ever so fast, so accurate, so sure on his feet. Every sentence out of their mouths added five more yards to his deep ball. Patrick Mahomes could only dream of being so great.
But if Nate really does live in another town, then he’s not allowed to be a Comet, period.
A wave of guilt washes over me. I shouldn’t be happy about this even if it’s true. Since when does Arnie Yashenko have to earn his spot by getting the other guy disqualified? I don’t need that kind of help. If I’m the quarterback of the Comets, it isn’t going to be because Nitro Nate happens to live in the wrong town. It’ll be because I’m the best guy for the job, which I am. That part’s definite.
And yet—a nagging doubt tugs at me from the back of my mind. Being the best didn’t keep me from being sent to summer school, and from missing the JV workouts and the seven-on-seven tournament. Being the best doesn’t protect you from bad luck. That should go for Nate too. Bro, you live in Forsberg? Play for your own team.
Arabella is standing opposite me outside room 122.
“I’m no rat,” I tell her.
“Telling the truth isn’t being a rat,” she argues. “I’m going to pose as a cheerleader so I can get close to Nate and prove I’m right.”
“You’re going to join the cheerleaders?” I can’t picture Arabella in a miniskirt, waving pom-poms, spelling out players’ names.
She looks disgusted. “Have you even met me? Of course not. That’ll just be my cover.”
“I thought your project was Finnerty,” I remind her.
She shrugs. “That’s already in the bag. This is a challenge.” She starts away down the hall.
I follow, head spinning. Should I let her do this? The answer comes straight back at me: it’s Arabella.
I couldn’t stop her with a bulldozer.
16
Arabella Hopp
Jesse is losing patience with the internet.
“What’s wrong with these people?” he demands, glaring at his phone in consternation. “You’d think nobody cares that toilets just got banned in a whole town!”
We’re in the courtesy van on the way to Clarington High, Keith Darrowick at the wheel.
“Toilets didn’t get banned,” Keith reminds his brother in amusement. “You just told everybody they did.”
“The internet doesn’t know that,” I point out. “That’s why I love this experiment. On social media, there’s no way to tell who’s legit and who isn’t.”
