Painting the Black by Carl Deuker Page A

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?”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
    â€œDon’t act innocent. You reported me. I know it.”
    She laughed scornfully. “I didn’t report you.”
    â€œYes, you did,” he said with conviction.
    â€œListen,” 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.”
    Â 
    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.

15
    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.