by Rob Thomas
“All the league stats. Articles they’ve written. Schedules. I use this all the time when I’m writin’ the sports copy for the Stars & Bars.” Damien calls the info up as he’s talkin’. I’m stunned. He shows me how I can get the latest college top-twenty rankings or the Statesman’s list of the top fifty recruits in Texas. We find Humphrey’s name at number three.
“Tight!”
“Do you ever even log on, check to see if you have any mail?” Damien asks.
“I never learned how.”
“We had an assembly. They showed everyone in the school.”
“Look, bruh, I don’t dig on computers. You know how some people don’t trust banks? Well, I don’t trust computers. I like everything on paper. Right in front o’ me.”
“Do you want me to show you how to do it, my brotha? Just in case, you know, you have some urgent correspondence. Maybe you’ve won the lottery, and you just don’t know it.”
I nod and Damien closes his own files. Then he takes me back to the log-on screen.
“What’s your screen name?”
“My what?”
“Your screen name. Look, if you didn’t choose one, then it’s automatically your student ID number.”
I start pulling my ID out of my wallet. Damien shakes his head likes he’s disappointed with me.
“Man, you need to change your screen name. Anyone can get your student number: any of those student aides who pick up the attendance cards, any of those old ladies in the office, anyone you show your ID to when you get student discounts. Hell, any teacher in school can just ask for it.”
“So?”
“So? So?” Damien takes off his glasses and cleans ’em with a hanky. It’s his way of counting to ten. “Look, anyone who knows your student number could get into your files, read anything you have saved in there.”
“That’s another good reason for not working on the LONS. It’s a good thing I haven’t saved anything on here.”
“You’re missin’ the point. If they log with your ID number, they can read anything people might be sending you.” Damien types the number off my card into the computer. “And they can also send stuff to other people as if they were you.”
“Why would someone think that a message came from me?”
“Because, when you get mail from someone, it automatically tells you the sender’s proper name—unless you intentionally block it. The computers figure there’s no sense in keeping the sender’s name confidential.”
I look down at the screen. My name is at the top along with my student ID number, the time of day, and a 2 under the number of times I’ve logged on this year. Flashing in the top right-hand corner of the screen is the message YOU’VE GOT MAIL. I look at D. He looks at me and shrugs.
“Probably just stuff about class rings and signing up for SATs. All that shit the administration sends out.” He double-clicks on a little mailbox. A block o’ writin’ appears. “This is three days old!” Damien growls, but I’m busy readin’ the message.
44,
I LIKE THE WAY YOU LOOK IN PADS
WHEN ON THE FIELD YOU RACE
I WISH I WAS A RUNNING BACK
WRAPPED IN YOUR EMBRACE
MAYBE LEADING CHEERS IS BETTER
SO I CAN WISH YOU LUCK
BUT ONE DAY LET’S FIND A WAY
TO GO BACK HOME AND …
GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER
XXXXOOOOO
“Who sent it? Who sent it?” I’m looking all over the screen to find a name.
“Trinni Rea,” says D., pointing to the sender name on-screen.
But of course. I remember Trinni flirtin’ with me two weeks ago. She asked me for a ride home after I got outta football practice. She was just gettin’ done with cheerleadin’ at the same time. I remember now what she said. It was weird because it was a Tuesday, and our game was still three days away. She said, “Good luck.”
TOMMY
3:07 P.M. Sixth period, drama
“What’s the deal with Mr. Twilley?”
I ask Miss Amenny the question as I hand her another cup of coffee (two Sweet’n Low/one Cremora). I sit down across from her, a kidney-shaped coffee table separating our two directors’ chairs. This is our prerehearsal routine. I’m her aide during her conference period, and we both like to caffeine up before we begin. I take a slug of my own java (black).
“What’s what deal?” she says.
“I looked him up in the old yearbooks, and it looked like the whole school revolved around him. He sponsored all these clubs. He was voted favorite teacher a bunch of times. I even saw a picture where he was the Speller. I about wigged.”
“And your point is?” Miss A. says, but I know she’s jacking with me.
“My point is—how’d he turn into … well, what he is? After the 1978 Stars & Bars, he doesn’t even appear in the books. Not even in the mug shots.”
I can tell that Miss A. has to think about whether or not she wants to answer the question. She leans back in her chair and looks up before she says anything.
“’Seventy-eight was a bad year for Marc—Mr. Twilley, that is. You’ve got to understand that Mr. Twilley, while he was certainly more popular with students early in his career, has never been an easy teacher. He’s always been a stickler. He takes his subject very seriously.”
“No shit,” I say.
Miss A. shakes her head but continues.
“Early in his career, there was no such thing as ‘no pass/no play.’ Students who failed a class could still play sports, still go on field trips, still be in the school play. When that changed, most teachers changed with it. We got more flexible, allowed students to make up assignments, or we would bend a grade up a bit if it meant the difference between passing and failing. But not Marc. He didn’t change at all.”
Miss A. takes a slow sip of her coffee, like she’s trying to decide how much to tell me.
“You know that big banner that hangs in the gym?” Miss A. asks.
“Yeah, it says DISTRICT CHAMPS 1978.”
“Well then, you’ve probably noticed that it’s the only one we have. Fifty some-odd years of football here at Lee, and all we have is one district championship to show for it. And that banner doesn’t tell the whole story. That team was undefeated. In fact, no one even played us close that year. People were talking state championship. You’ve never seen Deerfield as electric as it was back then.”
“Mr. Twilley failed one of the players?” I guess.
“Two of them,” she answers, “right before the first round of the play-offs. One with a sixty-eight and one with a sixty-nine. Both star players. At first the coaches begged Marc to change the grades, just ‘loan’ them a point or two from their next grading period. When he told them no, the principal back then called Marc into his office and demanded he change the grades. Marc wasn’t very polite when he refused.
“Well, the next week both players suit up for the play-off game, which Lee wins big. Marc does some checking and discovers that someone in the office has changed the kids’ grades, so Marc calls the state athletic offices and turns us in. We’re forced to forfeit the game. We’re eliminated from the play-offs. Marc’s name appears in all the papers, and everyone blames him for the town’s collective humiliation. Our principal takes away all of Marcus’s honors classes and reassigns him to the remedial sections. The students turn on him. His Quiz Bowl team asks for a new sponsor. His house gets vandalized. The Herald is full of letters from parents saying things like, ‘That teacher is what’s wrong with education.’
“Most people would have just left Deerfield, and maybe Marc would have too, but his wife was pregnant, and he thought the stress of moving would be worse than the stress of staying here.”
“But Mr. Twilley doesn’t have any kids,” I point out.
“The pregnancy wasn’t successful, Tommy. I think Marc has stayed here since then just to spite the town. He hasn’t done anything other than teach since then. He’s still a good teacher. He still pus
hes students hard, some say too hard, but he hasn’t sponsored a club, taken a field trip, participated in any school events like the faculty play.
“So that’s what surprises me about today,” she adds.
“What about today?”
“Why in the world did he volunteer to be a slave?”
CLINT
3:25 P.M. Sixth period, practice field
Thursdays are light days: helmets and shorts. We do some stretching, jog through the special-teams stuff, maybe half speed through any new plays we’ve put in for that particular week. We hafta be off the field before the freshman game, so the whole thing doesn’t take more ’n an hour. That’s why it’s strange that the coaches are runnin’ so far behind today. Team’s been out here on Rebel Field playin’ grab-ass for a solid fifteen. Ain’t a whistle been heard.
I look around for Humphrey, figurin’ that, since he’s the captain, he could get the stretchin’ started. I wanna have enough time to grab somethin’ to eat after school and get back in time for Alex’s JV game. Then I notice Humphrey ain’t here. Neither’s Jody Anderson. I don’t see Ray Cook or Marvin Washington either. All of ’em are seniors. All of ’em are black.
I don’t like the look of this.
I see the double doors of the field house have been pushed open and all the coaches are walking out with these grim-lookin’ faces. Coach Rossy shouts into his bullhorn.
“Let’s line it up and get ’em stretched out. DeFreisz, you lead ’em.”
Now everyone starts noticin’ their missin’ teammates. I see guys lookin’ at me like I should know what’s goin’ on, but I don’t. Least not for sure, but I do have some ideas. I’m tryin’ to lead the team through the stretches, but I can’t seem to count out loud, ’cuz I got too much runnin’ through my head. Mainly, how’re we gonna beat Liberty Valley without Humphrey and the rest o’ those guys? Why couldn’t Coach’ve kept his stupid mouth shut? Why did Humphrey hafta take it personal? I know for a fact Coach thinks the world o’ H. B. I mean, how many other coaches in the district start a black quarterback?
I call for hurdler’s stretch.
Tweeeeeeeeeeeeet.
Rossy gets in my face. “DeFreisz! Pull yer head out, boy! We already done that!”
“Yessir.”
But I’m not the only one with his head up his ass. We practice like girls. Footballs go bouncin’ off guys’ helmets. Grant Ehlam, our backup quarterback, can’t remember the plays; he keeps turnin’ the wrong way to hand off. The coaches keep arguin’ with each other. When the defense jumps offsides for the third time in a row, Rossy gives up. He blows his whistle and tells us to gather round. This is the time each week that he gives us our big pep talk. He gives a short one right before the game, but this is the speech where he pulls out all the stops: watery eyes, clipboards slammed to the ground, clutchin’ his heart ’n’ all. Today he pulls a two-foot section of rope outta the pocket of his Rebel Pride windbreaker.
“This, men, is a rope.”
I’ve heard this one already, but it’s a classic. He tells us this story ’bout his daddy. Reveals how his old man saved dollars in empty fruit jars to send his boy to college, mentions how when there wasn’t enough to eat the old man would just sit ’n’ smoke Lucky Strikes on the porch ’til dinner was over. Then he throws in this added detail: The man worked on a farm his whole life despite arthritis, cancer, and a bum leg.
“But you know what, men? If I was hangin’ from a cliff, and I had my choice of anyone on this planet to be holdin’ on to the other end o’ this rope, that eighty-nine-year-old man’s who I’d pick.”
The team is silent. The new guys who haven’t heard this are mesmerized. Us veterans are anticipatin’ this next part, ’cuz it’s the coolest.
“You see, I know there might be chunks o’ flesh comin’ outta his hands, blood spurtin’ from his eyes, but he wouldn’t let go. He might fly off the cliff with me, but he’d still be holdin’ on to that rope.
“After him, I’d take any of you boys.”
Guys start lookin’ at one another. Then Coach starts up again.
“’Cuz we’re a team. And when you’re part of a team, you put your faith in your teammates. You’re there for ’em when the goin’ gets tough. Now, you may’ve noticed we’re missin’ a few boys today. Well … they’ve decided they don’t wanna be part o’ this team. That’s okay. We’ll let ’em go their own way. What’s important is that we regroup. Put it behind us.”
But I’m not sure I can put it behind me. I’m wonderin’—if I was hanging from a cliff—would I want Coach on the other end of that rope?
Doesn’t matter. It ain’t some speech that’s gonna get me pumped up tomorrow night. Like I’m really thinkin’ ’bout ropes when I got some fullback tryin’ to remove my kneecaps. Truthfully, there’s not much thinkin’ involved out there. You may hear people talk about football bein’ a thinkin’ man’s game or some such bullshit, but it’s all instinct and desire. You stop to think and someone’s gonna plow your ass. Tomorrow we’re gonna get our dicks handed to us, and you know what? I don’t even care. I just wanna get out there—hit and get hit. Not thinkin’ solves lots of problems.
TIFFANY
3:41 P.M. Sixth period, community service
Talk about bogus classes. While Rainy vents about having to kiss Trailer Parks in Tom Jones, I fill in the blanks on birthday cards for the residents of the Golden Years Retirement Village. I thought it would be funny to put a frog on the front and write GLAD YOU HAVEN’T CROAKED on the inside, but apparently I was the only one in the class with a sense of humor, because the cards we ended up with have Raggedy Ann and Andy on them. Do old people really revert to childhood once they’re exiled to a home?
To graduate from Lee you either have to take community service for a semester or volunteer somewhere: a homeless shelter or church or suicide hotline—something like that. Taking the class is easier. Other than penning touching B-day greetings to the Matlock set, we also keep Deerfield’s first graders off the hard stuff by convincing them that Barney hates crackheads. When we’re feeling especially ambitious, we empty the recycling bins.
“… anyway, I tell Miss A. that the guy smells like a giant armpit, and she acts like I’m the one with the problem.”
“That’s showbiz,” I say.
“Thanks for the sympathy,” says Rainy. “Hey, by the way, I got interesting news from that freshman who lives with my parents and me.”
“Your brother?”
“The blood test hasn’t come back. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“What did he have to say? Does IBM have a new catalog out?”
“He said that there’s lots of talk about your choice of slaves flying around the information geekway. He read a message your slave posted mapping out the path your tongue took along his body.”
“What else did your brother tell you?”
“He said the odds on your slave bagging you went down from a thousand to one to fifty to one after that.”
“I wish someone would have told me when it was at a thousand to one; I could have used the cash.”
“Bulimia, anyone?” Rainy says, sticking a finger in her mouth.
Just then my pager goes off again. I check the number and recognize it as Delvoe Ford’s. Daddy beckons. He can wait.
BRENDAN
3:57 P.M. Computer lab
Tiffany wasn’t in her class when I went to pick her up from community service. Her friend Rainy said she had gone to use the phone. I take the opportunity to meet Lloyd in the computer lab. He’s already logged on by the time I get there. He faces me. He’s wearing this big, evil grin, and he’s spinning a floppy around in his fingers.
“Luke, give yourself over to the dark side,” he says.
Here’s the big difference between Lloyd and me—at least I like to think there’s a big difference—Lloyd will hack anywhere and do anything: he’ll crash other people’s systems; he’ll make their credit reports reflect an earlier bankruptcy,
he’ll add people’s names to every single national mailing list. Once he forwarded all of Domino’s incoming calls to the local adult bookstore. (Lloyd taped the calls. The funniest one has a woman saying, “I’d like a large pepperoni.” “Wouldn’t we all,” answers the porn dealer.) I try to keep my hacking limited to “victimless” white-collar crime.
“I sense there is goodness in you yet, Father,” I say.
“Obi-Wan has taught you well,” says Lloyd, then he drops his Darth Vader voice. “But check out what you’re missing.”
Not for the first time, I’m glad that Lloyd’s my friend and not my enemy. He wades through a few commands, and a listing of some of the most popular students in school comes up on-screen. Next to their names are sets of numbers. I make sure Annabella’s isn’t one of them.
“Are those their passwords?” I ask. Lloyd nods. I continue scanning the list until I find Tiffany’s. “You must have had some free time on your hands.”
“Not really. I just ran names against a list of student ID numbers I pulled from the office. None of these Greek gods bothered to change their password from the default.”
“What are you planning on doing with this list?” I notice the disk he’s still spinning in his hand.
“Oh, with most of them, just have some fun. I’ve been logging in under one pop’s name. Then I send out pretty steamy E-mail to another one of the blemish-free. It’s kinda my own version of Love Connection. They’re always trolling the same genetic pool, anyway. They probably won’t even notice the difference.”
“Hilarious,” I say with indifferitude. “What’s with the disk?”
Lloyd can barely contain his pride. “This, my paladin friend, is your opportunity to make Tiffany pay for any real or perceived slights. On this disk I have created the mother of all computer viruses. Like a neutron bomb, it takes out exactly what you want it to. It’ll reduce a gigabyte’s worth of treasured files to electronic confetti in a matter of a few hours. Behold, Expunger!”