by Avery Bell
“That's your cheering voice?” I teased. “What are you, suddenly, a truck driver? I swear, you just dropped like five octaves.”
“Shut up,” she said. “Here's your program.”
It was a pretty amateur job compared to the yearbook, but I'm partial. Individual photos of the starters, each one with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Ads from all the local shops. The usual crop of embarrassing 2x2s taken out by parents and grandparents, with little messages of love and grainy black and white baby pictures. George Farmer was holding a lollipop in his. Pretty damn cute. Jim was riding a wooden cock horse.
Ha.
I quickly checked their numbers as the Minutemen ran out onto the field to a standing ovation. Callie elicited a thick, throaty “WOOOOOOF” of approval. I nearly fell over in my seat, shoulders shaking and tears of laughter blurring my vision. Okay. George was a wide receiver, number 86. Quarterback Jim was number 12.
I quickly spotted them both. They were standing on opposite ends of the bench from each other. In fact, there was a noticeable gap between George and the rest of the team.
I wondered if they'd let him play. I mean, he's good, right? He's a starter, normally, and they want the team to win...
Before I knew it the brassy song was over and it was time for the opening kick off. The padded men lined up and the ball was placed on a little orange tee thing. A referee blew his whistle, and the carefully spaced arrangement of football players suddenly dissolved into a chaos of clashing bodies. I couldn't follow what was happening, but I could tell from Callie's hoarse man grunts that the Minutemen were giving as good as they got.
Every play, they lined up. The cheerleaders kicked and twirled in front of us. (I had to admit, Amanda was good at twirling. Hey, everyone has to have a skill.) The next second the whistle would blow, and I'd lose track of everything, hearing Callie's voice in my ear – “THAT'S HOLDING! ARE YOU BLIND, REF? DO YOU NEED CATARACT SURGERY? I WILL PAY FOR YOUR CATARACT SURGERY, REF!” – until the whistle blew again, revealing the ball under a pile of sweaty jerseys.
The first half went by in a flash. It's hard not to get wrapped up in something that a thousand screaming people care about. Okay, okay. So I was enjoying myself. Every now and then I glanced at the Minutemen bench, trying to find number 86. His uniform was spotless. They hadn't let him play a single snap. He sat still. Hunched over.
Poor George.
The score at half time was Minutemen 7, Bulldogs 13. Still anyone's game. But Callie seemed worried; the Bulldogs were apparently “looking good out there.” “Outclassing us on defense,” even.
“Well, they wouldn't be outclassing us if George were on the field.”
“I know,” she growled. “I did not factor that Amanda Petrov into my betting calculations.”
I'd told her all about what happened, and who I suspected was the mastermind behind the “IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT” at school the other day. As far as I knew, Principal Davis had no evidence. He'd summoned a few members of the football team to his office for questioning, but no one squealed. Amanda had gotten away with it clean.
I glanced around the bleachers. I knew Britta and Vi at least were here somewhere. I couldn't tell who anyone was in the crush of blue and white. I got up as Callie stared at her program, crunching peanut shells with her teeth and muttering.
As I walked down the steps and made my way across the bottom of the bleachers, gazing up at all the faces and trying to pick out Britta's, I had that feeling again. Something bad was going to happen. To one of these people...
“Evangeline!” I turned around and there was Quentin, Aeneid open on his lap, Minutemen beanie on his round, pink head.
“Hi,” I said. “I didn't take you for a football fan.”
He sat up straight and cleared his throat. “I always do what I can to support my school. In fact...” His eyes gleamed, and he ushered me in closer. “George and I worked out a secret strategy for the team. They were practicing it all last week, until...” His face fell. “Now they probably won't use it.”
“Too bad.”
“Well. Have fun, Ms. Wild,” he said, tugging down his beanie. “Mayhap the gods of football will smile on us in the second act.”
Secret strategies. Secret projects. Not to mention Arbor, who didn't seem to be in attendance. I wondered where he was.
Finally I spotted Britta, Vi and Shelby, sitting together up in the nosebleed seats with Casey Hall and a few of the other basketball players. Vi was wearing a white t-shirt that she'd turned into a makeshift jersey with blue puff paint. There was a big number 63 on the front, and the name OFORI across the back. Shelby seemed to be engaged in a deep, sports-related conversation with Casey. Britta, meanwhile, was talking with Vi and shooting Shelby angry glances every few seconds. When she saw me coming up the steps, she raced out into the aisle and grabbed my arm.
“Shelby is totally flirting with him!”
“Oh, relax. I'm sure it's just friendly.”
Britta shook her head. “I don't know. They've been talking a long time...”
I waved to Vi. Britta and I stood in the aisle for a few minutes, chatting, but her mind wasn't on our conversation.
I squeezed her shoulder in support. “You could always flash him your blessings,” I suggested.
Britta stuck her tongue out at me, gave me a hug, and went to sit down again. It was the start of the second half, and I traipsed down the steps against the tide of people returning to their seats with fresh snacks and empty bladders. I found Callie in the same position, hunched over her program, chewing on her sodden peanut shells.
“If our defensive line could just block more effectively...” she was saying.
“Hi ho,” I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed out to the field. “Game's starting again.”
“Oh, right. GO MINUTEMEN!” She cupped her hands around her mouth, elbowing me accidentally in her enthusiasm.
Then she sat down and put a couple of fingers to her throat, feeling her own pulse. “This level of stress over a sports game can't be healthy,” she said.
“No kidding.”
Her eyes were pleading with the universe for a win. She said, “It's time for third-quarter-Minutemen-domination-quarter.” She sounded confident, but I could tell she wasn't.
The third quarter was not, in fact, Minutemen domination quarter. The Bulldogs scored a touchdown on their opening drive, and although we managed to hold them after that, our offense didn't look like it could get anything started. Jim Holness was throwing incomplete pass after incomplete pass.
Opening drive. Incomplete pass. If nothing else, I was learning football terminology.
“This is infuriating!” whined Callie, as the bedraggled players limped off the field after the last play of the quarter and sat down on their bench, thirteen points behind. “They should just put George in.” She stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth again. “HEY! GENIUSES! WHY DON'T YOU PUT GEORGE IN!”
To my surprise, the large man sitting to my right also stood up. “PUT GEORGE IN!” he shouted. “PUT GEORGE IN!”
The chant was taken up by everyone in our section. I even saw little kids joining in. It swept across the stadium like wildfire. Soon the whole grandstand was shouting in unison.
“PUT GEORGE IN! PUT GEORGE IN!”
I shouted too. I shouted as loud as I possibly could.
It was the Minutemen's drive when play resumed. Callie told me that it was second down, and they still had ten more yards to go. Jim's voice wavered as he called for the snap.
“Hut. Hut. Hike!”
The other team's defensive line looked like it knew exactly when to spring forward and gain ground on us, collapsing the pocket around the quarterback and putting pressure on Jim to throw.
Incomplete pass. Third and long.
“PUT GEORGE IN! PUT GEORGE IN!” Still the chant went up from the crowd. Gay, straight, conservative, progressive. Didn't matter. Because right now they all wanted to see our team win t
his game.
Finally the coach pointed at George and with a flick of his wrist, sent him into the huddle. A raucous cheer followed him, louder than anything I'd ever heard before. The announcer got back on his mic, and said, “Here comes junior wide receiver George Farmer. Set the Peaks High record in receiving yards last year, and this is the first we've seen of him tonight...”
At first Jim hung back, outside the huddle, as George gathered all his teammates around him and started to gesture animatedly. The roar of the crowd was building again. After a few seconds, Jim reluctantly joined them. They clapped and broke on three.
Then we hushed. Stood still, held our breath. We waited for Jim to call the count.
“Hic. Hoc. Huius.”
Huh?
The Bulldog's defensive line looked confused. One of them rushed forward before the ball was snapped. False start. Five yard penalty.
Third and five.
The crowd cheered. I glanced down to where Quentin was sitting. I could see him hooting and waving his beanie back and forth like a flag. So this was the secret strategy! Calling the count in Latin. Well, it seemed to be working. The Bulldogs looked completely discombobulated.
“Hic. Hoc. Huius. HAEC.”
This time the Bulldogs were too slow off the snap. Our line overwhelmed them. George ran a beautiful route (don't take my word for it; I'm just repeating what Callie said), beat his defender down the field and Jim had plenty of time to throw. I saw him hesitate for half a second.
Then he zipped a laser pass to George. It hit him right in the middle of the chest. He broke two tackles and scrambled into the end zone for a touchdown.
We all went wild! Callie jumped up and down, hugged me, hugged the burly man who'd taken up her cheer, hugged anyone else who'd hug her back and smeared face paint on all of them. Nobody cared.
“YUSSSSSSSS!”
She was giving James Earl Jones a run for his money with her cheering.
The rest of the fourth quarter seemed to fly by. Our team looked more determined, more gritty. Now it was our offense that was always pressuring to score, and our defense getting tackles and sacks. Amanda led us all in a couple choruses of “Go Fight Win,” and I even joined in.
With only one minute left on the clock, the score was Minutemen 14, Bulldogs 20. A touchdown would win the game. Callie was tense. Her strong jaw was locked and rigid. “This is it,” she said. “This is our last drive. Come on, come on, come on...”
Our offense had managed to pull the Bulldogs offside three more times for extra yardage. But they finally seemed to be catching on to the rhythm of the Latin count. Now Jim was mixing it up a bit...
“Arma virumque cano!”
I sing of arms and the man. He was butchering the pronunciation, but that was Jim shouting the first line of the Aeneid. I doubled over laughing. One of the Bulldogs pounced early, and we got our penalty. Quentin was standing with his chest puffed out, proud.
A couple of quick passes later, we had a first down with eight seconds left on the clock. The Minutemen broke from the huddle, walking together up to the line. They looked determined. Jim stepped in behind the center.
“Veni. Vidi. Vici. Huius. Hunc. Hanc. HAEC!”
The snap was clean. Jim drifted back, looking down the field. The pocket collapsed, and he scrambled to the left, breaking a tackle. Then to the right. George was in the end zone. With a mighty heave, Jim unloaded a high spiral. The crowd gasped. The Bulldogs were swarming George. It was three on one...
The ball dropped right into his hands. It was a miracle pass. We won the game!
“WOOOOOOO! YES! YES YES YES!”
Callie went crazy. Everyone in the stands went crazy. I went crazy. I couldn't help it.
After the extra point was kicked to make our victory official, the students swarmed the field. Callie gave me a pat on the heinie with her foam hand and I ran down the steps, swung myself over the railing and met Britta, Vi and Shelby out on the track. The marching band was playing “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang. Gatorade was upended over our coach. The Bulldogs, heads hung in defeat, shuffled slowly into their locker room.
Britta was squealing her butt off. Even Shelby had a broad grin on her face. The football players and cheerleaders were mingling with friends and family, until one of them got hold of the ref's whistle and bleated a signal. Then they all converged on George and lifted him up onto their shoulders, carrying him off the field in triumph.
I caught sight of Amanda, standing with a bunch of her friends. Her hand was on her hip, head cocked. She looked pissed.
I nudged Vi and pointed. “Check that situation out.”
Vi giggled. “I bet she's never had a plan go so wrong.”
Britta, holding Casey's hand and looking a lot happier than when I'd last seen her at halftime, said, “She'll be lucky if George doesn't beat out Jim for Homecoming King.”
“My guess is she's going to spend the next twenty-four hours spreading malicious lies, trying to make sure it doesn't happen. Once all the fuss dies down, people are going to remember that they're not supposed to like the gay kid.”
Britta groaned. “That is sooo stupid.”
But we all knew it was true. By the time the dance rolled around the next night, Arbor and George would probably be outcasts again. Suddenly the celebration seemed a little hollow. The song ended, and people slowly dispersed. I met Callie by the gate, and we walked back to the car.
“Fifty bucks,” murmured Callie, her face soft and peaceful once more. “That's what I won.”
“I hope you're planning to put it toward my college education.”
I buckled my seat belt as she started up the engine, shoving the pom poms down under my feet. “Ha ha. How do you feel about putting it towards ice cream?”
“Even better.”
We stopped by Ellen's house and picked her up. I wasn't sure if she'd want to come out with us, but she jumped in the back gamely and sat through Callie's wild-eyed reenactment of the final quarter.
“That's awesome,” she said. She leaned up and whispered into my ear, “It even ties into my little project...”
“Secrets,” said Callie, fake threat in her voice. She was just teasing.
“Tell me about it,” I groaned.
We pulled into Dairy Queen and muscled ourselves into a booth. Apparently we weren't the only football fans with a craving for ice cream. The place was a sea of blue and white, long lines in front of all the registers. Callie went up to order for us, and I leaned in across the table.
“So are you ready to tell me yet?”
“About what?” Ellen picked apart one of her tiny dark ringlets, acting innocent. I noticed that she had some glitter under her fingernails. I wondered what that meant.
“You know. The little project you mentioned. With a capital P that rhymes with T that stands for 'Tell me now or suffer the consequences.'”
Ellen's eyes went wide. She looked surprised. “I think the cheerleaders have gotten to you.”
“Shut up.”
“You'll find out all in good time. I can't risk a leak in the organization.”
“Excuse me? The organization?”
She nodded serenely and sat back, smoothing a paper napkin over her lap like a queen.
I sighed. Apparently it was my lot in life to be kept in the dark about everything. “So you're picking me up tomorrow for the dance, right?”
“Yup. What are you going to wear?”
Just then Callie came back with our ice cream and shoved in beside me. She distributed straws and spoons.
“What won't I be wearing?” I shot back, sipping my chocolate shake with what I hoped was a cagey expression on my face.
“Really?” said Ellen.
“Hey, if you get to have secrets...”
Chapter Eleven
Saturday was pretty uneventful. I spent the morning lounging around while Callie was at work, watching cartoons in my pajamas. There had been no window-related shenanigans since I'd told Arbor t
o step off, but I still had the camera set up just in case. Britta called at ten a.m., wanting my advice about which dress to wear.
“Blue. Maybe the blue. Do you think the blue?”
“Go for the blue.” This was a situation in which it was clearly my job to be supportive and affirming.
“But the blue's satin.”
“So?”
“It's going to wrinkle.”
“Then go for the red.”
“But the red's too slutty!”
I put the phone to my chest and screamed into a pillow. Then I held it back up to my ear and said, “No it's not. It's nice.”
“I heard that, you doof.”
She hung up. I got another bowl of cereal and did the Stevens Peak Journal Saturday crossword. Don't be impressed – one of the clues was a six-letter word for “orange vegetable that rhymes with parrot.” The New York Times it ain't. I finished in about ten minutes and went upstairs to wash my hair.
While I was in the shower, I heard the phone ring. Thinking it was Callie, I jumped out of the shower all sudsy, whipped a towel around myself and dashed down the staircase, trying not to slip on the wood. I picked up the phone, pink and out of breath.
“Should I go for the...?”
“Yes.”
“Even though...?”
“It's not, I promise.”
“Maybe...”
“The satin will wrinkle and you will literally die of embarrassment.”
“But...”
“Just remember to squeeze your legs together whenever you sit down.”
Britta sighed. “Okay.”
I put down the phone, rolling my eyes. Just then there was a knock at the door.
Damn. Still naked.
Ah well, probably just a package. I wrapped the big, fluffy towel more securely around my body, still wreathed in tendrils of steam from the bathroom, and went to the door. I opened it a smidge, just enough to poke my wet head out.
“Evangeline.”
Arbor Vitae Damo da Rosa. Of course.