“He’s not as good as you,” Jason said to Tom, after Billy Bob threw a perfect pass to Bo Reynolds on a slant for a fifteen-yard gain. “But he’s pretty good.”
He was certainly good enough. The Patriots scored touchdowns on their first three drives after Billy Bob entered the game. From the sidelines, you could see the entire offense’s body language perk up the minute he jogged into the huddle.
At halftime it was 21–7. Powhite pieced together a drive to start the second half, helped by a blown coverage in the secondary. Mitch Knox, the cornerback who had been completely fooled by a play-fake, was instantly yanked and Coach Johnson berated him at length as he came to the sideline.
“How can you be so dumb?” he said. “How can we have recruited someone so dumb? I should fire the coaches who recruited you right now. Son, if you get into college someplace, I hope they’ve got a team of tutors to work with you. Now go sit down and see if you can learn some football by watching.”
Mitch slunk to the bench, took his helmet off, and sat staring at the ground. No one went near him. He’d been a starter for two years and had made a mistake almost anyone could make.
“Do you think there’s any chance he talks to a white kid that way?” Jason asked Tom.
“Good question,” Tom said. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.
* * *
The game stayed close until midway into the fourth quarter. The teams traded field goals to make it 24–17. Powhite began moving the ball again but stalled at the TGP 38-yard line. Too far away to try a field goal. On came the punt team. Jason jogged out to take his spot seven yards in front of Ray Solo, who was standing on the 5-yard line.
A return wasn’t likely from here. Powhite would try to punt the ball short of the goal line and down it. Solo’s job was to act as if he was going to catch it to slow the defenders a little bit in the hope that the ball would get to the end zone for a touchback.
Jason stood at the 12 and watched as the ball spiraled into the air. Suddenly, a wave of panic hit him. The ball was dropping straight toward him. The punter had kicked it short. Jason had a split second to make a decision. If he let it bounce, it would almost surely be downed inside the 10. A fair catch made the most sense. The 12 wasn’t great field position, but it wasn’t completely awful.
For some reason, though, he couldn’t get his arm into the air to signal the fair catch fast enough. Fully aware that the Powhite punt team was bearing down on him, he caught the ball and—mostly out of panic—began sprinting to his right.
Apparently the defenders were surprised he’d caught the ball without a fair catch. In an instant, he was past the first wall and had gotten to the edge. Remarkably, because most of the punt team had been in full sprint to try to down the ball if it bounced, he had only two Powhite players between him and the goal line.
The first one raced up to meet him at about the 30. Jason made an instinct move, planting his foot to cut inside. The defender flew past, barely touching him. He ran in the direction of the middle of the field, hearing screaming behind him as the Powhite defenders he’d run past tried to recover.
Only the punter was left to beat. Jason simply outran him, flying diagonally across the field, picking up so much speed that the kid couldn’t catch him. Once he was in full sprint, he knew he wasn’t going to get caught. Still, he didn’t look back until he was across the goal line.
Jason turned and saw his teammates bearing down on him. He didn’t even know what to do with the football. He fumbled it as he was tackled by what felt like the entire TGP team.
It didn’t matter. Jason was a hero—again.
When he came to the sideline, Coach Gutekunst was waiting for him.
“You know you should have fair-caught that ball, don’t you?” the coach said.
“Coach, I couldn’t get my arm up—”
“Well, thank God for that!” the coach said, giving him a bear hug.
“White Lightning lives!” Tom said, joining the hug-fest.
He was aware of the fact that he had tears in his eyes as he hugged his pal. He hoped they were tears of joy.
* * *
The final was 31–21.
Once again, Billy Bob didn’t get a game ball. Tom figured if Billy Bob threw for five hundred yards, he wouldn’t get a game ball. Instead, the entire offensive line—including the O-line coach, Marco Thurman—got one for “making the offense go.”
Well, Tom thought, at least Anthony got a game ball.
The change in quarterbacks wasn’t brought up in Coach Johnson’s postgame remarks.
Jason also got a game ball.
“Two game balls and you’ve been in for, what, four snaps on offense all season?” Billy Bob said. “That’s impressive.”
Even without a game ball, Billy Bob was receiving plenty of congratulations from teammates when Coach Ingelsby walked up. Anthony had already gone off to shower. Jason was standing next to Billy Bob, and Tom was trying to decide whether he needed to shower since he was now zero-for-eight in getting on the field in a game.
“Anderson,” Coach Ingelsby said.
Tom wondered if he was actually going to offer congratulations for Billy Bob’s performance or Jason’s return. He wasn’t.
“Jefferson, Roddin, you, too,” he continued. “Where’s Ames?”
“In the shower,” Billy Bob said.
“Well, you can let him know, then. Monday, six a.m., you report to Coach Winston for your punishment runs.” Coach Ingelsby smiled wickedly. “You didn’t think you were getting away with your little excursion, did you? We just held off a week because we didn’t want to single anyone out after that awful team effort last week. Now we can single you out.” He turned and walked away.
“And the hits just keep on coming,” Jason said, using a favorite saying of his dad’s.
Tom started to take a step in Coach Ingelsby’s direction.
“Whoa,” Billy Bob said. “What are you doing?”
“I’m gonna tell him he should single you out for saving the game tonight.”
“No you’re not,” Billy Bob said. “Just leave him alone. You want to get thrown out of school before you get the chance to dance with Toni?”
“Billy Bob’s right,” Jason said. “Which reminds me—do we have to go shopping for you in the morning?”
“Shopping?” Tom said. “What for?”
“A ladder,” Jason said.
For once, they all laughed out loud in the TGP locker room.
26
The dance was scheduled to start at seven.
The four boys and four girls decided to walk over together—a good idea, Tom decided, because given the way the four girls looked, and the fact that the four boys were just freshmen, there were bound to be plenty of older guys wanting to ask them to dance as soon as they walked inside.
They strolled up to the front door of the Alumni House at a few minutes after seven and were surprised to find Mr. Gatch standing there, greeting the students as they walked in.
“I forgot,” Zoey told the group as they waited in line. “This is one of his traditions. Apparently he tries to remember everyone’s name.”
Tom, standing next to Toni, felt himself sweating.
“Miss Desheen!” Gatch practically screamed as Zoey walked up to shake hands with him. “What a wonderful win you girls had this afternoon!”
“Thank you, Mr. Gatch,” Zoey said. “I think you know Billy Bob…”
“Mr. Anderson, of course,” Gatch said. “Well done last night, young man. You’ve earned the right to walk in with Miss Desheen!”
He was practically gushing. It was no different with any of the rest of them. He remembered all their names—even Tom’s. He complimented Jason on his punt return and told Toni he was counting on her to lead the girls’ basketball team to a great season, no doubt getting his sports confused because of her height.
In the foyer were signs warning students that smoking and drinking were grounds for instant expulsion from the
school and that no unruly behavior would be tolerated. Students were also reminded that, “as a courtesy to the dancers and musicians,” cell phone use was prohibited inside the building, which was used for alumni events and, Tom knew, had offices for the “development department”—the people who solicited the school’s potential donors.
Once everyone was inside, Mr. Gatch formally welcomed them all, talking about what a great start they’d had to the school year and mentioning that the next schoolwide event would be the pre-Thanksgiving 5K turkey trot.
“Start thinking about some original Pilgrim costumes for that one,” he said. “Remember, first prize in the costume contest is free food and drink at the coffee shop for the rest of the semester.”
“Maybe I’ll go as Martin Luther King Jr.,” Tom whispered.
“I don’t think he was a Pilgrim,” Jason whispered back. “I think you should go as Thomas Jefferson.”
“I don’t think either of them was at the first Thanksgiving,” Billy Bob chimed in.
The music started; a live band had been imported for the evening. Tom noticed that it looked as if a large number of staff members and almost all of the nonseniors in the school were in attendance. He saw several of the assistant football coaches. Always stiff, Coach Ingelsby had his hands to his ears almost as soon as the music started. There was no sign of Coach Johnson.
Even though the girls had already said they’d dance with them, Tom still felt some butterflies. Apparently, he wasn’t alone. All four boys stood with their hands in their pockets, and Tom noticed Zoey dancing with Mitch Knox, the cornerback who had been subjected to the haranguing from Coach Johnson the night before.
“Looks like your girl found someone else to dance with,” Tom said to Billy Bob, unable to resist a gibe.
“She probably just feels sorry for him,” Billy Bob said. “But you know me—I always come off the bench to save the day.”
Three songs in, Tom decided it was time. He took a deep breath and walked over to where Toni was sitting, alone. Much to his surprise, her call that she wouldn’t be swarmed by suitors had been accurate.
“May I have this dance?” he asked formally.
“I thought you’d changed your mind,” she said, standing, still considerably taller than he was, even in low heels.
He didn’t care.
Billy Bob had managed to wrest Zoey away from Mitch, and Anthony was in the middle of the dance floor with Hope. He hadn’t been kidding; he really could dance. Sadly, Jason, for all his grace on the field, clearly could not. When Tom and Toni swiveled over to where Jason and Heather were dancing, he could see that Toni was almost averting her eyes.
“Hey, White Lightning,” Tom said over the din of the music, “I’m sure Heather thought you had better moves than this.”
“He’s terrible,” Heather shouted over the music, “but still pretty cute.”
Jason shot a wide grin at his friend. Clearly, he was having fun.
Tom was having fun, too, until Aaron Simpkins, who was a starter on the basketball team, tapped him on the shoulder.
“Time’s up, frosh,” he said, hooking a thumb to indicate it was time for Tom to leave.
Simpkins was at least six foot eight—maybe more. But Tom wasn’t going to be intimidated.
“She’s dancing with me,” he said, looking over his shoulder and continuing to dance. “Because she wants to dance with me.”
“Don’t think she wants to dance with someone a foot shorter than her,” Simpkins said.
“But I do,” Toni said, grabbing Tom’s hand as he breathed a sigh of relief. Dancing with someone several inches taller than he was? That he could handle. Fighting with someone who actually might be a foot taller? That he didn’t crave.
Simpkins glared for a second, shook his head in disgust, and walked away.
There were bright strobe lights on the area where people were dancing, and it was now quite crowded. Tom was wondering what he was going to do when the band played a slow song. He figured he’d climb that ladder when the time came. All he knew at that moment was that he and his three friends were dancing with four of the best-looking girls in the school.
One song came and went. Then two. As the band began to play one of his father’s favorite songs, an old Commodores hit, Toni leaned in close to Tom for a moment and said, “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a really good dancer?”
Tom had never danced much before, except occasionally alone in his room—and that certainly hadn’t been to the Commodores.
He smiled and said, “Better than Jason at least.”
Toni laughed, and just as she did, Tom felt a second tap on his shoulder. Another basketball player. In fact, it was Trey Broussard, who Tom knew was one of the team captains. Broussard didn’t say anything, merely jerked his head as if to say, Get lost.
What was up with these basketball players?
Hoping that Toni would interject again, Tom looked to his right and noticed that someone was trying to cut in on Billy Bob: yet another basketball player. The only difference was that it was an African American, Tago Reed. Simpkins and Broussard were both white.
This was no coincidence, Tom knew.
“Hey, boy, you deaf?” Broussard was shouting over the music. “I said outta here, pal. You’re done.”
“Don’t think so,” Tom answered, not having to look nearly as far up at Broussard, who was about six-four, as he had at Simpkins. “Ask her.”
He pointed at Toni, who shook her head at Broussard. “Like I told your buddy,” she shouted, “I’m happy, thanks.”
“No you’re not,” Broussard said. “I got orders.”
Orders?
Before he could ask exactly what Broussard was talking about, Tom felt himself being lifted off the ground and tossed aside. He landed, thankfully, on his butt. Sitting there, he saw Toni coming to help him up. He also noticed that Jason, with Heather standing behind him, was squared off nose-to-nose with Paul Franchot, one of the handful of black guys on the soccer team.
Toni offered Tom a hand to help him up. “Stay close to me,” she said.
He did as he was told.
Now standing, he looked around the dance floor and saw that Anthony was being held back by several kids while a member of the golf team who was in one of Tom’s classes cowered a few feet away as if terrified—justifiably—that Anthony was about to deck him. Zoey had an arm around Billy Bob and was pointing her finger angrily at a handful of kids—all white.
An idea edged itself into Tom’s mind: someone—or perhaps several someones—had ordered that the four interracial couples on the dance floor be broken up. But was he just being paranoid? Had all that had happened the last two-plus months completely clouded his judgment?
The music had stopped. Several of the football coaches came onto the floor to prevent complete mayhem from breaking out.
“What the hell is your problem, Jefferson?” Coach Reilly said, ignoring Toni and grabbing Tom roughly by the collar.
“Coach, Trey Broussard wanted to cut in on us and I didn’t want him to,” Toni said. “Then Trey tried to start a fight with Tom.”
“Why shouldn’t he cut in?” Coach Reilly said. “What’s wrong with cutting in?”
“Nothing, unless the cuttee doesn’t want to dance with the cutter,” Toni said.
“Well,” Coach Reilly said, turning his attention to Tom, “she shouldn’t be dancing with you in the first place.”
Whoa! Maybe I’m not even a little bit paranoid, Tom thought. There really is something going on here.
He then asked aloud, “Why not, Coach?”
For once, Reilly didn’t have an answer. Then he found one. “She’s too tall for you, Jefferson,” he said. “You blind?”
“That’s my call, Coach,” Toni said. “Not yours.”
All over the dance floor, similar arguments seemed to be taking place—coaches and a couple of teachers speaking heatedly to Jason, Billy Bob, Anthony, and their partners about allowing cut-ins.
Before Tom could answer, Toni did. “Coach, I decide who to dance with,” she said. “Not you.”
Toni was as gutsy as she was tall.
Tom was hoping and praying the other girls were giving similar responses to being ordered to change partners. He was kicking himself for not thinking something like this could happen.
Coach Reilly glared at Toni. The room had gotten almost quiet.
Suddenly—or perhaps not so suddenly—Mr. Gatch appeared in the middle of the dance floor. The phony smile he seemed to wear at all times was missing.
“Everyone, listen up,” the head-of-school said in a voice that was firm but not quite angry. “I’m not certain what’s going on here, but let’s remember one of our school traditions: when someone in authority tells you to do something, you do it. There’s always a good reason why the adults make the decisions they make. We all understand that, don’t we?”
He got some nods and a few Yes, sirs, but not many. He smiled in the direction of Toni and Tom and then Zoey and Billy Bob.
“Apparently, some of our girls are attracting attention from more than one boy—understandable.” The phony smile was back. “So, in order to make sure we don’t have any misunderstandings among the boys, we’ll let the adults sort this out. Everyone understand?”
By now, Tom was pretty certain he understood. “Mr. Gatch, shouldn’t everybody have the right to dance with whoever they want to dance with?” he heard himself say.
Mr. Gatch turned to find out where the voice had come from. His phony smile landed on Tom. “As I said, Mr. Jefferson, sometimes the adults have to resolve disputes. You are dancing with a very popular young lady right now. Perhaps you shouldn’t monopolize her.”
“I’m not a piece of property!” Toni said, clearly angry.
That seemed to get to Mr. Gatch. He took a couple of steps in Toni’s direction, the smile gone. “But you are a student here at my school,” he said, his voice low but his tone menacing. “And when I give an order, you’ll follow it.”
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