Painting the Black

by Carl Deuker

  Second and eighteen. That’s what Josh faced when he stepped up to the line. He also faced a revved-up Franklin defense that was out for blood. Too revved-up, it turned out. Josh long-counted them and drew them offsides, making it second and thirteen—a better situation.

  He quick-counted them this time, and then dropped back to pass. The blitz was coming again, but Josh unloaded a bullet over the middle to Wilsey. Jamaal hauled it in and, with the Quaker middle linebacker out of there, turned upfield for eighteen yards and a first down.

  Josh raced the team up to the line of scrimmage, calling the play without going into a huddle. He took the snap and rolled to the right to pass. This time he hit Kittleson circling out of the backfield. Kittleson took it in stride, juked a cornerback, and turned a five-yard pass into a twenty-three-yard gain.

  On first down Josh ran a draw that went for about four yards, which I guess was okay, but I wanted to see Josh air it out. That’s what he tried to do on second down, but before he could set his feet, their defensive end sacked him for a loss of six.

  Third and twelve with the ball on the Franklin forty. Josh dropped back, looked left toward Wilsey, pump faked, then came back to the right with a long pass for Santos. It dropped down out of the sky right over the cornerback’s outstretched hands and right into Santos’s. Touchdown!

  I exploded. Everyone around me did too. We celebrated as though we’d won the game. Then our kicker came on and chunked the extra point. I looked up at the scoreboard. Four minutes were left and the score was Franklin 10 Crown Hill 6.

  Canning tried the onside kick, but the Quakers covered it. They ran three straight running plays, taking time off the clock. Our defense held, but after the punt we were backed up on our eleven-yard line with less than two minutes left. Along with every other Crown Hill fan, I was up and cheering, hoping for the miracle.

  On first down Josh dropped a great pass over the linebacker to Kittleson, who pulled it in for fifteen yards. But Kittleson was tackled in the center of the field, forcing Josh to burn a time-out to stop the clock. He completed his next pass to Wilsey, who managed to get out of bounds, but it was good for only five yards. No way to win the game with little gains like that.

  On second down Josh’s protection crumbled. I thought he was going to be sacked for sure, but he straight-armed the first rusher, shook free of the second, and suddenly the ball was in the air to Wilsey, who had come open on the Franklin thirty-three. Wilsey was tackled immediately, and Josh had to use his last time-out, but there were still forty-two ticks left on the clock. The roar from the stands kept up through the entire time-out.

  Next came a trick play. Josh lateraled to Kittleson, who lateraled right back to him. A pass to the end zone was coming, but a linebacker was right in Josh’s face. He dropped him for a loss of nine yards. Even worse, the clock kept running. By the time Josh got everybody up to the line, there were only sixteen seconds left. He took the snap, dropped back a step, and spiked the ball to stop the clock. Third and nineteen, with thirteen seconds left.

  You need luck sometimes, no matter how good you are, and on the next play Josh got lucky. He threw a lousy pass, his first truly lousy pass of the day. It was intended for Kittleson, but the ball hit a Franklin cornerback right smack in the hands. He should have intercepted, and if he had, that would have been the game. But the ball bounced off as though his hands were made of stone.

  Fourth down.

  Seven seconds left.

  Everyone in the stadium knew the next pass was going into the end zone. There was no time for anything else. Franklin had four down linemen and seven defensive backs. Bethel Santos was split to the right, Wilsey to the left. Both were double-teamed. Garrett Curtis lined up in the slot.

  Josh dropped back, looked left. Wilsey was covered. He danced around, looked right. Santos was covered. The pocket crumbled. Josh ducked under the rush, pumped once deep, then tucked the ball under his arm and took off.

  He juked one guy at the twenty, broke a tackle at the fifteen, then cut back. Two Franklin guys overran him, but one guy had the angle on him. He hit Josh at the four-yard line, hit him, but didn’t bring him down. Josh kept churning his legs until he’d dragged that Franklin guy into the end zone. The gun sounded as the ref signaled “touchdown.” Six points went up on the scoreboard. Crown Hill 12 Franklin 10! We’d won! We’d won!

  5

  After the game I went straight to the bus stop, and I was on the bus before I even had a chance to think what I was doing. Other Crown Hill kids were staying at Seattle Center, hanging out. That’s where the football players—Josh, Kittleson, Wilsey, Santos—would be. I could have pulled the cord, gotten off at the next stop, and walked back. But I didn’t. I don’t know why; I just didn’t. Rain started falling. The bus’s wipers squeaked as they slapped back and forth.

  Back home, my mother and father were watching a movie in the front room, but they turned it off when I came in.

  “How was the game?” my mom asked.

  “Pretty good,” I said. “We won.”

  “Did Josh play?” my dad asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered, “he did great. He won the game for us.”

  “Well, good for him,” my dad said.

  I started across the room toward the stairs. “Why don’t you sit down and watch the movie with us?” my mom suggested.

  I shook my head. “I’m pretty worn out. I think I’ll go to bed.”

  I climbed the stairs to my room and turned on my radio. Around eleven the television went off downstairs and I heard my mother and father get ready for bed. There have been about a thousand nights when I’ve wished I could fall asleep as easily as they do, and that was one of them.

  Around one o’clock a car pulled up across the street. I looked out the window and watched Josh get out and wave good night to whoever it was who had given him the ride. As the car drove away, he looked up. I was embarrassed, afraid he’d think I was spying on him. But his face lit up the instant he saw me. He motioned for me to come down. In a flash I was down the stairs and out the door.

  A huge grin broke across his face as I met him in the street. “Did you see the game?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said, grinning back at him. “You were great.”

  His smile wouldn’t stop. “I told you, Ryan. Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

  “You sure did!” I said. “You sure did!”

  “Canning can’t put me back on the bench now, can he?”

  “No,” I said. “No way can he do that. Not now.”

  For the next ten minutes he talked on and on, describing his passes, the final run. “I was in a zone. Oh, Ryan, it was the greatest feeling in the world.”

  I could have listened to him forever, but the night air was cool. He rubbed his arms. “I’m freezing.” Then he laughed. “And I’m tired too.”

  An idea came to me. “The Seahawks are playing the Bengals tomorrow. You want to go to the game? I’ll bet we can pick up some tickets cheap.”

  He gave me a thumbs up. “Sounds great. Let’s do it.”

  6

  I was knocking on his front door at eleven.

  “Hey Ryan!” he said as he stepped out on the porch.

  “You ready?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m going to have to pass. I called Jamaal Wilsey. We’re going to work out at school. I’d like to get Santos over there too, but he’s Ruben’s best friend. I don’t know if he’ll come.” He paused. “Sorry about the Seahawks.”

  “No problem,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “It’ll probably be a lousy game anyway.”

  I returned to my own house. My father was hosing the dogwood berries off the sidewalk. He stopped when he saw me. “I thought you and Josh were going to the game.”

  “Josh can’t make it.”

  I went up to my room, sat at my desk, and started reading Walden, the next book for Ms. Hurley. I was on page two when my dad knocked on my door. “Can I come in?” he asked.
r />   “Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t feel like talking.

  He took off his glasses, sat down on my bed, and started cleaning them with his handkerchief. I closed my book and turned my chair to face him. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing, really.”

  “There must be something,” I insisted, “or you wouldn’t be here.”

  He stopped polishing his glasses and looked at me. “Okay, Ryan. Here goes. I’m delighted that you finally have someone your age in the neighborhood.” He stopped.

  “So what’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Well, how to put it?” He breathed deeply, sighed. “Ever since football season started, you’ve been a lost soul. You’re always looking across the street, hoping to see Josh. You’re totally wrapped up in him, but he’s got no time for you. It’s not healthy.”

  “Is all this because Josh backed out on the Seahawks game?” I said angrily. “Because I can explain that.”

  His eyes went right to mine. “It’s deeper than that, Ryan. It’s always been there, right from the day you met him. There’s something in your voice when you talk about him—something I’ve never liked. It’s like . . . like you think he’s above you. Like you think he’s doing you a favor by being your friend.”

  I could feel the blood pounding in my head. “Listen, Dad,” I said, my voice rising as the words spilled out. “I am lucky he’s my friend. Josh has greatness in him. Do you understand what I’m saying? Greatness.”

  My father tilted his head a little and looked at me. “From what you tell me, he’s got talent. That doesn’t make him great, though. That’s nothing but good luck. It’s what you do with what you’re given that makes you great.” He paused. “You might find some greatness inside yourself, you know.”

  My mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Me? You’ve got to be kidding. There’s nothing great about me.”

  A little smile came to his face. “I don’t know about that,” he said. Then he stood, and left the room.

  He’s my father and he loves me, but I hate it when he tries to boost me up. Only little kids fall for that. When you’re ordinary, you know it. And nothing your parents say can change it.

  7

  Most Crown Hill High kids are pretty tough looking. You wouldn’t think too many cared about something as old-fashioned as football. But come from behind to win, as we did against Franklin, and before every class it’s: “Were you at the football game?” There was an electricity in the halls I’d never felt before.

  I couldn’t wait to see Josh fourth period. Because if I’d heard the talk, then he must have heard it too. I was sure he’d be in the stratosphere.

  Still, when he walked in the door, I did a double take. It wasn’t that he looked all that different, because he didn’t. He looked the way he’d looked when I’d first met him, back in the summer. Eyes bright, shoulders straight, cocky smile playing on his lips and in his eyes. He was the same Josh all right. It’s just that he was more Josh than ever before, if that makes sense. It was as if a bright light had gone on inside him, making all his features more vivid.

  Before class started, about eight kids surrounded him, shaking his hand and patting him on the back and telling him how great he’d played. Rita Hall was so close they were just about dancing. He beamed and talked about how it was the team that had won, and not him. The bell rang, but nobody sat down until Ms. Hurley clapped her hands and called for attention. Josh sidled into the desk next to me and grinned.

  That day we were supposed to discuss Walden. It was pretty serious going, and I wasn’t in the mood, not with Josh glowing beside me.

  Ms. Hurley talked about protecting one’s “innermost identity against the onslaught of negative images,” whatever that means. Most of the class tuned out, but Monica stayed right with her. The book somehow reminded Monica of the Miss America pageant and the clothes girls wear in beer commercials.

  I didn’t follow much of what Monica said, but Josh followed none of it. He was laughing and joking with Rita Hall. Once the two of them were giggling together while Monica was making some point. Monica stopped midsentence and glared at Josh. “Do you have something to say?”

  Josh put his left hand on his chest. “Me? No, I don’t have anything to say.” Then he made a grand, gentlemanly nourish with his right hand and bowed his head as if he were showing her into a ballroom. “You go right ahead.”

  Rita giggled. Monica glared, then finished whatever point she was making.

  When the lunch bell rang, Josh grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the cafeteria. “What’s the hurry?” I asked. “Are they serving steak or something?”

  “You’ll see. You’ll see.”

  After we’d filled our trays and paid, I headed toward our usual table. “Not over there, over here,” Josh called, grinning wickedly, and leading me to the center table—Brandon Ruben’s table.

  My heart started pounding. “You sit there if you want,” I said. “I’m sitting where I always sit.”

  But he was in high spirits. “No, you’re not, Ryan. You’re my buddy, and I don’t forget my buddies. You’re sitting right here, next to me.” Laughing, he pulled me down onto the plastic chair next to him.

  Jamaal Wilsey and Colby Kittleson came through the line and started for their table. When they saw us, they slowed for an instant, but then came over and sat down. Bethel Santos and Brandon Ruben came later, trays in hand. But those two stopped dead once they saw Josh.

  “Sit down, Bethel, Brandon,” Josh called, sliding his chair toward me. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  I could feel Ruben’s humiliation. “It looks a little crowded,” he said. “We’ll sit someplace else.”

  Josh kept at him. “Stay here, Brandon. We’re a team, aren’t we? We should all hang out together. Sit down.” He pulled a chair out. “Come on.”

  Ruben looked around the table at Wilsey and Kittleson, who were nodding at him, encouraging him. Finally he sat down.

  For a moment there was a tense silence. Then Josh scanned the table. “You guys all know Ryan, don’t you?”

  It was the last thing I expected or wanted him to say. Suddenly all eyes were on me. I nodded to them, trying to think of something to say, hoping that my face wasn’t turning bright red.

  Then I caught a break.

  “Look!” Josh said, his eyes flashing. “Here she comes!”

  Everyone turned to watch as Celeste Honor, wearing a purple halter top, put on her show.

  “She is something, isn’t she?” Josh said, when she’d passed.

  “She is indeed,” Colby answered. “My idea of heaven is a whole world filled with girls like her to look at.”

  That brought some comments about whether heaven might include a little physical contact. Nothing that was said was particularly funny, but I laughed anyway, glad to have the focus off me.

  8

  After that Josh assumed his place at that center table every lunch. Ruben, Santos, Kittleson, Wilsey—they came and sat around him as though he was King Arthur and they were his knights. They weren’t necessarily happy about it, but they did it. I was there, too. I don’t know exactly what my role was. A squire or a page, I suppose. But I didn’t think about that. I was just happy to be at the table.

  It wasn’t only with the football team that Josh took center stage. In the hall, in the classroom, kids gravitated to him. “Great game!” they’d say, or “Go get ’em next week!” He’d toss his head a little and smile and say, “Hey, thanks.” Sometimes, if a nice-looking girl was gazing his way, he’d joke with her a little. He must have done a lot of joking with Rita Hall, because by Friday she was leaning her softness into him in a way that made me stare.

  I would have sworn that Josh was as cool on the inside as he seemed on the outside. That’s why Saturday was such a shock. He showed up at my front door around noon, and I could see fear in his eyes. “Let’s go to the Center,” he said. “I’ve got to burn off some energy.”

  As I lac
ed up my shoes, he kept drumming his fingers on our coffee table, and on the walk to the park, he kept spinning the football in his hands.

  Even when he was throwing the football he was off. He had way too much zip on the ball. It was as if he was trying to throw it through me. Finally I stopped. “Easy, Josh. You better save something for the game.”

  He sighed loudly. “You’re right. We’ll quit.”

  We sat on the retaining wall that bordered the pathway. “Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll do okay.”

  He looked at the ground. “Okay won’t cut it, Ryan. I’ve got to be good or I’ll be back on the bench.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. This is Ruben’s fourth year in the football program; I’ve been here for four weeks. He’s paid his dues, and I haven’t. I’m stealing his job, and the coaches don’t like it and the guys don’t like it. I’ve got to be good right away or they’ll bail on me. Fast.”

  He was exactly right. As soon as he said it, I knew it. And I also knew enough to keep my mouth shut.

  Josh looked at his watch. “I’ve got to go. How about meeting at the Godfather’s on Fifteenth after the game? I’m going to need somebody to talk to, and you’re the only real friend I’ve got around here.”

  I nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  9

  I arrived at Memorial Stadium early. I wanted to make sure I got a good seat, high enough so that I could see the whole field, but not so high that the players looked small.

  All around me Crown Hill kids were eating junk food and laughing together in the late afternoon sun. Stereos played rap music. There was a party atmosphere in the air. And why not? Cleveland was a weak team. And we had Josh Daniels, the new kid with the cannon for an arm, the kid who had single-handedly beaten Franklin.

  I wished I didn’t know how tight Josh was, how scared he was. Then I could have kicked back and enjoyed the last rays of sunshine and the music and the talk. But I did know, and my own stomach churned out acid by the quart.