First & Then(19)

Another set of footsteps broke the early-morning silence, and just as Foster had predicted, Ezra Lynley jogged into view. His strides were long and even and controlled. He was like a windup toy or something, perfectly consistent.

He didn’t break stride as he neared the house. He didn’t even look over as Foster began waving like a lunatic. He just kept running.

Foster looked at me for a second, shrugged, and then went tearing off after him. I could hear “Wait up, Ezra, wait for me!” all the way down the street, until Ezra turned the corner and Foster, lagging somewhat behind, disappeared as well.




School came, and at lunch I went to investigate what Mrs. Wentworth had described at our meeting yesterday as “an extracurricular opportunity.” This opportunity came in the form of the school newspaper—apparently they were looking for photographers, and Mrs. Wentworth had made it clear that skill wasn’t a prerequisite.

I tracked down the student editor of the T.S. Herald in the writing lab. The table that spread in front of Rachel Woodson was covered in papers, books, old copies of the Herald, and issues of the monthly TS literary magazine (to which Rachel also contributed). She sat amid it all looking more than a little harried and twice as much hassled, but that was how Rachel always looked.

We had known each other since preschool. I’m not sure when exactly she declared her intention to get into every top-ten university, but she must’ve known it pretty early on, because even back then she always took great care to color inside the lines.

She called her college plan “the Straight Sweep.” It wasn’t enough for her just to want to go to Princeton, to be accepted into Princeton, and to attend Princeton. Rachel wanted to be accepted into all of them—Harvard, Yale, Stanford, all the top schools. I guess so she could have the luxury of turning down the places that kids across the country worked tirelessly just to be rejected from.

It was strange. Rachel was absolutely brilliant. She was involved in just about every extracurricular activity you could think of. She had a load of friends and was the best at practically everything. It didn’t seem to make sense that somebody so smart could seem anything close to pathetic, but still, inexplicably, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Rachel sometimes.

“Are you available after school?” she asked as she typed furiously on her laptop. She barely glanced up at my entrance.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Okay. You can have boys soccer or girls track. Which one do you want?”

“Huh?”

“We need pictures from sporting events. We’ll put ’em in the sports section, but they’ll also be good for yearbook.” Did I mention Rachel contributed to the yearbook?

“Okay, well…”

I had never seen anyone type so fast before. I had no idea what she was working on, but it had nothing to do with me. Rachel’s ability to multitask was nearly frightening.

“Soccer or track?”

“Uh … can I have football?”

Her fingers stopped short.

“You want football? Everyone wants football.”

“I mean, I guess I could do something else, but…”

“What is it about football?” Rachel regarded me through narrowed eyes. “I mean, what is it that’s so great about it anyway?”

“It’s … tradition?”

Rachel looked put off. “It’s a popularity contest disguised as violence disguised as recreational sport.” She began to type again. “You know, someone needs to do a story about high school football—not the team or the scores or anything, but the facts. It’s gotten so political.”

“Political?”

“The sport itself—tradition—is hardly the issue anymore. Kids play football in high school to get money to go to college. It’s just a numbers game.”

I thought of Cas. “People play because they love it. Because their dads played, and their dads before them … stuff like that.”

Rachel glanced up for a split second, and when she spoke next, I couldn’t tell if it was in condescension or if her sincerity was just as clipped as her personality. “That’s a nice sentiment, Devon.”

“But…” I knew she was just dying to go on.

“But I mean, come on. Look at Ezra Lynley.”

“What about him?”

“You don’t think there’s anything suspicious about a two-year varsity starter for Shaunessy High School—three-time state champions in the last five years—up and switching to dinky little Temple Sterling High School in his junior year, only the most important year in a high school football career?”

“Well … I mean, I guess it’s kind of weird, but—”

“You know how you get named an All-American?” I didn’t, but Rachel didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Your stats. Ezra racked up some incredible plays with Shaunessy, there’s no doubt about that, but the stats he earned last year at TS blew all of that out of the water. Forty-five touchdowns in one season. Zero fumbles. Zero.”

“He’s a good player.” Even I had to admit that.

“Yeah, but Temple Sterling’s a Class Three team. We’ve got nothing on those Class Six schools—their teams are huge. Ezra’s in every play here. He’s responsible for every move, whereas at Shaunessy, he’d have to share the limelight.”