First & Then(41)

“Thanks for calling,” Ezra said after a pause.

“It was Foster’s idea,” I said, even though—if I recall correctly—it was mine.

Ezra nodded.

“I’m sorry this is happening to you guys,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“You are.” I said it before I could even think about it. “Helping, I mean. You are helping.”

Ezra nodded, and we turned back to the TV, and I must’ve fallen asleep shortly after. When I next opened my eyes, it was very dark outside, the movie was over, and both Ezra and Foster were gone.





20


The game the next day was against Independence High School. Usually day games were a lot of fun—something about them was a little more cheerful, more relaxed than night ones—but today’s was something else. Today’s game was the first time Mr. Harper ever let me hold the camera, and this is why: Mud. A lot of it. And a healthy downpour to boot.

It had been raining since the previous evening. After waking from my nap, I wandered downstairs and found Foster watching TV and eating popcorn with my parents. Ezra was gone, and the rain had settled in.

By the time a sea of umbrellas piled into the stands and the Cavaliers entered the stadium, the place was muddy as hell. You could hardly read the numbers on anyone’s jersey by the end of the first play.

Independence had a good team; just a few minutes before the end of the first half, Temple Sterling had yet to score. We were inching down the field, the offense getting clobbered, and Mr. Harper was snapping away while I held an umbrella over the two of us and shouldered that demon bag.

Play started up, third and seven, and Marshall hiked the ball. There was a flurry of mud, and a figure took off down the field, the ball cradled in his arms. He whipped around, sliding past defenders and hotfooting it down the field with a clear path to the end zone. I had never seen Ezra run the ball that way, and it wasn’t until he ran right by us that I realized it wasn’t Ezra—it was Cas.

That’s when Mr. Harper leaned down for a picture and a whole fleet of defenders barreled past, spraying mud right into Mr. Harper’s face. He shoved the camera at me, and that’s how it came to be that I captured Cas’s victory in the end zone through the lens of the camera.

“Gimme that,” Mr. Harper barked when he had somewhat cleared the mud off his glasses.

The stands were cheering as Coach sent Foster in. Uniform wet but still pristine, he joined the ranks on the field.

I was a little worried about him. There had been no rumblings from the kitchen early this morning, and he was subdued coming back from therapy.

On the field, it was the usual: the snap, the set, the kick. The ball flew, arched …

And bounced off the left goalpost. Missed.

Foster returned to the sidelines. A couple of the guys slapped him on the back, but it was no consolation.

Temple Sterling lost by eight. Foster was silent on the ride home.

“It was rough out there,” my dad said from the front seat. “Must’ve been awful hard to see.”

No reply from Foster, so I forced a “yeah.”

At home, my mom asked Foster to leave his cleats outside the back door. He threw them down, showering caked mud everywhere, slammed the back door, and then stomped to his room.

My mom started to follow him, but I spoke. “I can do it.”

She looked skeptical. “You want to talk to him?”

“Yes.” I know she had every right to be surprised, but I was still indignant. “He’s like my…” I still couldn’t say brother. “He’s like…” I gave up. “I’ll talk to him.”

The door to Foster’s room was open. He was lying on his bed with his back to the door.

“Foster?”

“Go away.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” He sat up, his eyes fiery. “I let the team down!”

“Everybody misses once in a while. Look at Marcus. He misses lots of times.”

Foster didn’t speak.

“Look, you did your best, okay? That’s all that counts.”

“If it had been my best, the ball would’ve made it!”

“Okay, yeah, but either way, the team still would’ve lost by seven, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Dev. You don’t know anything about anything!”

I blinked. “Well, I’m sure I know something about something.”

I had out-Fostered Foster. I didn’t think it was possible.

He threw himself back down on the bed. Conversation over.





21


Believe it or not, there was a party that night. Gale-force winds and all. Losing parties—although they were few and far between these last two years—tended to be rowdier than winning parties. There was more to get drunk over, I guess.

The evening’s party was at the home of Amber McIntyre. Her house was huge and several miles outside of town—ideal for a riotous losing party. And it wasn’t all a loss, anyway—although Independence beat Temple Sterling, Cas had scored his first two touchdowns of the season. In this way, the game was a triumph of sorts—for every member of the team who didn’t like Ezra.