First & Then(47)

25


We were still working on football in gym class, doing flag football scrimmages. The flags posed a problem for the PTs, because the flag belts covered up the strip of skin between the tops of their shorts and the bottoms of their shirts. This was prime real estate, so they compensated by tying up their shirts a little higher.

We were dividing into teams in class on Tuesday when Mr. Sellers called Ezra over. He was standing with Mr. McBryde, the varsity head coach, a little ways down the field.

“Wonder what they want,” Foster murmured as we both watched Ezra go. Mr. Sellers and Mr. McBryde were speaking in tones too hushed to be heard from where we stood, and when Ezra reached them, Mr. McBryde put a hand on Ezra’s shoulder.

“I know what it is,” someone crooned. It was the slightly pathetic PT, the one who had lobbed the football at me the day Foster’s kicking talent was discovered. “My daddy’s a cop. I know what it is.”

I didn’t know what her daddy’s being a cop had to do with it, but most everyone was listening, even the ones—like me—pretending not to. Foster was staring straight at her, as if daring her to say something bad about Ezra.

“Some kid crashed his car. Some kid from … like, Lake Falls or something? He got drunk and crashed his car and died.”

“What does that have to do with Ezra?” My voice was strangely wooden when it left my lips.

“Well, he was a football player.” She said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “He was, like, the captain or something. And we’re playing them this week.” Her eyes gleamed. “Maybe they’re telling Ezra not to crush them because they feel bad.”

I stared at her for a moment. What an obnoxious girl.

Then I turned my gaze to Ezra. Mr. McBryde still had his hand on Ezra’s shoulder.

Ezra didn’t look as if he’d just received the news of a death. His face was as neutral as usual. His eyes, though, in his eyes there was a brightness that I had never seen before, and not a good kind. I could tell from where I stood that something wasn’t right.

Maybe it wasn’t a death. Maybe it was the Bowl. Had he been kicked out of the Bowl? Disqualified as an All-American? Maybe they got wind of Rachel Woodson’s crappy article and somehow believed all that statistics-mongering stuff.

“I bet it’s not that,” Foster said, glaring at the PT who had spoken. “I bet they just need him for an interview or something. I bet it’s not that at all.”

The PT gave Foster a scornful look and turned back to her friends.

I moved closer to where Foster stood. “You’re probably right,” I said, but I didn’t know how much truth there was to it.

Ezra didn’t return after his conversation with Mr. Sellers and Coach. Instead, he turned and headed toward the team locker rooms. They had their own building, a little, one-story cinder block setup right next to the field.

I looked at Foster. We both peeled away from the class and headed that way, careful to keep out of Mr. Sellers’ sight line.

Foster went straight into the locker room. I paused for a moment. I didn’t know exactly when Ezra’s business became our business, but somehow it had. So I followed.

“Ezra?”

I had never been in the team locker room before. The only difference I noted was that they didn’t have shower curtains, which was weird. And, of course, the wealth of urinals, which was gross.

Ezra was standing at an open locker, his back to us.

“Is it true?” Foster asked. “Was there an accident?”

“Yeah.” Ezra turned. He was holding a practice jersey. His eyes were dry. “Yeah, Lake Falls’ captain died.”

“Oh no.” Foster voiced what I couldn’t. My insides felt frozen. “How?”

“Car accident. They think he was drunk.”

“Did you know him?” Foster asked.

“We did a couple of camps together.”

“Were you friends?”

A pause. “Yeah.”

“Shit,” I said.

“Do you want to cry?” Foster said.

“Foster.” Scolding Foster came natural in almost any situation.

“I’m just saying, a lot of guys don’t think it’s, like, socially acceptable to cry. But you could cry if you wanted. Because that’s dumb.”

Ezra looked at me for a split second. “I’m fine.”

“We could go to our house if you want,” Foster continued. “I have the Bill and Ted sequel.”

“It’s all right. I’m okay.” He dropped the jersey in the bottom of the locker. “You guys go ahead. I’ll be right out.”

We both lingered. Even though Ezra sounded okay, something in his eyes betrayed his words.

“I’m fine,” he said, and there was resolution in his voice. “Go on, okay?”

“Sure.” I pushed Foster ahead of me. “See you out there.”

The news spread quickly throughout the school, and by the end of the day, almost everyone had heard what happened. Lake Falls was just one town over from Temple Sterling. A lot of people had friends there, and some people, apparently, knew the boy who had died. His name was Sam Wells, I learned in my seventh-period math class. He was a senior and a three-year varsity starter, and he had already committed to Florida State.