The Perfect Star

by Rob Buyea

  I shrugged again.

  “You kiss her yet?”

  “That’s none of your business!” I snapped.

  “That’s a no, but that’s okay. The first time is always the trickiest.”

  That was cool of him. Since he was being real and not making fun of me, I went ahead and asked him the million-dollar question. “How am I supposed to know if she wants me to?”

  “You can ask her,” Brian said.

  “Pfft. Yeah, whatever.”

  “No, I’m serious. It might not sound romantic, but you don’t want to go for it and find out she doesn’t want that. You need to make sure it’s cool with her. You got it? If it’s not cool with her, then it’s not cool—period.”

  “Did you ask Madison?”

  “Yeah, and she dug me even more after that, because she knows I respect her.”

  Wow, I thought.

  “And it’s definitely not cool to brag about it if you’re lucky enough to get a kiss. You might get away with telling Mark as long as he doesn’t blab it all over, but don’t go telling all the guys in the locker room.”

  That was easy. Mark and I weren’t— Mark! I’d been so wrapped up in talking about kissing that I’d stopped paying attention to where Brian was driving. “Where’re you going?” I asked in a panic.

  “What do you mean? To Mark’s. Aren’t we giving him a ride, too?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged for the third time.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Did you guys get in a fight or something?”

  Shrug number four.

  “This is about Natalie, isn’t it?”

  Number five.

  “Trev, you need to talk to him. You can’t let this go. You guys have been best friends since you were little. You can’t let a girl get in the way of that.”

  “I’m not. I haven’t,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s avoiding me.”

  “Call me sexist if you want, but girls play the silent-treatment game, not guys. Be a man and talk to him, you hear me?”

  I nodded. “Okay, okay. I’ll talk to him. But we’re not picking him up.”

  Brian wasn’t fooling around. To make sure I wasn’t going to chicken out and wasn’t just telling him what he wanted to hear to get him off my back, he coached me on what to say and what to expect Mark to say and how to respond—for the rest of our ride to school.

  I wasn’t blowing smoke when I’d said I would talk to him. I was for real going to do it. I had myself ready, but once we pulled into the parking lot, all that went up in flames.

  It didn’t matter how fast I packed my bag and ran in the halls, there was no way I could make it to practice early during the week, because I was stuck in social studies with Mrs. Carson for last period. If there was an award for talking, she’d win it. She droned on and on about the most boring stuff in the history of the world, and that’s not a joke, because she was teaching us about the history of the world.

  Saturdays were a different story. I could get to practice as early as I wanted, and that was important because there was lots to do. Like, at our first Saturday practice, I got all the different pads and practice pants and jerseys organized in advance, and that helped Coach Magenta hand out equipment much faster, which gave us extra time on the field. That was part of working smarter, like Coach Magenta had said we needed to do.

  I got there extra early on our second Saturday because we were scrimmaging South Lake. This was our first chance to see how we measured up against another team. I had Dad get me there early because I couldn’t wait but also because I had stuff to do. I wanted to get the water bottles and med kit out to the field, and I also needed to set up the yard markers and chains on the visiting sideline and the pylons in the end zones. But the first thing on my list was to check for seagulls. Coach had told Gavin and me that seagulls on the field meant good luck.

  I walked out the doors in the back of the school and peered at our field in the distance. No seagulls. I even beat them getting here, I thought. They’ve got time. They’ll show up.

  I made the trek out to our field because a coach always visits the gridiron before the day’s contest. It’s customary to walk over the land that will be the site of ensuing battle. It was a good thing I did that, because I couldn’t believe what I found when I got there. Spray-painted in the grass in big orange letters smack dab in the center of our field were the most hateful, hurtful words about Coach Magenta that you could imagine.

  The first thing that went through my head was that I was real glad Natalie wasn’t there, because she would’ve been screaming that word I don’t want to say even though it’s not a bad word, but after I got done thinking that, I kicked it into gear. Coach Magenta couldn’t see this. I had to do something, and I had to do it fast. The last time I’d thought that had been when I was standing on top of the twisty slide covered in bird poop, and that hadn’t turned out so well, so that should’ve told me something, but once I got going, I had a hard time stopping to listen—especially to that little voice in my head that Mom was always telling me to pay attention to. I didn’t hear it because my wheels were already spinning.

  The custodians had an office and special closet inside our school, but their outside tools and equipment were kept in a separate garage—and I stood there staring at it. It was the first thing I saw after pulling my eyes away from the ugliness written in the grass. The garage stared back at me. It was calling me. I’d never been in it before, but during the week I saw mowers and tractors and workers with yard tools going in and out of it all day long, especially during Mrs. Carson’s boring class when I was staring out the windows.

  I took off sprinting faster than I’d ever run in the halls. I didn’t know what I’d find, but there had to be something in there. Maybe more paint so I could color in the spot? Or a shovel so I could dig up the words? It was a big area with big letters, though, and I didn’t know if I could do all that shoveling. Maybe a rake or hoe, then?

  I was out of breath when I reached the garage, but I didn’t slow down. There was no time to waste. I grabbed the doorknob and walked in. The smell of cigarettes almost knocked me down. I covered my nose and mouth and did a quick scan of the room. There was a desk pushed up against the wall, with a lunch box, a pack of those cancer sticks, and a smoldering ashtray sitting on top. At least one worker was already here somewhere, so I had to be extra sneaky and extra fast.

  I crept deeper into the garage and spotted a rototiller. That scary machine could’ve dug up the ground way faster than a shovel and made those hateful words disappear, but I didn’t know how to start it, and if I got lucky and got it running, there was a good chance that the thing would take off, dragging me behind it. I didn’t have time for mess-ups. I needed to fix this on my first try.

  The next thing I contemplated was a riding mower. I didn’t need to be strong to start that or drive it—I didn’t think—but if I tried cutting the grass, would it cut short enough to erase the paint? If I drove over the words a bunch of times, would the mower keep clipping the grass shorter? Did a mower work that way? And what if I crashed? I’d never driven anything before. I decided that wasn’t the best idea, either, but if I didn’t find something soon, I’d have no choice but to try it. This was an emergency.

  I turned and quickly surveyed the other side of the garage. Sitting against the far wall were three red cans. I glanced back at the desk and saw a lighter beside the pack of cigarettes. I had my plan.

  I grabbed one can with both of my hands, because five gallons of gas is superheavy, but all my water lugging at practice had prepared my muscles for this. I paused to stuff the lighter in my pocket, and then I hobbled as fast as I could out to the field. The red metal can kept banging against my shins, and it hurt bad, but I didn’t stop. I pushed through the pain lik
e the guys on the team do, because no pain, no gain.

  I couldn’t pour the gas on just the letters, because then those hateful words would be burnt into the ground, not erased, so the first thing I did was use the gas to draw a large rectangle around all the writing. Then I poured zigzag lines back and forth inside the area.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted. “Hey, kid! What’re you doing?”

  I peeked behind me and saw a man I didn’t recognize running toward me. It had to be Smoker Man. No time to waste. I pulled the lighter from my pocket and flicked it. Nothing.

  “Hey! Stop!” Smoker Man yelled. He was getting closer.

  I flicked the lighter again. And again. And again. C’mon, I pleaded. I tried once more. Hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me backward—but not before I touched the flame to the ground. I fell onto my butt and watched the fire grow and sweep across the football field like a running back scampering for a big play.

  “Get back!” Smoker Man yelled, tugging me away from the inferno.

  I scrambled to safety. Then I stopped and stared at what I’d done. I smiled. I’d fixed it.

  “What’re you smiling for?” Smoker Man said. “You could’ve got killed. You’re crazy, kid.”

  He pulled his cell phone out and called the fire department. “We’ve got a large grass fire on the Lake View Middle School football field,” he reported, “and it’s spreading. We need you here fast, before this gets out of control.”

  My smile faded. Smoker Man was right. Can you have a forest fire without a forest? I wondered. This hadn’t been part of my plan.

  I’d given up thinking that Scott would never find a way to top whatever his last crazy stunt happened to be, because every time I started to think like that, he’d find a way to outdo himself. But I’ve got to admit, this latest one was going to be hard to beat.

  Brian’s big pep talk about approaching Mark went out the door as soon as we got to school. We pulled into the parking lot and saw smoke billowing into the air behind the building.

  “What in the—” Brian started to say.

  “Scott,” I said, cutting him off. I jumped out of the car and ran into the school. I sprinted through the lobby, down the hall, and out the back. There were fire trucks and people everywhere. What did you do this time? I thought.

  The short story is that Scott set fire to our football field. I guess he was only trying to burn a small portion of it, but things got out of his control. No surprise there. The question was, why had he wanted to torch any of it? No one knew. He wouldn’t say. Whatever it was, he must’ve had a good reason, because it resulted in our scrimmage being canceled, and he definitely wouldn’t have been trying for that. The whole situation was still being investigated, so nothing bad had happened to Scott yet, and I hoped nothing would, but this was no small mishap.

  * * *

  —

  Thanks to Scott’s fire fiasco, my big moment with Mark never happened before our scrimmage. And it never happened during the week, either. It wasn’t my fault. When was I supposed to talk to him? It wasn’t easy when he wasn’t in any of my classes or lunch.

  Mark started coming to our morning broadcast, but he timed things so that he never got there early, and he always left as soon as we were done. Besides, it wasn’t like we could have the big talk with everyone around. So what about at practice? That didn’t work because Mark practiced with the running backs and I was with the linemen. Coach Magenta had me playing tight end. I was going to be the Rob Gronkowski of Lake View Middle, and Gavin the Tom Brady.

  The big talk just wasn’t happening, and I’d lost my nerve. Brian had warned me that it needed to, or else things would get worse. He was right—but I didn’t think things would ever get as bad as they did.

  Something changed after Mrs. Woods gave me her tough love. I stopped feeling depressed and I started feeling angry. Angry at everyone and everything. Angry. All the time. Angry.

  “Listen up, people,” Natalie announced first thing when she walked through the door on Monday morning. She tossed her bag onto the floor and started passing out the day’s script. She was all take-charge and high-and-mighty. I glanced at her plan and saw where it said something about the football field fire.

  “The fire was big news on Saturday, but it’s old news now,” I said. “Everyone knows about it. Doing a segment on that is a dumb idea.”

  Even Natalie couldn’t hide her shock. She looked at me like she couldn’t believe what I’d just said. Like, how dare I challenge her. Like, how dare I call her plan dumb. She could blame Mrs. Woods.

  “It’s only a dumb idea if I don’t add anything new to the existing story,” she retaliated, regaining her composure and giving me her best lawyer stare.

  “Whatever,” I grumbled.

  That almost put her over the edge. She sucked in a big breath, ready to let me have it, but then thought better of it and bit her tongue. Mrs. Woods was on her feet and approaching us, so that may have been the signal Natalie needed, telling her not to do it.

  It was my signal to go. I was done. No way I was sticking around for this garbage. I grabbed my stuff and made my way across the room. I was finally off my stupid crutches, so I didn’t need any help. I was outta there.

  “Randi, where are you going?” Gav asked.

  “Away,” I snapped. I yanked open the door and was gone.

  As soon as I was in the hall, I felt terrible, but I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I went to my first-period class, and even though I was way early and Mr. Nelson hadn’t even had his homeroom yet, he was cool and let me sit at a desk in the back, and he didn’t ask any questions.

  I pulled out a book and pretended to read. Mr. Nelson’s homeroom filtered in, and I felt some of the kids glancing my way. There was a lot of chatter, but nobody said anything to me.

  “Shhh! Shut up!” one girl hissed at a group of dumb boys. “The Razzle-Dazzle Show is starting.”

  I looked up to the corner where Mr. Nelson had his TV. It was my first time watching our broadcast like this. I’d thought the kids in homeroom would probably be talking during the show and barely paying attention, but the truth was that everyone was watching. The Razzle-Dazzle Show was a hit. That was thanks to Natalie, and just in case I’d forgotten that, she showed me during her final segment.

  “As most of you know by now, our football field went up in flames this past weekend,” she began. “How? I trust that most of you have heard about that as well. It seems our football team’s stats man, Scott Mason, was responsible. But why? That is the part that remains a mystery. Scott hasn’t uttered a word to anyone—not Mr. Allen, not the fire chief, not the police, and not even his friends. Any good lawyer would tell you, sometimes it’s just a matter of asking the right question.

  “Scott, will you please join me?” Natalie said.

  Scott hesitated but walked out and sat in the chair she had for him. What was she going to do?

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now, Scott, I’m not going to ask you what was on the field or in the grass or why you even started the fire. I have a different question for you.”

  “Are you trying to trick me?”

  “No. Not at all. I’m just wondering, can you tell us why you don’t want to talk about what happened? Why you don’t want to answer those other questions that you’ve been asked too many times already?”

  Finally, here were the right questions. “Sometimes it’s better for people not to know, because what you don’t know can’t hurt you,” he said.

  “So you’re protecting someone?”

  He shrugged.

  “Thank you, Scott,” Natalie said.

  Scott got up and hurried off the set, but Natalie wasn’t done yet. She squared her shoulders and faced the camera. She lasered her eyes on all of us watching. It was enough to make a TV blink. “Let me make this clear, Lake View Middle. Scott Mason i
s willing to take the fall in order to protect the innocent. We should all aspire to be so good. And to be such a friend.

  “After hearing this, I hope you will join me in signing a petition to save Scott from expulsion. If we gather enough signatures, we just might convince the administration to listen. You can find the petition hanging on a clipboard outside the gym. I will be collecting it at the end of the day and sharing your feelings with Mr. Allen.

  “I’m Natalie Kurtsman, asking, what kind of person are you? Have a razzle-dazzle day, Lake View Middle.”

  It didn’t matter how angry or sad I was feeling. I was signing that petition.

  Looking back, I believe destiny had me watch our show from the classroom perspective so I could witness its potential, because there were much bigger things in store for The Razzle-Dazzle Show.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #6

  September: Signatures Delivered

  “Natalie, thank you for this,” Mr. Allen said when I delivered the signatures to his office after school. I’d collected over four hundred names—from students and faculty—in support of saving Scott after putting him on The Razzle-Dazzle Show that morning.

  “Is it enough to keep him from being expelled?” I asked.

  Mr. Allen leaned back in his chair. “Natalie, can I tell you something that you’ll keep just between you and me? Consider it confidential information in an open investigation.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I was never going to expel Scott. Don’t get me wrong—there will need to be a consequence of some sort; he did almost burn down the equipment shed and football scoreboard. But it was never going to be expulsion. No matter what anyone says, believe me when I tell you, Scott Mason is one smart cookie. He only does dumb things because he has a heart the size of the Milky Way.”