The Perfect Score

by Rob Buyea

  I showered when we got home, and then I pretended to do my homework. Jane never checked on me. I wasn’t sure if this was more of the silent treatment or us just being bad at talking to each other.

  The silence continued the next morning, but breakfast waiting on the table for me definitely said something. I just wasn’t sure what.

  Woods was right when she told Mr. Allen we hated school. We hated it for a lot of different reasons, but everyone agreed that all that test garbage they kept making us read was awful. Most of the time it was about places and stuff I’d never even heard of before, and that just made it harder and dumber. I was psyched when Woods gave Mr. Allen a piece of her mind and sent Proctor packing. That was a good day. And after all that went down, Scott asked Woods to read to us and she did. What a treat that was. But now it was back to the grind.

  “I’m not leading a bunch of rebels in mutiny,” Woods said. “We’ll do what we’re supposed to, and it’ll all be over soon. March is almost here.”

  Not soon enough, I thought.

  Even though everything about school stunk, I was still working hard on my reading at home. Woods got me the audiobook of Shiloh so I could reread it, and I also had all those books from the library.

  It was a few nights before our next trip to the senior center when Meggie wanted to try a new story for bedtime. She pulled a softcover out of my trusty library bag that musta been one of those favorites Magenta had snuck in there. This one had a long name, Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge. There were so many “d’s” in the title that I was all mixed up before I even got started. But Meggie didn’t care. She wanted me to read it. So I did my best, and wouldn’t you know it, that story was about a boy with that long, tricky name trying to help some old lady in an old person’s home to find her memories.

  When I got done, Meggie said what she always says. “Read it again, Gavvy.” And I did. I read it a whole bunch of times. And each time I got better at reading it, but I also started thinking more and more about what Scott had told me on the bus. Yeah, Scott was a nut, crazy enough to wear an old-lady nightgown, and he couldn’t catch or throw a football to save his life, but he also mighta been right about this one. Maybe?

  I still didn’t know what to think of the old man they called Coach, but I decided to try to help him. I loved talking football with him, but that junk he pulled where he started freaking out and yelling at me wasn’t funny. If he did that again, he could forget about me and his memories.

  —

  We found the all-star team of old folks sitting in the community hall, waiting for us just like always. Director Ruggelli didn’t give Scott a chance to mess up today, though. She started shooing us along, encouraging us to find a place to sit so we could get busy playing our games and doing puzzles. I looked but I didn’t see Coach anywhere.

  Magenta pulled me aside. “He must be in his room,” she said. She knew who I was looking for. “C’mon. Let’s go see if we can find him.”

  I followed her down the hall and around the corner. A good quarterback is focused on his play but pays attention to the shifting defense, too. I wasn’t that good yet. I was too busy worrying about me and my plan and what was gonna happen with Coach to bother paying attention to anything else—and there was plenty for me to be noticing.

  Magenta was right. We found Coach in his room, bent over his desk. It wasn’t X’s and O’s today, though. He was busy doing a paint-by-number. Meggie did those things.

  “Hi, Coach,” Magenta said. “Painting today, I see?” She rubbed his back.

  “Who’s that?” Coach said, pointing but not looking at me.

  I squeezed my lucky football.

  “That’s Gavin,” Magenta reminded him. “He’s from my school. You met him the last time he was here. You had fun talking football with him. He’s back to visit with you again.”

  “Is he going to read to me?” Coach asked.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I’m not very good at reading,” I said. “The letters move around on me instead of sitting still like offensive linemen.”

  “That’s okay,” Coach said. “You keep working at it like you do those football plays and you’ll get it mastered. With good old-fashioned hard work you can accomplish most anything. You’re already getting better at it.”

  How could he know that?

  Magenta smiled. “Come and get me if you need anything,” she whispered. “I’ll be in the Hall.”

  I nodded, but the second she left the room I wanted to yell for her. Can you still be a football player if you’re a chicken?

  “You keep the nose of that football covered, Valentine,” Coach ordered. He was looking right at me now. “And keep your elbow tight to your side. I don’t want to see you fumbling.”

  He definitely had me confused with someone else, but that was okay. I liked the way he was talking to me. He was coaching me. I’d never had a coach before.

  I nodded.

  “It might not be football season, but you practice good habits now and you’ll be ready in the fall. What position are you going out for?”

  “Quarterback,” I said.

  “You’ve gotta be a leader to play that position, Valentine. Are you a leader?”

  I shrugged.

  “We’re gonna have to work on that,” Coach said. “A leader can’t be wishy-washy. You’ve got to be confident.”

  “I can do it,” I said, looking him in the eye.

  “That’s better. There’s hope for you yet, Gavin. I’ve got a way of knowing these things.”

  All of a sudden he remembered my name. Did he understand who he was talking to? Did he know what he was talking about when he said I could be a leader?

  “You like art, Valentine?”

  “I like drawing,” I said, “but I don’t like showing people my stuff.”

  “Confidence, Valentine. Confidence.”

  I nodded.

  “My daughter’s a beautiful artist,” Coach said. “Got a few of her paintings hanging right over there.”

  “They’re nice,” I said, barely giving them a glance. I wanted to talk football, not art.

  “I used to do these paint-by-numbers with her when she was little. I knew back then that she was talented, and she loved it, but she never liked sharing. Always afraid of what people might say. Her mother wanted her to succeed so bad that she made her scared of failure. It was out of love, but you can’t be that way, Valentine! You’ve got to put yourself out there if you ever want to taste victory. You’ve got to go for it.”

  “Did your daughter go for it?”

  “Not with art, even though that was her passion. Her mother’s worrying filled her with self-doubt, so she took a safer path—the one her mother wanted—and it ruined their relationship.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Coach looked at me again. “It’s never too late, Valentine. There’s still time on the clock.”

  I didn’t know what to think. I was feeling more confused than Coach. I didn’t even know if his story was real. If it was, I hoped his wife and daughter made up before his time ran out, but I didn’t come prepared to help him with those memories. I had other stuff with me.

  “I brought you a few things,” I said. “I can’t leave the football, ’cause it’s my only one and I need it to practice, but you can keep this.” I handed him a whistle.

  Coach put it around his neck and picked up the ball. He got to his feet and started pacing about the room.

  “See that poem over there, Valentine?” He pointed.

  “Yes.”

  “Read it. And read it out loud so I can hear the words.”

  “But I told you, I’m not good at reading.”

  “And I told you with hard work you’ll get it mastered. You’ve got to believe in yourself, especially as quarterback, so get working. Read it to me.”

  I began, and then Coach joined in with me. He didn’t even have to look at the words, ’cause his memory was working. He had
this memorized like I did The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

  THE GUY IN THE GLASS

  —DALE WIMBROW

  When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf,

  And the world makes you King for a day,

  Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,

  And see what that guy has to say.

  For it isn’t your Father, or Mother or Wife,

  Whose judgement upon you must pass;

  The feller whose verdict counts most in your life,

  Is the guy staring back from the glass.

  He’s the feller to please, never mind all the rest,

  For he’s with you clear up to the end,

  And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test,

  If the guy in the glass is your friend.

  You may be like Jack Horner and “chisel” a plum,

  And think you’re a wonderful guy;

  But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum

  If you can’t look him straight in the eye.

  You may fool the whole world down your pathway of years,

  And get pats on the back as you pass,

  But your final reward will be heartache and tears

  If you’ve cheated the guy in the glass.

  “You hear that, men?!” Coach yelled. I swear he was seeing his team huddled together in the locker room. “What’s it mean to you, Valentine?”

  “We’ve got to lay it on the line, sir. Play our hearts out and give it our all. So we can look the guy in the glass in the eye when it’s all said and done—no matter the outcome.”

  “That’s right!” Coach yelled. “If you can do that, then Thomson High doesn’t stand a chance. Now get out there and follow your leader to victory!” He blasted his whistle.

  My heart was racing a million miles an hour. I was ready to sprint onto the gridiron. I woulda given anything to play for Coach. He was the best.

  “Looks like you boys are having fun,” Magenta said.

  And just like that, our locker room vanished. Coach sat down and returned to his paint-by-numbers.

  Magenta walked over to his side and rubbed his back again. When she looked at me, she saw my disappointment. “I’m afraid it’s time to go,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. “See ya later, Coach.”

  “Practice tomorrow, Valentine. Three o’clock sharp.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bye, Coach,” Magenta said.

  The old man didn’t say anything. He was lost in his painting now.

  Me and Magenta left and made our way down the hall. “Today went well?” she asked.

  “Great,” I said. “He musta been an amazing coach.”

  “He was.”

  “Do you know anything about his wife and daughter?”

  “Why?” Magenta asked, sounding startled by my question.

  “He was talking about his daughter’s art and how his wife was so scared of her not succeeding with it that his daughter did something else instead, and it ruined her relationship with her mother.”

  Magenta stopped. “He told you all that?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  She was silent. She kinda looked stunned, like a player who just had victory taken from him by some last-second miracle play.

  “Is all that stuff true that he was saying?” I asked her.

  She nodded. “I can’t believe he remembered all that. Did he say anything else?”

  “Yeah. That there’s still time on the clock for them.”

  She smiled. “Keep the nose of that football covered, Valentine.”

  “I will,” I said. I tucked the ball tight under my arm and jogged out to the bus.

  We loaded into the bus, but before we pulled away from the Senior Center, Mrs. Magenta stood at the front and asked for our attention.

  “Okay, caring souls, please listen up.” Mrs. Magenta sure was different, but she had a way of making me smile—like Scott. “I hope you’re all feeling warm inside despite the cold outside, because you’re making a lot of people very happy when you come here. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Hey, lady, can we get a move on?” Mr. Bus Driver interrupted.

  “When I’m finished,” Mrs. Magenta said, staring him down. “Don’t be rude.”

  I didn’t see that coming. Up till then I didn’t realize Mrs. Magenta had a little Mrs. Woods in her.

  She turned back to us. “Please listen carefully,” she continued. “I have an important announcement. Earlier today I was informed that a change has been made. We will still be gathering for our next after-school meeting, but we will not be making this wonderful trip. Instead, since it is getting close to the CSAs, our administration has decided that all school-related programs, such as ours, will be required to use their next session for additional CSA practice. We will resume visiting our friends at the senior center after the tests.”

  Trevor didn’t need to boo. The bus filled with moans and groans.

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Magenta said. “This was not my decision.” She sagged into her seat and seemed to be looking out the window, still upset, and then we pulled away from the curb.

  “Don’t worry. Things will be all better after the tests,” Scott told us. “Mr. Allen and I have a deal.”

  “Whatever,” Gav mumbled, pretending not to care.

  “No, really. You’ll see,” Scott insisted.

  “Dude, believe me, I wish you were right, but—” Mark stopped midsentence, but it was too late. He’d already said too much. What did he know that we didn’t?

  “But what?” Trevor said.

  Mark sighed. “My dad says there are a few nuts on the school board who want to make the tests part of the eligibility rules. They think it’ll motivate us to do better.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Gav said, turning around.

  “I mean the school might decide we can’t play football in the fall if our test scores aren’t good enough. So chances are, me and Trev will be watching the games from the bleachers with you next year.”

  “What? You didn’t tell me that!” Trevor yelled.

  “I didn’t want to,” Mark said, his voice trailing off.

  Trevor slumped against the window.

  “They can’t do that!” Gav exclaimed. He’d been dreaming about playing forever, and now he was going to lose his chance before it even got here.

  “Yes, they can,” Mark said. “Look at all the other junk they’ve already pulled. My father’s fighting it, but he doesn’t think he’s going to win this one. What do you care, anyway? It’s not like your mother was going to let you play.”

  “I was gonna play next year!” Gav yelled. “And my mother’s not the reason I’ve never played before. It’s her fault!” He pointed at Natalie.

  “Me?!” Natalie cried. “How’s it my fault?!”

  “Ask your mother,” he said. That was the second time Gav had told her that, and I still had no idea what it was all about.

  “Really? You get to play?” Mark said. He didn’t care one bit about Natalie.

  “I was supposed to,” Gav said, “but if this thing with the CSAs happens, then I’ll never set foot on the field. There’s no way I’ll get a high-enough grade. I wish there was some way we could ace those dumb things so the school would stop making them such a big deal. It’s not like that test even has anything to do with real life.”

  That sounded like something his father would say. “You’re not the only one who needs to ace them,” I said. Gav and I hadn’t been talking, but he knew what I meant. Suddenly the tests mattered for each of our destinies.

  “Mr. Allen is wishing for the same thing,” Scott said.

  “Who isn’t?” Mark replied.

  “I’m going to make it happen,” Scott announced.

  “Yeah, okay,” Mark said. “Who’re you, our fairy godmother? Don’t forget to wear your cute nightgown when you grant our wishes.”

  “Shut up, Mark,” Trevor snapped. “Scott, can you really do that?
”

  Trevor had seemed so defeated and out of the conversation, but suddenly he was very interested in what Scott had just said. Why?

  “I can do it,” Scott answered. “I’ll find a way.”

  He was serious, and we all knew it. We knew he’d hatch some brilliant plan. And even though it would be risky—and wrong—we didn’t tell him not to do it. Instead, I think we were all hoping he’d come through for us.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #20

  February: Mother’s Story

  After what transpired on the bus, I should’ve been concerned about Scott and the potential wrongdoing he had everyone headed toward, but I was only thinking about one thing: asking Mother about Gavin.

  The first time Gavin made that rude comment about lawyers, I dismissed it. I never bothered to mention it to Mother. I defended my case by demonstrating that lawyers are great people. But this time Gavin didn’t make a broad, unfair generalization about lawyers. Instead, he pointed his finger at me and blamed my mother for his current situation. That was different.

  I intended to question Mother the moment I got in the car, but Father was the one to pick me up today. That was out of the ordinary, and when I asked him to explain, he told me my mother was buried in work. “It’s been one of those days,” he said.

  One of those days or not, I needed answers. When we got to the office, I headed straight for the conference room, where Father had told me I’d find her.

  “Hi, Natalie. How was your day?” She sounded tired and looked spent. There were papers spread all over the table in front of her.

  “It was fine,” I said. I recognized that Mother was exhausted, but this couldn’t wait. I pressed on with what I came to talk about. “Mother, there is a boy in my class and after-school program who has made more than one unfair and upsetting comment about lawyers. I haven’t let it bother me until this afternoon, when he blamed his not playing football on you, which seems completely preposterous. How is that even possible?”