Rumors

by Phil M. Williams

  “I’m playing tonight,” Jamar said.

  “That’s great,” Gwen replied, matching his smile. “Not to change the subject on you, but I wanted to talk to you about your personal narrative.”

  “Okay.”

  Shane trudged past alone, glowering at Jamar. Lance and the Fuller brothers walked together, joking, oblivious to or ignoring Shane.

  “Aaron,” Gwen said to his back. “I need to talk to you for a moment.”

  Aaron turned with a frown. “What did I do?”

  Lance and Drew laughed at Aaron and left the classroom.

  “You’re not in trouble,” Gwen said as Aaron approached her and Jamar. “I’m glad I have you both here,” she said, looking from Aaron to Jamar. “I was very impressed with your personal narratives. Both of you did a wonderful job.”

  Aaron blushed, his pale skin reddening.

  “Thank you, Ms. Townsend,” Jamar said.

  “I don’t even like writing,” Aaron said.

  Gwen smiled at Aaron. “I see you, Aaron Fuller. You’re not fooling me. You don’t write with that kind of passion and skill unless you love it.”

  He blushed again. “Can I go now?”

  “Of course.”

  Aaron pivoted on his sneakers and left the classroom.

  Gwen returned her attention to Jamar. “I hope you have a great game tonight.”

  “You should come and see for yourself,” Jamar said.

  “What time does it start?” Gwen asked.

  “Seven. We’re away, but it’s Garden Grove. That’s only like ten minutes away.”

  “I’ll try to make it.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Caleb and Doth Protest Too Much

  The hallway was chaotic, kids boisterous and energized for the end of the school week. Caleb shoved his books into his locker. Planning took place all around him: car pools to Garden Grove, after-parties, beer runs by older siblings, and drug purchases. Drugs were easier to get than beer. You didn’t need ID for your friendly neighborhood drug dealer. Caleb slammed shut his locker.

  “Caleb, you got a minute?” Mr. Phelps asked.

  Caleb turned to his history teacher and exhaled. “I have to go.”

  “Do you have to catch a bus?”

  “I walk.”

  “It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Caleb followed Mr. Phelps into his classroom. Mr. Phelps shut the door behind them. He wore tight slacks and a sweater vest, his blond hair gelled to perfection.

  Caleb stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “You seemed distracted in class today,” Mr. Phelps said. “Anything you wanna talk about?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you’re fine. I’d like to help you, but I can’t if I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing’s going on. This school sucks. This place sucks. Not much you can do about that.”

  “Why does it suck?”

  Caleb sighed, one side of his mouth raised in disgust. “The people here are stupid … total dumbasses. And not just the kids. The adults too. Everyone’s so small-town. I’m sick of it.” Caleb looked at the linoleum.

  “I can understand that. I grew up here too. I went to this high school. I was bullied pretty bad.”

  Caleb looked up. “Why did you get bullied?”

  “I’m five foot two and gay. I don’t exactly fit in around here.”

  Caleb’s eyes widened. “You’re gay?”

  “I am. I don’t broadcast it, but I’m not ashamed either. If someone asks, I tell them the truth.” Mr. Phelps paused for a moment, looking into Caleb’s eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

  Caleb broke eye contact with Mr. Phelps. “Yeah, whatever. I don’t care if people are gay. Doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Why would it?”

  “Well, … if, um …”

  Caleb scowled at his teacher. “You think I’m a faggot?”

  Mr. Phelps shook his head, his voice calm. “Please don’t use that word. There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Caleb. Nothing at all. Even in this town, I have friends, a boyfriend, family. They all accept me for who I am.”

  “Good for you, Mr. Phelps.”

  “The first step is accepting who you are—”

  “I know exactly who I am. I’m no faggot.” Caleb turned on his sneakers and started for the door.

  “Caleb, please. Talk to me.”

  Caleb opened the door and hurried down the empty hall. Once outside, he gazed up at the sun peeking through the clouds. A breeze rustled his hair. He cut through the parking lot toward the main road. Drew Fuller sold drugs—shielded by a Mustang and a pickup truck—to a group of dirt-ball kids with skateboards and patchy facial hair. Aaron Fuller kept watch during the transaction. Aaron didn’t acknowledge Caleb as he walked by. Caleb was a nonentity, not worthy of concern. Nearly invisible.

  Nearly.

  CHAPTER 39

  Rick and Garden Grove

  It was third and eleven, West Lake down by a touchdown, less than a minute left in the half. Temps in the upper-fifties, clear skies, the stars twinkling overhead. A beautiful night for football at Garden Grove High School. Coach Bob Schneider talked to Jamar during the time-out, the two of them just out of earshot of the offensive huddle. Bob jogged from the field back to the sideline.

  “What’s the play?” Rick asked.

  “PAP hitch seam delay,” Bob replied.

  “They’re gonna be all over the hitch. They’ve been in cover two all night, and the seam runs right into the safeties.”

  “I told him to throw the seam if the safeties bite on the play action and to check down to the flare if they don’t.”

  Rick nodded to Bob as play resumed on the field. Jamar barked out the cadence. The center snapped the ball through his legs to Jamar, who stood five yards back in the shotgun. Jamar faked the handoff to the running back, then threw a bullet to Lance on the hitch, but the cornerback stepped in front for the interception and sprinted down the sideline headed for the end zone. Jamar hustled after him, catching the Garden Grove defender at the three-yard line. Two plays later, Garden Grove scored as the play clock ticked down to zero. They now led West Lake by fourteen at the half.

  Rick jogged with the team back to the visiting locker room. Bob stopped Rick before they entered. With the players inside, Bob made a plea.

  “We’re gonna lose this game if we stick with Jamar,” Bob said. “We need to put Shane in.”

  Rick stroked his stubbly beard. “Lemme talk to Jamar. See where his head’s at.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No. I got it.”

  Rick walked into the locker room. Tile floors, powder-blue lockers, and his team sitting on benches, quiet, their heads down. Jamar had a towel over his head. Rick put a hand on his shoulder pad. Jamar looked up, his eyes red-rimmed.

  “Let’s step outside for a minute,” Rick said.

  Jamar followed Rick outside.

  In their wake, one of the players said, “Put Shane in.”

  Rick and Jamar stood outside, in the moonlight, out of earshot of the locker room.

  “You okay?” Rick asked.

  Jamar shook his head, his jaw set tight.

  “Why didn’t you throw the flare on that last play? It was wide open.”

  “Because Coach Schneider told me to throw the hitch.”

  Rick furrowed his brows. “Are you sure you didn’t mix up what he told you?”

  “I’m pretty sure, but he’s confusing. … I don’t know. I’m sorry, Coach. I know I’m messing up.”

  “What’s confusing exactly?”

  “He keeps giving me the wrong protection for the play, or he mixes up the routes. I’ve been changing it to try to fix it, but I don’t know everything yet. And everything’s happening so fast.”

  Rick nodded, his face blank.

  “Are you gonna bench me?” Jamar asked.<
br />
  Rick took off his WL Wolf Pack hat. “Garden Grove’s a decent team, but we’re more talented, and I’ve seen you run circles around our defense with a second-string line. No reason you can’t run circles around these guys too. You’re the best player on the field. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Jamar nodded.

  “I want you to go back out in the second half and have some fun. Okay?”

  “What about the plays?”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll fix it. That’s my job. I’ll do my job, and you’ll do yours. Deal?” Rick extended his hand to his quarterback.

  Jamar shook his coach’s hand, a smile developing. Rick rapped Jamar on the back, and they returned to the locker room. Coach Schneider was at the whiteboard, strategizing and drawing plays for Shane and Lance and the rest of the offense.

  “Everybody, bring it in,” Rick said, moving in front of the whiteboard.

  “We’re still workin’,” Coach Schneider said.

  “That’ll have to wait, Coach.”

  Bob frowned but moved away from the whiteboard. The players settled on benches in front of Rick.

  “We’re not changing anything,” Rick said.

  The players looked surprised and worried but said nothing.

  “We’re gonna be fine,” Rick continued. “We’re only down by two scores. We’re getting the ball, and the offense is gonna score. Then the defense is gonna get a three and out, and the offense is gonna score again, and we’re right back in it. I want everyone to get a drink, stay off your feet, relax, and get your mind right.”

  After halftime, on the way back down to the field, Rick walked with Bob.

  “I’m gonna call the plays in the second half,” Rick said.

  Bob’s face reddened under his bushy beard. “Come on, Rick. You can’t do that.”

  Rick stopped walking, letting the team continue ahead. They stood just outside the stadium, under the glow of the lights.

  “We’ve been coaching together a long time,” Rick said. “And I think you’re an excellent coach, but something’s not right tonight. I don’t know where your head is, but this isn’t all Jamar’s fault.”

  “Rick—”

  “Let me finish. I’m gonna call the rest of this game, and, provided you go back to coaching like the man I’ve known for the past eight years, you’ll run the offense next week.” Rick turned and walked into the stadium, leaving Bob standing by himself.

  The second half went exactly like Rick had predicted. After the kickoff, Jamar ran the zone read to perfection, scoring on a sixty-six-yard run. The defense stuffed Garden Grove, forcing a punt. Then Jamar hit Lance on a fifty-two-yard bomb for the tying touchdown. After that, it turned into a blowout, with West Lake scoring three more unanswered touchdowns.

  During the second half, the West Lake sideline was jovial, the visiting stands packed and cheering. Shane stood by himself on the sideline, watching his senior season go up in smoke as Jamar engineered touchdown after touchdown. Coach Schneider cheered and coached the offense between drives, but his slumped shoulders and downturned head told a different story.

  After the game, the teams shook hands, then congregated at opposite end zones. The West Lake Wolf Pack took a knee near the goalpost. Rick stood in front of his team.

  “I’m very proud of each and every one of you. We didn’t play well in the first half, but you didn’t get down on yourselves. You focused on your assignments, and you executed to perfection. That was the best half of football I’ve seen in quite some time. From here on out, I expect to see that level of precision for four quarters.” Rick surveyed his team: helmets in hand, kneeling, hair matted and wet with sweat. “Tomorrow, films at 8:00 a.m. Do not be late. After films, we’ll do conditioning and lift. If you’re banged up, make sure you see the trainer for ice. Oh, and don’t do anything stupid tonight.”

  They laughed and cheered and meandered toward the bleachers to talk to their parents, friends, and girlfriends. Rick grabbed a drink before the equipment managers took the water jugs. His gaze swept across the visiting bleachers. Shane and Janet Wilcox talked out of earshot. Shane was red-faced, gesticulating with his hands. Janet’s face was twisted in anger. Lance and Cliff Osborn were all smiles and back slaps. Jamar grinned from ear to ear as he recapped the game with his parents and Gwen Townsend.

  Rick walked toward Jamar and his fan club—glancing at Gwen, looking her over, but trying not to be obvious. She dressed casually in jeans and a fleece. Even in casual attire, she was beautiful. Heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, perfect porcelain skin, and a button nose.

  Rick waved to Gwen, then smiled at Jamar’s parents. “I’m Rick Barnett.”

  They smiled back and shook hands, Jamar’s father saying, “Gerald Burris and my wife, Enid.” Jamar’s parents were tall and thin and well-dressed—looking more like churchgoers than football fans.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Rick said. “Your son played a great game.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Barnett,” Enid said.

  “Please, call me Rick.”

  Jamar smirked at Rick. “They’re more impressed with my English grade. Ms. Townsend and my mom spent the whole game talking about school.”

  Gwen laughed. “The Burrises have their priorities straight.”

  Enid smiled at Gwen. “School comes first.”

  “Football is for fun. School is for life,” Gerald said.

  Rick nodded in agreement.

  CHAPTER 40

  Janet and Intel

  “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore,” Shane said, pushing off the short chain-link fence that divided the bleachers from the football field.

  “This isn’t right,” Janet said. “You’re a senior.”

  “Stay out of it.” Shane marched away, back to the locker room.

  Janet took a deep breath. She glared at Rick and Gwen talking in the glow of the stadium lights. She flipped her hair. Look at the way he’s looking at her. They’re fucking flirting.

  Most of the players were already in the locker room as Rick walked Gwen from the stadium toward the parking lot. Janet followed at a safe distance, careful not to be spotted. No chance of that. They’re fucking enamored.

  The parking lot was quiet and nearly empty. Most of the Garden Grove fans had left in the fourth quarter, when the game had turned into a rout. Gwen stood by her black VW, fiddling with her keys. Her straight brown hair was loose and flowing. She thinks she’s so fucking hot. Janet ducked behind her BMW, half-a-dozen spaces behind them. Thankfully, her car was shielded by a Honda Accord. A few fans and students walked past, but they didn’t notice Janet. Rick’s and Gwen’s voices carried across the parking lot.

  “It was nice of you to come out and support us,” Rick said.

  “I have to admit, I’m not much of a football fan, but Jamar asked me to come,” Gwen said. “He’s such a nice kid. I couldn’t say no.”

  “He’s special. He has D-one talent, and he’s only a tenth grader.”

  “I’m glad he did so well tonight.”

  “So am I. I didn’t tell Jamar, but my ass was on the line. I’m sure Janet’s plotting my demise. The last thing I wanted was to give her any ammunition.”

  “She was in the stands. I don’t think she cheered at all, and she yelled, ‘Put in Shane,’ when Jamar threw the ball to the other team.”

  Rick cocked his head with a crooked smile. “You mean, the interception?”

  “Yes, the interception.”

  “Janet’s a piece of work. I feel bad for Shane. I can’t imagine having a mother like that.”

  Janet, still eavesdropping, clenched her fists. Who the hell does he think he is?

  “It explains her son’s bad behavior,” Gwen said.

  Janet thought about getting into her car and running both of them over.

  “This is true,” Rick replied.

  An awkward silence followed, Rick rubbing his stubble and Gwen playing with her keys.

  “W
ould you like to get a drink with me?” Rick asked.

  “Oh, … um ,… like, right now?” Gwen replied.

  “There’s a bar not too far from school. The Toad’s Stool. They have food too. It’s bar food, but, if you’re hungry …”

  “Um, okay, but I don’t know where it is.”

  “I have to ride back with the team, but you could meet me at school. Then you could follow me.”

  Janet had a powerful urge to put them in their place. She thought about their cute little date to the Toad’s Stool, wishing she could ruin it. … She smiled to herself, realizing that she could.

  CHAPTER 41

  Gwen and the Toad’s Stool

  The bar was dimly lit, with low ceilings, faux-wood paneled walls. Half-a-dozen old men sat at the bar, two couples at the tables, and a group of young adults at one of the booths along the wall. A thin fortysomething waitress approached, her mouth puckered from thousands of cigarettes.

  “Booth or a table?” she asked Gwen and Rick.

  “Booth,” Gwen and Rick said in unison.

  As they sat at the booth, the waitress said, “Youse jus’ drinkin’ or eatin’ too?”

  “I’d like to see a food menu,” Gwen said.

  “Me too,” Rick added.

  The waitress delivered a pair of menus and took their drink orders. Beer for Rick. Rum and Diet Coke for Gwen. With the waitress gone to retrieve their drinks, Gwen looked at Rick. His short brown hair was matted from the hat that sat on the table. She liked that he’d taken it off as soon as they’d stepped inside the bar. He looked tired, his eyes a little bloodshot, his stubbly beard getting a bit unruly. Despite this, he was handsome. Somewhere in between a pretty boy and a mountain man. The waitress brought their drinks and asked for their food orders.