“Marion, we can still fix this.” I stepped up to his bleacher and sat next to him, touching his shoulder. “Look, I’ve been talking to Gabby, and she thinks—”
“Y’all talkin’?” He slapped his knees. “Shit that’s how it’ll be from now on. Everybody’s changing, moving. And I’ll be stuck here.”
I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I’d never leave him behind to rot in this town. But I didn’t let the lie slip from my lips. Deep down, I knew he was right. If he didn’t have a chance to play his senior season in front of college recruiters, he would be stuck here like Homegrown Gary and Ed—washed-up ballers who got sucked back into Monroe.
“Where is she?” Marion buried his face in his hands, his shoulders slumping as he sniffled. “I thought with all this press, she’d come back. But look.”
He unlocked his phone, then slid the glowing screen toward me. Every outgoing call was to Mrs. LaSalle—dozens of unanswered calls.
“Her phone don’t even ring anymore. It says the line is disconnected. So, I guess I’m on my own.” He twisted his mouth, squinting his eyes like he was fighting back more tears. “She ain’t coming back this time.”
“Marion.” I ran my hand over my scalp, searching for another way to reach him. A lump caught in my throat. “Look, man. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, Rus,” he slurred, his voice thick with sadness. “You go get another W, get into college and all that shit. And I’ll get started on the life I was born to live.”
He snatched up the bottle of Olde English and took off across the field, his figure fading into the shadows as he left the glow of the floodlights.
10
Marion didn’t show up to school the next day or the day after that. Or any day that week. Four days passed without me seeing or hearing from him—our longest stretch of radio silence since we’d known each other. Jackson High allowed eight unexcused absences before the school notified a truancy officer to look for the student. And Marion certainly did not need another officer coming after him.
He’d promised to fight these charges, not run from them. And I’d promised to be by his side. Where was he?
By Friday night, as the team packed into our bus for our third game of the season against Shreveport, I was feeling queasy—sick with worry and doubt, wondering if Marion had disappeared for good. But it was game day, and with or without my best friend, I needed to keep my eye on the prize.
I gripped the vinyl seats of our rickety bus, swaying through its turns as I made my way down the aisle. Crouching down, I tapped Ricky on the shoulder. “Remember what we practiced.”
The second-string quarterback nodded.
“I really need you to land that throw.” I pounded my fist into my hand.
“I got it, Rus. Don’t worry.”
But I was worried—really worried. Tonight we were playing Shreveport High School, ranked second in the league just behind Westmond. They were a well-funded white school like Westmond and just as formidable, with a deep bench who could play starting positions at any school. It was also where Dante Maynard had gone to school.
This was going to be a rough night.
We were about to go up against one of the top teams in the state without our starting quarterback, without the anchor of our team. My stomach twisted into knots, and not just about the hard match ahead. Marion’s tough situation also occupied my thoughts. But I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since our late-night talk on the field. Marion was a ghost. He wasn’t answering his phone, and I was concerned—we all were. How could we focus on the game when one of our own was suffering off the field?
As we trickled out of the bus, clusters of reporters descended on us. I’d seen clips of star ballers on ESPN—the very cream of the high school crop who were being recruited by every D1 program in the country. But the lens had never found its way to our small pocket in the backwoods of Louisiana. My teammates’ eyes were wide with shock. Coach held his arms up, asking the group to step back. He wasn’t interested in participating in the media circus, but they were relentless. A woman in a red suit approached me with a cameraman behind her.
“Hi, Russell Boudreaux? I’m Lauren Peters with Fox 5 News. Could we have a moment?” Before I could answer, she thrust her microphone beneath my chin. “We just have a few questions. How are you feeling going into tonight’s game?”
“Pretty confident.” I’d never been on TV before. I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to look at her or at the camera. Instead, I looked at the wall of Shreveport’s stadium. “Our guys are ready. Hope to take home another W.”
“Even without quarterback Marion LaSalle?” She held the mic closer.
I nodded.
“You were there when LaSalle struck Bradley Simmons—”
“Hold up.” I held my hand up, cutting her off. “That’s not what happened. We were both pushed to the ground first by Brad.”
The reporter regrouped, catching her breath before launching into a different question. “LaSalle faces some pretty serious charges, including assault. His stepfather also did time in Stanwell Prison for aggravated assault and battery. Do you think that influenced—”
“That boy Marion should be in jail. Y’all both should be,” a random Shreveport fan said from nearby. He spat on the pavement before adjusting his red baseball cap. “You can’t treat them good Westmond boys like that.” The hateful gleam in his eyes hit me with full force.
“Sir, could you please—” The reporter shifted closer to me, trying to block the agitator from getting in the camera frame.
“I hope they lock him up,” he yelled over her shoulder. He ripped his hat off and pointed it toward the camera. “Give him time to screw his head on straight.”
“All right, all right.” Coach held his arms up to the camera crew. “Show’s over. Come on.”
He wrapped an arm over my shoulders and steered me toward the locker room. I couldn’t help but look behind me at the reporter feverishly typing on her tablet.
“Don’t let them get in your head,” Coach said gently.
“Did you hear the stuff they’re saying about Marion? What happened to getting your facts straight?” These people hadn’t bothered to research the whole story. They’d spun it into the story they wanted, and we’d be the ones paying the price. I wanted to grab the microphone out of her hands and speak the truth for everyone to hear, but it would be a waste of breath. They’d just edit my comments, twist my words until the point was lost or I became the villain somehow. I longed for a way to get my message across. To be heard above all the interference and noise.
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do about any of it,” Coach said. “You focus on the game.”
* * *
“Settle down.” Coach shoved his way past the bulk of players, parting the waters so he could claim the center of Shreveport’s state-of-the-art guest locker room. But there was still a lot of quiet murmuring, everyone still ruffled by the reporters outside.
Coach clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Y’all better not test me. I said, settle down!”
The assistant coach rounded the circle, making sure everyone’s mouth stayed shut tight. Silence fell in the room, allowing Fontenot to speak softer. “Come in close, y’all, and take a knee.”
I stepped forward, knocking shoulders with my neighbors as I joined the huddle. Kneeling to the floor, I sucked in a deep breath to steady my nerves.
“Y’all have a right to be upset. Hell, I am plenty. But y’all ain’t going nowhere to get no revenge. Not on my time. Not when we still got work to do.”
Normally I would agree. Get even on the field—that’s what I always told Marion. But that hadn’t worked.
“Coach, how we supposed to beat Shreveport without Marion?” Terrance asked. He shrugged his shoulders at Ricky, our second-string. “Sorry, dude.”
The trut
h was splashed across all our faces. Ricky was good, but he wasn’t Marion-good. Without Marion, our season was at risk, and that meant each of our scholarship opportunities had shrunk from small to smaller. And without scholarships... I sank my forehead to my knee, hiding the panic in my eyes. Marion’s future wasn’t the only one at stake.
“Shreveport’s gonna be just as bad as Westmond. Did you hear them yelling at us?” Darrell jumped up, hopping on the balls of his feet. Coach snapped his fingers, bringing Darrell to his knees again.
“We’ll show them who we are,” I said. It was more to convince myself than Darrell. “We’ll get what’s ours on the field.”
“Russell’s right, y’all understand?” Spit escaped Coach Fontenot’s lips, and I knew he was barely containing his anger. “Look, we’re on probation. That means the league will be keeping a close eye on us. Watch your personal fouls, and don’t mouth off at players or refs. They’re going to try to get a rise out of you, so remember to keep a level head at all times. They want you to fail. Don’t give them what they want.”
He slapped his clipboard with his fist, cussing under his breath, but he got ahold on himself by taking a deep breath.
“Let’s play like we got somethin’ to say. Now, they have a lot of star players from last year. But they lost their season opener to Belson. They’re looking for a comeback. Let’s not be the one to give it to ’em!”
We filed out of the locker room, an eerie quiet among us. Coach gripped my shoulder, holding me back.
“Keep your teammates in check. I don’t want any funny business, you hear?” He raised his eyebrows above his glasses. Leaning forward, his eyes gleamed conspiratorially. “But give ’em hell.”
In the dim confines of the stadium tunnel, the team lined up, buzzing with that familiar pregame energy as we prepared to enter Shreveport’s turf. The jeers echoed down the tunnel before we even got on the field. We poked our heads out of the passageway to get a better look.
“They’re fired up tonight, bro. Shhh.” Terrance pointed to the stands. “Listen.”
Lock them up! Lock them up! Lock them up!
My mouth slackened as I leaned forward, shocked and a little rattled. A white-hot chill rolled up my spine as the chant echoed in the stadium.
“You see that dude’s sign.” Terrance pointed to a man with the word CRIMINALS smeared onto a poster board. “They tryna lynch us for real.”
“I’d like to see you try!” Darrell yelled out of the tunnel. “I hope he runs into my cousin Gary in the parking lot later. We’ll see how bold he is then.”
“Don’t let them rile you up.” I tugged him away from the crowd. “Stay focused.”
The words rang hollow. They didn’t have any conviction behind them, because the crowd was getting under my skin.
Coach’s whistle sliced through the air, signaling for us to run to our sidelines. I had an overwhelming sense of apprehension as the hot lights of the field beat down on us and the home crowd showered us with insults. I tried to block the crowd out, but it was hard. They were so charged up. And there was something more—a sense of hatred vibrating in the air, so thick I could almost touch it.
I bounced on the balls of my feet before jogging down the track, trying to stay loose, focused. It was the perfect opportunity to search for my parents in the stands. I craned my neck to look for them, but the stands were fuller than usual.
A curly mane of honey-brown hair stood out from the crowd. Gabby stood with her little brother, Clayton, near the corner of the field. I blinked, making sure she was really there. When they caught my gaze, they both waved. I jogged toward them.
“You came to a game?” I reached up to grab Gabby’s outstretched hand. I stared into her light brown eyes with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. “I thought you hated football.”
“Clay begged me to take him.” She smiled down at her brother, whose toothy grin grew wider by the minute.
“What’s up, little man?” I waved to Clayton, who was jumping up and down next to her.
“And to be honest—” Gabby looked at me, her smile growing shy “—after our conversation the other day, I felt like you might need some friendly faces in the crowd. I wanted to be here for you.”
I didn’t know what to say, I was so touched. Gabby saw me—really saw me. The way her eyes softened when we spoke, I could tell she was listening to me. She cared about me.
“Gabby, quick.” Clay thrust his phone into her unsuspecting hands. “Take a picture.”
“Okay. Okay. So bossy.” She waved for us to get in the same shot, then snapped a few pictures. She gave a thumbs-up, then handed the phone back to Clay. He sank onto the bleacher and flipped through the images, his gap-toothed smile growing wider. “I didn’t know these games drew such big crowds.”
“They usually don’t. Not like this.” I poked my head around the corner, viewing the packed crowd. My breath rushed out of my lungs, my chest tightening. “Have you seen my parents?”
“Yeah, they’re back there.” She pointed behind her.
On the edge of the announcers’ tower, my parents were crammed into a packed row of Jackals fans. I waved to them, and Pops nodded then flicked his head to the field. He looked from me to Gabby, probably wondering why I was getting cozy with her when I should be falling in line, focusing on the game ahead.
But how could I focus on anything but this angry crowd? In this court of public opinion, the Jackson Jackals had been convicted by an angry mob slinging slurs. With every offensive chant and sign, they tarred and feathered us. In their eyes, we were criminals. Not just Marion, but all of us.
“I wish I had a sign,” Gabby said, turning her attention to the crowd on the Shreveport side, which was getting more riled up. Cupping her mouth, she crowed, “You’re all hypocrites!”
“What are you doing?” I leaped up and grabbed the railing, brushing my fingers against hers. “They can’t hear you anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t speak up. That Bradley dude wasn’t even charged. And Shreveport is picking Westmond’s side?” She gripped the railing and strained her voice through another scream. “It’s because they’re all racists.”
“What?” I gawked at her, struggling to find words. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, the prosecutor let him off.” She flared her nostrils. “Silence is violence, right?”
The whistle blew, and I turned my back to her just as she screamed at Shreveport again. The urge to join her, to scream at the top of my lungs, threatened to overwhelm me. Brad was the one who started this whole mess, and he’d gotten off scot-free, while Marion was going through hell. I thought of what Marion had said the other night under the glowing lights of the field.
The system is rigged.
I came to a halt at the front of the line, tuning out the crowd. I turned my back to them and focused on the field. I didn’t watch Shreveport tear through their booster club banner, didn’t listen to the announcer as he introduced their star players. I kept my head low, occasionally glancing down my row of brothers to make sure they stayed cool.
“Please rise for the national anthem,” the announcer boomed.
A creak echoed through the stadium as onlookers rose from their seats. This time a local boys’ choir took the stage, and they began to sing the song with an upbeat tempo.
O say can you see by the dawn’s early light.
I clutched my chest as I waded through the familiar words of the anthem. I stole another glance to my right, where Darrell and Terrance silently seethed as they mumbled along to the words of the song. Rage rippled off their shoulders, and I couldn’t blame them. I felt it, too, settling deep in my belly. I felt helpless, and that only fueled the anger even more.
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
I could almost see the plots of revenge forming in their minds. With their jaws
clenched and heads shaking, they wanted any kind of justice they could find, and Homegrown Gary offered them that. His offer to help take care of our difficulties rang in my mind: Westmond wannabes, cops—you name it. I got your back.
And by the gleam of his eyes and the gesture to his pistol, I knew he’d meant it. But that wasn’t a road I wanted to travel. Blood feuds like that led directly to jail, and that wasn’t where any of us belonged—including Marion.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight.
My mind wandered to Gabby, her head held high, shouting for justice. I wished I could join her in the stands and shout until my voice grew hoarse. I had to do something other than sing this stupid anthem for a country that obviously didn’t care about us—a country that might take away a promising boy’s future, all because of the color of his skin.
I thought of Kaepernick’s protest to take a knee—to bring awareness to racial violence and injustice in the country. Right now, we were at Dante Maynard’s old school in a town that refused to investigate his murder at the hands of police. And Shreveport was calling us criminals? Why? Because we stood up against racist white kids? Something was seriously wrong with this country.
Dante deserved better. So did Marion. All of us did.
I understood how Kaepernick must have felt when he could no longer recite the words of a broken promise for a country who made criminals out of innocent boys. If we were criminals, it was because society had already decided that. And that was something I wouldn’t stand for. My hand slackened, then fell limply to my side. I turned to look around the stadium, instead of at the flag. A fresh wave of boos and hisses rippled through the crowd, but I didn’t care.
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
My legs twitched, but I pulled back at the last moment. I could feel Pops’s eyes boring into my back. He’d say to keep my head down and not start something. He wouldn’t be happy about this, but if I’d already been found guilty, why not do what I needed to do?
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