Shuffle: A Novel Part 19

Finally I spotted Britta, Vi and Shelby, sitting together up in the nosebleed seats with Casey Hall and a few of the other basketball players. Vi was wearing a white t-s.h.i.+rt that she'd turned into a makes.h.i.+ft jersey with blue puff paint. There was a big number 63 on the front, and the name OFORI across the back. Shelby seemed to be engaged in a deep, sports-related conversation with Casey. Britta, meanwhile, was talking with Vi and shooting Shelby angry glances every few seconds. When she saw me coming up the steps, she raced out into the aisle and grabbed my arm.

"Shelby is totally flirting with him!"

"Oh, relax. I'm sure it's just friendly."

Britta shook her head. "I don't know. They've been talking a long time..."

I waved to Vi. Britta and I stood in the aisle for a few minutes, chatting, but her mind wasn't on our conversation.

I squeezed her shoulder in support. "You could always flash him your blessings," I suggested.

Britta stuck her tongue out at me, gave me a hug, and went to sit down again. It was the start of the second half, and I traipsed down the steps against the tide of people returning to their seats with fresh snacks and empty bladders. I found Callie in the same position, hunched over her program, chewing on her sodden peanut sh.e.l.ls.

"If our defensive line could just block more effectively..." she was saying.

"Hi ho," I tapped her on the shoulder and pointed out to the field. "Game's starting again."

"Oh, right. GO MINUTEMEN!" She cupped her hands around her mouth, elbowing me accidentally in her enthusiasm.

Then she sat down and put a couple of fingers to her throat, feeling her own pulse. "This level of stress over a sports game can't be healthy," she said.

"No kidding."

Her eyes were pleading with the universe for a win. She said, "It's time for third-quarter-Minutemen-domination-quarter." She sounded confident, but I could tell she wasn't.

The third quarter was not, in fact, Minutemen domination quarter. The Bulldogs scored a touchdown on their opening drive, and although we managed to hold them after that, our offense didn't look like it could get anything started. Jim Holness was throwing incomplete pa.s.s after incomplete pa.s.s.

Opening drive. Incomplete pa.s.s. If nothing else, I was learning football terminology.

"This is infuriating!" whined Callie, as the bedraggled players limped off the field after the last play of the quarter and sat down on their bench, thirteen points behind. "They should just put George in." She stood up and cupped her hands around her mouth again. "HEY! GENIUSES! WHY DON'T YOU PUT GEORGE IN!"

To my surprise, the large man sitting to my right also stood up. "PUT GEORGE IN!" he shouted. "PUT GEORGE IN!"

The chant was taken up by everyone in our section. I even saw little kids joining in. It swept across the stadium like wildfire. Soon the whole grandstand was shouting in unison.

"PUT GEORGE IN! PUT GEORGE IN!"

I shouted too. I shouted as loud as I possibly could.

It was the Minutemen's drive when play resumed. Callie told me that it was second down, and they still had ten more yards to go. Jim's voice wavered as he called for the snap.

"Hut. Hut. Hike!"

The other team's defensive line looked like it knew exactly when to spring forward and gain ground on us, collapsing the pocket around the quarterback and putting pressure on Jim to throw.

Incomplete pa.s.s. Third and long.

"PUT GEORGE IN! PUT GEORGE IN!" Still the chant went up from the crowd. Gay, straight, conservative, progressive. Didn't matter. Because right now they all wanted to see our team win this game.

Finally the coach pointed at George and with a flick of his wrist, sent him into the huddle. A raucous cheer followed him, louder than anything I'd ever heard before. The announcer got back on his mic, and said, "Here comes junior wide receiver George Farmer. Set the Peaks High record in receiving yards last year, and this is the first we've seen of him tonight..."

At first Jim hung back, outside the huddle, as George gathered all his teammates around him and started to gesture animatedly. The roar of the crowd was building again. After a few seconds, Jim reluctantly joined them. They clapped and broke on three.

Then we hushed. Stood still, held our breath. We waited for Jim to call the count.

"Hic. Hoc. Huius."

Huh?

The Bulldog's defensive line looked confused. One of them rushed forward before the ball was snapped. False start. Five yard penalty.

Third and five.

The crowd cheered. I glanced down to where Quentin was sitting. I could see him hooting and waving his beanie back and forth like a flag. So this was the secret strategy! Calling the count in Latin. Well, it seemed to be working. The Bulldogs looked completely dis...o...b..bulated.

"Hic. Hoc. Huius. HAEC."

This time the Bulldogs were too slow off the snap. Our line overwhelmed them. George ran a beautiful route (don't take my word for it; I'm just repeating what Callie said), beat his defender down the field and Jim had plenty of time to throw. I saw him hesitate for half a second.

Then he zipped a laser pa.s.s to George. It hit him right in the middle of the chest. He broke two tackles and scrambled into the end zone for a touchdown.

We all went wild! Callie jumped up and down, hugged me, hugged the burly man who'd taken up her cheer, hugged anyone else who'd hug her back and smeared face paint on all of them. n.o.body cared.

"YUSSSSSSSS!"

She was giving James Earl Jones a run for his money with her cheering.

The rest of the fourth quarter seemed to fly by. Our team looked more determined, more gritty. Now it was our offense that was always pressuring to score, and our defense getting tackles and sacks. Amanda led us all in a couple choruses of "Go Fight Win," and I even joined in.

With only one minute left on the clock, the score was Minutemen 14, Bulldogs 20. A touchdown would win the game. Callie was tense. Her strong jaw was locked and rigid. "This is it," she said. "This is our last drive. Come on, come on, come on..."

Our offense had managed to pull the Bulldogs offside three more times for extra yardage. But they finally seemed to be catching on to the rhythm of the Latin count. Now Jim was mixing it up a bit...

"Arma virumque cano!"

I sing of arms and the man. He was butchering the p.r.o.nunciation, but that was Jim shouting the first line of the Aeneid. I doubled over laughing. One of the Bulldogs pounced early, and we got our penalty. Quentin was standing with his chest puffed out, proud.

A couple of quick pa.s.ses later, we had a first down with eight seconds left on the clock. The Minutemen broke from the huddle, walking together up to the line. They looked determined. Jim stepped in behind the center.

"Veni. Vidi. Vici. Huius. Hunc. Hanc. HAEC!"

The snap was clean. Jim drifted back, looking down the field. The pocket collapsed, and he scrambled to the left, breaking a tackle. Then to the right. George was in the end zone. With a mighty heave, Jim unloaded a high spiral. The crowd gasped. The Bulldogs were swarming George. It was three on one...

The ball dropped right into his hands. It was a miracle pa.s.s. We won the game!

"WOOOOOOO! YES! YES YES YES!"

Callie went crazy. Everyone in the stands went crazy. I went crazy. I couldn't help it.

After the extra point was kicked to make our victory official, the students swarmed the field. Callie gave me a pat on the heinie with her foam hand and I ran down the steps, swung myself over the railing and met Britta, Vi and Shelby out on the track. The marching band was playing "Celebration" by Kool & the Gang. Gatorade was upended over our coach. The Bulldogs, heads hung in defeat, shuffled slowly into their locker room.

Britta was squealing her b.u.t.t off. Even Shelby had a broad grin on her face. The football players and cheerleaders were mingling with friends and family, until one of them got hold of the ref's whistle and bleated a signal. Then they all converged on George and lifted him up onto their shoulders, carrying him off the field in triumph.

I caught sight of Amanda, standing with a bunch of her friends. Her hand was on her hip, head c.o.c.ked. She looked p.i.s.sed.

I nudged Vi and pointed. "Check that situation out."

Vi giggled. "I bet she's never had a plan go so wrong."

Britta, holding Casey's hand and looking a lot happier than when I'd last seen her at halftime, said, "She'll be lucky if George doesn't beat out Jim for Homecoming King."

"My guess is she's going to spend the next twenty-four hours spreading malicious lies, trying to make sure it doesn't happen. Once all the fuss dies down, people are going to remember that they're not supposed to like the gay kid."

Britta groaned. "That is sooo stupid."

But we all knew it was true. By the time the dance rolled around the next night, Arbor and George would probably be outcasts again. Suddenly the celebration seemed a little hollow. The song ended, and people slowly dispersed. I met Callie by the gate, and we walked back to the car.

"Fifty bucks," murmured Callie, her face soft and peaceful once more. "That's what I won."

"I hope you're planning to put it toward my college education."

I buckled my seat belt as she started up the engine, shoving the pom poms down under my feet. "Ha ha. How do you feel about putting it towards ice cream?"

"Even better."

We stopped by Ellen's house and picked her up. I wasn't sure if she'd want to come out with us, but she jumped in the back gamely and sat through Callie's wild-eyed reenactment of the final quarter.

"That's awesome," she said. She leaned up and whispered into my ear, "It even ties into my little project..."

"Secrets," said Callie, fake threat in her voice. She was just teasing.

"Tell me about it," I groaned.

We pulled into Dairy Queen and muscled ourselves into a booth. Apparently we weren't the only football fans with a craving for ice cream. The place was a sea of blue and white, long lines in front of all the registers. Callie went up to order for us, and I leaned in across the table.

"So are you ready to tell me yet?"

"About what?" Ellen picked apart one of her tiny dark ringlets, acting innocent. I noticed that she had some glitter under her fingernails. I wondered what that meant.

"You know. The little project you mentioned. With a capital P that rhymes with T that stands for 'Tell me now or suffer the consequences.'"

Ellen's eyes went wide. She looked surprised. "I think the cheerleaders have gotten to you."

"Shut up."

"You'll find out all in good time. I can't risk a leak in the organization."

"Excuse me? The organization?"

She nodded serenely and sat back, smoothing a paper napkin over her lap like a queen.

I sighed. Apparently it was my lot in life to be kept in the dark about everything. "So you're picking me up tomorrow for the dance, right?"

"Yup. What are you going to wear?"

Just then Callie came back with our ice cream and shoved in beside me. She distributed straws and spoons.

"What won't I be wearing?" I shot back, sipping my chocolate shake with what I hoped was a cagey expression on my face.

"Really?" said Ellen.

"Hey, if you get to have secrets..."

Chapter Eleven.

Sat.u.r.day was pretty uneventful. I spent the morning lounging around while Callie was at work, watching cartoons in my pajamas. There had been no window-related shenanigans since I'd told Arbor to step off, but I still had the camera set up just in case. Britta called at ten a.m., wanting my advice about which dress to wear.

"Blue. Maybe the blue. Do you think the blue?"

"Go for the blue." This was a situation in which it was clearly my job to be supportive and affirming.

"But the blue's satin."

"So?"

"It's going to wrinkle."

"Then go for the red."

"But the red's too s.l.u.tty!"

I put the phone to my chest and screamed into a pillow. Then I held it back up to my ear and said, "No it's not. It's nice."

"I heard that, you doof."