Losers Take All (27 page)

“I'm not looking for a good dentist,” I told her. “Go back to ranting about dinner. You were on a roll.”

“Did you like how he greeted us? ‘You're late.' As if they've got so many better things to do together. And did you hear him snap at me to sit down?”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“The commander in chief issuing a command. At least he didn't use the word ‘painless.'”

“He did while you were in the bathroom,” I told her.

“He ‘painlessed' behind my back?”

Then the wail came again, and this time it was picked up by other dinosaurs till a whole herd of them seemed to be shrilling in the night, heading our way. “That's a fire,” I said.

Lights flashed on the dark tarmac and lit up the trees as fire trucks sped toward us. We watched three of them zoom past. They cut sharp turns around Cedar Lane, and I could see their lights converge with other lights a block or two away. There were loud clanging sounds and people shouting. “It's close to us,” I told Becca.

“The big excitement of a fall night in the New Jersey suburbs,” she said. “Let's go watch someone's house burn down.”

We walked toward the lights, and the sounds of the fire grew louder. When we turned onto Coover Street I realized that all the action had converged on the big white house in the center of the block. “That's Rob's house!”

“You're kidding,” Becca said, but I was already running.

She followed me up the block and we joined the crowd that the police were keeping back. I didn't see flames, but I could smell smoke, and two hydrants were pumping water. There were firemen all over the place, but their hoses weren't pointed at the house. Instead, they were dousing Rob's car in the driveway, which was a smoldering wreck.

Becca and I moved closer, and I spotted Rob's parents talking to the police and the fire captain. Rob's father looked calm, but his mom was extremely upset and holding her toddler daughter with both arms.

“Jack,” Rob said from behind us, and we spun around. He was a very laid-back guy, and I'd never seen him look so furious. His face was tight with anger, and he kept glancing from the house to his ash pile of a car.

“Hey, Rob,” I said. “What happened? Is everybody okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “We were just hanging out watching a movie and saw the flames through the window.”

“You think it was an electrical fire or something?”

“Don't bet on it,” he spat out. “People have been saying stuff to me all week.”

“You really think someone would do that?” Becca asked.

“Sure.” He stared at his mom, who was holding his sister protectively. “And I'll be damned if I let them get away with it. See you guys later.” He walked back to his family and took his sister from his mother. The little girl might have been sleeping when the fire broke out, but she was now wide awake and having lots of fun. The commotion was just a big game to her and she kept smiling and waving to the crowd. Rob hoisted her up onto his back, and she shrieked delightedly at being up so high.

“Let's go,” Becca said.

I walked her home, and we didn't say much. The run-in with her dad no longer seemed very important compared to what we had just seen. Someone had targeted Rob, and setting his car on fire in front of his home had pushed things to a new and very dangerous point.

 

36

Rob's threat to strike back worried me, because I was afraid he might escalate things and end up getting hurt. But nothing much happened in the next few days, except that the fire department found some evidence that the fire might have been intentionally set, but it was inconclusive and there were no witnesses.

A week later I woke up early to study for a math test and came downstairs to gobble some cereal. I was surprised to find my father on his way out the door dressed up in gray pants and a blazer. “Hey, fashion plate,” I kidded him. “What's up?”

He looked just a little embarrassed. “Probably nothing.”

“Nice outfit for ‘nothing.'”

“There's a possible job,” Dad admitted. “I don't want to shoot off my mouth because I'm sure I won't get it.”

“Must be pretty fancy construction work.”

He hesitated and then told me: “It's another kind of job.”

“What kind is that?”

He was reluctant, but I sensed he really did want to talk about it. “There's a junior college in South Jersey that's looking for an assistant athletic director. They need someone who can step in right away and help coach their football team this fall.”

“That's perfect for you.”

He shrugged. “Except that I don't have any experience.”

“You led the state in rushing.”

“Back in the Dark Ages.”

“You coached my teams, and all my brothers' teams, and you were by far the best coach any of us ever had.”

“That was kids' stuff,” he said. “And you always said I was too much of a hard-ass.”

“You were. But we've got a room in this house filled with cups and ribbons, and they didn't come out of nowhere.”

I think he appreciated the shot in the arm. “Well, I'm going to give it a try.” He hesitated. “There is one reason I might get this.”

“Because you're the most qualified person in New Jersey?” I guessed.

“No,” he said, “because it pays peanuts and nobody else may want it.” He glanced at his watch. “I'd better head out. Got a long drive ahead of me and I want to get there bright and early. You should read the paper today, Jack.”

“What's going on?”

“To me, it's kind of a sad day for Fremont. But you'll probably look at it very differently.”

Mom came down the steps then, and asked, “What's a sad day for Fremont? Hey, who's sneaking out early? Look at you!”

Dad glanced from her to me. “Am I really usually such a slob?”

“No,” Mom and I said at exactly the same moment.

“She just means you look like a coach,” I told him.

“A college coach,” Mom agreed, walking over and fixing his collar. “You'll knock 'em dead. Want some coffee for the road?”

“Already had two cups,” he said, and kissed her goodbye. Then he headed out to his truck, and Mom and I looked at each other.

“Great job for him,” I said.

“He's worried they'll give it to someone younger, who's just starting out,” she told me.

“He's not that old.”

“Let's hope.” She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot my dad had brewed. “So what's a sad day for Fremont?”

“I don't know yet.” I walked to the kitchen table where the newspaper was waiting. Since the sports section was sitting on top, I flipped through it. There was a golf tournament going on, but nothing about Fremont. Mom pointed to the news section, where there was a big front-page feature article by Dianne Foster titled: “The Dark Side of a Sports Culture.” I sat and held the paper with both hands, and Mom read it over my shoulder.

For many years, Fremont High was known as “Muscles High” and gloried in its long string of championship seasons. But this year, a cycle of escalating violence has plagued the school. There has been a pattern of bullying and intimidation, leading to an assault on a student, the recent arrest of three football players, and a possible case of arson at a soccer player's home this week. Shocking new revelations from a source very familiar with the football team place the responsibility for that attitude, and for several of the specific incidents, squarely at the feet of the school's football coach and new principal, Brian Muhldinger.

“Wow,” I said.

“Poor Brian,” Mom whispered.

The article linked a string of things that had happened in the last five months to Muhldinger, starting with his policy that all seniors had to join sports teams. It explained how nonathletes had felt caught in a bind, and that our relaxed soccer team was an attempt to deal with his new rule.

From the start Muhldinger saw this soccer team as an embarrassment, and as it gained popularity he soon came to look upon it as a threat. He let his football players know that he wanted the team harassed and that he intended to find a way to break it up. He called it the “cesspool” and its players “wastes of genes.” In early September he told a handful of seniors to lead the football players on a run straight through the first soccer practice and “Show them what contact sports at Fremont is all about.” Soccer players, including several girls, were knocked down and terrorized when the football players came charging through.

I flashed back to when the football stampede had hit our practice, and I'd intuitively tried to protect Chloe. Rob Powers had almost slammed into me, and for a moment we'd caught each other. He'd looked very guilty, as if he knew he was doing something he shouldn't have been doing.

Suddenly I realized who Dianne Foster's new source, the one “very familiar with the football team,” must be, and that Rob had chosen his own way of striking back.

The article described how the football team had been locked in the Keep and almost missed its first home game. A few days later, in the football coaches' office after practice, Muhldinger had told several seniors that our soccer team was to blame, and that we should pay for that outrage. According to Dianne Foster's source, all three seniors who had been arrested for beating Dylan had been present when Muhldinger voiced this opinion.

The article ended by explaining how Rob had left the football team for our soccer team and been insulted and threatened.

Less than one week later, his car was set on fire right in front of his family's home. The police are still investigating, and may never be able to identify who set the blaze. But it's clear that the culture of bullying at Fremont High that created this firestorm is directly attributable to one man and his policies.

I lowered the paper and looked at my mom, who had finished reading a few seconds before me. “It's over for him, isn't it?” I asked her.

“Unless that reporter has it wrong.”

“I doubt that she does.”

*   *   *

School that day was weird. Everyone knew what was going on, but no one talked much about it. Even my fellow Losers seemed to sense that some sort of turning point had been reached, and the moment was a little too serious for words. Nobody saw Muhldinger all day, but several school board members were spotted around the halls. Sports practices were all canceled, so I headed home after school. I was cutting through the parking lot when a familiar voice called out in a British accent, “Hallo there, Jack.”

“Hey,” I called back.

Coach Percy had been about to drive home. Instead he walked over to me and said, “Strange day.”

“Sad,” I agreed, repeating the word my father had used.

“We talked about having a chat. Is this a good time?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Let's take a stroll,” he suggested, and off we went. We walked behind the school, and soon entered the wooded area where Dylan was jumped.

Coach Percy looked around at the trees and the brook that spilled down in a waterfall over sharp rocks. “A pretty spot for cruelty.”

“I guess Muhldinger's gonna get what he deserves,” I said.

“I take no pleasure in that,” Percy told me. “We all make mistakes.”

“That's for sure,” I muttered.

He looked at me sharply and said: “I've certainly made my share.” He paused, as if hoping I'd say something to help him out, and then continued: “I assume that we're now discussing something Rebecca told you. Is that correct?”

“That's right.”

“You realize this is a rather serious matter? One that could get me fired.”

I thought to myself that it could have gotten him fired up till this morning, but Muhldinger wasn't in a position to fire anyone now—even the teacher who'd put together the video of him shouting at our players on the team bus and posted it on the Web for the world to see. “I guess you knew you were taking a risk.”

“To tell you the truth,” he admitted, sounding a little embarrassed, “there are times when a man acts without thinking about the consequences.”

“In any case, it's over now,” I said.

“Absolutely,” he agreed. “In fact it never really was there at all. I mean, nothing consequential happened. I just wanted to make sure you understand that.”

Actually, his posting the video had had lots of important consequences. “I'm not sure I agree,” I said.

Percy rubbed his hands together, as if trying to clean them. “I suppose she showed you the sonnet.”

I looked back at him, but before I could ask what the heck he was talking about he went on. “I should never have written it. But she is a wonderful girl, as I know you'd agree. By far my best student. And I've been a bit of a stranger in a strange land. Anyway, we took a walk together, and held hands once, and I wrote her the sonnet, and that was the extent of it. You came along, and I'm so glad that you did. It was certainly best for everyone. You're a lovely couple and I'm heading back to England to a job I'll relish, and—”

He broke off and took a breath. “I'm grateful we finally got everything out in the open. I hope you won't hold it against me.” He held out his right hand.

I shook hands with him and looked him in the eye. “Good luck in England.”

“Thank you, Jack,” he said. “Good luck with soccer. I have a feeling you may have stumbled onto something. And if I may say so, good luck with Becca.”

We walked back through the Stevens toward the school, and there was a very uncomfortable silence. I found myself thinking how a crisis like the one in Fremont brings out so many different kinds of secrets. I guess when you stir up a school and a small town hard enough, all kinds of hidden things rise to the surface.