Painting the Black (7 page)

After that we settled into a routine. I saw Josh fourth period and ate lunch with him every day that week. I talked to him and he answered, but there was a hollowness in his voice and a vacantness in his eyes.

I did have a run-in with Monica Roby during Ms. Hurley's class. We were talking about how a person finds out whether he is brave or cowardly, strong or weak. “There are times when each one of us is called upon to stand up for what's right,” Monica said, her voice quivering with excitement. “We all face moments of truth. That's when we find out who we are.”

Ms. Hurley nodded her head in agreement, but Monica's words didn't ring true to me. “You act as if life is some action-packed Hollywood movie filled with drama and suspense,” I said. “It's not going to be that way. Most of us will go through our whole lives and never face any big moment of truth.”

Monica's eyes widened. “Are you serious, Ryan? You can't possibly think your life is going to be that smooth.”

“Well, I sure don't expect to spend much time defending truth and justice against the forces of evil and corruption like Superman,” I scoffed. “Or like Superwoman.”

I hadn't planned the dig at all. It just came out. Kids laughed though, and Monica turned scarlet.

“Nobody will ever mistake you for Superman,” she retorted, but kids were still laughing at my joke, and hers was lost.

I'd never gone to any football games, not in my three years at Crown Hill. There was no reason for me to go to the opener that year either. Josh wasn't starting, probably wouldn't play at all. But when Saturday night rolled around, I knew I had to be there.

I took the Number Fifteen bus. Crown Hill kids got on at every stop, and by the time we crossed to Queen Anne the bus was rocking. Kids were hollering and shouting out the window. The driver kept looking in the rear-view mirror, a scowl on his face.

Inside Memorial Stadium, the dance team members turned flips while the yell leaders screamed: “We are the Vikings, the mighty mighty Vikings.” Or: “Beat Franklin! Beat Franklin!” Even the band, which sounded terrible at school assemblies, was loud and lively.

The PA system crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the opening game of the Metro football season. Please note the following rules. It is against . . .”

Finally the special teams took the field for the kickoff. Everybody rose and cheered as Garrett Curtis, a big sophomore I'd seen in the hallways, fielded the Franklin kick and returned the ball to the thirty.

As Brandon Ruben led the offense onto the field, I spotted Josh, helmet in hand, standing behind Coach Canning, looking like a well-trained dog. Suddenly I was back in the cafeteria, Josh's finger jabbing the air in front of my face, his mouth spewing insults.
Let him wait,
I thought.
Let him wait.
It was a strange sort of revenge, and it surprised me that I wanted it, but I did.

Ruben's passes didn't have the zip of Josh's, but he wasn't heaving the football into the stands either. On our first drive we made three first downs before a holding penalty forced a punt. Our second drive ended in a missed field goal. Occasionally I'd sneak a peek at the bench. Josh was always standing right behind Coach Canning, helmet in hand.

The game was scoreless midway through the second quarter when the first big play came. We had the ball on our own sixteen-yard line. Ruben faked a handoff to Colby Kittleson, then dropped back to pass. The Franklin middle linebacker didn't bite on the play-action. He blitzed right up the gut and leveled Ruben, flat-out creamed him, jarring the football loose. The ball bounced free and a Franklin guy fell on it on our six-yard line.

Ruben popped right up, but he was wobbly walking off the field, and when he reached the bench he just about collapsed onto it. “He won't be back for a while,” the kid next to me said to no one in particular. “Anybody know who the backup quarterback is?”

It took four downs, but Franklin scored a touchdown. Their fullback pounded the ball in from six inches out. With the extra point, they went up 7–0.

Curtis took the kickoff again. This time he broke a few tackles and made it all the way out to the forty before the kicker pushed him out of bounds.

My eyes were glued on the sidelines. Ruben remained slumped on the bench, head down and helmet off, still trying to shake out the cobwebs. Josh was going to get his chance.

It's amazing how quickly you can change. I'd been glad that Josh wasn't playing. I'd wanted him to sit and suffer. But once he was in the game, I wanted him to throw touchdown passes and lead the team to victory. I can't explain why I changed. I just know I did.

On first down he took the snap and made a quick pitch to Kittleson. Kittleson almost broke free for a big gain, but the Quakers' safety dragged him down from behind after four yards.

Second down was another running play—Kittleson up the middle for maybe a yard. That made it third and five—a passing down. I looked to the sidelines. Ruben was up, talking to Canning. He wanted back in. Josh was going to have to do something good to keep him out.

Josh took the snap, dropped back three steps, but before he could set his feet a blitzing linebacker was right in his face. He somehow ducked under the guy and came up firing. The ball must have gone forty yards in the air, a perfect spiral to a wide-open Jamaal Wilsey. It was a touchdown, a cinch touchdown—but somehow Wilsey let the ball slip through his fingertips. Everyone groaned. I looked back upfield to Josh. He was on his knees, his eyes to the sky in disbelief.

We had to punt, and the Quakers ran out the first half with a long drive that ended in a field goal at the gun, a wobbly thing that hit the crossbar and dropped over. Still it counted, and at the half Franklin led 10–0.

During halftime the bands came out and marched around, a light drizzle started to fall, and out of pure nervousness I ate two lukewarm hot dogs.

The way I figured it, Canning had to start Josh in the second half. Josh had put the ball in Wilsey's hands. It wasn't his fault that Wilsey had dropped it.

The teams came back onto the field for the second half. The Quakers took the kickoff, so I had to wait even longer to find out who was playing QB. They managed a couple of first downs before they had to punt.

I stared at the sideline. Josh and Ruben stood shoulder to shoulder. Canning looked at both of them, and a second later Ruben was pulling his helmet over his head and running out onto the field.

“What are they playing
him
for!” I shouted.

“The other guy didn't do anything,” somebody hollered from below.

I was about to yell something back, but I swallowed the words.

Not only did Ruben play, but he played pretty well. We got a first down on a screen pass, another one on a nifty run by Kittleson, a third on a slant-in pass. But then Kittleson fumbled on a third-and-four and the Quakers recovered.

After that the game took on a boring sameness. Back and forth; back and forth. A couple of first downs, then a punt or a fumble. All that time Josh shadowed Coach Canning, waiting for the call. And all that time I stewed, hoping he'd get it.

It wasn't Coach Canning who put Josh back in; it was the Quakers. With six minutes left in the game, their safety blindsided Ruben on a blitz, hitting him so hard Ruben's helmet popped off. It was scary, and I clapped along with everyone else when Ruben stood and limped off the field, though I felt like a hypocrite. I wanted him out.

Second and eighteen. That's what Josh faced when he stepped up to the line. He also faced a revved-up Franklin defense that was out for blood. Too revved-up, it turned out. Josh long-counted them and drew them offsides, making it second and thirteen—a better situation.

He quick-counted them this time, and then dropped back to pass. The blitz was coming again, but Josh unloaded a bullet over the middle to Wilsey. Jamaal hauled it in and, with the Quaker middle linebacker out of there, turned upfield for eighteen yards and a first down.

Josh raced the team up to the line of scrimmage, calling the play without going into a huddle. He took the snap and rolled to the right to pass. This time he hit Kittleson circling out of the backfield. Kittleson took it in stride, juked a cornerback, and turned a five-yard pass into a twenty-three-yard gain.

On first down Josh ran a draw that went for about four yards, which I guess was okay, but I wanted to see Josh air it out. That's what he tried to do on second down, but before he could set his feet, their defensive end sacked him for a loss of six.

Third and twelve with the ball on the Franklin forty. Josh dropped back, looked left toward Wilsey, pump faked, then came back to the right with a long pass for Santos. It dropped down out of the sky right over the cornerback's outstretched hands and right into Santos's. Touchdown!

I exploded. Everyone around me did too. We celebrated as though we'd won the game. Then our kicker came on and chunked the extra point. I looked up at the scoreboard. Four minutes were left and the score was Franklin 10 Crown Hill 6.

Canning tried the onside kick, but the Quakers covered it. They ran three straight running plays, taking time off the clock. Our defense held, but after the punt we were backed up on our eleven-yard line with less than two minutes left. Along with every other Crown Hill fan, I was up and cheering, hoping for the miracle.

On first down Josh dropped a great pass over the linebacker to Kittleson, who pulled it in for fifteen yards. But Kittleson was tackled in the center of the field, forcing Josh to burn a time-out to stop the clock. He completed his next pass to Wilsey, who managed to get out of bounds, but it was good for only five yards. No way to win the game with little gains like that.

On second down Josh's protection crumbled. I thought he was going to be sacked for sure, but he straight-armed the first rusher, shook free of the second, and suddenly the ball was in the air to Wilsey, who had come open on the Franklin thirty-three. Wilsey was tackled immediately, and Josh had to use his last time-out, but there were still forty-two ticks left on the clock. The roar from the stands kept up through the entire time-out.

Next came a trick play. Josh lateraled to Kittleson, who lateraled right back to him. A pass to the end zone was coming, but a linebacker was right in Josh's face. He dropped him for a loss of nine yards. Even worse, the clock kept running. By the time Josh got everybody up to the line, there were only sixteen seconds left. He took the snap, dropped back a step, and spiked the ball to stop the clock. Third and nineteen, with thirteen seconds left.

You need luck sometimes, no matter how good you are, and on the next play Josh got lucky. He threw a lousy pass, his first truly lousy pass of the day. It was intended for Kittleson, but the ball hit a Franklin cornerback right smack in the hands. He should have intercepted, and if he had, that would have been the game. But the ball bounced off as though his hands were made of stone.

Fourth down.

Seven seconds left.

Everyone in the stadium knew the next pass was going into the end zone. There was no time for anything else. Franklin had four down linemen and seven defensive backs. Bethel Santos was split to the right, Wilsey to the left. Both were double-teamed. Garrett Curtis lined up in the slot.

Josh dropped back, looked left. Wilsey was covered. He danced around, looked right. Santos was covered. The pocket crumbled. Josh ducked under the rush, pumped once deep, then tucked the ball under his arm and took off.

He juked one guy at the twenty, broke a tackle at the fifteen, then cut back. Two Franklin guys overran him, but one guy had the angle on him. He hit Josh at the four-yard line, hit him, but didn't bring him down. Josh kept churning his legs until he'd dragged that Franklin guy into the end zone. The gun sounded as the ref signaled “touchdown.” Six points went up on the scoreboard. Crown Hill 12 Franklin 10! We'd won! We'd won!

After the game I went straight to the bus stop, and I was on the bus before I even had a chance to think what I was doing. Other Crown Hill kids were staying at Seattle Center, hanging out. That's where the football players—Josh, Kittleson, Wilsey, Santos—would be. I could have pulled the cord, gotten off at the next stop, and walked back. But I didn't. I don't know why; I just didn't. Rain started falling. The bus's wipers squeaked as they slapped back and forth.

Back home, my mother and father were watching a movie in the front room, but they turned it off when I came in.

“How was the game?” my mom asked.

“Pretty good,” I said. “We won.”

“Did Josh play?” my dad asked.

“Yeah,” I answered, “he did great. He won the game for us.”

“Well, good for him,” my dad said.

I started across the room toward the stairs. “Why don't you sit down and watch the movie with us?” my mom suggested.

I shook my head. “I'm pretty worn out. I think I'll go to bed.”

I climbed the stairs to my room and turned on my radio. Around eleven the television went off downstairs and I heard my mother and father get ready for bed. There have been about a thousand nights when I've wished I could fall asleep as easily as they do, and that was one of them.

Around one o'clock a car pulled up across the street. I looked out the window and watched Josh get out and wave good night to whoever it was who had given him the ride. As the car drove away, he looked up. I was embarrassed, afraid he'd think I was spying on him. But his face lit up the instant he saw me. He motioned for me to come down. In a flash I was down the stairs and out the door.

A huge grin broke across his face as I met him in the street. “Did you see the game?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, grinning back at him. “You were great.”

His smile wouldn't stop. “I told you, Ryan. Didn't I tell you? Didn't I? Didn't I?”

“You sure did!” I said. “You sure did!”