Penalty Shot (8 page)

Beth had been talking about writing when she had said that, but Jeff realized the same statement could be applied to finding
his saboteur. With a smile, he set to work on ferreting out the mistakes he’d made on the paper.

He pored over his work carefully. He made some erasures, fixed spelling, and then he rewrote parts of it — until finally he
was finished. Half an hour had passed.

He stood up and handed his paper to Ms. Collins. “Here it is. Every single word of it is mine.”

Ms. Collins nodded. “Care to stick around while I correct it?”

Jeff sat down again. For the next few moments, he sat tensely as Ms. Collins’s green marker moved above his paper. He couldn’t
tell how many times she used it to make a mark, but she seemed to be examining every letter with extreme care.

That’s what I should be doing, Jeff thought. Only the paper I should be checking over is that phony composition. If it hadn’t
been for that, I’d be over at the skating rink by now!

He pulled out the green ink–filled page and looked at it closely for a third time. And that’s when he saw them.

They were faint, but they were there. Little red check marks down the side of the margin.

This wasn’t the paper he had turned in. This was the first draft of the composition!

Hold on, he thought. That draft is still in the front pocket of my notebook, isn’t it?

He whipped through the pocket quickly. He found an old science test, the start of a letter to Eric Stone, and some doodles,
but no first draft.

Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead.

Slowly. Don’t jump to any conclusions. Take another look.

He forced himself to be very careful as he turned each page again.

There was no doubt about it. The paper Beth had corrected was missing. Somehow or other, it had found its way onto Ms. Collins’s
desk.

But how?

No, not
how,
Jeff thought suddenly.
Who.
Who would have known that I had a draft of
it in my notebook and why would he have swapped the two? And is it the same person who left that note for Kevin?

Suddenly, Jeff recalled the time he had found Sam squatting over his duffel bag. He had taken Sam’s explanation of mistaken
identity at face value then. But now he wondered. The compositions had been in his duffel that day. What if Sam had seen them,
taken the draft for some reason, then tampered with it? They did play the same position, after all, and what had happened
to Jeff the year before when he had failed English was common team knowledge.

I’d do just about anything to get on the squad.
Isn’t that what Sam had said?

His thoughts were interrupted by Ms. Collins.

“Well done, Jeffrey,” she said, beaming. “This is excellent work. It shows a great deal of promise. I knew you could do it.”

“Is it — is it good enough to give me a passing grade?” Jeff asked nervously.

“Definitely. As a matter of fact, what are you doing lingering here? Don’t you have a practice this afternoon?”

“I sure do! Thanks, Ms. Collins! Thanks a lot!”

J
eff raced to the locker room and suited up in record time. He didn’t bother snapping the rubber runners onto his skates, he
just dashed into the rink, ready to join the others on the ice.

To his surprise, everyone was seated in the stands. Coach Wallace had obviously called for a break.

“Well, nice of you to join us,” the coach said, looking at his watch.

“Didn’t Kevin tell you I was going to be late?” Jeff held his breath while he waited for the answer.

“He mumbled something about your being delayed by your English teacher,” said the coach. “Since you’re here, I guess that
means you didn’t lose your eligibility.”

“No, I definitely did not. Despite what certain people may think, I am still on the team!”

A few heads turned in his direction. Jeff returned their looks straight on before shifting his gaze back to the coach.

Coach Wallace cleared his throat. “Well, glad to hear it,” he said mildly. “Now then, Blades, let’s run a few more drills
before we break down and scrimmage.”

As the boys clambered off the benches to the ice, Jeff caught up to Kevin.

“Thanks for delivering my message,” he said.

Kevin shrugged.

“Listen,” Jeff continued. “Do you still have that note? I’d like to take another look at it.”

Kevin stared at him. “I’ve got it at home, as a matter of fact. Though why I haven’t burned it yet, I don’t know.”

Jeff gave him a small smile. “Maybe it’s because you were hoping I’d be able to figure out who really wrote it. You knew you
shouldn’t destroy the evidence!”

“Maybe,” Kevin replied gruffly. “Anyway, if you really think it’ll do any good, I guess you can come over to my house after
dinner and see it.”

Jeff gave a silent cheer. Then he turned his attention back to practice.

Coach had set them up for a passing drill. He wanted them to concentrate on giving and receiving strong, accurate passes.
As always, he stressed the importance of letting the stick give at the moment of contact. A bad “catch” could send the puck
off in any direction.

Jeff turned in a fine performance in both forehand and backhand passing. When the drill switched to shots on goal, he made
sure his were lightning quick. The last set of drills involved dodging a defenseman while carrying the puck, then skimming
a pass off to a teammate. Jeff had little trouble with that exercise, either.

But throughout the various plays, Jeff’s mind strayed to other things. Like what he thought he’d find when he looked at Kevin’s
note again — and how he hoped it would prove beyond a doubt that he was innocent.

J
eff rushed through dinner that night. He excused himself as soon as he could and mumbled that he had to see Kevin about something.

“That’s fine,” his mother said. “I’ve been wondering if there was something going on between you two. I haven’t seen Kevin
around for a while.”

“Everything is fine. Or at least, it will be,” Jeff answered. Then he jammed his hat on his head, zipped up his coat, and
grabbed his book bag.

Inside were his notebook, the mysterious first draft of the composition, and the one he had just written that afternoon for
Ms. Collins.

When he rang Kevin’s doorbell, the door opened immediately. Kevin stood there with Ranger at his side.

Jeff took a deep breath. Then he did something he had never thought he would do. He held his hand out toward Ranger’s nose.

Ranger sniffed it. Jeff slowly moved his hand from in front of Ranger’s nose to the top of Ranger’s head — and patted him!

Ranger’s tail thumped and Kevin’s eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. He stepped aside to let Jeff in. “Come on up.”

Kevin led the way to his bedroom. The note was lying on his desk. Jeff picked it up eagerly.

At a glance, he saw his instincts had been right. And he knew that there was no way Sam Metcalf was involved. Without a word,
he set it back down on the desk and unzipped his book bag. He withdrew his notebook, opened the three rings, and took out
a blank sheet of paper. Then he dug out the two compositions. Finally, he laid the note alongside them.

With a gesture of his hand, he asked Kevin to compare the four pieces of paper.

Kevin took a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t get it. If I’m supposed to be comparing the handwriting, I still can’t see a
difference. But what’s the blank page for?”

Jeff just said, “The clues are all there. Keep looking and I think you’ll see for yourself.”

So Kevin looked again. And this time he saw what Jeff meant.

“This, this, and this,” he said, pointing to the two compositions and the note, “are all
two-hole-punched pieces of paper. But this one,” he finished, picking up the blank sheet, “is a three-hole.”

“Right,” said Jeff. “Now, you know that that blank sheet came from my notebook, because you saw me take it from there. But
that other paper is different.” Jeff picked up the note. “The ink used in the lines is a funny shade of blue. It’s almost
purple. The paper feels smoother, too. I’ve only seen paper like that once before.”

“Where?”

“In Beth Ledbetter’s notebook. Her dad gave her a special binder filled with it last year.”

Kevin stared at Jeff in amazement. “You mean
Beth Ledbetter
wrote this note? I don’t believe it!”

“No, not Beth,” Jeff said. “But someone who has a binder with paper just like hers. That someone had to know an awful lot
in
order to write that note. He had to know that Beth was tutoring me, that I had written a make-up composition, and that my
topic had been about you and Ranger. And since I’m pretty sure whoever wrote that note also sabotaged my make-up composition,”
he finished sadly, “that someone also had to know what would happen to me if I got a failing grade.”

“You sound like you already know who it is,” Kevin said.

“I think I do. But I’ll need your help to prove it.” Then he told Kevin who he thought the perpetrator was and why he had
done it. Kevin whistled.

“If it’s true, then he’s in for some big trouble,” he said.

“I know. But even though he messed things up between you and me, I wish there was some way of keeping him out of it. But
he brought it on himself. No one forced him.”

“So what now?”

“Now, I think we have to come up with a plan for flushing the criminal out.”

The boys talked for the next hour. Then Jeff got up to leave.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kevin. Pick you up at seven-thirty to go to school. Okay?”

“Tell you what,” Kevin replied. “Come by at seven and help me walk Ranger.”

Jeff grinned. “You got a deal.”

C
lasses flew by the next day. When practice started, Jeff and Kevin put their plan into action. It started with a fight.

“That stupid dog of yours tipped over our garbage cans this morning,” Jeff said to Kevin. He punctuated his accusation by
poking a finger into Kevin’s chest.

“Did not!” Kevin replied angrily. “You probably tipped them yourself just so you could blame Ranger!”

“It would serve him right if he became known as a menace to the neighborhood.”

“Oh, so you admit you tipped them?”

“No! But it’s probably just a matter of time before he proves what a worthless, mean mutt he is. He’ll bite someone or bark
his head off all night or chase people on bikes. Your flea-bitten mongrel will get what he deserves soon enough!”

Kevin spun on his heel and stomped to his locker. The other boys looked at each other uneasily.

“What’s all that shouting?” Coach Wallace entered the locker room holding his clipboard. “Well?”

“Nothing, Coach,” a few of the boys mumbled.

“Then what are you all lollygagging around for? Get suited up and out on the ice! Pronto!”

As Jeff headed for the door, he saw Kevin hold the door open for Hayes and Bucky.
Bucky seemed to be badgering Hayes about something. Hayes just shook his head but didn’t say anything.

Coach Wallace had the team set up for a scrimmage immediately after warm-up. The lineup was as usual: Chad, Bucky, and Jeff
in the front, Shep and Kevin backing them up, and Michael in the cage.

The coach played referee and dropped the puck for the face-off. Bucky controlled it right away and sent it skimming to Chad.
Chad skated with it for a few feet, then lateraled it back to Bucky. Bucky dodged a defenseman, glanced up, and found Jeff
in the clear.

Jeff stopped the puck easily, but instead of taking off down the ice with it, he slowed his pace. His heart pounded. Okay,
Kevin, he said to himself, here we go.

As if he had heard Jeff’s thoughts, Kevin
started skating furiously. Jeff turned a blind shoulder to him and braced himself.

Wham!

Kevin hit Jeff full force and sent him reeling. Jeff collided with the boards and fell hard. He didn’t get up.

Coach Wallace blew his whistle. All action stopped as he sped over to the prone figure.

Jeff sat up, looking dazed. He stood slowly but winced as he put weight on his left foot.

“I — I think it’s sprained, Coach,” he said weakly.

“Kevin, help Jeff into the locker room,” Coach Wallace said.

“No,” Kevin said in a low voice.

Shocked, Coach Wallace stared at him. “What do you mean, no!”

“Not until he confesses.”

The coach looked baffled. “Confesses what? What’s this all about?”

“Confesses that he put a bunch of mean notes threatening my dog in my locker! I’ve been getting one every day this week!”

“What?”

This time, it wasn’t the coach who had spoken. It was Bucky Ledbetter.

Coach Wallace turned to him. “Do you know what’s happening here, Bucky?” he asked.

Bucky swallowed hard. “I — I’m not sure. I mean, I know a little of it, but that’s all.”

Coach Wallace continued to look at him. Bucky dug his skate into the ice. “I should have said something sooner, but I didn’t
know how. And I thought it was only that one time. I didn’t know it had been going on longer.”

He looked up and shot a glance at his brother.

The coach caught the look. So did everyone
else. Hayes stood there, his head hung low.

“It was me,” he mumbled. Then he lifted his head. “But I only put one note in Kevin’s locker. One! I don’t know where the
other ones came from.”

Jeff moved forward. “There were no other ones. Kevin and I just pretended there were, hoping you’d come forward to deny it.”

“And it worked,” Kevin added.

Jeff nodded. “You got pretty good at my handwriting, Hayes. But how?”

“I — I found part of a composition you’d written in my sister’s trash can. I traced some of it. Changed words from what you
had written until it was the note Kevin got.”

Bucky cut in. “I caught him doing it,” he confessed. “I should have stopped him, but he told me it was just a joke. By the
time I realized it wasn’t, it was too late.”

Jeff shook his head. “You might have gotten away with it, Hayes. But you forged my writing again, didn’t you? By replacing
my good composition with one you had tampered with?”