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Bobby shook his head. "Okay, whatever. When I'm done with practice."

"So you'll call me then?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, Bobby, you do that."

"I promise."

"Yeah, sure," she said. "I believe ya."

There was a click on the other end, then the dial tone cut in. Bobby hung up the receiver.

Ivan woke up exhausted and thirsty. It hurt his throat to swallow, and his head throbbed along his temples when he sat up. Still, it was better than he had expected. He looked at the torn photograph of his mother. He had made a promise to bury the state championship medal beside Layaree's Wall. He hadn't told anyone. Not even Shelley. But the chance to fulfill that promise vanished the instant his fist hit Hannen's jaw. Or maybe on the second punch. Or maybe, he thought, it was when he yelled, "You're the worst goddamn coach in the state."

That was it, Ivan knew. That was what he would hang for.

He had stayed up hours, trying to understand what had happened. He had considered everything, but in the end, it didn't make a bit of difference. He was no longer in control. As vile as it was, McClellan now held the key to whether he would ever be allowed to set foot on a Lennings Wrestling mat again. Shelley was right. He would have to apologize, and apologize in a goddamn big way.

Ivan's jaw tightened.
I won't do it. A man gets on his knees for no one.

There was a knock at the door. Ivan slid out from under the covers.

The door opened and his father walked in. "It is quiet up here." He eyed the room.

Ivan pulled the sheets to the head of the bed, then smoothed out the blankets. "I didn't wanna wake you."

"I am always awake before you."

Ivan grabbed shorts, socks, and a T-shirt from a drawer and stuffed them into his gym bag. He felt odd going through the motions. He glanced over his shoulder, but his father hadn't left the room.
Wondering where the Western Arizona application is? Not gonna telly a, Papa. Look all you want. Take all morning. Doesn't make a difference anyway. Not now.

"You came in late last night," his father said.

"I was at Shelley's," Ivan lied. It was easier than he thought. "Doing math homework Got a quiz this week"

"You were very late."

"Does it matter?" Ivan said it stronger than he wanted. Already in deep enough trouble, a fight with his father wouldn't help matters. His tone eased. "Ya want me studying, right?"

His father nodded less than enthusiastically. Again, he looked around the room. "You received a letter from Bloomsburg University. About your scholarship."

"Another time, Papa."

He could see his father stiffen. "Life does not always go the way you expect. I am pleased for your interest in studies. But these next weekends are too important. Do you understand?"

Ivan nodded.

"How is your weight?" his father said.

"Okay, Papa." Then, after it seemed there was nothing left to discuss, Ivan said, "I gotta get ready."

In the busy clatter of the school hallway, the slam of Ivan's locker went unnoticed. Past the water fountain, Shelley stood with some friends in front of her locker, setting down her books and hanging up her coat. She wouldn't look his way. Ivan waited a few minutes for the hallway to clear, but by then Shelley was gone.

Time to get this over with,
Ivan thought. He muscled his way through the crowd, in full view of the furtive—and not so furtive—looks. They had heard. Ivan put on his best scowl. He walked past Holt's office, glaring at anyone who looked his way, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. At an office door marked
HISTORY DEPARTMENT,
Ivan raised his fist—noting the scrapes on his knuckles—and knocked.

When Ivan heard "Come in," from behind the door, he opened it and stepped inside the room. It occurred to him that he had never been in McClellan's office. The renovated janitor's closet was as cramped as he had heard. A bookshelf hardly hid a shadow of replastering where a sink had been, while cracks along the ceiling ran as extensively as a road map. A framed degree from Yale University and two mahogany plaques stood out. The engraving on each plaque read:
PRESENTED TO LEWIS MCCLELLAN. VOTED TEACHER OF THE YEAR BY THE LENNINGS STUDENT BODY.

"Sit," McClellan said.

Ivan dropped his backpack to the floor and sat down. The room was hot, damn hot.
If it was any hotter,
he thought,
we could roll the damn mats out right here. At least I wouldn't have to drag my ass down to that dungeon.
Bones underneath his thinly padded buttocks cut through to the chair. He shifted to ease the discomfort.

McClellan took his time clearing his desk, stacking one pile of papers at the corner and placing another in a drawer. He had an air of smugness that Ivan had never seen before.

"That was a pretty disturbing scene yesterday," McClellan said.

"It was a misunderstanding."

"A 'misunderstanding'?"

"Hannen was jerkin' around."

"So you punched him?"

"He was doggin' it."

"So you punched him?"

"I let him off easy," Ivan said. "I bust my ass in practice every day. You know it; all of them know it. Maybe the others should bust their asses."

"What about self-control?"

Ivan felt himself getting angry, so damned pissed he was in this position. He was tempted to get up and leave. That would show McClellan, and everyone else at Lennings, that Ivan Korske doesn't kiss anyone's ass. "I thought winning was the point," he said.

McClellan shook his head. "You don't get it. Winning's never the sole reason for wrestling. You can lose and still have integrity and respect for others. But with you, it's always been about what's best for Ivan Korske."

"I win."

"What's that get you? A free pass to punch out a teammate?" McClellan said. "No, I have rules. I talk about them all the time so everyone is clear." He ticked off each with a finger. "One, the team comes first. Two, never use profanity. Three, no fighting. The rules couldn't be simpler. They help you as a person, and as a wrestler." Then McClellan smiled, a snide, fake smile. "But you don't like getting help, do you?"

Ivan's expression didn't change.
You want me to tell ya how much better ya made me? You wanna take credit? I won't let ya. I don't need your help. Never did. Never will. You know that and it kills ya.

McClellan stepped out from behind the desk. "We're all influenced by one another. By teammates, teachers, parents, and coaches, sometimes—even people we don't like."

Ivan said nothing.

"You don't agree with me. I didn't expect you to. So let's cut to the chase." McClellan sat on the edge of the desk. "There has to be punishment. Principal Holt and the school officials want a suspension. They're a very straight-and-narrow group. You understand. Rules
were
broken."

McClellan was lying, Ivan thought. Holt would never suspend him, not with a chance for him to go to the states on the line.

"Maybe I should talk to him," Ivan said.

"To whom?"

"Holt."

McClellan smiled. "Oh, I see. You don't believe me. You can certainly take that chance. But let me tell you, Ivan, after Mrs. Hannen called the school this morning, all hell broke loose. School violence. You're lucky they let you in the building this morning. But I spoke to Principal Holt and he agreed to go by my recommendation. If I'm satisfied with the punishment, then he'll be satisfied with the punishment. Of course, if you don't believe me, you can walk out right now and take your chances."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "So I'll pay for the damage."

"Let other people worry about the bathroom," McClellan said with a sarcastic laugh. "I've given this some thought. Weighed all the factors. I'd like to see you wrestle through the end of the season. But I also want you to learn from your mistakes. I was thinking along the lines of an apology."

Ivan tensed but gave away nothing.

"You don't seem to want to."

"I'll apologize, if I gotta."

"To whom?"

"You tell me."

"I think you know."

Ivan shrugged. "Hannen."

McClellan shook his head.

Ivan sat back. "To who then?"

"Again, you tell me."

"The team."

McClellan walked to the office's back window. "It's a bit warm in here." He reached up and unlatched the lock, then pushed open the pane of glass. He rubbed his hands to wipe off any dirt. "Ivan, to
whom
do you need to apologize?"

It was then that Ivan fully understood the tone of McClellan's voice. Like a bully's. Like someone who had all the power and was ready to exploit it. This meeting was a joke.

McClellan smoothed his white dress shirt and straightened his tie. He came back to the desk and sat down again.

"You don't like me very much," he said, with a smile. "You don't think I'm a good coach. Probably think I don't know my elbow from my ass in the Wrestling room. Maybe you even think I'm the worst goddamn coach in the county."

McClellan grinned wider. "I know you understand the situation here, but if you don't, I'll make it crystal clear. I want to coach a state champ—that's what I want. I'm that good of a coach, despite what you or anyone else thinks.
You and I also know I may grow to be an old man before I get that chance again at this school." McClellan's eyes never left Ivan's. "You hate this place. It disgusts you. You hate me, the team, the school, the whole damn town."

Bile bubbled up Ivan's throat. Only a hard swallow kept the bitterness down. He had underestimated McClellan, thinking he was a fool. Ivan stared at McClellan as fiercely as he would an opponent.

"What do you want me to say?"

"You know."

"Apologize?"

"Yes."

"To you."

McClellan grinned.

Drop dead. I'll never say I'm sorry—

Then Ivan cut off his rage. He was about winning, his life was about winning. He thought about his mother and father sitting in the Lennings bleachers; the roads he had run over and over, enough miles to make it all the way to Western Arizona; coming within a whisper of advancing to the state finals last year. Images of the past four years scrambled his thoughts; still, the answer
was
clear. The state championship was on the line, which meant more—just barely more—than winning this battle of egos with McClellan. There would be a time and place to tell him to screw himself. It would be soon enough.

Know what, McClellan? I'll apologize to ya. No sweat off my back. They're just words.

He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry Hannen and me got in a fight. I wanna come back to practice today."

McClellan said nothing.

Ivan straightened up. "I can win the states this year. You can't take that away. It's my only way outta here."

Still, McClellan said nothing.

Ivan leaned in. "Goddamn it," he said. "Okay, I'm sorry; I'm damn sorry yesterday ever happened and for what I said to you. I'm sorry, okay, are ya happy?"

A hint of a smile touched McClellan's lips. "Yes," he said. "That's what's best for everyone involved. And that's what's fair. Now write it down." He held out a pen and a piece of paper.

"Write it?"

"Yes, write it."

Ivan looked at McClellan's hands. He was exhausted and beaten, and it took all his strength not to vomit his disgust right there in the office. "If I write it, I'm back on the team?"

"Sure, sure," McClellan answered, pulling a stack of papers from the drawer and spreading it out on the desk with the other. "I'll tell Principal Holt what you and I decided here today. We'll get this whole episode behind us." McClellan's head was down, already marking the papers with a red pen. "Don't forget, get that to me by noon."

Ivan closed the door behind him. That was it. He stood in the hallway, leaning back against the wall, pen and paper in hand. He would write the apology, he would get it in by noon. It was over. He had sold his soul for the state championship.

Carmelina's sobs were clear through the phone. "Everyone was lookin' at me in school," she said, in halted breaths. "They knew, they knew. They knew where I was going. I'm telling ya, they knew ... Their eyes, I could tell in their eyes."

"What happened with the test?" Bobby said.

"Nobody's ever looked at me like that," Carmelina said. "It was like they knew I was gonna do something really wrong. Was I gonna?"

Bobby covered the receiver and walked out of his bedroom to the top of the stairs. The light in his brother's room was off and everything was quiet downstairs.

"The test, Carmelina," he said. "What happened?"

"How could they know—"

"Carmelina, listen to me," he said, in a forced whisper. "What'd the test say?"

Carmelina didn't answer for a long time. Bobby thought she might have hung up. "Carmelina?" he said. "Carmelina? Are you there? What'd the test say?"

"I don't know," she said, finally.

"What do you mean, 'I don't know'?"

"I ... don't ... know...."

"But you went to the clinic. Maria took you, right?"

"Yeah."

"So what'd they say?"

"This big black woman just kept smiling, telling me everything was gonna be all right. She just kept smiling ... God, I don't know why. This wasn't a place for smiles. But she did. The kind of smile that was trying to hide somethin' real bad ... I was so scared, Bobby, so scared."

"I know, I know," Bobby said. "I'm sorry you were scared—"

"Too scared."

"What do you mean?"

"I left."

"You left?"

"Maria took me home. I couldn't do it."

Bobby wanted to throw the phone through his bedroom window. "You gotta go back. This is serious, Carmelina. You can't just leave it alone. It won't go away. Tell Maria she's gotta bring you there again."

There was a long pause before Carmelina spoke again. "I'll go next week," she said, but the lie was clear in her voice.

"I don't believe you," he said. "Next time you'll just leave again. Maybe not even go."

"Then, you take me."