Tackle Without a Team (4 page)

“Want a puff?” she drawled.

Scott blushed. “No, thanks.”

“Why not? I thought you’d finally come to your senses and turned on to it.”

It dawned on Scott that, despite his efforts to keep it quiet, Peg must have heard about his being kicked off the team because
of marijuana. Now she was rubbing it in.

Kear must have come to the same conclusion. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

“Come on, Kear, let’s go,” Scott said, pulling his friend’s arm. He wanted to say,
She’s not worth the trouble. She’s not kidding anyone but herself
.

He was glad to hear the sound of the bus as it came around the corner and pulled up to the curb. The girls took one last drag—as
if their lives depended on it—and then dropped the cigarettes to the ground before climbing onto the bus.

“See you!” Florence said.

Peg just smiled and waved, like a movie starlet in one of those magazine ads.

The bus roared off.

“I wonder …” Scott whispered tensely. “She smokes dope, and she seemed to know about what happened …” He faltered. No, he
thought. She couldn’t be the one.

He felt Kear looking intently at him.

“I can’t believe she’d pull a dirty trick on me just to get even,” he said, his voice thin. “Could you, Kear?”

Kear stared at him. “Even for what?”

“For breaking off—you know—our friendship.”

Kear shrugged. “Who knows? She’s a tough cookie. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. Some girls would do
anything
to get even with a guy.”

Scott grinned. “You sound as if you know a lot about girls.”

Kear shrugged again. “I’m an expert. I’ve got one sister and a girlfriend. Well, I figure she’s a girlfriend.”

“One sister and Fran Whitaker?” Scott
laughed. “I’ve got
two
sisters and a girlfriend. Guess I’m one-girl more expert than you are. Let’s go, before the movie starts.”

They headed up the street, walking a little faster now.

“It sure is a coincidence, though,” Scott said, before they had gone a full block. “Don’t you think?”

“That it’s a coincidence? Sure. Like the cops say on TV: It’s a real
strong
coincidence!”

They arrived at the theater early, bought a bag of buttered popcorn each, and ate it while they waited for the movie to start.

Scott couldn’t get Peg out of his thoughts. If anybody had the motive—and the guts—to stick a couple of joints in his duffel
bag, it was she. But how could he prove it? She wouldn’t confess to it, and buddy-buddy Florence sure wouldn’t snitch on her,
if she even knew about it.

The movie started, but Scott might as well have stayed home. He couldn’t concentrate on this movie, either. He just kept thinking
about Peg, about Coach Dresso catching him with the marijuana, and about his not telling his family.
He felt lousy, angry, and guilty. He wished he could find a hole to crawl into. He’d stay there forever.

He hardly said a word on the way home after the movie. Kear did all the talking. And, from his reaction, the movie must have
been exciting.
Too bad I had other things on my mind
, Scott thought.

The minute he stepped into the house, he knew something had happened while he was gone. The expression on his mother’s face
was like writing on the wall.

“No sense trying to hide that secret from us anymore, Scott,” she said firmly. “Your father and I know.”

He stared at her, then tromped into the living room and sat down before he fainted. His head suddenly felt light.

“Coach Dresso called,” his mother’s voice rang like a knell in his ears. “He’s coming over to pick up your uniform.”

Scott tried to swallow the ache in his throat and asked, “He—he told you what happened?”

“Yes.”

His father came into the room. He looked mad enough to smack Scott. But he never had and never would. At least Scott hadn’t
thought so—before now. “I couldn’t believe it, Scott,” Mr. Kramer said in a low tone. “Not after what happened to Eddie.”

“I didn’t put those joints in there, Dad,” Scott insisted. “Somebody else did.”

“Don’t lie to me!” Mr. Kramer suddenly snapped. “You know what I think of lying!”

“I’m not lying, Dad,” Scott said evenly, the ache back in his throat again. “It’s the truth.”

His mother came up beside his father, her hands clasped in front of her. “If you didn’t do it, who did? Who would?”

“I—I don’t know,” he said.

He couldn’t tell them he thought that Peg Moore might have done it. He could get in trouble accusing somebody he really wasn’t
sure about.

“If it wasn’t you, why didn’t you tell us about the whole thing in the first place?” his father said, his voice still angry.

“I—I don’t know,” Scott answered. “I guess I didn’t want you to … to get hurt again.”

“Hurt?” his father echoed. “Well, hiding the truth from us certainly didn’t help. Because you didn’t come to us right away,
I don’t know whether to believe you. In any case, I think some kind of punishment is in order here. Maybe we should ground
you for a couple of weeks.”

“I think that being kicked off the team is punishment enough, Ed,” Mrs. Kramer said softly.

Scott looked at her gratefully. His father might not believe him, but at least his mother seemed to.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Kramer said again. “I just hope he’s not following in his brother’s footsteps.”

“Oh, Ed,” Mrs. Kramer exclaimed, looking at him. “I’m sure he isn’t.”

Scott’s heart pounded. He felt certain now that no matter what he said, his father wouldn’t believe him. Somehow he had to
find the person who had put those cigarettes in his duffel
bag. It was the only way he could redeem himself.

It was shortly after supper when Coach Tom Dresso stopped at the house to pick up Scott’s uniform. Scott answered the door.

“Just a minute,” Mrs. Kramer said as Scott started to head to his room to get it. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Dresso first.”

“Oh, Ma,” Scott said.

“Never mind oh Ma-ing me,” his mother said as she rose from the sofa. “I just want to get a few things straight, that’s all.”

Sure, Scott thought. And give him a piece of your mind.

“Shall I get the uniform?” he asked.

“No. Wait. Maybe I can change his mind.”

“I doubt it, Ma,” he said, trying to be calm—and keep her calm at the same time.

“I can try,” she told him, and headed toward the door in the foyer. He waited, feeling his heart thumping against his rib
cage again.
Please, Ma, don’t get into an argument with him
, he pleaded silently.

From where he stood he could see Coach Dresso take off his familiar baseball cap and smile at his mother. The coach said something
that Scott couldn’t hear.

“Please come inside a minute, will you, Mr. Dresso?” she invited, stepping back so he could enter. She closed the door softly
behind him.

“Mr. Dresso,” she began, craning her neck up at him—he was about a foot taller than she — “Scott didn’t put those marijuana
cigarettes in his duffel bag. He doesn’t even smoke ordinary cigarettes, let alone that filthy stuff. You can’t really think
…”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kramer,” the coach interrupted courteously. “But the cigarettes
were
in his bag, and we have a very strict rule—”

“I understand the rule, Mr. Dresso,” Mrs. Kramer cut in, keeping her voice soft and her temper under control. “But those cigarettes
were put there by somebody else who wanted to incriminate my son. Whether it was another boy on your team or somebody who
doesn’t even play football, I don’t know. But I
know
it wasn’t Scott who put them in there.”

“Again, Mrs. Kramer, I must say I’m sorry,” Coach Dresso said evenly. “Until I can get real proof that Scott didn’t put them
in there, I must stick to the rules. I saw them in Scott’s bag myself. I already told him that I can’t give him special treatment.”
He paused. “One other thing.”

She stared at him. “You’re not going to remind me about Eddie, are you? That was a long time ago, and he paid for it. Over
and over again …”

“No, I wasn’t going to mention Eddie,” the coach said, his glance shifting to Scott. “I was just going to say that at least
four of the boys told me that Scott smoked cigarettes at one time. Plain cigarettes. If that’s true, he might have been tempted
—”

Her eyes flared. “That’s ridiculous!”

“Why don’t you ask him?” the coach said.

She turned to Scott, her forehead creasing as she fastened her gaze on her son.

“Is that true, Scott? Did you ever smoke cigarettes?”

His heart sank. It
was
true. He could remember
the moment clearly, even though it was years ago, when he was nine. It was at night, on Monk Robertson’s back porch. Three
other kids were with them: Ray Hunter, Jack Whelan, and Bertie McAllister.

“Yes,” he admitted, looking straight into her eyes.

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Scott. I thought you said you didn’t …”

“It was only once! A long time ago. I just took a puff or two,” he said in a rush. “That’s all. Because I started to cough.
I coughed like crazy. And I haven’t touched a cigarette since, I swear!”

Mrs. Kramer stared at him a moment longer, her expression indicating that she was still surprised he had taken as much as
one puff. She turned back to Coach Dresso.

“Is that what the boys told you?” she asked him.

“Well, I’m afraid not. They said he smoked more than that.”

“They lied!” Scott said angrily. “They’re a bunch of liars!”

The coach shook his head regretfully. “I really have to go now,” he said. “I’m very sorry it turned out like this.”

“So am I,” Mrs. Kramer said, her voice tinged with bitterness now. “I guess you are definitely off the team, Scott.”

Head bowed, Scott trudged up to his room, got his uniform and helmet, and brought them to the coach.

“Sorry about this, Scott,” Coach Dresso said sincerely. “But I have no alternative.”

“I know,” Scott said sadly. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Good evening, Mrs. Kramer, Scott,” the coach said and left.

Mrs. Kramer closed the door quietly, then walked past Scott without a word and sat down on the sofa.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” Scott said, following her into the room. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t expect you to tell me everything. But you’ve been hiding so much lately,
I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Even though her voice was gentle, almost resigned, her words stung Scott. Now even his mother doubted him.

Whoever had framed Scott had caused more damage than he or she could ever have imagined.

Kear rode his bike over to Scott’s house after school the next day. Scott was mowing the lawn, and he shut the motor off as
Kear pedaled up the driveway.

“How about going bike riding?” Kear suggested. “That lawn doesn’t look like it needs cutting.”

Scott paused. No, it doesn’t, he thought as he glanced over the large front lawn. But he had to do something to patch things
up between him and his father.

“I don’t know,” he told Kear. He would have liked to go, but then again, he had his father to think about.

“Come on,” Kear coaxed. “You can mow that lawn anytime.”

Scott thought about that a minute and grinned. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.”

He pushed the mower into the garage and took out his bike. Then he and Kear rode out of the driveway and down the street.
Scott let Kear take the lead.

They rode in silence. Scott had his eyes on the pavement most of the time, his thoughts on the future football career that
had gone up in smoke. There were times he had thought of winning a football scholarship. Maybe those same thoughts were in
his father’s mind, too. That could explain why he was so angry about what had happened.

Who was the crumb who had put the marijuana into his duffel bag, anyway? And why would he or she do such a lousy thing?

The sound of voices pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up to see that they were riding by the city park, where a bunch
of guys were practicing football. Did Kear ride by here on purpose? he asked himself.

“Well, what do you know?” Kear said, stopping at the curb. “A football practice.”

Scott pulled up behind him. “I suppose you didn’t know about this?”

Kear looked at him and grinned. “Shall we watch them awhile? Maybe we can get a few pointers.”

Scott grinned. “Smartmouth,” he said.

Kear lifted his bike over the curb, walked it into the park, and stood it up against an oak tree. Scott parked his beside
it.

“Who are these guys?” he asked.

“The Cougars,” Kear said.

“Cougars? Never heard of them.”

“It’s a new team—that’s why they’re not in a league,” Kear explained.

Scott looked at him. “How do you know so much about them?”

“A couple of their players live near me,” Kear said.

They sat down on a thick root under the comfortable shade of the oak tree and watched the Cougars work out. The players were
dressed in worn, smudgy, green uniforms with “Cougars” printed across the front and large numbers
on the back. A guy about six feet tall, with a crew cut and wearing a gray sweatshirt and pants, was coaching the players.