We stood for nearly a minute without speaking and then he said, “Think we might get some rain?”
“Who the fuck cares? Let’s go!”
“We can go. I just thought you might have something you wanted to get off your chest.”
I wasn’t afraid of Doyle — I had five inches and thirty pounds on him — but I expected he’d come at me hard. I backed off a pace and set myself. He chuckled and looked out over the field.
Perplexed by this behavior, I said, “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
He smiled thinly. “That’s a fine question, coming from a guy who poked my girlfriend.”
“Did she tell you?”
“It don’t matter who told me. You got other business to worry about.”
He aimed a punch at my head but pulled it back the last second and laughed as, in avoiding the blow, I tripped on the uneven ground and went sprawling. He bent down, hands on his knees, grinning in my face.
“She’s a slut, man,” he said. “She puts on a real sweet act, but I’m surprised she hasn’t jumped you before now.”
I stared at him.
“Seriously,” he said.
“I thought you two were getting married?”
He snorted. “I’d sooner marry a toilet seat. All she’s ever been to me is a hump.”
A storm of grackles whirled above the hill behind which the dairy van had vanished, and that confusion in the sky reflected the confusion in my mind. I remembered how needy and tender Dawn had been. After what Doyle had said, I wanted to doubt her, to accept his view of her. and I did doubt her on and off for a while; but his lack of regard for her rubbed me the wrong way. For the first time I realized that we might not be friends forever, and I wondered if all my relationships would be so fragile.
Against my better judgment, I got caught up in the frenzy of Taunton Week. It was hard not to, what with the entire population of Edenburg telling us that we could win and offering tactical advice. GO PIRATES GO signs were in every shop window. Pep rallies were exercises in hysteria — one cheerleader broke an ankle going for an unprecedented triple somersault and was carted from the gym, still shaking her pompoms and exhorting the crowd. Even Carol, who’d been spreading lies about me all over school, kissed me on the mouth and told me to kill ’em. But along about midweek, reality set in when I watched a tape on Taunton’s All-State outside linebacker, a kid named Simpkins, number fifty-five. Coach Tuttle planned to use me on pass patterns going across the middle of the field, where Fifty-five would be waiting to saw me in half. My shoulder hadn’t completely healed, and I actually gave consideration to ramming it into a wall or a door, and knocking myself out of the game. On Thursday, after practice, I took a nap and dreamed about Fifty-five. He was standing over me, wearing a black uniform (Taunton wore special black unis for the Edenburg game), and was holding aloft my bloody left shoulder, arm attached, like a trophy.
After my nap I went downtown, trying to walk off the effects of the dream, and ran into Justin Mayhew, our quarterback, a compact, muscular kid with shoulder-length brown hair. He was sitting on the curb out front of the Tastee-Freeze, looking glum. I joined him and he told me that he was worried about the offensive line holding up.
“That number eighty-seven liked to have killed me last year,” he said.
“Tell me about it,” I said, and mentioned my concerns about Fifty-five. “If you see him lining me up, throw the ball away. because I’m going to protect myself first and think about catching it second.”
“If I can see around those fat bastards they got on defense, I will.” He hawked and spat. “Tuttle’s a damn idiot. He can’t game plan for shit.”
Conversation lagged and Justin was making noises about going out to Snade’s, when Mr. Pepper, the ancient school janitor, came shuffling along. He was moving slower than usual and looked somewhat ragged around the edges. We said, “Hey, how you doing?” Normally a garrulous sort, he kept walking. “Hey!” I said, louder this time. Without turning, in a small, raspy voice, he said, “Go to blazes.”
We watched him round the corner.
“Did he say, ‘Go to blazes?’ ” I asked.
“He must be drinking again.” Justin got to his feet. “Want to run out to Snade’s with me?”
“What the hell,” I said.
The arc lights were on and the bleachers at Pirate Field were half-full when I arrived for the game. The crowd was mainly Taunton boosters, and they were celebrating early, hooting and carrying on; they were cordoned off from Edenburg supporters by a chain that didn’t serve much purpose when passions started to run high. They always brought more people than the bleachers could hold, the overflow spilling onto the sideline behind the Warrior bench. It was like a home game for them. The image of a black-bearded pirate brandishing a saber adorned the scoreboard, and following each victory, they would paint over his jolly grin with an expression of comical fright.
We dressed in a bunkerlike structure in back of the bleachers and the atmosphere inside it was similar, I imagined, to the mood on death row prior to an execution: guys sitting in front of their lockers, wearing doomed expressions. Only Doyle seemed in good spirits, whistling under his breath and briskly strapping on his pads. His locker was next to mine, and when I asked what made him so cheerful, he leaned over and whispered, “I did what you said to.”
I looked at him, bewildered. “Huh?”
He glanced around the room, as if checking for eavesdroppers, and said, “I fixed their bus.”
I had a vision of bodies scattered across a highway and Doyle in handcuffs telling the police, “I just did what Andy told me.” I pushed him against the locker and asked what exactly he had done.
“Ease off, dog!” He barred his elbow under my chin and slipped away. “I nicked their fuel line, okay?”
“They’ll just call for another bus.”
“They can call,” he said. “But all their backups got their tires slashed. or so I hear.” He winked broadly. “Relax, man. It’s in the bag.”
It was like someone spiked my paranoia with relief, and I began to feel pretty good. We went out for warm-ups. Taunton had not yet arrived, and an uneasy buzz issued from the bleachers. Coach Tuttle conferred with the game officials while we did our stretches. I ran a few patterns, caught some of Justin’s wobbly passes. The field was a brilliant green under the lights; the grass was soft and smelled new mown, the chalked lines glowed white and precise; the specter of Number Fifty-five diminished. The chirpy voices of our cheerleaders sounded distant:. the Edenburg Pirates are hard to beat. They got pads on their shoulders and wings on their feet. Tuttle sent us back inside and went to talk more with the officials.
In the locker room guys were asking, What happened? They gonna forfeit?Doyle just smiled. An air of hopeful expectation possessed the team as it dawned on everyone that we might be going to regionals. Then Tuttle came back in, put his hands on his hips, and said, “They’re here.” That let the air out of things.
“They’re here,” Tuttle repeated grimly. “And they don’t want no warm-up. Do you hear that? They think they can beat us without even warming up.” He searched our faces. “Prove ’em wrong.”
I suppose he was going for a General Patton effect, trying to motivate with a few well-chosen words in place of his typical rant; but it fell flat. Everybody was stunned — Doyle, in particular — and we could have used some exhortation. The locker room prayer was especially fervent. As we jogged onto the field, Taunton jeers drowned out the Edenburg cheers and dominated the puny sound of our pep band. The Taunton bus was parked behind the west end zone, and their tri-captains waited at midfield with the referee. In their black uniforms and helmets, they looked like massive chunks of shadow. Justin Coombs and I walked out to meet them for the coin toss. Number Fifty-five centered the Taunton quarterback and one of the linemen, Eighty-seven, who had jumped us in Crescent Creek. He appeared to have grown uglier since last year.