5 / MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 16—PRACTICE AND SWING SHIFT AT CAFÉ HELEN

That afternoon, Coach was pretty grumpy and made us run double laps to open practice. Other than that, nothing was different. He had Shane run the first-team offense, and I got the scraps.

I appealed to Coach Whitson, the offensive coach. “Don’t I need some more reps? What if Shane can’t start Friday?”

Whitson, who always looked confused, gave me a more dumbfounded look than usual. “Why wouldn’t Shane start Friday?”

“Well…”

But he didn’t have the slightest idea what I was talking about. That was clear. So I dropped it. And I had to hand it to Shane, he was throwing lasers, hitting every target. How did he do it when he had been drinking at eight in the morning?

When I got in, I was throwing pretty well too. I hit Orlando in stride on a long post, but he dropped it.

“Gotta hold tight to those!” Coach Whitson yelled.

“Bit more wobble on it than I’m used to,” Orlando said, winking at me.

“Let’s try it again,” Whitson said. “Jayo, lay it in there this time.”

Was he serious?

Meanwhile, Shane and Coach Z were reviewing something on a clipboard. My next pass was short and got picked off.

“Come on, Two!” Shane yelled.

God, I hated him.

Coach Z came to Café Helen that night and sat at the counter. I was surprised, but not because he showed up. It was the only decent restaurant in town, and he had been there before. I was surprised because usually when I saw him out he was with his wife. He was alone this time. He ordered French onion soup and a tall beer. When I came to take away his dirty bowl, he grabbed my arm.

“I hear you’ve been making noises about Shane not being able to start. Again.”

“I was just asking, Coach. I want to play, you know that.”

“You need to get comfortable with your role on this team,” Coach Z said. “You’re not helping us win games if you’re stirring up trouble.”

“I don’t mean to stir up trouble, Coach.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I’m the one who’s stayed out of trouble!”

He thought about that for a second. “Look,” he said. “I know you and Shane have a history. I know you want to play. I appreciate that. But if I hear about you shooting off your mouth again about this stuff, you will regret it. I’ll see to that.”

He took out his wallet and dropped a twenty on the counter. Then he scooted off his stool and left.

“It’s impressive,” Dad said that night. We sat on the couch watching TV. He was streaming some documentary about freshwater sharks, and I had told him how the trouble Alfred Bailey predicted never made it downstream. Coach Z had no intention of benching Shane, and there was no sign that Principal Donahue or anyone else was going to do anything about it.

“Impressive?” I said. “That’s not the word that came to my mind. More like infuriating. More like—this is stupid.”

“That’s three words.”

“Well, it’s not impressive.”

“Zachary is even more protected than I thought,” Dad said. “I mean, I knew this town loves him. I knew he was safe. But this—this is impressive.”

“And from now on, he can be impressive without me on the team,” I said. “I’m done with this.”

We watched the TV for a few minutes more, but I could tell Dad was thinking. He wasn’t going to let a statement like that linger for very long. On screen, a guy held a shark about two feet long in his hands. “I need to hold on tight here,” the guy said. “He’ll take a big ol’ bite out of me if he has half a chance.”

“Maybe,” Dad said, “it’s time to go on the attack.”