11 / WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25—TROY CENTRAL HIGH

They knew about the video.

At least I thought they did. Everyone I talked to seemed to look at me weird. Some kids—Shane’s friends—looked disgusted. Others gave me an extra smile of encouragement. Shane definitely had enemies at school, and I’m sure none of them would mind seeing him get taken down.

At practice, Shane still got the first-team reps, and I still got squat. If Coach Z thought there was a chance I’d be starting, he wasn’t showing it. He wasn’t hedging his bets at all. It was like he knew I didn’t have the courage to turn that video over.

As for Shane, he just ignored me. If he knew that I could ruin his career, he didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t say anything at all.

On Wednesday after school, Orlando threw a shoulder into me as we passed in the hall. The hall was nearly empty, so there was no reason for him to pass that close. As I rolled off the hit, Joe Blatnik, middle linebacker, came up and grabbed my shirt. He and Orlando pushed me around the corner, into the darkened science hall. Joe held me against the wall.

“What do you want?” I said.

“Shut up,” Orlando said.

I knocked Joe’s hand away from my shirt and started to step away. He grabbed me again, harder, and slammed me into the wall.

“I would wail on you right now,” Joe said. “But for some reason, Shane don’t want me to.”

“He says you don’t have the stones to do anything with that video,” Orlando said.

“But if it somehow makes it to Donahue’s office …” Joe said.

“Ain’t nobody can protect you” Orlando said. “Got it?”

I got it all right. As they walked away, I caught my breath—I didn’t realize I’d been holding it. I knew what Joe said was true: He’d love to beat the daylights out of me, and not just because of the video. He was that kind of guy. But it made me angry that he and Orlando took the time to threaten me if they weren’t going to follow through.

As I thought about that, my anger started to boil over. I ran through the other things that had happened that week. Coach Z basically daring me to turn over that video. Shane ignoring me, convinced that he was safe. My dad, who wanted so badly for me to start. And finally, the fact that Mom was coming to see the game—I really wanted to play for her.

I added it all up like one big math problem, and there was only one answer: I was going to send the video into Principal Donahue. I’d show Orlando and Joe that they couldn’t scare me. I’d show Coach Z he was wrong about me. I’d make my parents proud.

But first, I had to check the pulse of the locker room. I knew I had a few friends. And I knew some of the guys were tired of Shane’s hotshot act. If I went to war with him, I needed to know who would be on my side.

I knew one thing: Everyone believed that winning the game against Harvest Valley was more important than any personal stuff. Winning always was. So I’d be safe until after I made the start.

After practice, while we were dressing in the locker room, I spotted Shane at the end of my row.

“Yo, Shane!” I called out. “What are those, chicken feathers in your hair?”

OK, I admit it. As a chicken coop joke, the line was pretty weak. But I knew Shane would get it right away, and so would everyone else.

Shane looked at me, but he didn’t make a move. Then I heard Ernie laughing in the next row over.

“Bawk! Bawk!” he called—making a chicken noise.

A few other guys laughed.

“Don’t egg him on,” somebody by Ernie said.

“I’m only yolking,” Ernie said.

Oh, man, these were some bad jokes. But Shane had steam coming out of his ears.

Devon shook his head. “Dude. I knew I should never have told you about that.”

“Seems like you told a lot of people,” I said.

Shane pulled his shirt on, slammed his locker shut, and hurried out without showering.