Something had changed at Muscles High. I felt it when I first walked in the main entrance, past the trophy cases. The statue of Arthur Gentry still greeted us near the front door and the same impressive collection of gold cups and plaques glittered out at us, but the Losers story was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Frank and I were in the same homeroom, and I had never seen him so excited.
“You’re looking at the most famous sleeping goalie in North America.”
“That could be because you’re the only goalie in North America who falls asleep during games,” I told him. “Any idea who put the video together?”
“No one knows,” he told me. “I just wish there were a few more shots of me. I don’t think they got my best side.”
“It’s hard to get your best side when you’re sleeping on your stomach,” I told him. “You’ve gotta learn to fall asleep on your back.”
“I can crash in virtually any position,” Frank replied confidently. And then: “Did you see the Star Dispatch?”
“No,” I told him. “I was up late and I barely made it to school this morning. Were we in the newspaper, too? What’s the big news?”
“It wasn’t exactly news,” Frank said. “It was an editorial about Muhldinger using the words ‘morons’ and ‘spastics’ as insults. It said they weren’t just politically incorrect but also hurtful. And his line about how if he were one of us he’d dig a hole and bury himself was not merely destructive and vicious, but—according to the editorial—it could encourage suicidal thinking among teens with poor self-esteem.”
I laughed. “I have my low moments, but I’ve never thought of burying myself.”
“I’m not sure if it’s even physically possible,” he admitted. “But it’s still hurtful.”
“Is Muhldinger in real trouble?” I asked.
Frank grinned. I think he hated Muhldinger as much as Becca did. “When he let loose at us on the bus he really screwed himself. The video’s getting worldwide exposure and it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. Dylan heard from his mom that the school board is taking this very seriously. There’s a clause in his contract as principal that relates to good conduct, so they can fire his ass if they want to.”
In second-period chemistry, my childhood friend Rob Powers came over to me. He was moving slowly and gingerly, recovering from the rib injury he’d gotten in the Smithfield game. “Hey,” he said, “I’ve been reading about your bozo team.”
“You and three million other people,” I said. “Isn’t it freaky?”
“‘Freaky’ is the word.” He nodded. “The football team is not amused.”
“Amusing the Fremont football team isn’t something I spend too much time worrying about,” I told him.
Rob stepped closer. “I get that. Just be careful. Some people are pretty pissed off.”
“I’ve done absolutely nothing,” I told him truthfully.
“But you’re the captain?”
“Because nobody else wanted the job.”
He glanced around and then lowered his voice: “Hey, I’d like you to think about something a little radical.”
I looked back at him over the orange flame of a Bunsen burner. “What’s up?”
“I should be starting at quarterback,” he whispered. “Instead Muhldinger put me on special teams, knowing I’d have to sacrifice my body. Every time I breathe now it hurts. That bastard set me up. He’s always had it in for me. Because I do a little modeling he thinks I’m soft. He calls me Goldilocks.”
“You’ll get playing time at QB,” I told him. “Everyone knows you have a gun.”
“If I want it,” he muttered. “Here’s a thought. But don’t tell anyone.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“You got this really cool thing going,” he said. “Soccer’s not my sport but I could definitely contribute.” He flashed me his ten-thousand-megawatt grin. “Not to mention I could enhance the team’s, ah, social profile.”
There was no doubt of that, but I couldn’t understand what would be in it for him—Rob was one of the five best athletes at our school, and certainly one of the most popular kids, too. “Why would you want to join our lousy circus act?”
He glanced around warily, but no one was listening. “It might be fun,” he said with a careless shrug. “I’m tired of getting my nuts busted by Muhldinger. I’d like to bust his nuts for a change. And maybe I could even help you guys win.”
“My team doesn’t want to win.”
“How can they not want to win?”
“My dad asked me the same thing. I couldn’t explain it to him, because I’m not sure I understand it myself. But they don’t.”
“So they want to lose? Isn’t that easy? You just give up.”
“Not necessarily,” I told him. “They want to be what they are, which is a lousy soccer team. They don’t want to play the game Muhldinger’s way. And when they do lose, they want style points.”
Rob thought that over for a few seconds and then glanced up at the front of the room. I could almost see him tense up and pull away from me. “Watch your back, captain,” he whispered.
I turned to follow his gaze, and saw that Muhldinger’s tall personal secretary with the orange hair had just walked into the lab and was talking to our chemistry teacher, jabbing one of her long, silver-painted fingernails in my direction.
A minute later I was following the secretary down the hall at power-walking speed. She was wearing heels and her steps clicked off the marble floor. She didn’t say one word till we reached the administrative offices, and then the long silver nail of her index finger sliced out at me like a switchblade. “Sit,” she commanded, pointing toward the waiting area where Coach Percy was already waiting, looking tense, his fingers knitted together on his lap.
I headed over, and he gave me a nod. “Hello, Jack. Sorry you’ve been called onto the carpet, too. I’m afraid this won’t be much fun.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I assume the principal’s going to let us know once and for all that our season has been officially terminated.”
I looked back at him, and remembered that I hadn’t seen a TV or a computer in his apartment. Maybe Classics teachers are behind the curve when it comes to new technology. “You don’t have a clue what’s been happening?”
“When I arrived at school, I got a message to come here,” Percy said. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.” He looked at my face. “Did I miss something?”
“You did,” I told him. “You have a tiger by the tail. Or a lion. That would be the Fremont Lion.”
“I still don’t understand,” he said. “Maybe you’d better start from the beginning.”
I tried to explain to him what had happened, with our team’s story exploding on the Web, but I didn’t get through much of it before the secretary with orange hair told us to follow her. She ushered us into the conference room, where four people were waiting around a big table.
Dylan’s mother smiled and said good morning to me— I assumed she was there because she was on the school board, not to mention the mom of one of my teammates. The president of the board, Mr. Bryce, was there, too, in a dark suit. He was an attorney in town and a big football booster. I think he had been a Fremont halfback three decades ago, and he had championed the idea of making Muhldinger the new principal. Mrs. Fritz, our school’s athletic director, sat very erect with a black ballpoint pen poised over a blank notepad. And at the head of the table, sweating despite the fact that our school was air-conditioned, sat Muhldinger, looking uncomfortable in a jacket and tie.
The secretary with the orange hair left and pulled the door closed. Muhldinger cleared his throat. “Good morning, guys,” he said to Coach Percy and me. “Take a load off.”
We said good morning back and sat down. There was an awkward silence. Mr. Bryce nodded to Muhldinger.
Muhldinger swallowed and took a big breath. “When it comes to sports I’m a very competitive guy,” he noted, “and sometimes I may take it a little too far.” He focused his eyes at a point on the white wall between Percy and me. “We’re used to winning at Fremont, but of course winning isn’t everything. Even more important is…” His voice trailed off and his face showed baffled surprise, as if he’d had something in his pocket a minute ago but he’d somehow managed to lose it.
“Personal growth?” Dylan’s mother prompted.
Muhldinger nodded slightly, as if there was no need to repeat the phrase. “So to cut to the chase, I’ve decided that your soccer team deserves to play out its season.”
“Thank you,” Percy said, and held out his hand.
Muhldinger shook it without speaking and glanced at me.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said.
“Don’t thank me,” Muhldinger grunted. He forced a terrible smile, as if he wanted to bite something in half but could only flash his teeth. “I’m new to this job, and running a school teaches you a lot about yourself.” He reached up with two fingers and pried his collar away from his stub of a neck. “In the heat of battle, I said some things that I regret.” He looked like he would rather be chewing on glass, but he managed to spit out the rest of it. “Please let your team know that I hope everyone feels included and proud, no matter what it says on the scoreboard.”
Dylan’s mom nodded. “I think it’s very important to get that message out.”
Muhldinger glanced at Mr. Bryce, who told her: “We just have gotten that message out, Elaine.” Then Bryce turned to Percy and me. “As I’m sure you know, this story has become a bit of a cause célèbre. A video was posted on the Internet that has attracted considerable attention.” He paused, took a sip of ice water, and gave me a smile. “I assume the video was made by one of your teammates, Jack.”
It wasn’t a question, but everyone was looking at me. “No idea,” I told him.
He studied my face carefully. “Whoever did it certainly has the right to free expression. But they should understand that there are limits to that, both legally and when it comes to our own school rules. Taping someone without their knowledge and posting it for the world to see exceeds those limits, in my opinion.”
“If Jack says he doesn’t know who did it, I believe him,” Percy spoke up bravely. “This boy has a sterling character and I’ve never known him to dissemble.”
“I agree,” Dylan’s mom said. “There’s no reason to interrogate him, Paul.”
Mr. Bryce smiled at her, took another sip of ice water, and set his cup down on a trivet. He turned his head and fixed his gaze on Percy and me. “This school system may decide to hire an expert to figure out who posted it. In the meantime, we have a long-standing policy at Fremont of not talking to news organizations about students and sports teams and what’s going on inside our school family. We’ve always tried to keep a low profile because that’s usually best for everyone. So if any members of your team are contacted by the press my strong advice is the less said the better. Mary?”
Mrs. Fritz tapped her pen on her blank notepad. “From now on your soccer team will be practicing and playing on the south field, where the grass is a little better.”
Mr. Bryce added, “It’s also more private. We’ve had a few requests from news organizations to film your practices, which we’ve turned down.”
“Why on earth would anyone want to film our practices?” Percy asked.
Mrs. Fritz went right on. “Your games for the rest of the year will continue on the days and times previously scheduled. The five schools you’re playing have been contacted and the dates reconfirmed. I think that’s all. Oh, one more thing—the varsity cheerleaders want to perform at your home games, unless you have a problem with that?”
Percy glanced at me for help. Cheerleaders were clearly outside his level of experience.
“The more cheering the better,” I said.
We all shook hands and Percy and I headed out of the administrative offices together. “That was damned decent of Muhldinger to give us our season back,” he said. “I don’t think it could have ended any better.”
“He was forced to do it, but he still hates us,” I told him softly. “This isn’t over by a long stretch.”
Coach Percy nodded. “I suppose you’re right, but let’s hope for the best. By the way, why do the varsity cheerleaders want to perform at our games?”
“For the same reason Bryce and Muhldinger don’t want us to talk to reporters,” I told him. “We’re the hot story at Fremont High.”