I was in chem lab with Rob Powers, trying to make a battery out of two lemons connected to zinc and copper electrodes. We’d plugged the electrodes into a digital clock, but so far the only juice we were producing was lemon juice. Rob’s ribs were healing fast, and he kept bugging me about joining the soccer team. “Why haven’t you at least asked them?”
“Because I know they won’t go for it,” I told him.
“I’m not good enough?”
“You’re too good. You’re one of the best athletes at this school. They don’t even want me on the team.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Tell them I’ve never played soccer before in my life and I’ll probably suck worse than they do. I’m not doing this to win the World Cup. I just want to have some fun.”
“How come our battery doesn’t work?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You must’ve plugged the electrodes into the wrong part of the lemon.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I told him. “You must’ve bought the wrong kind of lemons.”
Suddenly flashers turned our school’s parking lot blue and red, and three police cars sped up and made their own spaces right by the front entrance. Half a dozen cops piled out and I saw Police Chief Duggan leading the charge.
“What’s this about?” I asked Rob.
“Don’t have a clue.”
Ten minutes later the same six cops emerged from our school with two students in handcuffs. Everyone in the lab left their experiments and stood silently at the window. One of the handcuffed students was a backup lineman on our football team named Davis. He was clearly scared and looked like he might burst into tears. The other was the co-captain of the Lions and starting running back, Barlow. His face held no fear at all—it was just hard and angry. For a moment he seemed to glare right at me, and I remembered when he had knocked me flat at Founders’ Park, and how it had tasted to have blood and teeth washing around inside my mouth. The cops pushed down their heads, loaded the two of them into the back of a cruiser, and sped away.
By the time we changed periods fifteen minutes later, the school was buzzing with news. A third football player, Lowry, had been arrested earlier that morning, at his home. Everyone figured he must have given the police the names of Davis and Barlow. The two of them had been in study hall in the cafeteria when the cops had marched in, yanked them out of their chairs, announced that they were being charged with assault, and read them their rights.
I wasn’t completely surprised when seventh-period classes were canceled and we were led to the gym for an unscheduled assembly. We were seated by grade, with the seniors at the front. I hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with Frank, Dylan, or Becca in the two days since the Maysville game, but Dylan was seated in front of me. His black eye and the bruises on his face were healing fast but his wrist was still in a cast. He was looking around the gym nervously, as if he couldn’t quite believe that his beating had triggered this chain of events.
“Hey, Jack, what do you think’s going on here?”
“It’s not a pep rally,” I told him.
He nodded. “Becca was right. She kept saying it was guys from the football team.”
“I’m glad they caught them. How’s your wrist?”
“It just itches a lot. Can’t wait to get this cast off. Listen, after practice today we’re all getting together in my basement.”
“Thanks, but I have to head home,” I told him.
“Come on,” he urged. “If Frank and I pissed you off at the soccer game, I’m sorry. I apologize. You can’t hold a grudge against your two best friends.”
“Why not?” I asked, remembering how they’d looked into my eyes and chanted “Ego, ego, ego” with the rest of the team.
“Because I bought two giant bags of your favorite barbecued potato chips for the team meeting and if you don’t come Frank will eat them all.”
Before I could respond to that, the auditorium quieted as Muhldinger walked to the mic. At the rally when they’d retired my dad’s number he’d seemed completely at ease and in control, but this afternoon he looked uncomfortable. Police Chief Duggan, the assistant principal, and several school board members sat behind him—I saw Mr. Bryce watching carefully.
“Hey, everyone,” Muhldinger began with a friendly smile. “As a lot of you know, there was some police activity at our school this morning. First, I’d like to assure all of you that our school is completely safe.”
“The hell it is,” somebody called out from a few rows behind me.
I thought I recognized the voice. Could it have been Shimsky? I twisted around to look, but everyone was shifting and craning their necks so it was impossible to tell who had shouted.
Muhldinger broke off and stared hard at the crowd as if he, too, was trying to figure out who had just challenged him. He took a breath and tried to act as if nothing had happened. “For the next few days, just to reassure everyone, we’re going to have a couple of policemen at our school. They’ll be in front when you come in, and walking the halls, and just making sure that everything stays calm. We’re a family and we’re going to pull together and be just fine, but it’s good to be extra careful. I’d like to thank Police Chief Duggan for helping us out.”
Duggan raised a hand as if to let us know that his men were at our service.
Muhldinger took a sip of water and continued. “Now, it’s not appropriate for me to comment on legal matters that haven’t been decided yet,” he said. “This is of course a serious matter. Some of the students involved are on my team, and they’re fine young men, but…”
Scattered boos and hisses sounded. They weren’t loud and it wasn’t as if the whole crowd was turning against him, but they caused Muhldinger to break off again and blink. He planted his hands on the podium in front of him, with his big arms angled to either side. It looked like he was anchoring himself, and I realized, with a shock—no, he’s not just nervous and angry, he’s also scared. He couldn’t seem to figure out what to say next, and seconds dragged by.
I noticed Mr. Bryce watching closely, as if he was taking the pulse of the whole situation. The boos and hisses ended, and the gym fell eerily silent.
“The point is,” Muhldinger finally went on, “what’s important is that we are a family. And in a family there can be no room for cruelty or violence to any family member. I want to make it very clear that we simply will not put up with bullying or intimidation at Fremont High. I have no tolerance for it. Zero.” He thumped the podium with a big fist for emphasis, and lots of people clapped.
He should have quit right there. He could have cut his speech short and used the applause to turn the mic over to the assistant principal or Mr. Bryce, or just let us go back to our classes. If he’d sat down with that loud “Zero” as his last word on the subject he would have been fine.
But Muhldinger glanced up at the American flag and the dozens of championship pennants hanging down from the rafters, and they seemed to inspire him to keep talking. He lowered his gaze back to us. “Some have suggested that there is a culture of bullying at our school, and that it’s linked to our long sports traditions.” He gave a little smirk. “Sure, we’ve won our share of championships and we’re rightly proud of them.” It was as if he kind of knew better but he still couldn’t stop himself from slipping into his pep rally speech. “They’re part of who we are. That doesn’t mean we’re not also a respectful and tolerant school. And that’s exactly why we’re going to pull together as a family and defeat Lynton tomorrow, and I hope all of you will make the trip to the game and come support our Lions…”
This time the boos and hisses that interrupted him were noticeably louder, and I even heard mocking laughter. One voice called out loudly: “Give it a rest, Muhldinger!”
Other students clapped for him, and a girl I recognized as a varsity cheerleader stood and yelled: “Go Lions! Fremont forever.”
Muhldinger couldn’t continue over the noise so he just stood there with his big arms on either side of the podium, as if he were trying to wrestle something unexpectedly tough back into a box. No question about it—he definitely looked scared.
Dylan turned to me and asked, “Can you believe this?”