Tackle Without a Team Page 3

  He couldn’t believe it. Kear was really a close friend, to be willing to quit football for him.

  “I don’t love it any more than you do,” Kear said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Scott said, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe I can find some other team to play on. But if the word gets around about me, I’m dead. I’m like the guy in that book, The Man Without a Country. Only I’m the kid without a football team.”

  Kear laughed. Scott laughed, too. But only for a moment. Being without a football team was not very funny.

  “Hey,” Kear went on, his mood changed for the better, “want to see a real movie?”

  “Sure,” said Scott. “No matter what it is, it’s got to be better than this mushy stuff.”

  Kear chuckled. “It’s about ghosts, so it must be better.”

  Scott grinned. “Right. What time do you want to go?”

  “The movie starts at six,” Kear said. “A quarter of six okay?”

  “Wait a sec,” Scott said. He clamped a hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone and yelled, “Ma! Okay if I go to a movie with Kear?”

  “When? And what’s the movie?” his mother’s high-pitched voice came from the kitchen.

  “It’s about a ghost! And it starts at six!”

  “Ghost? No way! You have enough nightmares already without going to a horror movie! Tell Kear —”

  “Oh, Ma!” Scott interrupted, disappointed. “What’s one more nightmare? I live through them all right, don’t I?”

  There was a pause. The next minute he heard a tapping on wood. He turned and saw her standing on the wide threshold separating the dining and living rooms, tapping the handle part of a knife against the casing. Her blue-eyed gaze was fastened on him.

  “You live through them,” she said. “But maybe the next time I won’t. You frighten me half to death with your jumping up in bed and gasping for air. And you want to see a horror movie?”

  He nodded, smiling. “Yeah.”

  She shook her blonde head, gave the casing a sharp tap with the knife handle, and headed back to the kitchen. “Okay. Go ahead,” she said. “I guess I can live through another nightmare, too.”

  Scott laughed. “Thanks, Ma!” He took his hand off the mouthpiece of the telephone and said into it, “See you at a quarter of six, Kear.”

  Scott plunked back down on the easy chair he’d been sitting on and continued to watch the movie. It got more boring by the minute; it seemed that all the main actor and actress did was talk and kiss. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and went to his room to read.

  Kear arrived a few minutes early, but Scott was ready. His mother suggested that he take his red jacket along because, by the time the movie let out, the temperature might drop a few degrees.

  They started to walk the five blocks to Cinema 4, where the movie was playing. As they were about to cross to the second block, Scott saw two girls on the next corner, waiting for a bus. Even from where he stood he could see that they were smoking.

  He grabbed Kear’s hand. “Hold it a second,” he said.

  They paused on the curb.

  “Isn’t that Peg Moore and Flossie the Glossie?” Kear said, staring up the street at the girls.

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t Peg the one you once had a crush on?” Kear went on.

  “Don’t remind me,” Scott said. Just the same, his mind reverted back to the not-too-distant past when he and Peg Moore had been a couple. It didn’t last long, because he’d found out she smoked — sometimes even marijuana. And she’d only been twelve then, a couple of months younger than he.

  He didn’t think that anyone should smoke. Especially not pot. Maybe it was because of his parents’ strict rule or Eddie’s experience that he felt this way, but when he’d found out Peg smoked, he hardly ever saw or spoke to her again.

  The girl with her, Florence Menkin — who most of the kids called Flossie the Glossie, because she wore so much makeup — smoked, too.

  “Oh, no. They spotted us,” Scott groaned.

  Flossie the Glossie was waving to them. “Scott! Kear! Come here!” she called.

  “We don’t have to go, do we?” said Scott, afraid of what to expect from them. Peg, especially.

  “Well, we have to go that way to get to the theater,” Kear said.

  Reluctantly, Scott followed Kear to the corner where the girls were standing. He didn’t have to get too close to recognize the odor of marijuana.

  “Hi, guys,” Florence said. “Where’re you headed?”

  “The movies,” Kear answered. Scott frowned at him. What was he going to do next, invite them along? he thought.

  But Peg hardly seemed to notice Kear. She was smiling and peering at Scott with her bloodshot eyes. Slowly she lifted her arm and held the joint out to him.

  “Want a puff?” she drawled.

  Scott blushed. “No, thanks.”

  “Why not? I thought you’d finally come to your senses and turned on to it.”

  It dawned on Scott that, despite his efforts to keep it quiet, Peg must have heard about his being kicked off the team because of marijuana. Now she was rubbing it in.

  Kear must have come to the same conclusion. “Who told you that?” he demanded.

  “Come on, Kear, let’s go,” Scott said, pulling his friend’s arm. He wanted to say, She’s not worth the trouble. She’s not kidding anyone but herself.

  He was glad to hear the sound of the bus as it came around the corner and pulled up to the curb. The girls took one last drag—as if their lives depended on it—and then dropped the cigarettes to the ground before climbing onto the bus.

  “See you!” Florence said.

  Peg just smiled and waved, like a movie starlet in one of those magazine ads.

  The bus roared off.

  “I wonder …” Scott whispered tensely. “She smokes dope, and she seemed to know about what happened …” He faltered. No, he thought. She couldn’t be the one.

  He felt Kear looking intently at him.

  “I can’t believe she’d pull a dirty trick on me just to get even,” he said, his voice thin. “Could you, Kear?”

  Kear stared at him. “Even for what?”

  “For breaking off—you know—our friendship.”

  Kear shrugged. “Who knows? She’s a tough cookie. Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. Some girls would do anything to get even with a guy.”

  Scott grinned. “You sound as if you know a lot about girls.”

  Kear shrugged again. “I’m an expert. I’ve got one sister and a girlfriend. Well, I figure she’s a girlfriend.”

  “One sister and Fran Whitaker?” Scott laughed. “I’ve got two sisters and a girlfriend. Guess I’m one-girl more expert than you are. Let’s go, before the movie starts.”

  They headed up the street, walking a little faster now.

  “It sure is a coincidence, though,” Scott said, before they had gone a full block. “Don’t you think?”

  “That it’s a coincidence? Sure. Like the cops say on TV: It’s a real strong coincidence!”

  They arrived at the theater early, bought a bag of buttered popcorn each, and ate it while they waited for the movie to start.

  Scott couldn’t get Peg out of his thoughts. If anybody had the motive—and the guts—to stick a couple of joints in his duffel bag, it was she. But how could he prove it? She wouldn’t confess to it, and buddy-buddy Florence sure wouldn’t snitch on her, if she even knew about it.

  The movie started, but Scott might as well have stayed home. He couldn’t concentrate on this movie, either. He just kept thinking about Peg, about Coach Dresso catching him with the marijuana, and about his not telling his family. He felt lousy, angry, and guilty. He wished he could find a hole to crawl into. He’d stay there forever.

  He hardly said a word on the way home after the movie. Kear did all the talking. And, from his reaction, the movie must have been exciting. Too bad I had other things on my mind, Scot
t thought.

  The minute he stepped into the house, he knew something had happened while he was gone. The expression on his mother’s face was like writing on the wall.

  “No sense trying to hide that secret from us anymore, Scott,” she said firmly. “Your father and I know.”

  He stared at her, then tromped into the living room and sat down before he fainted. His head suddenly felt light.

  “Coach Dresso called,” his mother’s voice rang like a knell in his ears. “He’s coming over to pick up your uniform.”

  Scott tried to swallow the ache in his throat and asked, “He—he told you what happened?”

  “Yes.”

  His father came into the room. He looked mad enough to smack Scott. But he never had and never would. At least Scott hadn’t thought so—before now. “I couldn’t believe it, Scott,” Mr. Kramer said in a low tone. “Not after what happened to Eddie.”

  “I didn’t put those joints in there, Dad,” Scott insisted. “Somebody else did.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Mr. Kramer suddenly snapped. “You know what I think of lying!”

  “I’m not lying, Dad,” Scott said evenly, the ache back in his throat again. “It’s the truth.”

  His mother came up beside his father, her hands clasped in front of her. “If you didn’t do it, who did? Who would?”

  “I—I don’t know,” he said.

  He couldn’t tell them he thought that Peg Moore might have done it. He could get in trouble accusing somebody he really wasn’t sure about.

  “If it wasn’t you, why didn’t you tell us about the whole thing in the first place?” his father said, his voice still angry.

  “I—I don’t know,” Scott answered. “I guess I didn’t want you to … to get hurt again.”

  “Hurt?” his father echoed. “Well, hiding the truth from us certainly didn’t help. Because you didn’t come to us right away, I don’t know whether to believe you. In any case, I think some kind of punishment is in order here. Maybe we should ground you for a couple of weeks.”

  “I think that being kicked off the team is punishment enough, Ed,” Mrs. Kramer said softly.

  Scott looked at her gratefully. His father might not believe him, but at least his mother seemed to.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Kramer said again. “I just hope he’s not following in his brother’s footsteps.”

  “Oh, Ed,” Mrs. Kramer exclaimed, looking at him. “I’m sure he isn’t.”

  Scott’s heart pounded. He felt certain now that no matter what he said, his father wouldn’t believe him. Somehow he had to find the person who had put those cigarettes in his duffel bag. It was the only way he could redeem himself.

  It was shortly after supper when Coach Tom Dresso stopped at the house to pick up Scott’s uniform. Scott answered the door.

  “Just a minute,” Mrs. Kramer said as Scott started to head to his room to get it. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Dresso first.”

  “Oh, Ma,” Scott said.

  “Never mind oh Ma-ing me,” his mother said as she rose from the sofa. “I just want to get a few things straight, that’s all.”

  Sure, Scott thought. And give him a piece of your mind.

  “Shall I get the uniform?” he asked.

  “No. Wait. Maybe I can change his mind.”

  “I doubt it, Ma,” he said, trying to be calm—and keep her calm at the same time.

  “I can try,” she told him, and headed toward the door in the foyer. He waited, feeling his heart thumping against his rib cage again. Please, Ma, don’t get into an argument with him, he pleaded silently.

  From where he stood he could see Coach Dresso take off his familiar baseball cap and smile at his mother. The coach said something that Scott couldn’t hear.

  “Please come inside a minute, will you, Mr. Dresso?” she invited, stepping back so he could enter. She closed the door softly behind him.

  “Mr. Dresso,” she began, craning her neck up at him—he was about a foot taller than she — “Scott didn’t put those marijuana cigarettes in his duffel bag. He doesn’t even smoke ordinary cigarettes, let alone that filthy stuff. You can’t really think …”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kramer,” the coach interrupted courteously. “But the cigarettes were in his bag, and we have a very strict rule—”

  “I understand the rule, Mr. Dresso,” Mrs. Kramer cut in, keeping her voice soft and her temper under control. “But those cigarettes were put there by somebody else who wanted to incriminate my son. Whether it was another boy on your team or somebody who doesn’t even play football, I don’t know. But I know it wasn’t Scott who put them in there.”

  “Again, Mrs. Kramer, I must say I’m sorry,” Coach Dresso said evenly. “Until I can get real proof that Scott didn’t put them in there, I must stick to the rules. I saw them in Scott’s bag myself. I already told him that I can’t give him special treatment.” He paused. “One other thing.”

  She stared at him. “You’re not going to remind me about Eddie, are you? That was a long time ago, and he paid for it. Over and over again …”

  “No, I wasn’t going to mention Eddie,” the coach said, his glance shifting to Scott. “I was just going to say that at least four of the boys told me that Scott smoked cigarettes at one time. Plain cigarettes. If that’s true, he might have been tempted —”

  Her eyes flared. “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” the coach said.

  She turned to Scott, her forehead creasing as she fastened her gaze on her son.

  “Is that true, Scott? Did you ever smoke cigarettes?”

  His heart sank. It was true. He could remember the moment clearly, even though it was years ago, when he was nine. It was at night, on Monk Robertson’s back porch. Three other kids were with them: Ray Hunter, Jack Whelan, and Bertie McAllister.

  “Yes,” he admitted, looking straight into her eyes.

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Scott. I thought you said you didn’t …”

  “It was only once! A long time ago. I just took a puff or two,” he said in a rush. “That’s all. Because I started to cough. I coughed like crazy. And I haven’t touched a cigarette since, I swear!”

  Mrs. Kramer stared at him a moment longer, her expression indicating that she was still surprised he had taken as much as one puff. She turned back to Coach Dresso.

  “Is that what the boys told you?” she asked him.

  “Well, I’m afraid not. They said he smoked more than that.”

  “They lied!” Scott said angrily. “They’re a bunch of liars!”

  The coach shook his head regretfully. “I really have to go now,” he said. “I’m very sorry it turned out like this.”

  “So am I,” Mrs. Kramer said, her voice tinged with bitterness now. “I guess you are definitely off the team, Scott.”

  Head bowed, Scott trudged up to his room, got his uniform and helmet, and brought them to the coach.

  “Sorry about this, Scott,” Coach Dresso said sincerely. “But I have no alternative.”

  “I know,” Scott said sadly. He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Kramer, Scott,” the coach said and left.

  Mrs. Kramer closed the door quietly, then walked past Scott without a word and sat down on the sofa.

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” Scott said, following her into the room. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t expect you to tell me everything. But you’ve been hiding so much lately, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  Even though her voice was gentle, almost resigned, her words stung Scott. Now even his mother doubted him.

  Whoever had framed Scott had caused more damage than he or she could ever have imagined.

  FIVE

  Kear rode his bike over to Scott’s house after school the next day. Scott was mowing the lawn, and he shut the motor off as Kear pedaled up the driveway.

  “How abo
ut going bike riding?” Kear suggested. “That lawn doesn’t look like it needs cutting.”

  Scott paused. No, it doesn’t, he thought as he glanced over the large front lawn. But he had to do something to patch things up between him and his father.

  “I don’t know,” he told Kear. He would have liked to go, but then again, he had his father to think about.

  “Come on,” Kear coaxed. “You can mow that lawn anytime.”

  Scott thought about that a minute and grinned. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said. “Be with you in a minute.”

  He pushed the mower into the garage and took out his bike. Then he and Kear rode out of the driveway and down the street. Scott let Kear take the lead.

  They rode in silence. Scott had his eyes on the pavement most of the time, his thoughts on the future football career that had gone up in smoke. There were times he had thought of winning a football scholarship. Maybe those same thoughts were in his father’s mind, too. That could explain why he was so angry about what had happened.

  Who was the crumb who had put the marijuana into his duffel bag, anyway? And why would he or she do such a lousy thing?

  The sound of voices pulled him out of his reverie. He looked up to see that they were riding by the city park, where a bunch of guys were practicing football. Did Kear ride by here on purpose? he asked himself.

  “Well, what do you know?” Kear said, stopping at the curb. “A football practice.”

  Scott pulled up behind him. “I suppose you didn’t know about this?”

  Kear looked at him and grinned. “Shall we watch them awhile? Maybe we can get a few pointers.”

  Scott grinned. “Smartmouth,” he said.

  Kear lifted his bike over the curb, walked it into the park, and stood it up against an oak tree. Scott parked his beside it.

  “Who are these guys?” he asked.

  “The Cougars,” Kear said.

  “Cougars? Never heard of them.”

  “It’s a new team—that’s why they’re not in a league,” Kear explained.

  Scott looked at him. “How do you know so much about them?”