Well, I’m happy and proud to say that Hank Horton is no longer the head football coach at Blaine Memorial. In fact, the man isn’t affiliated in any way with Blaine Memorial athletics. See, a few weeks ago a big story broke in the Detroit papers about an alleged steroid scandal at various local high schools. Hmm. Interesting, huh? Anyway, just as Sarah predicted, it’s turned into this huge media circus, and Coach Horton’s name keeps popping up as one of the ringleaders. I’m told there’s this secret ongoing investigation or whatever and that all sorts of students, current and former, have come forward with damaging information. The heat around Horton became so intense so quickly that the school district forced him to resign as head coach two weeks ago. He’s currently banned from setting foot on school district property.

Interestingly enough, the name of Tank Foster hasn’t appeared in a single story relating to the scandal.

I bet Big Dale has something to do with that, too.

Revenge. Man, it is so sweet sometimes.

So the first glimpses of fall are setting in now. The days are shorter, the evenings cooler, the leaves showing less green and more orange and red with each passing day. Although the Fosters have only been gone a little over a month, it’s beginning to feel like years.

Tonight, when it seems the entire city of Blaine is at the high school football game, analyzing the interim head coach and hopefully witnessing a record fourth straight loss for the home team (please, God), I grab a pack of smokes from my bedroom stash and walk over to the vacant and still unsold Foster home.

Standing there on the sidewalk, I light a cigarette and stare at the glass triangle of the white front door for what seems like an hour, reliving a summer’s worth of memories, most of them happy, others horribly painful.

After smoking my cigarette to the filter, I flick it onto the concrete and walk up the driveway, stopping at the closed backyard gate. A brisk breeze seems to come out of nowhere, so I pull up the collar of my jean jacket to avoid the chill. Opening the gate, I stroll into the backyard and gaze at the exact spot where Sarah and I first kissed. For some reason, I kneel directly over that memorable location and kiss the pavement as if it were holy ground.

After sitting there for a few depressing minutes, I exit the backyard, cross the front lawn, and travel to the opposite side of the house. Lowering myself into a pushup position, I peer through the rectangular basement window into what used to be Tank’s sprawling living space. I don’t see anything but a few empty boxes. Even the old blue sofa is gone.