“Oh, that. Well, I didn’t mean anything by that. Just forgot is all.” He pulled a couple of wrinkled bills from the pocket of his Dickies and tossed them onto the counter. “It’s just that she seems so disconnected from that football team, I sometimes forget that her daddy’s the coach.”

CHAPTER 3

THE crowd at the Killington High pep rally was already in a frenzy by the time the stampede of football players burst out of the locker room and charged onto the basketball court. The band welcomed the charge with a thunderous rendition of the school fight song. Bleachers rocked under a thousand scuffed sneakers, stomping time with the music. Stands filled to capacity and checkered jet-black and bloodred flanked both sides of the court. The smells of buttered popcorn and teenage sweat hung thick in the air.

Head Coach Jimmy Hickham wished he were anywhere else.

Still, as he traversed the court with his players and coaching staff, he masked his lack of enthusiasm with the occasional fist-pump here, thumbs-up there. He didn’t begin to relax until the team reached the chairs set up along the baseline at the opposite end of the court. He sat at the end of the front row as his staff fanned out to his right. The players sat in sequential order according to jersey number.

As the last player took his seat, head cheerleader Maxine Wiley took center stage, flinging a cloud of confetti out of her megaphone in perfect sync with a rimshot from the drum section. Red and black paper clippings fluttered down over the team as Maxine sank seductively to the floor in a full split, pom-poms raised high.

When the approving hoots and whistles finally faded, Principal Wyndle Hodges stepped up to the microphone at center court. His tassled loafers shone almost as brightly as the Brylcreem in his comb-over. He hitched his polyester pants into the crevice under
his stomach and tapped the mike. The squeal of feedback brought a hush over the room.

“Students…faculty…Jackrabbits!”

The crowd erupted again. Trombonists swung their instruments up and down like legs in a Rockettes kick line. The percussion section pounded machine-gun fire on the snare drums.

“Welcome back, one and all,” Mr. Hodges said. “I got just four words for you people right now. We…are…district…bound!”

Two pigtailed cheerleaders punctuated the statement by launching into the air like twin rockets, legs split, pom-poms flying. A blonde in a sequined leotard sent a twirling baton sailing toward the rafters. Popcorn fell in a blizzard over the stands.

Mr. Hodges wiped spittle from shining lips. “Now, Monday through Friday may be the time for schoolin’ around here. Saturday may be for family, and Sunday may be for Jesus. But, folks, I’m here to tell you that tonight…Friday night…is the time for what?”

“Football!”

“Say again . . .”

“Football!”

“I can’t hear you . . .”

“Football!”