“Absolutely,” I tell him. “I don’t remember Crenshaw ever losing a game to them.”

“Taylor’s the real threat anyway. Everything leading up to that feels like a peewee scrimmage,” he says, laughing.

“Got that right,” I agree.

“So, what are we doing this year, Cap?”

“What do you mean, what are we doing? We’re playing football, we’re graduating, we’re—”

“Oh, come on, don’t mess with me.” Nate laughs again. “It’s our senior year! Don’t tell me you haven’t decided what pranks we’re pulling before homecoming. They’ve gotta be good and we’ve gotta strike first.”

“I haven’t given it a lot of thought, to tell you the truth.” It’s not my thing. The senior class always tries to pull off a string of outrageous pranks before the Taylor game. I always thought it was a stupid tradition. But in an even dumber tradition, those pranks have to be decided upon and led by the team captain.

As a senior who would like to eventually go to college without some prank-gone-wrong on his permanent record, I’d like to give the wiseass who came up with this a piece of my mind.

“My dad said that in his senior year, they filled the Taylor quarterback’s truck cab with popcorn. That’s not exactly the most epic prank, but he still remembers it.” Nate shrugs. “I guess I just hope it’s something we remember when we’re forty years old, you know?”

I get it. I do. I just don’t see why it’s up to me to figure out what’s going to be memorable enough. There’s this spirit of one-upmanship at Crenshaw, and I don’t know that I’m the right guy for that job. Last year’s seniors somehow figured out how to swap the cards the Taylor marching band was supposed to hold up that spelled out GO TITANS so that, instead, they spelled out CRENSHAW during their homecoming halftime show. How you top that, I have no idea.

Taylor usually gives as much as they get, too. They decorated the trees in front of Crenshaw in their school colors three years ago, and last year they somehow managed to kill off the grass in front of our gym in a pattern that spelled out TAYLOR TITANS.

And way back when, when my dad was still in school, they spray-painted their mascot onto all of our bleachers in red and black.

“Hey, if you think of something, how about you let me know?” I tell Nate on our way into the locker room.

“No way, man. That’s the captain’s job. I’m all in on whatever you decide, though,” he says, shuffling toward his own locker. “It’s on you, Cap.” Nate salutes me and then turns on his heel and marches across the room.