A whistle blew, then was followed by another, longer whistle. I almost felt like refs were calling a time out on Evangeline’s story. Too much information. All I wanted to know about was the even cook on the franks, the donors who bought the machine, and what it’s done for sales. No—what it’s done for school spirit. No—what it’s done for the spirit of the entire town of Parkwood. A couple snappy quotes from Evangeline and the kids and I would be done.
Dennis, who’d disappeared through the snack shop back door, burst back in. “Yo! Dudes! Field fight!”
Tyler and Arielle were out the door so fast they were practically laying cheese skidmarks on the floor, leaving Evangeline and I standing there, staring at each other and the rolling hot dogs. The machine had a squeak already.
“Shouldn’t you be out there with your pen and paper?” she asked.
I glanced at the small spiral pad in my hand. True, covering a fight sounded so much more interesting than what I was doing. But that was Ernie’s story to get.
If he was awake.
Which he was probably not.
It was entirely possible that nobody would get the story if I wasn’t out there to get it. I felt twitchy. Never let a potential scoop pass you by was seared into my soul. “Maybe I should—”
“Well, I’ve got to see,” Evangeline said, and scurried out the back door behind the kids.
“Can I quote you about the crock pot?” I hollered at her back, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t even slow down. I grabbed the hot dog and navigated my way toward the commotion as well.
Dennis wasn’t kidding about the field fight. There was an all-out brawl going on right in the center of the football field. Fullbacks were punching halfbacks. Tight ends were kicking kickers. Coaches were swinging at coaches. The refs were blowing their whistles wildly and trying to pry guys apart without getting their own blocks knocked off. Most of the crowd was on its feet, jeering and pumping their fists.
I found a man sitting on the edge of a close bleacher, craning to see the happenings on the field between the standing bodies of the people in front of him. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Fight,” he said.
“I can see that. I mean, what happened to start it?”
“Oh. Well, that boy there accused that man over there of stealing our plays right out from under us.” He pointed at the knot of people on the field—I had no idea which boy or which man he was talking about.
“Stolen plays?” I stood on my tiptoes. “Have you seen my coworker Ernie, by chance?”
The man shook his head without even glancing at me. “Get him, Paulie!” he shouted. “Give him what-for!”
I maneuvered my way toward the fence that separated the bleachers from the field. The fight was starting to wear down as the boys and men involved began to get winded. One of the ref’s field mics had gotten switched on, and the sounds of grunts and a lot of heavy breathing began to fill the stadium. Eventually, the refs were able to break it up, and one by one, fighters backed away, leaving only two people right in the center of the field, still grappling with each other. I recognized one of them right away.
Paulie Henderson, star Parkwood High School quarterback with amazing pass accuracy and notorious anger and impulse control issues—Parkwood police department’s most coddled delinquent.
The police chief was also a Henderson. Coincidence? Not even a little bit.
Chief Henderson was a friend of Mary Jean’s, so on Joyce’s advice my first week, I’d never even tried to write a story about one of Paulie’s hijinks, which seemed to range from fighting in parking lots to vandalizing his math teacher’s house to spray painting his initials on an overpass bridge. Paulie was protected from bad press. Paulie was protected from a lot of things.
Paulie was also a hothead and was currently wrapped in what would have otherwise looked like a hug with a man I didn’t recognize. Short and squat with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a River Fork High School T-shirt—on the back, the word COACH. The infamously nasty Coach Farley, I presumed.
I’d seen him before. I just couldn’t remember where.
Finally, the refs were able to pull the two apart. “You’re lucky, man! You’re lucky!” Paulie was yelling, jabbing his finger at the coach, as two teammates dragged him away. “You hear me? You’re lucky!”
Everyone heard him—the ref’s field mic was still on.
“Lucky or not, I’m still winning,” the coach said. He stomped on the field and twisted the toe of his shoe in the dirt, right on the nose of the painted-on Parkwood hornet. The actual mascot, standing with the cheerleaders, clapped one hand over his nose, affronted, and started towards him, but the entire cheerleading squad stepped in between, holding him back. His stuffed stinger shivered with anger and anticipation.
“Yeah? Well, if you keep stealing my plays, I will hunt you down and I will kill you. You hear me? You’re a dead man!”
I gasped. I expected everyone around me to gasp, too. But they were too busy cheering and high-fiving. Hunt you down and kill you? Seemed Evangeline wasn’t the only one with strong feelings about Coach Farley. Not by a long shot. But I could also see why she worried that allowing him to dine at her concession stand would keep PHS fans away—he seemed to have a full stadium of disgusted Parkwoodians.
“You’re still losing, little man,” Coach Farley sneered. “Talk all you want, but River Fork is going to win this game.”
And they did. By a lot.
The crowd was much less energetic as they filed out
