Tight End (11 page)

“He’s not a regular player on the team,” she said. “And I’ve noticed the look on his face at times when he goes in to take
your place, and at times when you go in to replace him. Going in, he looks proud as a peacock. Coming out, he looks sad and
hurt. Mostly hurt.”

“Margo! It’s not Barry! I know it isn’t!”

She shrugged and threw out her hands. “Then you’re right. We’re back to square one. With a high fence all around it.”

Barry? Jim shook his head. Barry was a softie, a pussycat. He wouldn’t — he couldn’t — do a dirty thing like making those
phone calls.

“What are you thinking?” Margo broke into his thoughts. “You’ve got your face screwed up like a dried-up prune.”

“I’m thinking about Barry,” he said. “And what you said about how happy he looks when he plays, and how disgusted he looks
when he doesn’t. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s jealous of me and is using my father’s release from prison to get at me.”

“Is his father a stocks-and-bonds man?” Margo asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.” He paused and indulged in more thinking. Suddenly his face lit up. “I know what.
I’ll have my mother call his mother tomorrow while we’re in school, and ask her if Mr. Delaney subscribes to
Stocks in Review.
If he does, maybe she can borrow the August issue for me.”

“I hate to say this, but it would be terrible if he’s the guy,” said Margo. “He’s your neighbor.”

“Telling me? We’ve been friends ever since they moved next door.” Jim bit on his lower lip until it hurt. “Darn! I hate to
think of him pulling those lousy things on me, Margo!”

She shrugged and stood up.

“I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow,” she said.

A few minutes later Jim stepped out of the room and called to his mother. “Mom! Can I see you a minute, please?”

“All right!” came her reply from the living room.

He stepped back into the room and waited for her. She soon came, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed her hands in front
of her.

“Hi, Mom.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

“Just keep it simple,” she said.

Calmly, he told her what he would like her to do. When he was finished, she looked at him thoughtfully. “You suspect Barry?”

He shrugged. “At this point I don’t know whom to suspect anymore, Mom. But Margo and I think it’s possible that he’s the guy.
Anyway, we’d like to check him out.”

“I think you’re wrong,” his mother said. “But I’ll see what Frieda says.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

The next day during lunchtime Jim called his mother from a pay phone in the school cafeteria.

“You may have hit the jackpot,” she told him.

His heart jumped. “Mr. Delaney subscribes to the magazine?”

“No. But he gets it from someone else.”

“From whom?”

“Mr. Watkins. Mr. G. T. Watkins.”

G. T. Watkins? Jims hand tightened on the receiver. “Did you get the August issue, Mom?”

“Yes. I have it right here in front of me.”

“Good. See if page fifty-five is in it.”

“Just a minute.”

He waited a few seconds, his heart pumping faster than ever.

In a moment her voice was back on the line. “Jim, the page is missing. It was torn out.”

Jim could barely restrain himself. It
was
Barry!

“Thanks, Mom!” he cried, thrilled that the mystery was solved. “I love you!”

But suddenly a wave of regret drowned out his feeling of elation. In spite of his desperately wanting to know who was at the
bottom of all this horrible business, he had hoped it wasn’t Barry. They had been friends so long; what kind of a relationship
would they have from now on? The rat, Jim thought. The lousy rat!

“Jim? Are you still there?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said, his voice softer. “Thanks, again. See you later.”

He hung up and turned to Margo. “She’s got the magazine with the page torn out of it,” he said gravely.

“Hey! At last we’re cooking!” she exclaimed, then frowned. “What’s the matter? You’ve solved the case. Aren’t you happy it’s
over?”

He took a deep breath and let it out heavily. “Barry. I would never have believed it.”

A bell rang. Their lunchtime was over.

They went to their lockers and then to their respective classes. Jim, heading for Math 10, wished he had the nerve to skip
it. Barry was in the class, too. Barry. Oh, man.
We were good friends. At least, I thought we were. Can’t a guy trust his own friends anymore?

He entered the room and saw Barry already in his seat.

“Hi, Jim,” Barry greeted him.

Jim ignored him. He felt cold, bitter all of a sudden.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, man, what’s up? Aren’t you talking?”

Jim looked around. Barry was standing beside him, gazing at him bewilderedly.

“What?”

Barry smiled, put a hand on Jim’s shoulder, and shook him. “Are you all right? You look as if you’re in outer space!”

Jim stared at him — stared deep into those mild, friendly eyes. Just as he thought. Barry could not have done those terrible
things. No guilty person could look into his eyes like that and say what Barry had said.

That left only one other person.

“I should have known,” Jim told himself silently. “Darn it all, I should have known.”

There was good news when Jim got home that afternoon. The bright, happy glow on his fathers face was all he needed to know
what had happened.

“You got a job, Dad!”

“Right!”

“Where?”

“At Casey’s Company.”

“Great!”

He didn’t tell his father, nor anyone else in the family, about his own quiet victory. He would wait till later, when he was
sure the door was closed on it for good.

The game with the Floralview Bucs got underway as scheduled that night. It was a hot, muggy evening — better weather for baseball
than football.

Jim, standing in front of the Rams’ bench, watched the two teams line up for the opening kick-off. He looked at the green-uniformed
Bucs, whose front line looked to average three or four pounds heavier per man than the Rams’.

Floralview had a 2-0 record. They had blasted the Riverside Bulldogs last week, 40–7, but had just managed to squeak past
the Coral Town Indians the week before, 14–13. The sportswriter for the
Port Lee Daily
gave the Bucs a seven-point edge to win the game. The
Nuggets’
sportswriter-photographer, Jerry Watkins, gave the Rams a six-point edge.

The whistle blew. The Bucs kickoff man raised his hand. Then, on signal, the two lines sprang ahead.
BOOM!
Toe connected with ball, and like a shot the football left the tee and sailed end over end through the air deep into Rams
territory.

Tony Nichols, standing on his ten-yard line, caught the ball against his stomach, and rushed up to the twenty-two where he
was smeared.

“Well! He finally made it,” a strong voice said at his side.

Jim looked at Coach Butler standing beside him. Then he saw that the coach wasn’t referring to Tony, but to someone who had
just come into the football stadium, Jerry Watkins. The schools sportswriter-photographer, his camera paraphernalia hanging
by a strap around his neck, was jogging in.

Jim felt a chill ripple along his spine. He hadn’t minded it a bit when the coach had told him he was starting Barry at tight
end. He had his mind full of a problem, and until he had the problem cleared away he knew he wasn’t worth his salt in the
game. He had hoped it would have been taken care of by now, so he would have been able to start. But the source of his problem
had just made his appearance.

Jim took a deep breath and exhaled it as he stepped back and started to walk behind his teammates toward Jerry. He had it
all arranged what he was going to say to Jerry. He didn’t give a darn what Jerry did after that. Jerry might deny every word
he said at first. But the minute Jim told him that he had proof—that he had his fathers magazine out
of which Jerry had torn the page he had mailed to Jim — his goose was cooked. He could not deny then that he was the guy who
had made those malicious phone calls, pinned the picture of a convict on the wall of Jims fathers garage, and planted Pat
Simmons’s drawing pencil on the ground near it to cast the blame on Pat.

The Rams’ cheerleaders were chanting:

We’ve got the coach!

We’ve got the team!

We’ve got the pep!

We’ve got the steam!

Coach! Team! Pep! Steam!

Fight, Rams! Fight!

Jim caught Margo looking at him. She had her hair up in a ponytail. She looked pretty neat in her short pleated maroon skirt,
he thought.

She waved to him. He moved his head in a subtle gesture, then said silently, hoping she could read his lips: “Look who’s coming!”

She turned. She saw. Then she came running toward him, her face filled with concern.

“I didn’t think he’d show up!” she whispered tensely.

He frowned. “Why not?”

She looked at him contritely. “I’ve already told him, Jim.”

W
hy,” he asked. “Why did
you
tell him?”

He had wanted to confront the rat himself. Why did she have to spoil it for him?

“Because I had to know why he did it,” she answered. A warm wind blew a strand of her hair across her face. She brushed it
back. “Jim> he blamed it on you. He said that if it weren’t for that motorbike accident, he would be playing football today,
instead of writing about it.”

Jim’s belly tightened into a knot. “I guess it’s not so hard to believe.”

“That he blamed you, you mean?”

“Yes. I suppose what happened was my fault, but my bike skidded.” He remembered the accident vividly now. He had tried to
blot it out of his memory ever since the day it had happened. “It was two
years ago,” he explained. “We were racing the Winternationals in Tallahassee. Jerry and I were coming around a sharp turn.
I was on the inside. I struck a bump, and my front wheel twisted. My bike skidded and rammed into Jerry’s. He lost control,
ran into a guardrail, and injured his knee.”

“He said he was laid up in the hospital for three weeks,” Margo said.

“Yes. I went to see him every day. He was bitter about it. But I thought he got over it.”

The girls started another cheer.

“I’ve got to go,” said Margo. “See you later.”

Jim glanced past her as she dashed off to join the other cheerleaders. Jerry was approaching. He had slowed his pace now to
a walk.

Jim glared at him, then turned and started back to the spot he had vacated. He glanced toward the field and stood still as
he saw Barry running down to the right fiat. A Floralview Buc was about two yards behind him, closing the gap rapidly.

Jim saw the pass floating high through the air. It was coming down in front of Barry. Barry reached for it, got both hands
on it, and started to fumble it. For an instant Jim wished he would drop it, to ensure
his own starting place on the team. But Barry grabbed the ball before it dropped and pulled it safely to him, stumbling as
he did so. He fell, and skidded out of bounds. But he held on to the ball.

A roar rose from the Rams’ fans, and Jim found himself cheering, too.

“That-a-boy, Barry!” he yelled. “That’s the way to do it!”

It was a good catch. It was a thrilling catch. Barry’s determination to gain a spot on the starting lineup was clearly indicated
in that tough play.

Good for him, Jim thought. But Barry’s developing into a better player made him realize that he had to get back into the swing
himself, or Barry would take over his starting spot as tight end.

“Jim.”

He turned. Jerry was beside him, pale, a grieved look on his face.

“I’m quitting my job as sportswriter and photographer,” Jerry said nervously.

Jim studied his face. Jerry was sweating profusely. He met Jim’s eyes one moment and glanced away the next.

“Jerry, I never realized you wanted to play football
so badly that you blamed me for what happened,” said Jim.

“I didn’t think you did. That’s why I” — Jerry coughed — “That’s why I did what I did.” His eyes blinked. “I just wanted to
make one phone call, that was all. I never figured on making more, and doing those other things. But, once I got going, I
couldn’t stop. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I hope you’re satisfied, because you made it rough for me — and my family — for a while,” Jim said. “It wasn’t my fault
about that accident, but it was pretty rotten what you did.”

Jerry’s eyes blurred. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m really —”

“Jim Cort!” Coach Butler called. “Get in there! Take Barry’s place! Move!”

Jim put on his helmet and buckled the strap.

“Step on it, will you?” the coach snapped.

Jim shot another glance at Jerry, then dashed out to the field. Barry saw him and came running in, one side of his uniform
smeared with dirt.

“Nice catch, Barry,” Jim said.

“Thanks.”

Jim joined the huddle. Chuck looked at him and
grinned. “Did you see that catch Barry made? You’ll have to get back with it, Jim, or good ol’ Barry will be playing more
than you will.”