“Fuck yeah,” Rachel said. “It’s good stuff.”
Why didn’t he tell me? That was the first clear thought I arrived at. I was mad. I was mad at Ezra, not for being a jerk at the game, not for going to Homecoming with Lindsay. Not for anything in the realm of high school bullshit. I was mad because he didn’t tell me this. It was like walking into the team locker room after he got the news about Sam, that thought of not knowing when Ezra’s business had become our business. But it had. I should’ve known. Then I would’ve understood.
“I researched the crap out of him for that article and I didn’t find anything about any of that,” Rachel continued. “The stepdad, his brother, any of it. Why do you think he’d talk about it now?” She shook her head. “Maybe how he acted at the game … maybe there were scouts there. Maybe he had to try to justify getting pulled out so he wouldn’t lose face with other schools.…”
It was too much. I had too much to think about to deal with Rachel Woodson and her utter hypocrisy.
“Not everything is about college,” I snapped. “Not everyone is thinking about their résumé or their record or how to make themselves look good.”
“Well, he was trying to make himself look good to someone. I mean, a public apology? It’s a bit much. Varsity players act like jackasses at games regularly, and you don’t see them waxing poetic about it.”
I didn’t speak. When I finally glanced at Rachel, she was looking at me critically. “You and Ezra were supposed to go to Homecoming together,” she said.
“Yeah, so?”
“So he wrote it for you.”
“What?”
“You guys fought after the Lake Falls game, yes?”
Damn small towns with their small high schools and their small high school populations. “How do you know that?”
“Please. Pick a less public spot to have an argument.” Her face did something that on a normal person would be considered a smile. “Ezra wrote this letter for you. To save face with you.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said, but staring down at the papers in my hand, I had the same suspicion. Certain people. Was I certain people?
But what about Lindsay? But then again, maybe I was staring down the barrel of two totally different issues. Just because Ezra wanted to clear the air with me didn’t mean he wanted to date me.
“Congratulations,” Rachel said, and took the letter from my hands. “Your relationship drama got us a major scoop. Star Player Speaks Out: Turmoil and Tears at the Lake Falls Game.”
“You’re a really shitty journalist, Rachel,” I said, and shouldered my bag. “But you’ll rule the world one day.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she said as I made my way out of the room.
35
I searched for Ezra after I left the writing lab that afternoon, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. And I didn’t want to text him, or call him—this was a face-to-face kind of conversation.
When I finally located Foster, he told me that Ezra had taken Marabelle to an appointment and wouldn’t be back until that night’s game. So I went home and tried to study, tried to focus on homework. But fragments of that letter kept surfacing in my mind, and Rachel’s firm assertion—He wrote it for you—kept ringing out above it all.
The minute the clock struck six thirty, I took Foster back to the field.
But they were already warming up when we arrived. It was the first district game of the year, against Steeleville High School, and no one was taking it lightly.
I positioned myself on the sidelines, as usual, Mr. Harper’s faithful luggage rack. He had begun to crack the occasional smile at some of my dumb comments. I think I was slowly wearing him down. By the end of the postseason, he might just trust me with the lens cap, too.