Payback Time (13 page)

"For the same reason you and I both study hard, why we work on the school newspaper."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's say Angel either flunked out or got kicked out of high school. That means he's fallen off the map as far as college football goes. Without a diploma, he has no chance for a scholarship. But if he graduates from Lincoln and McNulty lands a college coaching job somewhere—even as an assistant—McNulty could bring Angel along with him. A football scholarship to a private school is worth two hundred thousand dollars. If Angel plays well in college, he'll have a chance at the NFL, and those guys make millions. He's got reasons to cheat."

I
SPENT THAT AFTERNOON
helping my dad clean out the shed—we had rats nesting in there once—and then took the stuff we never use to Goodwill. In my room after dinner, I logged on to the Internet and typed
Houston High Schools
into Google. That's when I discovered Houston has over two hundred high schools, counting high schools in suburban districts.

I took out a notebook and got started.

Two hours later I'd made it through nine websites. At the rate I was progressing, I'd need three weeks to finish. That would have been tolerable if I was sure I was eliminating schools, but I wasn't. Two schools had great websites with photos of all the football players—no Angel—so I could cross them off. But the team photos for the other seven were hit and miss: some years were there, some years weren't. I wasn't searching for a needle in a haystack; I was searching for the haystack, too. I put my laptop to sleep, turned the lights off, and lay down on my bed in the dark.

My mind wouldn't turn off, though. In a week the regular season would be over. In a month, the state tournament would be over. After that, it would be Christmas, and pretty soon Angel would be gone, and the story would be gone with him. I got back up, powered up the laptop, and slogged away for another ninety minutes. Then I did sleep ... hard.

I was dead to the world early Sunday morning when Alyssa called. "Can you help me with the newspaper?" she asked. "I need to finish formatting it and then get it down to the printer this afternoon so the copies can be at school Monday morning. It's three weeks late already."

 

The more time I spent with Alyssa, the more I liked her. I'd always thought she only cared about makeup, clothes, and who liked whom at school. The newspaper mattered more to her than any of that. As we worked, she'd ask my advice about the order of articles, the size of the headlines, the placement of photos. She didn't take all my suggestions, but she considered them all.

The only argument we had was over the sports pages. I wanted her to run a large photo of Angel Marichal in the top left of the first page with my article on Angel right below it. Alyssa shook her head. "That story goes in the bottom corner with a small photo."

"What's wrong with it?" I asked.

"You know what's wrong with it."

"I don't," I said, feeling the blood rise. "Tell me."

"You should have interviewed him, and you should have included details about his past."

"I tried, but he wouldn't talk to me."

"Okay, fine, I believe you. But that doesn't change the fact that it's skimpy."

She was right—it was skimpy—so I stopped arguing. The photo and article ended up bottom right on page ten, but they were in the paper—and that was what mattered most.

When we finally had the entire newspaper ready, we took the pages to the printer in Pioneer Square. Alyssa wanted him to rush, but he shook his head. "Monday afternoon. No sooner."

Her face fell.

"One more day won't matter," I said. "The important thing is that you got another one out."

I drove her back to Lincoln. "Tell me the truth, Mitch," she said as we pulled into the parking lot. "Do you think I'll ever be an editor at a real newspaper?"

I thought for a moment. She wasn't a good writer and never would be, but she had a knack for pulling the best out of people, and she loved the printed word. "Yeah, Alyssa. I do."

We'd worked right through lunch, so when I got home I went to the refrigerator and made myself a ham sandwich and grabbed an apple. I was fine with eating alone, but my mother insisted on sitting with me. "Have you noticed I've been buying lean meats and more fruits and vegetables?" she asked.

My body tensed. "Yeah, I've noticed. And thanks." I took a bite of the apple, hoping she'd let it drop.

"I've thought about why I did what I did, and I'd like to explain."

"It's okay, Mom. Really, it is."

"Dan, I need to tell you this." She paused, and my stomach churned. "Your father and I would have liked two or three children, but things didn't work out for us. For years we tried very hard, and we'd just about given up, and then you came along. You were our unexpected treasure, our miracle. Because of that, I was always afraid that we'd lose you somehow. So from the time you were a baby, I wanted you to be big and healthy. So..." She stopped.

"Mom, it's okay. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Yes, I did, but at least now you know why."

A
LYSSA GOT THE NEWSPAPERS
from the printer Monday afternoon. I went back to Lincoln after dinner and helped her stack them up by all the entrances.

Tuesday morning, kids at school had a new
Lincoln Light
in their hands, and most turned straight to the sports pages. I saw them reading my volleyball and football recaps and looking at Kimi's pictures. And every once in a while I'd spot somebody with his eyes on my article about Angel Marichal.

All of it got my adrenaline going, so as I headed into the commons for lunch, I wanted to find Kimi. The moment I opened the door, I heard a loud voice. I looked over and saw Angel, wearing an Iverson Philadelphia 76ers jersey, looming over somebody, his finger jabbing the air, his voice enraged.

I moved toward him, and that's when I realized he was screaming at Kimi. I stopped. She looked impossibly tiny, but she was staring him right in the eye, her jaw set.

The coward in me wanted to drop my head, cover my face, and beat it back out the door. Instead, I stepped forward. "Leave her alone," I said, my voice weirdly high-pitched.

Angel wheeled around. His eyes flashed with recognition. "No, you leave me alone." He looked back to Kimi. "Both of you leave me alone."

"If you mean the article, then—"

I didn't get a chance to finish. He turned back to me, grabbed my shirt at the neck, and pulled me toward him. I could feel a lump in my throat, but I couldn't cry, not with one hundred pairs of eyes on me. "Write about Horst Diamond," he hissed, "or Shawn Warner, or anybody. Just don't write about me. Don't take pictures of me." As he spoke, he kept pulling me closer until I could feel his hot breath on my face. The whole time, I kept my eyes locked on his. If Kimi could stare him down, I could, too. He held me for a long moment, and then he shoved me so hard that I fell back onto the ground and into a chair that clattered across the linoleum floor. For a second I thought he was going to start stomping on me—that's how angry his eyes looked—but instead he walked out.

I got to my feet and slid into the spot at the table next to Kimi. Kids around us were staring, but I didn't care. She was shaking, but she hadn't backed down. My voice had gone squeaky, but I'd stood my ground, too.

The lump in my throat slowly went down, and in its place came a cold fury.
I'm going to get you, Angel Marichal,
I thought.
If it takes me a million hours, I'm going to uncover your dirty little secret, whatever it is. The article today—that was just a taste of what's coming. You'll pay for this.

We didn't talk during the rest of the lunch period, but when the bell rang, Kimi turned to me. "Thanks, Mitch," she said, and hurried away.

That night after dinner I thought about calling her, but what did I have to say? Better to get on the Web and find something out. I thought God or luck or karma would guide my hand. But ninety minutes and seven Houston high schools later, I still had nothing. My eyes were getting bleary, and I had homework. I logged off.

I saw Kimi before school the next day and told her about my useless night. "You getting anywhere with the phone number?"

"I tried that number with every single Houston area code. Not one was a school. Next I used the number with the nearby suburbs. Nothing." She paused. "The phone number is a dead end. E-mail me the names of some high schools, and I'll start helping you with that."

Every night that week we searched the websites of high schools in Houston—she in her room, me in mine. A couple of times I thought I had him. Antonio Gates at Woodland College High and Pedro Uribe at Austin High both resembled him, if you can look like anybody with a football helmet on. I crosschecked by going back to the schools' webpages. I found a picture of Antonio Gates at the senior prom. He was shorter than Angel, had darker skin, and his ears stuck out. Pedro Uribe was still playing for Austin High.

I didn't ask Kimi how her Internet work was going. If she had anything, she'd tell me. Wednesday leaked into Thursday; Thursday disappeared into Friday. We needed a new idea, or a break, or something. And we needed it soon, because once the season ended, our big story would turn into a little footnote.

T
HAT
F
RIDAY,
Lincoln was playing the Bothell Cougars at Memorial Stadium, with the KingCo 4A title on the line. The winner would advance into the tournament; the loser was done for the year.

With everything in the balance, I was certain McNulty would finally start Angel—and I was wrong. On the opening series Darren Clarke was at middle linebacker, and Bothell went right at him. It was the Mater Dei game all over again. If Clarke played off the line of scrimmage expecting a pass, the Cougars sent their tailback right up the gut for five, six, seven yards. If Clarke crowded the line, the Bothell quarterback would hit the tight end or a slot receiver over the middle in the exact spot Clarke had vacated. They marched right down the field and scored. What sense did it make to cheat ... and lose? Why have Angel on your team if you're not going to play him?

Lincoln's offense, led by Horst's passing, pushed the ball back down the field. It looked like they'd score and tie up the game, but a fumble after a catch near the twenty killed the drive. As Bothell's offense came back out, I sat forward.
Now!
I thought to myself.
McNulty has to put Angel in now!

But it was Clarke at middle linebacker, and the Cougars went right back to keying every play call on Clarke's position. Bothell scored a second touchdown on an eight-yard run right up the gut.

Lincoln had to put points on the board to stay in the game. On the second drive Horst remained on target, hitting his receivers in stride, gobbling up chunks of yardage with every play. But on first and goal, the team got hit with an offside penalty, and on the next snap, a holding call. After a couple of botched plays, McNulty sent John Kenstowicz out for the field goal try. Kenstowicz's kick barely crawled over the goal post. Bothell 14, Lincoln 3.

After the kickoff, the Cougars' offense sauntered onto the field—that's how cocky they were. Darren Clarke was in way over his head, but Angel sat alone at the end of the bench, helmet in hand. The third Bothell touchdown came on a feathery touch pass to the tight end.

Things looked terrible, and then they got worse. On the kickoff, Blake Stein had the ball stripped from him. It bounced around for what seemed like forever, but when the whistle blew, a Bothell guy was clutching it to his gut. Two passes and two runs later, the Cougars scored their fourth touchdown. When the first half ended, the score was Bothell 28, Lincoln 3.

As the teams trotted down the tunnel into the locker rooms, the Bothell fans roared their appreciation. And why not? They were two quarters from a trip to the state playoffs. On the Lincoln side, kids and parents sat in stunned silence. It was one thing to lose, but to be annihilated? The season that had begun with the amazing victory over Mater Dei was ending with a pitiful defeat at the hands of Bothell. It was over; everyone knew it.

Everyone except Horst Diamond. Lincoln had the first possession of the second half, and Horst came out red-hot. He'd been on target in the first half, but penalties and drops had killed every drive. Now passes that had slipped off fingertips were hauled in.

Bothell countered by blitzing, but Horst beat that strategy with his scrambling. Most quarterbacks slide to the ground when a safety or linebacker has them in his cross hairs, but Horst enjoyed lowering his shoulder and belting would-be tacklers. His take-no-prisoners attitude was contagious. With each first down, the offense gained confidence. Lincoln marched sixty-five yards in nine plays for a touchdown, scoring when Horst dived over the goal line on a quarterback sneak. Bothell 28, Lincoln 10.

I looked to the sideline. Coach McNulty was clapping his hands, exhorting the team to even greater effort. And then I saw him call Darren Clarke over. He said something, Clarke's shoulders slumped, and then Clarke took his helmet off and headed for the bench. As he was walking away McNulty looked down the sideline and pointed. Angel Marichal was up an instant later, pulling his helmet over his head, fastening his chin strap.

Angel's impact on the game was immediate. He lined up right behind the nose tackle, crowding the line of scrimmage. On running plays, he charged like a runaway truck, quickly coming up to smash Bothell's running backs into the turf. On passing plays, he was catlike, dropping into coverage and either breaking up passes or slamming receivers to the turf immediately after the catch.

The Cougars managed one first down on that possession before being forced to punt. They got the ball right back when Warner dropped what would have been a first down pass, forcing a Kenstowicz punt. But Angel rose to the challenge again, stuffing the tailback after a two-yard gain, knocking down a pass, and then sacking the quarterback on third and eight. As Horst headed onto the field to take over the offense, he high-fived Angel.