The Perfect Star Read online

  Mr. Allen was absolutely right about that. I smiled, recalling some of Scott’s finer moments.

  “I’m going to take some heat over not punishing him,” Mr. Allen confessed, “especially from the people in our community who are still upset with Mrs. Magenta’s hire as football coach. They’re trying to say that her lack of control is responsible for Scott’s reckless behavior.” He waved the papers I’d given him. “But these four-hundred-plus signatures ought to keep them quiet.”

  I chuckled, and so did Mr. Allen.

  “Thank you, Natalie,” he said again.

  “You don’t need to thank me. I was only trying to do the right thing—and help my friend.”

  “I’d say you’ve done that and then some. You’re just getting started, and already The Razzle-Dazzle Show is making a difference.”

  I smiled. There wasn’t a better compliment.

  Mr. Allen and I bid each other a good evening, and then our meeting adjourned. Little did we know, before we got done this year, The Razzle-Dazzle Show would have to help save more than just Scott.

  Even after I’d given her my nasty attitude and been downright mean, Natalie insisted I go to the guys’ football game with her—and I hadn’t even apologized. She insisted because she didn’t want to go alone. She said that. But she also said that getting out would be good for me. So was she using me or looking out for me? It wasn’t like she needed me to go, because she would’ve gone without me. She said that, too.

  I don’t know how much sense I’m making, but that’s what it was like inside my head. When you go on feeling sorry for yourself, you do that sort of thing. There are a few ups and lots of downs.

  “Randi, you can’t—” Natalie stopped, but she didn’t have to finish her sentence.

  “I’ll go,” I said.

  I agreed because I didn’t like being angry and feeling sorry for myself. I didn’t like who I was. Mrs. Woods was right: it was up to me. I agreed because I’d missed Gav’s game last year, and I couldn’t do that again. I was going because I had great friends who were always there for me. It was my turn to be there for them. I was going to support the guys and Mrs. Magenta.

  The wait was killing me, so I got to the school extra early on the morning of our first game. There was lots to do before a weekend practice, but there was even more to do on game day. First things first: I had to check the field for seagulls. Seeing those birds was the only thing that could help settle my butterflies.

  I dumped my gym bag in the locker room and hurried out the back. I stepped through the doors and gazed into the distance. Our field was bare, which was okay because we were playing on our practice field, since the grass hadn’t grown back on our game field yet. There was an army of seagulls parading on the practice field. Today was going to be a good day.

  I let out a giant sigh of relief and smiled big. I watched the birds strutting around as if they were running plays, and then I noticed a person standing near the far end zone. I didn’t like that there was somebody here before me, trying to steal our good luck. I kicked the dirt and marched out there to see who it was.

  As I got closer, I saw that the person was bent over, staring at the ground. And when I got even closer, I recognized that the person was Coach Magenta. I was happy to see our coach here early, anxious for the big game like me. If the guys were half as excited as the two of us, we were in for a special day. I made my way toward her, wondering what in the world she was looking at, because she was still bent over.

  I was about twenty yards away when I got my answer, and boy, did I start worrying then. Coach Magenta had the jitters way worse than me. She wasn’t looking at anything. She was throwing up! The noises coming out of her made me squirm worse than if I’d had ants in my pants. She was retching really bad, but the good thing was, I only saw some yellow slime coming out of her mouth. It wasn’t anything like beef stew or sloppy joes. If I’d seen that, I probably would’ve yakked up my Fruity Pebbles right next to her.

  “Coach Magenta, are you okay?”

  She stood up straight and sucked in several deep breaths. Then she wiped her mouth on her shirt sleeve. I smiled—that was a football-player move if I’d ever seen one.

  “I’m better now,” she said, turning and facing me.

  “Bad nerves, huh?”

  “Something like that,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. The seagulls are here,” I said, and pointed.

  “Yes, they are,” she said. “C’mon. Let’s get to the locker room and start getting ready.”

  Last year, I’d been tormented by nightmares of Coach Holmes. I would wake up on game days thinking I’d never see the field ’cause of him. And I pretty much didn’t. This time around, my sleep was just as bad, but it was ’cause I was crazy excited. I worked hard to keep my emotions in check, ’cause if I got too high too soon, then I’d be feeling drained of energy before I even got to the field. I’d play it cool like Tom Brady does—until it was go time. Then I’d let it all out.

  When I got to the locker room, I wasn’t surprised to find Stats Man already hard at work, polishing our helmets. I chuckled, remembering the scene that had unfolded last year, after he’d tried that. “I hope you’re not using Stickum,” I teased.

  “Nope. Not this time,” he said. He showed me his bottle of Windex and cleaning rag. “I came prepared.”

  “The helmets look great,” I said. And I meant it, too.

  Scott beamed. “Check this out,” he said. He dug into his bag and pulled out a laminated play-calling sheet. The thing was legit. It looked just like the ones I’d seen NFL coaches holding on the sidelines.

  “Whoa. That’s serious,” I said.

  “Yup. I’m ready.” He glanced over his shoulder. “But I’m a little worried about Coach Magenta,” he whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Because I found her throwing up this morning. Her nerves are getting the best of her.”

  I sat on the bench. “Really?”

  “Yup. You’ve got to drive the ball down the field on our opening possession and score our first touchdown. Then she’ll be all better.”

  He went back to polishing helmets like it was that simple—and maybe it was. I unzipped my bag and turned soft inside. Resting on top of my things was a good-luck poster from Meggie. She’d drawn a picture of me throwing a pass through Larry, my tire target. Megs had named my tire Larry ’cause her new favorite picture book was The Old Woman Who Named Things, so now she was the little girl who named things. Larry Fitzgerald was one of the greatest wide receivers of all time, so “Larry” was a good name for my tire.

  I took a piece of athletic tape and hung her poster inside my locker. Then I stood there staring at it. Scott had faith in me. Meggie had faith in me. Mom and Dad and my teammates had faith in me. Now I just needed to believe in myself—but sometimes that was the hardest part. The great competitors knew how to quiet that negative voice and stay positive, though. I’d never struggled with confidence last year, ’cause there’d never been any pressure on me. The only voice then had been the one reminding me how much I hated Holmes. Now I had everyone counting on me to win so we could prove to the world that Coach Magenta knew her stuff. Was that why she’d been throwing up? ’Cause she didn’t have much faith in us—or me?

  It was a good thing the rest of the team started rolling in, ’cause that helped distract my mind and kept those negative thoughts from sticking around. We got ourselves dressed and ready, and then we huddled together in the team room. Murdoch stayed with us while Scott went and got Coach Magenta. If Scott hadn’t told me Magenta had been throwing up and that she was nervous, I never woulda known it, ’cause she gave us one killer pep talk.

  “Gentlemen, do not focus on winning or losing. Focus on giving maximum effort each and every play. If you can do that, the rest will take care of itself. And be confident. It’s true t
hat our opponent has had more practice time, but they will not be as conditioned, smart, or disciplined. They will make mistakes, and opportunity will present itself. Be ready. Now let’s play hard and let’s play together. ‘Team’ on three. One. Two. Three.”

  “Team!” we shouted.

  Even Murdoch got fired up after that. We lined up and jogged out to the field. The TV crews were back, eager to see if Magenta was gonna prove she belonged or if we were gonna get creamed. But it wasn’t the cameras that had me concerned. I couldn’t find Woods or Coach. I scanned the crowd a second time. I saw Mr. Magenta and Scott’s grandpa. I saw my parents and Meggie waving to me. I saw Kurtsman and Randi. But Woods and Coach were nowhere to be found. They weren’t here. For their daughter’s first game. For Scott. Or for me.

  “Never mind who’s in the stands, Gavin. Or who isn’t,” Coach Magenta said, pulling me aside. “You need your head in the game. My dad would tell you the same.”

  I had a million questions, but I nodded. She was right.

  What time was it? Game time!

  It was a great game. I would’ve been so mad at myself if I’d missed it. Not only would I have missed Gav’s incredible performance, but I would’ve also missed Natalie’s killer play.

  It was midway through the fourth quarter, when our team seemed to have things under control and the game was kind of boring, that Trevor looked up at us. He must’ve been checking to see if we were still there. Why else would he look into the stands? Natalie got so excited that she waved and blew him a kiss. That’s right, blew him a kiss!

  “Ohmigoodness! What did I just do?” she shrieked, burying her face in her hands.

  “You blew him a kiss,” I said.

  “I know,” she moaned.

  I stared at her, and then I lost it. I was cracking up, laughing my butt off. That was the first time I’d laughed since getting hurt—and I laughed hard.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t last long because of what happened next.

  The game went just the way Coach Magenta had said it would—for three and a half quarters. Using a mix of runs and passes, nothing flashy, we drove the ball down the field on our opening possession. Mark scored our first touchdown when I hit him on a play-action pass out of the backfield. And just like Stats Man had promised, things settled down after that.

  We played hard, smart, and together, and as a result we held a two-touchdown lead with less than seven minutes to go. But as we found out, that was still plenty of time for a team to stage a comeback.

  Coach Magenta called a simple halfback toss to Mark. We’d been successful with this run all game long. It was a smart call ’cause it allowed us to keep the clock running. It was smart ’cause it was a safe play—as long as we continued to execute.

  I told the guys in the huddle we were going on my first sound, which meant snapping the ball on the first noise out of my mouth. Going on a quick count every so often kept the defense off balance. We practiced this stuff all the time. This was part of what Magenta had meant about being smart and disciplined.

  I couldn’t explain it, but for some reason Trevor lost focus and wasn’t ready. He was still in his stance when the ball was hiked. That wasn’t good, ’cause he had to make the key block on the end. He had to force number fifty-eight to the inside so that Mark was free to go around the outside. He’d been doing his job all game long—but not this time. Number fifty-eight blew by Trevor and pile-drived Mark into the ground. The ball popped free, and the defense scooped and scored, which meant they picked up the fumble and ran it all the way in for a touchdown. It was a devastating play, but that wasn’t the worst part. Mark got hurt. They carted him off the field on a stretcher.

  “What happened?” I asked Trevor when we got to the sideline.

  He sat on the bench and shook his head. “I don’t know,” was all he could say.

  “Shake it off, Trevor,” Scott said, coming over to us. “We’re in a game now, and we need you.”

  He’d barely gotten the words out of his mouth when our guys fumbled the kickoff on the next play, and the defense pulled off another scoop and score. It was a dramatic turn of events. Suddenly we were in a tie game. Mark always received the kicks, but with him out, we’d had to put someone else back there, and that had led to the fumble. We’d prepared for everything except for one of our key players going down, and we didn’t have enough depth on our team to make up for that. We weren’t the New England Patriots.

  Coach Magenta called time-out and gathered us around. “Okay, boys. We have two minutes and nine seconds to win this game, but the only way we can win it is one play at a time. You must refocus and execute—one play at a time,” she emphasized. “That starts with the kickoff. We have to field the kick, and then our offense can take us down the field on a game-winning drive.”

  We tried, but without Mark, we didn’t have the same running attack. Our offense stalled at midfield. We were looking at fourth down and a long fifteen yards to go, with eleven seconds left in the game. Coach Magenta burned our final time-out. She’d called a great game up to this point, but now she decided it was Scott’s turn. “What do you see out there, Junior?” she asked, putting him on the spot.

  Maybe calling him Junior sparked a special part of his brain and got him to channel Coach’s spirit and wisdom—or maybe not. All I can tell you is, Stats Man didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his clipboard and marker and drew up the play.

  “The defense is charging hard upfield, hoping for another big hit and a turnover. We need to take advantage of that,” he said. “Trevor, block number fifty-eight for two seconds and then let him go. Gavin, you need to reverse pivot and fake the halfback toss to the right and then roll left and hit Trevor on a tight-end pop pass. He’ll be wide open across the middle.”

  The great Vince Lombardi, who the Super Bowl trophy is named after, couldn’t have drawn it up any better. The play went exactly as Scott had predicted. Number fifty-eight came charging in like an angry bull, but I was the matador. I faked him out of his jock strap and then rolled left and tossed a tight spiral over the middle. Trevor was wide open. My pass hit him right in the hands. He tucked the ball away and rambled forty-eight yards for a game-winning touchdown as time expired.

  It was a thrilling finish, worthy of ESPN’s top ten plays of the week. There were lots of hugs and helmet slaps in the end zone, and when we got to the sideline, we hoisted our stats man into the air. It was a great play call, but it wouldn’t be his best or his last. There were bigger tests yet to come—much bigger and scarier.

  After we left the field and I got done in the locker room, I swung by Coach Magenta’s office ’cause there was something I wanted to ask her. I’d done a good job of blocking it out of my mind for four quarters, but it was front and center now.

  I knocked and stepped inside. “Mrs. Magenta, how come Coach didn’t make it to our game today?”

  “He wasn’t feeling well. Just a little under the weather,” she said.

  That was believable, except she couldn’t look me in the eye and say it.

  “Can I go and see him?” I asked.

  “No,” she said—too quickly. “That wouldn’t be a good idea. We don’t want you to get sick.”

  Magenta was playing the same game as Scott. He was the one who’d said that sometimes what you don’t know can’t hurt you. I didn’t like that Magenta was keeping something from me, but I didn’t push it. “Nice game out there, Coach,” I said.

  “You too, Gavin,” she replied, giving me a weak smile.

  So instead of seeing Coach, me and Mom and Dad and Meggie stopped for ice cream on the way home. Megs insisted we celebrate, but we had to take our ice cream back to the house ’cause she got a dish for Otis, too. That dog wouldn’t care if his was melted, but Meggie made us hurry anyway.

  “Put it on PSN,” she said as soon as we walked in the door. “I want to see Gavvy o
n TV.”

  I chuckled. “ESPN,” I corrected her. “And I won’t be on that station. They weren’t there today.”

  “Maybe someday,” Dad said.

  I smiled.

  We settled in with our ice creams and tuned in to the local news—but it wasn’t me stealing the show. It was Megs. No surprise there.

  After all those TV stations showed up at our game, after Mark got hurt, I was eager to see who and what got air-time, so I sat down with Mom and Dad to watch the local news that night. I was beginning to think they’d decided not to show anything, but all of a sudden there we were. Our team. On TV. They had saved the best story for last.

  The reporter began, “After a contentious few weeks inside the Lake View Middle School community following the hiring of Olivia Magenta, the first female football coach in state history, the Warriors took to the field for their opening game this afternoon.”

  Coach Magenta’s face appeared on the screen, and then the picture switched to us playing. They showed Gavin throwing his first touchdown pass to Mark. Then they showed the Port Johnstown defense picking up a late fumble and running it in to score.

  “It was a back-and-forth battle on the gridiron,” the reporter continued, “but the Warriors were able to prevail with some last-second heroics.”

  There I was, catching Gavin’s pass and running it all the way in for the game-winning touchdown. They showed the team swarming me in the end zone. Then Gavin with his arms raised. And Scott jumping up and down, hugging Coach Magenta on the sideline.

  “After today’s memorable contest, it’s safe to say that Olivia Magenta showed everyone she knows a thing or two about coaching football. Here at Channel Seven, we think this says it best.”

  The screen changed to a shot of Gavin’s little sister standing in the bleachers, holding a sign high above her head. The sign read GIRLS RULE on the top, BOYS DROOL in the middle, and GO, COACH MAGENTA! across the bottom.