First & Then(15)

I watched shamelessly for the rest of the period. It was oddly disconcerting … like learning that your dog could tap-dance. After dismissing us for the day, Mr. Sellers, Ezra, and Foster began to conference.

“What did he say?” I pounced on Foster after class. He was the last one out of the locker room. Even Ezra had strolled out with his duffel bag flung over his shoulder a good ten minutes after the freshboys had dispersed and a good five minutes into fourth period. He didn’t give me a second glance.

Foster stooped down to pull up his socks. His backpack slid forward over his head as far as the straps would allow, giving him the appearance of a turtle retracting into its shell. “He said with some practice, I have a shot at varsity.”

Shock and surprise were words too weak to describe it. “Varsity? He said varsity?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But Mr. Sellers doesn’t even coach varsity.”

“Not Mr. Sellers. Ezra.”

“Ezra? Why would Ezra say that?”

Foster shrugged. “Maybe I’m good.”

He didn’t say it with any sort of indignation, and I felt a little pang, knowing that I would be pissed if someone were that incredulous about me. “I didn’t mean … it’s just that freshmen don’t usually make varsity.”

“Mr. Sellers said to go to the C team field after school and he would talk to the coaches about me playing.”

C team. That made more sense. Well, as much sense as any of this could make.

“Are you excited?” was all I could think to ask.

“Nobody at home cared that I could kick stuff.”

I frowned. “But Mom and Dad don’t even…” Foster was looking at the wall. I trailed off, and when I spoke again, my voice was a little too bright. “How’d you learn to kick like that?”

Foster looked back at me, and the moment was over. “I had a soccer ball. Sometimes I would try to kick it over our garage. I couldn’t get it every time. Ezra said if I practice, I’ll become consistent.”

“Well … you’re good at it.”

Foster smiled. “Apparently.”





6


One by one, the players launched themselves at the tackling dummies, shouldering hard with all their weight behind them. There was no denying it—these were freshmen.

Foster watched with round eyes.

“I think they’ll start you off as one of those,” I said, gesturing to the dummies, just to be stupid. He didn’t crack a smile.

Temple Sterling’s freshman team played on the field behind TS Junior High, just across the street from the high school. Foster hadn’t asked me to go with him after school, but when he showed up outside my eighth-period science class, I figured the invitation was implied.

There were two freshman coaches—Mr. Jones, who was in the math department, and Mr. Everett, who was a volunteer.

Foster’s gaze traveled from the tackling dummies to where Mr. Everett was watching the offense run plays. It was strange—as big as the guys were compared to Foster, their actions looked clumsy and slow compared to what happened at varsity practice.

Foster nudged me.

“What?”

“Go talk to him,” he said.

“Me? Why would I talk to him?”

“I don’t know.”

Foster hung back. I couldn’t read the look on his face, but if I were him, I’d probably be wishing that I was a little taller or a little stronger or that my shoelaces weren’t tied into such loopy bows. Was something as natural as that possible when it came to Foster? If it was, he wasn’t owning up to it. He just stood there, eyeing Mr. Everett suspiciously, until Mr. Everett turned and looked right at us.

A smile broke his face. “You must be Foster!” he called, waving us over. “Mr. Sellers said you’d be stopping by.” He lowered his voice as we neared, but the smile never wavered. Mr. Everett was probably twenty years older than my dad, but in way better shape. “I heard you’ve got quite a kick, Foster,” he said. “Mr. Sellers was hoping you might come and play for us.”

“Do I have to audition?”

I cringed. This wasn’t Pippin. But Mr. Everett didn’t even blink. “If you wouldn’t mind. We don’t usually take guys after the start of the season, but Mr. Sellers was enthusiastic, and I’ve heard you’ve got Ezra Lynley for a mentor.”

This was news to me. Foster nodded solemnly. “He said he’d help me train. I’m behind.”

Mr. Everett chuckled. “There are pros I’d call behind compared to Ezra.”

Foster and I made our way over to the sidelines after Mr. Everett asked Foster, with another dazzling smile, if he wouldn’t mind waiting until practice had gotten a little further under way. Foster cast a glance at me that clearly said “stay,” so we parked ourselves on a bench. I opened my book, and Foster watched the progress on the field until Mr. Everett came and collected Foster.

Then it was the kicking game all over again. He did better this time than he had during gym class. He managed to kick quite a few straight through the goalposts.

Mr. Jones came over then and had Foster throw and catch a few long passes to another one of the players. He managed to catch some, but his throws were as pitiful as mine. No matter how you sliced it, there wasn’t a quarterback among the Tennyson family.