Chapter Six

Part 3

But the old Mike Riley was officially gone. As I walked into school I was reminded that even my peers were aware that I had changed. The halls before first period were desolate, lifeless. People shot me pitying looks or just avoided my gaze altogether. Monday mornings were usually full of acclaim and accolades for me and the rest of the football team, but that morning the students and teachers alike were just wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Yes, to add insult to injury, Washington High had whipped us on Saturday, largely due to my two interceptions, one of which had been run back for a touchdown. It had been a grievous mistake—I had totally misread the defense, and it had cost us the game. The fact that myriad people were now trying to prop me up just made the whole thing feel worse.

“You’ll get ’em next time, Mike,” one of the JV players said to me in the hallway.

“We’ll drub them at states,” Mr. Rowe, my math teacher added, slapping me on the shoulder.

All this commiserating left me discomfited and down. What was even more disconcerting was that I hadn’t thought about the game all morning. I was so obsessed with the way I had screwed myself and my family last night, I hadn’t even considered the way I had screwed the whole school on Saturday. Now I realized that it probably would have been smart for me to just stay home.

“So, dude! Really ran us into the ground on Saturday, huh?” Lucas said, laughing as he walked by.

I’m sure he expected me to go off on him, but all I could do was sigh in resignation. Forget going home. This abnegation was exactly what I needed. I deserved to be punished.

I loped into history class just before the bell rang. Mr. Weeks walked in and pulled a sheaf of papers out of his battered leather briefcase. An ominous silence fell over the room. Our quizzes. He had graded our quizzes. Just what I needed.

“All right, everyone, settle down,” he called out, even though everyone was already settled. “Now, I have here your pop quizzes from last week, and I have to say I wasn’t very pleased with the results. I didn’t think my questions were all that abstruse, but apparently they were.”

This was not good. If people who had actually done the reading had fouled up, I was in deep trouble.

“Now I expect that those of you who didn’t bother to do your homework last week will take this as a lesson,” he said, walking up and down the aisles and handing the papers back. His ancient shoes squeaked and squished, fraying my already fried nerves. “The next pop quiz will be much more comprehensive. If you didn’t do well on this one, the next will be extremely difficult for you, so spend the time and do the reading.”

He placed my quiz face down on my desk and looked at me reprovingly. Not a good sign.

“Once you’ve all had a chance to study your grades, we’ll get started talking about America’s role in World War II,” he said, moving toward his desk. “I’ll give you a couple of minutes to go over your work.”

My hands quaking, I turned the page over slowly and the grade at the top truncated my breath. A big, fat, red F stared back at me. My first F ever. And the feeling of cold dread that came over me made me wistful for the days when a C was a big calamity. There were red marks everywhere. A quick glance over the page told me that I had gotten exactly one answer correct. I knew that the huge size of the F was intended to impinge on my psyche and it totally worked. This was not part of the normal vicissitudes of academic performance. This had happened because of the poker game. It wasn’t just affecting my bank account, but my entire life. If I didn’t do something to turn things around soon I was going to be relegated to the remedial class for the rest of my senior year.

I couldn’t let this happen. I folded the paper in half and shoved it in my bag. It was time to regain control of my life.