“You’re not going to believe this.” Cassidy motioned me over to take a look.
The football team had arrived, their trucks and Blazers lined up in the lot. With cans of cooking spray in hand, they advanced on the swing set and monkey bars.
“Are you kidding me?” I whispered as they began to PAM the monkey bars.
“That’s horrible.” Cassidy whispered back. “We should do something.”
“I’ll handle it,” I told her. After all, nothing kills the mood quicker than bearing witness to mass vandalism.
They didn’t notice me until I was right there, standing at the edge of the sandbox. I took out my car keys and hit the panic button, making everyone jump.
“Hey!” I said, killing the alarm. “Connor MacLeary, get your drunk ass over here!”
Connor stumbled toward me, kicking up sand. He was barefoot, wearing his jersey with a pair of jean shorts, and he looked strangely vulnerable without shoes on. I’d known him since kindergarten, and what I was thinking about then wasn’t how I was a cane-wielding member of my high school’s debate team, about to face off against the varsity quarterback, but how Connor had refused to put on his construction paper pilgrim hat during our kindergarten’s Thanksgiving party. He’d thrown a tantrum over it until Ms. Lardner had picked him up and sat him on top of the cubby nook to calm down.
He was the kid who’d refused to give fat girls Valentines even though you were supposed to bring enough for everyone, who’d always forgotten part of his Cub Scout uniform and who’d made dioramas on lined paper the morning they were due. And he was committing playground vandalism with cooking spray, which was so ridiculous that the vast difference between our respective lunch tables didn’t even factor into my decision to confront him.
“Faulkner!” Connor shouted, spreading his arms as though literally embracing my appearance in the castle park. “Perfect timing! Grab a can!”
“You’re an ass**le,” I told him. “Also an idiot, but mostly an ass**le.”
His smile disappeared and he scratched his head like he couldn’t believe I was actually angry, as though he was probably misunderstanding.
“What? It’s a joke,” he explained laughingly.
I shook my head, disgusted.
“This is the furthest thing from a joke I’ve ever seen. We’re on a playground. It’s for little kids, you douchenozzle. Call off your goons before some second grader breaks an arm.”
It finally got through to him that I was seriously pissed off. He cocked his head, sizing me up, and for a moment, I thought he might actually take a swing at me. But we both knew he wouldn’t get away with it. Not at school on Monday; the entire football team against a kid with a cane.
I sighed impatiently and hit the alarm on my car again.
“Call it off,” I threatened. “Now.”
“All right, Faulkner. Jesus.” Connor shook his head and ambled back toward his team.
“Hey, ass**les,” I heard him call. “Drop your cans. This was a dumb idea. Let’s get that beer from my garage.”
I felt invincible as I swaggered back toward the castle, as though I’d actually accomplished something good. I grinned when I saw Cassidy. She was sitting on the stairs, solemnly watching the football team slink off in defeat. I sat down next to her and pulled her close.
“I have completed my quest, fair maiden,” I joked, “and returned to yon castle to share tales of my triumph.”
But Cassidy wasn’t laughing.
“I can’t believe you did that,” she said. “I thought he was going to jump you.”
“I have bested the ogre,” I insisted. “I am the king of castle park.”
“Ezra, be serious.”
“Connor wouldn’t have done anything. I’ve known him since we were five.”
I tilted Cassidy’s face toward mine, trying to resume where we’d broken off, but clearly I’d used up my allotment of successes for that evening, because Cassidy wasn’t having it.
“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” she said, twisting her hair up into a bun. “Just—don’t scare me like that, okay?”
“No more questing,” I promised, and then drove Cassidy home because it was getting late.
22
SCHOOL ON MONDAY was unbearable. I hadn’t thought anyone would know what had happened, but it was pretty evident that everyone did. A junior from JV tennis named Tommy Yang (the younger brother of notable pantsless sake bomber Kenneth Yang) had been on the courts that night and seen the whole thing.
“I wish I was invisible,” I moaned, putting my head down on the lunch table.
“Yeah, well I wish the turkey in this sandwich wasn’t sweating more than a fat kid in a Jacuzzi,” Toby said philosophically, peeling two pieces of incredibly clammy deli meat apart and jiggling them for emphasis.
I laughed, feeling slightly better about all of the unwanted attention. And then Luke grinned and leaned back in his seat.
“So I heard a pretty good joke,” he said. “I heard Faulkner fought the entire football team on Friday night.”
“What’s funny about that?” I asked, in no mood for Luke’s crap.
“It’s true?” Toby let the halves of his sandwich drop onto the plastic wrap.
“Mostly true,” I admitted. “Depending which version you heard.”
“I’d rather hear your version,” Phoebe said, leaning forward in her seat and reminding me strongly that she ran the school paper.