We’re on.
Ayaz was already in the classroom, setting up our display. While I’d spent the week writing up our report, he’d completed five beautiful pen and ink drawings of the trials and of some of our observations about their importance across history. My mouth dropped when he showed me the final products. They were amazing. They looked like they should be in an art gallery, not part of a history assignment where they’d barely get a second glance.
“These are incredible,” I breathed, holding one up to the light. “You’ve got to mention that you drew these. We’ll probably get extra points. I’ll do it if you feel weird about it—”
“I’ll do the talking,” Ayaz snapped, snatching the drawing from my hand. “It’s me they’re here to see. You just stand aside like a charity case so they can feel as though their money is going to a worthy cause.”
Not even Ayaz’s comments could get me down today, and since we’d already been given 5 merit points each for agreeing to give the presentation, I let him talk the parents through it. In the front row, Trey’s parents stood side by side, both beaming at Ayaz. Was that weird? When it came time for questions, a hand shot up at the back of the room. Trey. He looked his dad straight in the eye and asked, “Don’t you think that by focusing on the female victims and using the medieval witch archetypes you’re playing into a feminist agenda? Four of the victims of the trials were men, and let’s not forget Reverend Parris, turned mad with guilt for acting out the will of his parish and the laws of his church.”
At the mention of Parris’ name, I noticed several parents in the room stiffened. They must hate being reminded of the school’s sordid past. I was glad we hadn’t focused on the connection in our presentation today.
Ayaz’s face flushed with anger at Trey’s comment, but he smoothed it over, rattling off an answer that was more profound than anything I could have come up with. Trey’s father beamed at Ayaz, and Trey slunk away before our presentation was finished.
I couldn’t believe my luck – for whatever reason, the two Kings of the school were competing for the attention of Trey’s father.This is too perfect.
I could barely contain my excitement as the game drew close and we were directed onto the field. I had to fake an air of nonchalance. The success of our plan relied on no one figuring out we were behind it.
At the side of the field, the fathers pulled on special polo shirts with DERLETH ACADEMY ALUMNI embroidered on them. Both Vincent Bloomberg II and Damon Delacorte were playing. They laughed and slapped each other’s shoulders and called out friendly insults to their sons across the field.
On the other side of the field, Trey gathered the team together in a huddle. From his gestures, I gathered he was discussing tactics, but he had to stop every few moments to adjust his shorts. I couldn’t see Ayaz from this angle but I hoped he was doing the same.
Greg slumped down beside me, a wide smile on his face. “What are you so happy about?” I asked, elbowing him in the arm.
“Don’t be silly, Hazel. I’m always happy to cheer on our school. Go team!” Greg yelled as Trey and his teammates jogged past. I leaned into Greg’s shoulder to hide my giggle. Trey’s hand flew to his crotch, and his head whipped over his shoulder at us. I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look, and as soon as he turned back to the field, I stifled my laugh into Greg’s shoulder.
Vincent Bloomberg II was elected as his team captain, so he faced off against Trey in the center of the field. Coach Carter placed the ball on the ground between them, stepped back, and blew the whistle.
Sticks whirled through the air. Trey reached the ball first, and he swung to pick it up with his net. His body listed to the side as his other hand flew to his crotch, and he ended up whacking the ball across the ground. His dad scooped it up and ran toward his goal. The midfielders raced after him. Vincent passed the ball to Quinn’s dad, who sidestepped another student and hurled the ball at the goal.
Ayaz was in the goal. He reached up to block the ball, but as he did, his face contorted with agony, and his shoulder dropped. The ball glanced off the edge of his stick before bouncing inside the goal.
Dads 1, Students 0.
Trey trudged back to the center of the field. His teammates called encouragement. His dad sneered. “Clearly, this school’s team isn’t what it used to be if you’re the best they’ve got.”
The whistle blew. Vincent got the ball again. Trey’s face reddened. He flung his stick up, swinging it like a baseball bat at his dad. Only he’d miscalculated and instead of hitting his Dad’s stick, he brought the swing down on his helmet.
“Slash!” called Coach Carter. “Bloomberg, you’re off for five.”
“Don’t you know the rules?” his father’s taunts followed him. “You’re a disgrace, Trey. Don’t even bother getting back on the field. Your team won’t miss you.”
Trey slumped off the field. On the bench, he ripped off his helmet, threw it on the ground, and sat down and shoved his hands in his shorts. His face scrunched up in pain as he scratched and scratched.
Greg and I struggled to hold in our laughter. Loretta glanced over at us with a frown. “Did you guys have something to do with this?”
“Who us?” I said angelically. “We wouldn’t dare. Why risk the wrath of the Kings? Trey’s probably got an STI.”
Greg spluttered with laughter. Loretta shot us both a filthy look. “They’ll figure out it’s you. They’ll kill you for this.”
They’ve already tried.
I focused my attention on the field, not wanting to miss a single moment of sweet revenge. Ayaz was having his own problems. He was so busy itching that he missed two easy goals. By the time the first quarter was over, the Dads were winning 4 to 0.
Trey was allowed back on in the second half, but they’d switched him out from the prime position to left midfield. He stood only ten feet or so from where we were sitting. Every few seconds, his hand drifted to his crotch. He slapped it away, his face twisting with agony.
“Trey, stop scratching your balls and play!” his father yelled.
Trey’s cheeks reddened. He jogged back on the field, but a few minutes later, he was scratching himself again. The rest of the game was a massacre. After a while, even the Queens stopped jumping around like fools, bearing their team’s defeat in stunned silence.
