Thanks for convincing me to risk my life for the most completely ridiculous, totally stupid plan of all time! How did I imagine any good would actually come from confronting pure evil? And in its own locker room?! God, was I high when I said yes to this?

Kurt, bad knee and all, is leaving me in the dust soon as we step out of the school.

“Wait up!” I shout. That’s when I realize I don’t need to shout. The outside is quiet. People are standing around same as before but no one’s goofing around or even talking. It’s spooky weird, like everyone turned into a zombie at halftime. I’m about to ask Kurt if he notices anything when I hear his voice whispering over the stadium sound system. It’s coming at me from all angles. Then a second time, even louder.

“Whoa!”

Kurt stops and turns to face me as I catch up. Beneath his helmet I can see his eyes widening in surprise.

“That sounded like you—” I start to say, except I hear my voice coming over the speakers, echoing across the field. “What’s going on?” I ask him, but my voice, amplified, asks the entire stadium the same question. Both of us stare at each other, frozen, not saying a single word more, wondering how long his helmet’s been on. Then I hear the footfalls coming up on us. Kurt’s eyes shift off me, look over my shoulder as I turn to see Coach Brigs and Coach Stein, tight-lipped, ignoring us as they hurry past, late for their own game. Scott, Tom, and Mike are ten yards behind their coaches, jogging loosely with their heads held high, triumphant, as if they’ve already won the state title game. When the three of them reach us, Scott, barely slowing, points his fingers at Kurt like a gun. Victory makes his smile large.

“Remember, shitbags, our little secret,” Scott says, ego so huge that the words coming from his own mouth block out the sound of them rolling across the stadium through Kurt’s helmet mic.

None of them makes it far into the surrounding zombie crowd before the first bags of popcorn dump down on them like snow. Then the first full cups of soda get flipped over on them, dousing them in freezing slush. The two coaches and three captains get corralled together by the mob and raise their arms, trying to shield the onslaught of Family Packs of nacho chips drizzled in melted cheese and cups of ice. Large pretzels sail toward them like Frisbees. As the mob builds, their path is blocked and they get stuck before even reaching the entrance gates to the stadium field.

The Jumbotron stops broadcasting Kurt’s helmet cam. Instead, one single word fills its entire screen.

BOO!!!

The crowd responds. They boo. And boo. And boo. Anything the crowd can get their hands on sails down out of the stadium bleachers—mostly soda cups and more cardboard Family Pack trays but occasional hats and scarves and rolled-up paper programs flying out like snowballs.

The Jumbotron works the crowd, flashing a new message.

GET OUT! GET OUT!

And the crowd takes up the chant. Coach Brigs, Coach Stein, Scott, Tom, and Mike are surrounded, shoved, pushed, and jeered until they get steered back toward the school. Angry adults—men and women—try to get at them, shouting in their faces, reaching out as if they want to rip off parts of their bodies.

Kurt pulls off his helmet and dangles it at his side. We look at each other, smiling, amazed, guessing what’s happening, hoping it’s true.

“Let’s guh-guh-get outta huh-huh-here.”

“Wait,” I say. “Let’s enjoy it for a moment.” I breathe deep. “Whatever’s going on, it’s a beautiful thing.”

Kurt nods and turns to take in the sight while I start jogging backward around him in circles, delivering a series of shadow punches at the air. “We won!” I shout, jabbing right, left, right. “We beat them. Suckers!” I jab out with two more lefts and a right cross before repeating the offer I made the day I was raking leaves and he came to warn me.

“Kurt, you can join our team, now,” I suggest again. “Screw football. You’ll be the biggest gymnast in all of recorded history. I’ll teach you.”

“Muh-maybe,” Kurt says, not making any promises. I’m ready to pester him more, certain my idea is great, when something catches my eye. The football team. More precisely, the entire Knights football team charging toward the two of us, trampling through the slowly parting crowd like rampaging wildebeests, ready to avenge the downfall of their captains and coaches.

“Ohhhhhh, crap!” My voice rises as I ready to scamper out of there. Kurt grips his helmet by the face mask and hefts it, ready to swing it against the first wave of the attack. He spreads his feet wide, planting himself.

“Kurt, come on!” I squeak. “Can’t fight them all.”

“No one’s puh-puh-pushing me around nuh-nuh-no more,” he says. “You guh-go.”

“No!” I say. Wait! What did I just say? “If you’re not going,” I tell Kurt, “then I’m staying.” Kurt nods but doesn’t look my way because they’re almost here. Kurt crouches, battle helmet ready for the slaying, his free hand braced on his knee as he waits. I imitate him, then scrunch my eyes as they come at us, moving fast, Terrence, their running back, leading the charge.

As my maiming rapidly approaches, the sound of hoof-beats fills my ears.