The A-Word Read Free

what a bootleg play was. Did Donny know? Donny reared his arm back like he was going to pass left to the running back.
    “Do it!” shouted my brother.
    The pass was faked. Donny still had the ball. He dodged right behind the defensive linemen.
    “Get downfield!” my brother bellowed. “North and south!”
    I guess this meant keep running toward the goal line, because that’s what Donny did—right through the gap in Forest Ridge’s coverage. He was almost free and clear, when number sixty-eight from Forest Ridge broke free and sped after him. He was fast. Faster than the track guys I used to watch. Too fast. He dove for Donny. It was all over. I knew it.
    “Uh-oh,” Maggie said.
    “Aw, shit,” said my brother. “Idiot.”
    Number sixty-eight lunged.
    Casey leaned across the fence, stretching out an arm. He blew a breath.
    Later, number sixty-eight would tell everyone that some jerk from our school had somehow sabotaged him, messed with his cleats when he wasn’t looking, and that’s why he tripped. But anyone with eyes could see that both his shoelacescame undone only while he was closing in—undone in such a lace-flapping frenzy that there was no way you could miss it. And trip he did. He fell at Donny’s heels.
    The impact must have set Donny off-balance, because he started stumbling, too.
    “Jesus Christ,” my brother muttered.
    Out on the field, Lanie Phelps gave a girlie yelp.
    Donny righted himself—the crowd cheered like wild people—and then he was running across the goal line.
    Touchdown. Victory. The score was twenty-three to fifteen. We kicked the extra point to twenty-four and not long after that the buzzer sounded. I eyeballed my brother.
    “Thought you hated him,” I whispered in Casey’s ear. Not that I had to lower my voice. No one could hear me with all the joyful shouting.
    “I do,” he said. “Fuck.”
    Then everyone rushed the field even though it wasn’t allowed, and we pushed on through the gate with them, across the cinder track to the turf, the crowd hooting and hollering about how great Donny had done. How he’d won the game by himself.
    But he hadn’t done it by himself. Casey had used his angel mojo to help him.
    Lanie Phelps ran toward Donny. He grabbed her up in a celebratory hug, her blonde, pink-ribboned ponytail flying behind her.
    Casey started walking toward them. My heart flung itself into my neck, beating like crazy. What was he up to? Maybe I didn’t want to find out. If it were me, I’d want to pound the guy’s face. But
I
wasn’t an angel. On the other hand, even angelized, my brother was an unpredictable sort.
    I dashed after him. “Let’s go,” I said, tugging his arm.
    Which was when Maggie, scurrying at my side, elbowed me in the ribs. “Look at Casey,” she whispered.
    His skin wasn’t just radiant, it was glowing. He didn’t have the same shifting shadows on his face as the rest of us did. There were
no
shadows. Just an invisible sun fixed solely on him, illuminating every feature.
    “Those new stadium lights are amazing,” I hollered in case anyone else was looking, which other than my best friend, they were not. They were too busy congratulating Donny for something he hadn’t exactly done. Donny hugged Lanie closer. He pulled off his helmet and kissed her rumpled, blonde, sweaty cheerleading hair.
    I tugged at Casey’s hand again, agitated. He must have gotten the hint because the glow vanished. But then that angelic calm of his flowed through me, even though I didn’t want it to. Touching him was warm. It was a good warmth, like settling back into a beach chair at sunset. I could almost feel that invisible sun on my face. Everything faded comfortably. Even Maggie, blinking at Casey, was befuddled.
    And then the world came rushing back. My brother slipped from my grasp and strode quickly to Donny and Lanie—who turned to Casey with so many emotions in her eyes I needed a calculator to keep up with them.
    I held my breath. All the