Garden of Angels by Lurlene McDaniel Page A

alone. Maybe we should ask him to sit with us.” The words were out before I could stop them.
    Becky gave me a quizzical look. “Why would we do that?”
    “Just being friendly. Like Pastor Jim asked.” I knew my face was turning red and the last thing I wanted was for Becky Sue to start giving me the third degree.
    Fortunately, our football team ran out onto the field and the stands went wild with cheering. Even I had to admit that the team appeared formidable. Especially J.T. He looked as big as a barn dressed out in pads and helmet. The opposition came onto the field, the captains met in the middle and the referee flipped a coin. It went our way and our team elected to kick off. The announcer on the PA system asked for silence while a minister said a prayer, which I figured Redford needed more than us; then the band played the national anthem and the whistle blew to start the game. All the while, I couldn’t help noticing that J.T. kept twitching and tugging at his uniform britches. I guessed even guys like him got nervous before a big game.
    The teams got into formation on the field, but just as the referee put the whistle in his mouth, the strangest thing happened. J.T. gave a yelp, stood straight up and commenced to dancing and whooping like a wild man, all the while grabbing at his private parts. For a stunned second, no one moved; then laughter erupted from both sets of bleachers, followed by catcalls.
    “You got hot pants, J.T.?” someone shouted.
    “Hey, J.T., hands off the family jewels!” called another.
    Coach rushed out onto the field and practically had to subdue J.T. with a headlock. Finally, he got him off the field and pointed toward the locker room, but by then all was in chaos. The teams had started slugging it out, and students poured out of the stands to join the melee. Both bands started marching and playing in an attempt to drown out the shouting, all the while bumping into each other. Becky and I had the good sense to sit tight. Someone could get hurt in the confusion, and we didn’t want it to be either of us.
    My view became obscured by people running past. Parents shouted for somebody to get the police. I couldn’t stop laughing, remembering the sight of J.T.’s impromptu war dance.
Whatever in
the world had happened?
I turned in time to see Jason push away from the fence and cut through the crowds, going against the surge of bodies like a fish swimming upstream. He looked up, and for a brief moment our gazes locked. His eyes were cool, his expression satisfied. He nodded at me, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and disappeared into the parking lot. I watched him go, my brain on fire with curiosity, my heart aflame from the contact.
    The game wasn’t played that night and it took every cop in Redford and two Georgia state troopers to disperse the crowd. The story made the eleven o’clock news in both cities. The Saturday sports section alluded to a “vicious, unsportsmanlike prank perpetrated on J. T. Rucker, defensive center for the Conners Rebels.” And, “Inquiries are being made by police and school officials alike. When the culprit is apprehended, he will be punished.”
    I read the story several times, all the while chuckling at the memory of J.T. whooping and hollering and grabbing himself on the field with half the county watching. Of course, I knew that no one at school would dare tease him about it unless they had a death wish. Still, it was payback for the many times over the years that J.T. had bullied kids who couldn’t fight back.
    On Monday, our principal, Mr. Hagan, came on the PA and told the whole school that what had happened at the game wasn’t funny and that if anyone knew anything, blah, blah, blah. I tuned him out midway through his speech. By lunchtime it was all over school that the “prankster” had somehow managed to put itching powder on J.T.’s jockstrap, thus causing his odd behavior and war dance. Seems like it left burned patches on