heart are contrary historians.
The
Hot Seat
session was never aired. Mr. Robineau destroyed the tape. Of course, that didn’t stop every moment of it from being reported. In fact, most of the students knew about it by the time school opened next day.
What I recall then, when the last detail had been spilled, is a period of whispers and waiting. Tension. What would happen now? Would the jury’s open hostility spill over into the classrooms? How would Stargirl react? Answers were expected on the following day, Valentine’s Day. On previous holidays—Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Groundhog Day—Stargirl had left a little something on each desk in her homeroom. Would she do likewise this time?
The answer was yes. Each member of Homeroom 17 found a candy heart on his or her desk that morning.
There was a basketball game that night; that I do remember. The biggest game of the year. The Electrons had breezed through the regular season undefeated, but now the second season was about to begin: the play-offs. First the districts, then the regionals, and finally the state tournament. We had never even made it to the districts, but now visions of championships danced in our heads. The Electrons—champions of all Arizona! We would settle for nothing less.
First hurdle in our way was Sun Valley, champions of the Pima League. The game was played Valentine’s night on a neutral court in Casa Grande. All of Mica, it seemed, emptied out and headed for the game. Kevin and I went in the pickup.
From the moment the Mica mob entered the gym, our cheers rattled the rafters. The big green
M
on Stargirl’s white sweater flounced as she spun and leaped with the other cheerleaders. I spent as much time watching her as I did watching the game. She cheered when we scored. When Sun Valley scored, she did not. Something inside me felt better.
But not for long. We were losing. For the first time all year, we were trailing at the end of the first quarter. In fact, we were getting smoked, 21 to 9. The reason was no mystery. While Sun Valley’s team was not as good as ours, they did have one thing we did not: a superstar. A kid named Ron Kovac. He stood six-foot-eight and averaged thirty points per game. Our players looked like five Davids flailing against Goliath.
Sun Valley’s lead had increased to nineteen points midway through the second quarter. Our once-raucous fans were stunned into silence, and that’s when it happened. The ball was loose in the middle of the floor. Several players from each team dived for it. At that moment Kovac was running past, trying to avoid the divers, and his right foot came down on a prone player’s sneaker—so it was told in the newspapers the next day. At the time, it happened so fast no one saw it, though several people said they heard a sickening crack, like a twig snapping. All we knew was that suddenly Goliath was on the floor writhing and screaming, and his right foot looked all wrong, and the Sun Valley coaches and trainer and players were sprinting across the floor. But they were not the first. Stargirl, somehow, was already there.
While Kovac’s own cheerleaders sat gaping and stricken on their bench, Stargirl knelt on the hardwood floor. She held his head in her lap while the others attended his broken leg. Her hands moved over his face and forehead. She seemed to be saying things to him. When they carried him away on a stretcher, she followed. Everyone—both sides—stood and applauded. The Sun Valley cheerleaders leaped as if he had just scored two points. Ambulance lights flashed in the high windows.
I knew why I was applauding, but I wondered about some of the other Mica fans. Were they really standing in tribute, or because they were happy to see him go?
The game resumed. Stargirl returned to the cheerleaders’ bench. Without Kovac, Sun Valley was a pushover. By early in the second half we took the lead and went on to win easily.
Two nights later we lost to Glendale. Again we
The
Hot Seat
session was never aired. Mr. Robineau destroyed the tape. Of course, that didn’t stop every moment of it from being reported. In fact, most of the students knew about it by the time school opened next day.
What I recall then, when the last detail had been spilled, is a period of whispers and waiting. Tension. What would happen now? Would the jury’s open hostility spill over into the classrooms? How would Stargirl react? Answers were expected on the following day, Valentine’s Day. On previous holidays—Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Groundhog Day—Stargirl had left a little something on each desk in her homeroom. Would she do likewise this time?
The answer was yes. Each member of Homeroom 17 found a candy heart on his or her desk that morning.
There was a basketball game that night; that I do remember. The biggest game of the year. The Electrons had breezed through the regular season undefeated, but now the second season was about to begin: the play-offs. First the districts, then the regionals, and finally the state tournament. We had never even made it to the districts, but now visions of championships danced in our heads. The Electrons—champions of all Arizona! We would settle for nothing less.
First hurdle in our way was Sun Valley, champions of the Pima League. The game was played Valentine’s night on a neutral court in Casa Grande. All of Mica, it seemed, emptied out and headed for the game. Kevin and I went in the pickup.
From the moment the Mica mob entered the gym, our cheers rattled the rafters. The big green
M
on Stargirl’s white sweater flounced as she spun and leaped with the other cheerleaders. I spent as much time watching her as I did watching the game. She cheered when we scored. When Sun Valley scored, she did not. Something inside me felt better.
But not for long. We were losing. For the first time all year, we were trailing at the end of the first quarter. In fact, we were getting smoked, 21 to 9. The reason was no mystery. While Sun Valley’s team was not as good as ours, they did have one thing we did not: a superstar. A kid named Ron Kovac. He stood six-foot-eight and averaged thirty points per game. Our players looked like five Davids flailing against Goliath.
Sun Valley’s lead had increased to nineteen points midway through the second quarter. Our once-raucous fans were stunned into silence, and that’s when it happened. The ball was loose in the middle of the floor. Several players from each team dived for it. At that moment Kovac was running past, trying to avoid the divers, and his right foot came down on a prone player’s sneaker—so it was told in the newspapers the next day. At the time, it happened so fast no one saw it, though several people said they heard a sickening crack, like a twig snapping. All we knew was that suddenly Goliath was on the floor writhing and screaming, and his right foot looked all wrong, and the Sun Valley coaches and trainer and players were sprinting across the floor. But they were not the first. Stargirl, somehow, was already there.
While Kovac’s own cheerleaders sat gaping and stricken on their bench, Stargirl knelt on the hardwood floor. She held his head in her lap while the others attended his broken leg. Her hands moved over his face and forehead. She seemed to be saying things to him. When they carried him away on a stretcher, she followed. Everyone—both sides—stood and applauded. The Sun Valley cheerleaders leaped as if he had just scored two points. Ambulance lights flashed in the high windows.
I knew why I was applauding, but I wondered about some of the other Mica fans. Were they really standing in tribute, or because they were happy to see him go?
The game resumed. Stargirl returned to the cheerleaders’ bench. Without Kovac, Sun Valley was a pushover. By early in the second half we took the lead and went on to win easily.
Two nights later we lost to Glendale. Again we
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