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“You know, for a police detective, you’re pretty chicken,” he says.
I hang up. I rub my eyes. If Sampson finds out, if my dad finds out… plus, there’s the debate…
I promised Detective Sampson we’d stop. I can’t give in. Damn. I… will… not… give… in.
Then Gabe’s phrase races through my brain. “You’re pretty chicken.”
Maybe I should reconsider. After all, Gabe did promise that after this last crime scene he would “destroy the whole setup.” This would be one last adventure.
Okay. The farewell tour.
Maybe. I think. I won’t. I will.
I trade my old T-shirt for a denim collared shirt. I jump into a pair of cargo shorts. Closest-to-the-bed sneakers will do. Wallet. Keys. Phone.
And suddenly, I just can’t move.
My feet won’t hold me up. My legs won’t start. One simple job to do—walk. Yeah, I know how to walk, but I can’t. Every once in a while, I’ve got to follow the rules. Damn. This is one of those times.
I text Gabe:Can’t do it, man. Talk later.
Gabe texts me:Don’t freak, dude. Just don’t let me down tomorrow.
I lay my head back on the pillow. I know I’m not going to fall asleep soon. So, of course, there’s only one thing left to do. I think about the debate.
The debate. The debate. The debate.
THIS IS THEmost important event of my life so far.
Here I am at Nationals Park, about to pitch the last ball in the last game of the World Series.
Okay. Just joking. In case you didn’t guess.
Here I am, center stage at Madison Square Garden, about to perform with Beyoncé and Jay-Z.
Okay. Joking again.
But you get it. This is important, and I’m scared. Very scared. Whatever that land beyond “scared” is, that’s the land I’m living in.
This is debate day.
Sienna and I are standing at two scratched-up wobbly wooden podiums on the auditorium stage. Even though the middle school auditorium only holds two hundred people, tops, it looks like they’ve managed to pack the place with a hundred more. Some grown-ups are sitting on the floor. Lots of people are standing in the back. Kids are packed into the bleachers. Great. The bleachers give Sienna’s fans more room to hold up banners that say things likeAND THE WINNER IS SIENNAandYOU GO, SIENNA. There are a few signs apparently left over from some of the demonstrations. To the near right of me I readFRY THE PIGspray-painted on a sheet. A teacher makes those kids take it down. But it’s tense.
Oh, sure, I’ve got my team. But it really isn’t a big team. Up in the bleachers are Cedric, Mateo, Gabe, and maybe five other kids I know, all seated together.
Who else is there for me? Of course Nana Mama and Bree and Jannie and Detective Sampson. Dad is missing in action, that action being a narcotics recovery board meeting with some big shots over at George Washington University.
But the school auditorium is still standing-room only. Different teachers seem to be huddled together. And, of course, the place is peppered with the local leaders—the police chief, the police commissioner, the owner of the sporting goods store, two Baptist ministers, a lot of police officers, and… well, it’s crowded.
Suddenly, just as I start to get used to the big crowd, I’m not so scared about the debate itself. That doesn’t mean I’m feeling great, though. I wish to hell I’d stop sweating, stop squinting, stop touching my hair. Why do I keep smoothing my hair on top? Why am I pulling up my socks? Why does my throat feel so scratchy? Now I just hope I don’t throw up or trip or use the same chop-the-air hand gesture too much. I also wish that someone hadn’t carved “LOSER” into the top of my podium.
Of course, Sienna looks great, like she’s about to give a tough TV interview to some nasty senator. Black pants, dark gray sweater, a gold chain with a dangling gold cross. (A cross? Isn’t that cheating?)
Me, I’m dressed like a nerd from Planet Loser. Nana Mama said that my regular jeans were “too tight for standing on a stage,” so I ended up in my go-to church khakis. Nana’s fashion advice was also to “wear a collared shirt,” which meant I shouldn’t wear a T-shirt. So Sienna is standing up here looking like a celebrity, and I’m standing a few feet away from her looking like a kid who’s late for bio class.
It’s only been about fifteen seconds that my opponent and I have been standing here, but when Ms. Swanbeck, the debate moderator, starts walking down the aisle, I feel like I’ve actually been waiting for a few days.
Ms. Swanbeck steps to the center of the stage, and it’s at just that moment that Cedric and Gabe decide to shout out, “Go Ali!” This gets an immediate response from a lot of the crowd—a huge, loud chorus of boos. The guys couldn’t have waited, huh? They just couldn’t have waited.
