Free Bleachers by John Grisham

you had your pick of any girl in the school. You dumped Cameron because Screamer was hot to trot. I hated you for it.”
    “Come on, Nat, really?”
    “I hated your guts. Cameron was a closefriend from kindergarten, before you came to town. She knew I was different, and she always protected me. I tried to protect her, but she fell for you and that was a huge mistake. Screamer decided she wanted the all-American. The skirts got shorter, blouses tighter, and you were toast. My beloved Cameron got thrown aside.”
    “Sorry I brought this up.”
    “Yeah, man, let’s talk about something else.”
    For a long, quiet moment there was nothing to talk about.
    “Wait till you see her,” Nat said.
    “Pretty good, huh?”
    “Screamer looks like an aging high-dollar call girl, which she probably is. Cameron is nothing but class.”
    “You think she’ll be here?”
    “Probably. Miss Lila taught her piano forever.”
    Neely had nowhere to go, but he glanced at his watch anyway. “Gotta run, Nat. Thanks for the coffee.”
    “Thanks for coming by, Neely. A real treat.”
    They zigzagged through the racks and shelves toward the front of the store. Neely stopped atthe door. “Look, some of us are gathering in the bleachers tonight, sort of a vigil, I guess,” he said. “Beer and war stories. Why don’t you stop by?”
    “I’d like that,” Nat said. “Thanks.”
    Neely opened the door and started out. Nat grabbed his arm and said, “Neely, I lied. I never hated you.”
    “You should have.”
    “Nobody hated you, Neely. You were our all-American.”
    “Those days are over, Nat.”
    “No, not till Rake dies.”
    “Tell Cameron I’d like to see her. I have something to say.”
______________
    The secretary smiled efficiently and slid a clipboard across the counter. Neely printed his name, the time, and the date, and put down that he was visiting Bing Albritton, the longtime girls’ basketball coach. The secretary examined the form, did not recognize either his face or his name, and finally said, “He’s probably in the gym.” The other lady in the administration office glancedup, and she too failed to recognize Neely Crenshaw.
    And that was fine with him.
    The halls of Messina High School were quiet, the classroom doors were all closed. Same lockers. Same paint color. Same floors hardened and shiny with layers of wax. Same sticky odor of disinfectant near the rest rooms. If he stepped into one he knew he would hear the same water dripping, smell the same smoke of a forbidden cigarette, see the same row of stained urinals, probably see the same fight between two punks. He kept to the hallways, where he passed Miss Arnett’s algebra class, and with a quick glance through the narrow window in the door he caught a glimpse of his former teacher, certainly fifteen years older, sitting on the corner of the same desk, teaching the same formulas.
    Had it really been fifteen years? For a moment he felt eighteen again, just a kid who hated algebra and hated English and needed nothing those classrooms had to offer because he would make his fortune on the football field. The rush and flurry of fifteen years passing made him dizzy for a second.
    A janitor passed, an ancient gentleman who’d been cleaning the building since it was built. For a split second he seemed to recognize Neely, then he looked away and grunted a soft “Mornin’.”
    The main entrance of the school opened into a large, modern atrium that had been built when Neely was a sophomore. The atrium connected the two older buildings that comprised the high school and led to the entrance of the gymnasium. The walls were lined with senior class pictures, dating back to the 1920s.
    Basketball was a second-level sport at Messina, but because of football the town had grown so accustomed to winning that it expected a dynasty from every team. In the late seventies, Rake had proclaimed that the school needed a new gym. A bond issue passed by ninety percent, and Messina