He’d shaved off his beard, probably because it was driving him crazy. For a moment I thought he was bleeding, but then realized he was covered with Mojo paint spatters. He was still clutching his paint gun. “Come to gloat, Mazie? Congratulations on making me look like the sissy of the century.”I stared at him. “That tackle, you mean? I didn’t know it was you.”“That illegal tackle.”He turned and stomped off down the path.I followed. He crashed through scrubby trees whose branches whipped back and slapped me, and now I was mad because he was being so rude.“What about the taunting? Taunting is illegal, too!”“Only in football.”“You shouldn’t have done that dumb victory dance. That’s like counting your chickens before they’re hatched.”“That’s what I need now, farmyard clichés.”“You know what your problem is?”“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”“Your problem is you’re a sore loser! And your victory dance was lame! I mean what was that supposed to be, the hoochie coochie?”We’d reached the old bungalows, set back among a grove of tall cedar trees that shielded them from the parking lot.
