MY LOCKER’S AT THE END of the hall in the basement of our main building. I’m locker number 7, the last one on the top row before the staff john, marked TEACHERS REST ROOM—PRIVATE. The trophy case is directly behind it, made of cherrywood, with glass shelves lit up around the handful of sports trophies we’ve won, and Bobby’s closest to the top—right below the empty shelf where the Yavapai Cup is supposed to be. Bobby’s trophy used to be golden, throwing flashes of corn-colored light clear across the hall. Now it’s coated in specks of oily blue, and the punter standing on top of the pillar kicking the football to high heaven is mostly orange with some dingy brown running through his jersey, the same as an old copper penny. I suppose nobody cares enough to bother unlocking the case every once in a while and polishing them up now that the school’s closing. “Looks like they’ll be counting on you this year, won’t they?” Principal Mackenzie says. He just walked out of the john and is standing behind me, eyeing the trophies, too.
