Shaggy sat on a bench out in the commons. The sun was bright, but misleading. He crossed his arms tighter against the wind, his eyes scanning the commons as he thought about Danny.
He and Danny had grown up together, just a few blocks from the University of Coolsville. Danny had been with him when he had picked Scooby Doo out back when the dog was just a pup. Danny was a year older than him, and had turned eighteen in '66. Ahead in credits, he graduated high school early when his number had come up. He was shipped out to Vietnam for a year, and came back just in time to turn nineteen. They had both started at the University at the same time, but Danny, being the kind of guy he was, was already set to graduate three years in. Playing professional football had been his current dream, but Shaggy knew it wasn't the end goal. He would have had a degree in business in the spring.
Shaggy's chest clenched at the memory of them setting up a lemonade stand in front of their house back in junior high. The thought of never seeing him again, outside of the pictures of his bloated body Daphne had in her file, was too much for him. It was like his brother died.
Shaggy shook his head, trying to clear the sadness. It was pointless, he knew, but he still tried.
"Hey man," a man's voice called from behind him. Shaggy turned.
A short kid wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket ran up to him from across the commons. He took a seat next to Shaggy on the bench.
"Stan," Shaggy said with a nod at the kid.
"Hey, so I wanted to let you know there's gonna be a party over at Stucky's house tonight. Lisa says she can score us some pretty good hash if you're interested," Stan offered, peering over the top of his sunglasses.
"Nah, man I'm good," Shaggy shook his head. "Besides, I've got like a meeting tonight."
"A meeting? On a Friday night?" Stan asked. "What kind of meeting is that, man?"
"Just a... study group," Shaggy lied. "We've got like a big midterm on Monday that we're studying for."
"Aw. Well, that stinks, man," Stan clapped Shaggy on the shoulder and stood up. "I'll guess I'll see you later then. Maybe at the vigil for Danny this Sunday?"
"Vigil?" Shaggy asked, squinting in the sun as he looked up at Stan.
"Yeah. Like Tony Sanders and Lex Dixon from the football team are holding it. Sunday at Casem Hall."
"Like... cool," Shaggy nodded. "See you around man."
Stan and Shaggy hi-fived, and Stan took off down the sidewalk.
Shaggy watched him go. It wasn't long before Stan had gotten to the next group of students who had hippie leanings to promote the party. As Shaggy stared, he realized there was a gash on the side of Stan's leather jacket.
For a moment, Shaggy wondered if it was something he should look into, but he decided to ignore it. Stan had been wearing that jacket since at least 1963. It would be crazy to think it would still be in great condition after so many years.
Instead, he turned his attention to a group of football players on the other side of the commons. He spotted Tony Sanders, in his letterman jacket, wooing a few freshman girls with his good looks and Midwestern charm.
Shaggy remembered Danny speaking briefly about the pair a long time ago. They were both linebackers, big burly dudes with about as much in brains in their head as compassion in their hearts, which is to say not much. That was what struck Shaggy as the most odd: Tony Sanders and Lex Dixon would be the last people in the school to hold a vigil for someone, even if they were the star quarterback on their team.
Tony ran a hand through his hair so that his muscles bulged under his jacket. Shaggy looked away, as the girls around Tony started giggling.
A vigil, for Danny, held by Tony Sanders and Lex Dixon. It just didn't make any sense.
Shaggy picked at his nails. He wanted a drink, but he couldn't, he just couldn't. Danny had been a teetotaler. The idea of drinking his grief away felt like an insult to Danny's memory.
Danny's memory. The words in his head made him want to scream. How the hell could Danny Snyder, who went to Vietnam and came back in one piece, who could get sacked twenty times every football game and never get hurt, who never drank or did drugs or anything stupid end up dead before him?
It wasn't right. Danny didn't deserve to die. It was wrong. It was…unjust.
Shaggy was going to find out who did it and make them pay. And that, he was certain, is how Danny would have wanted it.
"So, in conclusion, who can tell me what went wrong here?" a football coach asked as the TV beside him clicked off.
"We let the linebacker in," a player on the bench in front of Fred muttered.
"What was that Rafferty?"
"We let the linebacker in. And he got through the guards and sacked the quarterback," Rafferty answered louder.
"You let him take down the damn quarterback. Now those linebackers from the University of Southern Ohio are going to be looking for those holes and by God they are going to find them. Now Radomski," the coach pointed to a blonde guy next to Fred. "Is gonna be starting at quarterback tomorrow. And I want the rest of you to get your act together. We can't afford to lose this game. So I want everyone to reread their playbooks tonight, get some sleep, and then be here tomorrow at 6am ready to go through this again. You understand?"
There was a murmur of assent.
"I said do you understand?" the coach repeated loudly.
"YES, SIR," a chorus of football players called back.
"That's better. Now go clean up. I'll see all of you in the morning."
At this, most of the players stood from the benches and started shuffling towards the lockers. Voices picked up until there was a good cacophony of chatter from all sides.
Fred squeezed past a group of offensive lineman to get to his locker. He fidgeted with the lock for a moment, then glances over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching before inputting the combination.
He was not going to lie; it did not smell good. Old socks, sweaty undershirts, an extra pair of cleats. The smell was bad enough he worried it would singe the picture of Daphne taped inside the door.
Starting with his jersey, he slowly pulled off his uniform and equipment until only his underclothes remained. He grabbed a couple bottles of soap from the top shelf, and closed the locker door. Waiting right behind it was a big beefy guy with a crew cut.
"Dixon," Fred acknowledged with a nod
"Jones," the guy nodded back. "I wanted to talk to you about Danny Synder."
Fred stiffened.
"What about him?"
"Just that Tony, you know, Tony Sanders? Well he and I wanted to hold a vigil for him. Tomorrow at 7pm at Casem Hall. We were hoping that maybe you could say a few words? You know, as one of the captains and all."
Fred considered him for a moment.
"Yeah, I guess I could do that," Fred said. "I'll be there."
"Cool, man," Lex replied. He clapped Fred on the shoulder, and turned to go to his own locker. Fred watched him for a moment.
"WHO THE HELL DID THIS?" a man shouted angrily from by the coach's office.
All the men in the vicinity turned to the man who yelled.
It was Assistant Coach Paul Waters. He was pointing at a clipboard he held up. On the top page, in bright red letters, was the word "candyass", 60s slang for a wimp.
"WHO DID THIS?" he shouted, his face growing a deeper and deeper shade of red. "TELL ME THIS INSTANT."
The team members averted their gaze. Some picked at their nails, others stared at the floor or the ceiling. Not a sound was heard.
"Y'ALL TELL ME WHO DID THIS RIGHT NOW OR ALL OF YOU ARE GONNA COME IN AT 5 AM TOMORROW TO RUN LAPS."
Two short guys near the showers both raised their hands, their eyes resolutely locked on the floors.
"Radomski, Bellamy, consider your asses benched until further notice. Jones," the coach barked. "You're starting quarterback tomorrow."
An ice cube slid into Fred's stomach as he nodded.
"That's it," the coach said, anger still present in his voice. "I'll see you tomorrow."
The coach huffed loudly, and disappeared back into the office. His door slammed shut, and slowly conversation in the locker room resumed. Within a few minutes, it was back to its pre-interruption sound level.
A few guys came up to Fred to congratulate him on the promotion, but the nods, thanks, and grins he gave them were just going through the motions. The icy feeling in his stomach grew with every passing praise or congratulatory pat on the back.
"You ready to fill Snyder's shoes?" one passing teammate asked jovially.
iHard to fill if we can't even find them./i
