Knowing that things were about to get very, very bad—probably for me—I slowly, reluctantly, turned to see who had joined us.
Oh, crud . . . Here we go!
Chapter 2
You may have phenomenally dumb luck with some things, Millie Ostermeyer, but you will never be with my future boyfriend,” Vivienne Fitch advised me. She towered over me, having already changed out of her gym clothes and into a pair of heels that were forbidden on the polished floor, like she was sure Mr. Killdare wouldn’t make a last-minute appearance. Because, seriously . . . heels? He’d make her run ten laps in her stilettos, then force her to rent a power sander to buff out the scratches. “Because no twist of fate,” Viv added, “short of an accident with sheep shears, can save you from that mess on your head. It’s like a flag that says ‘I will always be alone.’”
I wasn’t sure he understood the joke, but her simian sidekick, Mike Price, snorted a laugh. Viv treated Mike like dirt—right down to openly expressing interest in Chase—but he continued to serve her like a butler and shamelessly sucked up because he was desperate to get in her pants. “Good one, Viv,” he grunted. “A flag. That’s funny.”
Ignoring him, I peered up at Viv. “First of all, I don’t give a rat’s derrière about Chase Albright. And no offense, but I don’t think you should get your hopes up. I seriously doubt he’s dying to date a girl who just showed up on national TV getting trampled by a giant bee—in slow motion, no less.”
Indeed, an amateur cell phone video of Viv getting crushed on the sidelines of a football game by Stingers’ mascot Buzz had resurfaced after going viral the year before. Just when it had seemed like “Cheerleader BuzzKill” had gone dormant forever—after upward of a million YouTube hits—ESPN had resurrected it for a bloopers show celebrating the start of the high school football season. Talk about national exposure—of Viv’s butt.
She jabbed a finger at me, a murderous gleam in her eyes. “I swear, if you had anything to do with that—”
“Viv, I do not spend my time videotaping you,” I promised her. “That whole thing was Mr. Killdare’s fault. He’s the one who kicked Buzz. Go threaten him!”
“Speaking of which,” Laura interrupted, “have you seen Coach Killdare, Viv? Because I’m kind of worried about him.”
Viv seemed to think Laura’d lost her mind. “I have no idea where he is,” she snapped, “and I don’t care if Hank Killdare fell through a wormhole into another dimension!”
I had to admit I grudgingly admired her grasp of time-space portals.
“Not only did he humiliate me,” she continued, her voice rising, “but if he gives me one more D for not climbing that stupid rope, I might not get into Harvard. I don’t care what the hell happened to him!”
Ouch. That was harsh. And why was she assuming that something had really “happened”? Had there been, say, a four-car pileup that the rest of us weren’t privy to yet?
“If you’d just eat something,” I suggested, not unkindly, “maybe you could climb the rope—and be in a better mood.”
“Not all of us have freakish metabolisms and can stuff our faces all day,” Viv countered. She glanced at my chest. “Although if I were you, I’d wish I could gain weight somewhere.”
Ooh, a flat-chest wisecrack. Those never got old.
Grabbing my book, I finally stood up, as did Laura. “What do you really want, Viv?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m here to remind you that you have an overdue story for the Gazette. And I want it on my desk, ASAP.”
I knew that Vivienne didn’t care about that stupid story, and was, as usual, “reminding” me that as student editor of the paper, she was technically my boss for the year. One who took twisted delight in giving me the worst assignments—including this latest snoozer, about some chinks in a cinder-block wall, for crying out loud.
“Viv, if you honestly think I’m going to schlep out to the football field to look at a few cracks in the bleachers—”
“Oh, I don’t just think you’ll do that.” She cut me off. “I expect to see a story about the stadium’s major structural problems on my desk by the end of the day. And I want quotes from Mayor Jack Ostermeyer, too, explaining why this boondoggle of a school that he wanted so badly not only gives people cancer, but is already falling apart at the seams.”
Laura sucked in a sharp breath because that was low, even by Viv’s standards.
My dad had fought for the construction of our state-of-the-art school, but that stuff about people getting sick because it stood on the site of an old factory . . . That had all been disproved—after nearly costing Dad an election. And my mom had died of an aggressive form of leukemia, back when I was ten. Viv should never even have uttered the word “cancer” around me, after what my family had been through.
“You’ll get your story when I feel like writing it,” I growled, feeling Laura’s fingers twine around my arm, like she was ready to hold me back. “And if you bug me again, you’ll have cracks in your head.”
Viv and I had a long history of pushing each other’s buttons, but she seemed to realize she’d gone too far. I could see it in her cold, sharky blue eyes. She didn’t back down, though—and certainly didn’t apologize. “I’ll give you two more days,” she advised me. She summoned her minion. “Come on, Mike. Let’s get out of here.”
I’d almost forgotten Mike was there, and he was equally oblivious to me. Following his gaze, I realized that his dull eyes were trained on Chase, who was still shooting hoops.
Mike’s a mean kid who’s still pissed about Chase getting his quarterback spot—and killing any shot he had at a college scholarship. And he really blames Mr. Killdare—
“Mike,” Viv snapped again, so her lackey surfaced from his trance. “Let’s go.”
I watched them walk across the gym, Viv’s heels clicking, until Laura ventured, “Hey, sorry about what she just said,”
Bending, I grabbed my mat since class was almost over. “You don’t have to apologize. You’re not the soulless psychopath.”
Laura began to roll up her mat, too. “You know she’s really just jealous of you.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I inspire envy in every Ivy-League-bound cheerleader with long, blond hair and what I swear is a surgically altered nose.”
“You are prettier than Vivienne,” Laura insisted. Before I could protest, she added, “You know she envies how easily stuff comes to you, and your red hair was the first thing she ever got jealous about. Remember how you won that costume contest in third grade, just by wearing a trash bag and making a ponytail on top of your head?”
I grinned. “Yeah, I was a volcano. While Viv’s family spent, like, a thousand dollars to dress her up as Snow White.”
I could still picture Viv stamping her crystal-encrusted shoes as I’d accepted a plastic pumpkin full of candy and marched down Market Street, leading Honeywell’s Halloween parade.
“And then there was the time you saved that kid at camp when he almost drowned in the lake,” Laura reminded me. “That was huge.”
“I was actually begging Kenny Kaluka to stop pulling on me,” I admitted. “I kept trying to pry his fingers off my arm the whole time I was dragging him to shore.”
“Well, you came off like a hero—and got Camper of the Year, even though Viv had dominated pretty much everything all summer, from archery to canoe racing.” Laura frowned. “And then you won that Peacemaker thing last year . . . That was probably the last straw.”
She was talking about the National Pacemaker Awards, which were the equivalent of Pulitzer Prizes for student journalists. And she was right about Viv having a conniption when I’d won for feature writing, for a sappy story about our school’s blind crossing guard. I hadn’t even technically entered—the Gazette’s eager new advisor, Mr. Sokowski, had filled out the paperwork—but I’d come home with the honors.
“That did tick her off pretty badly,” I agreed. “She didn’t even get honorable mention for her piece on bulimic cheerleaders.” I shrugged. �
��Too clichéd, I think.”
“And she’s obviously still mad about your father beating hers for mayor, too,” Laura noted as we walked toward the equipment storage closet. “She’s got it in for you and your dad.”
“Well . . .” I tossed my mat into a bin. “In less than a year, Viv and I will part ways forever. I’d say the odds of my accidentally shining again at her expense are pretty slim.”
I looked once more at Chase. Good thing I really don’t have designs on him. Viv would destroy me if I ever “stole” a guy she liked!
Laura was also watching the mysterious Mr. Albright—of course. But she didn’t think I should keep my distance. On the contrary, she suggested, “Hey, maybe you could do an exposé on Chase and win another one of those Peacemakers. He is a total—gorgeous—puzzle.”
I reached for the door to the locker room. “I’m pretty sure what I’d uncover would earn the headline ‘Self-Absorbed Rich Kid Too Snooty for Small Town.’ Which is not exactly a man-bites-dog story.” I kind of snorted. “Let’s face it. Nobody from Honeywell, Pennsylvania, will ever win the investigative reporting prize. What the heck would you look into?”
Laura and I both laughed, then, because nothing significant—not counting football championships—ever happened in our sleepy town.
It never occurred to either one of us that a question on our class’s collective mind, that morning, might actually turn out to be a huge story. No, it wasn’t until we’d had a substitute phys ed teacher for over a week, and my dad had slid into the role of de facto head coach of the Stingers, that I, at least, realized somebody might want to make a sincere effort to answer . . .
What the heck really happened to Coach Killdare?
Chapter 3
“Millicent, what is that stain on your uniform?” my father inquired, shooting me a quick glance as he drove me back to school, where I had an after-hours interview—and he had football practice—to conduct. He wrinkled his nose. “And why do you smell like rancid butter?”
“I had a little accident with the dispenser,” I admitted, wiping ineffectually at the oil slick on the hideous gold-buttoned, red polyester shirt I was required to wear at the theater, where I was scheduled to work that night. The uniform was supposed to resemble an usher’s getup from the Lassiter Bijou’s silent-movie heyday, but I was pretty sure I looked more like an organ grinder’s monkey in a fright wig. “Can we please go back home so I can get a jacket,” I begged yet again. “I’ll just run in quick—”
“I asked you, twice, if you had everything you needed before we left.” Dad cut me off. “This is a lesson in responsibility.”
Actually, it was going to be a lesson in humiliation, because all the football players and cheerleaders would be at school, too.
“Weren’t you supposed to do this story days ago?” Dad added, turning on to the winding road to the high school, which was located just outside the quaint little town he ruled with an iron fist. “I remember you mentioning a ‘lame article’ about stadium repairs quite a while back.”
“Actually, it was due eons ago,” I informed him. In fact, I’d deliberately delayed another six days after Viv had given me her two-day warning in the gym. “But I can’t give my editor the satisfaction of thinking she’s really my boss.”
Dad gave me another look. “Millie—she is your boss.”
“Well, in that case, I’m supposed to get a quote from you,” I said, without bothering to retrieve my notebook. Ever since the “cancer cluster” debacle, my father had distanced himself from anything school related except football. He could never wean himself off that addiction, and I strongly suspected that he wished he’d had a boy who could’ve played. Actually, I sometimes thought he secretly wished he’d just remained childless. “So, any comment on the bleachers?”
As I’d expected, he didn’t answer. After pulling into the school lot, he parked his sensible Dodge sedan in a visitor’s spot close to one marked H. Killdare—a little perk that I knew my dad would’ve liked and that had gone unused . . . I did a quick calculation, surprised to realize the real head coach had been gone for over a week.
“Dad, have you heard any news on Mr. Killdare?” I asked—not that I was eager to see Hollerin’ Hank in the gym again. His absence just seemed odd. “Like, has he called to say where he’s at?”
“No. But Principal Woolsey seems to vaguely recall Hank saying something about taking time off.” I could tell Dad—like pretty much everybody else—considered Mr. Woolsey completely incompetent when he confided, “Frankly, I think he’s afraid he dropped the ball and should know where his head coach has vanished to during the height of football season.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Mr. Woolsey,” I agreed. “But would Coach Killdare really blow off the season?”
“Emergencies arise, Millicent.” Dad rammed the car into “park.” “Some of which trump football, even.”
I opened my mouth to mention my sixth birthday party, which my father had missed because of a game, then let it go. In retrospect, there had been a lot of squealing, and Laura’d peed her pants after drinking too much lemonade. Who could blame a grown man for trying to avoid that scene? But I couldn’t imagine anything that would keep Hollerin’ Hank from football.
“Jeez, maybe Laura’s right,” I mumbled. “Maybe something really happened to Mr. Killdare!”
My dad didn’t share my concern. He gestured to the book on my lap. “I don’t want you reading while you work the concession stand tonight, Millie. That’s like stealing from your employer.”
How had I sprung from a father who was ambitious, followed rules, and—I studied my dad’s face—was olive-skinned, and dark-haired, and had a long, narrow nose? A nose that nobody would ever compare to that of a bulldog, like always happened to me?
In fact, Dad was probably decent-looking, by middle-age standards, and I wondered, as I sometimes did, Does he ever consider dating?
“Millie, did you hear me about reading equaling stealing?” he prompted.
“But we’re going to discuss this book in Philosophy Club,” I said, holding up my copy of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit—and invoking the organization I’d founded last year because my dad was worried about my lack of “extracurriculars.” Although I was still technically the only member, I added, “I need to be ready for the meeting.”
Dad wasn’t convinced. “Reading at work is stealing, Millie. Period.”
“Fine.” I tucked the book under my arm, thinking it was probably more like stealing when I ate Charleston Chews from the candy counter. But honestly, I hadn’t sold one in a year and felt like I was doing the owner, Mr. Lassiter, a favor by getting rid of them. If one of our old patrons ever did purchase one and tried to sink his or her dentures through stale, rock-hard nougat, my employer might just find himself footing a big dental bill. I didn’t mention that to my dad, though, and promised, “I’ll find something else to do when nobody’s buying popcorn.”
For some reason, my father still seemed exasperated, and as we got out of the car, he muttered, “I am going to talk to Isabel about when and where you read. You seem to actually listen to her.”
I had one foot on the pavement, but I stopped short, surprised that Dad had just called “my” librarian, Isabel Parkins, by her first name. I consulted with Ms. Parkins on at least a biweekly basis—she was both a book recommender and something of a confidante—but I rarely mentioned her to Dad. And I certainly never used her first name.
Then again, Ms. Parkins was head of Honeywell’s public library, a key part of Mayor Jack Ostermeyer’s fiefdom.
“Millie, will you get out of the car?” Dad suggested, adding, with a rare hint of laughter in his voice, “I think your date for the evening is waiting for you!”
I slammed the door, not sure what the heck he was talking about because I hadn’t had a date since . . . well, never. But when I looked across the parking lot, I spotted . . .
Oh, good grief.
Chapter 4
What a
pair Head of Custodial Services “Big Pete” Lamar and I must’ve made when we entered the football field, me in my organ-grinder’s-assistant suit and my “date”—weighing in at about three hundred pounds—lumbering along in soiled, olive-drab coveralls and heavy work boots.
We look like homecoming king and queen—at Clown College.
“Let’s get this over with,” I sighed, flipping open my notebook as we made our way down the track toward the far end of the bleachers. I clicked my ballpoint, ignoring the stares of the football players gathering around my dad. “What’s the deal with the stadium? How bad are these cracks?”
“It’s actually a mess,” Big Pete said, huffing from the walk. He began rifling through a huge ring of keys that he’d dug out from some cavernous recess in his pants. “We gotta empty out a storage space under the seats and bring in a crew to do repairs—then go through a state safety inspection. Pretty big—expensive—job.”
Okay, that surprised me. I’d expected him to confirm my suspicion that the story wasn’t even worth covering, and reluctantly took down his quote about the cost.
“Hank Killdare was the first to notice ’em and make a fuss,” Big Pete added. “Said he didn’t want the whole stadium collapsin’ during a game. Threatened to go to the real press . . .” He obviously realized he’d insulted me and gave me a sheepish look. “Sorry . . . Anyhow, Killdare said fix ’em—or else.”
“So these cracks . . . Are they really serious?”
“Eh.” Big Pete shrugged. “Probably just cosmetic, to be honest. But when Hank Killdare gets a bee in his bonnet . . .” Grinning at his own—clearly inadvertent—pun, he jabbed a thick finger at my notebook. “Hey, write that down! Stingers coach has a bee in his bonnet!”
I wasn’t laughing—or writing. I was looking at my father, who by then was surrounded by players, including Ryan, who waved to me; Mike Price, who was, as usual, doing his own lower-primate impersonation; and the always attention-grabbing Chase Albright, who stood with his arms crossed and a look of concentration on his gorgeous high-and-mighty face, now and then nodding at something my dad said.
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