by Brett Cooper
Pure Gold
By Brett Cooper
Copyright 2013 Brett Cooper
Original Cover Photo by Alasdair Middleton
(https://www.flickr.com/photos/alza06/),
Photo adapted by Brett Cooper
License Notes
Chapter One
At 6:30 on Monday morning, Christine Gold claimed her favorite spot in the Morning Valley High School library media center. It was far back in the corner, away from the noise of the hallways and the inquisitive glances of the librarians at the circulation desk, and near enough to the wall of windows to provide plenty of illumination, without the glare.
Time to study. Always time to study, really – but the mornings were particularly good because she was fresh in mind and body, recovered from the previous night’s gymnastics training, and because being the early bird made her feel like she was about to get the worm. Whenever she laid out her books and papers on the table and got to work in the quiet before the chaos ensued, Christine invariably felt powerful. Like Wonder Woman. Super Girl. Valedictorian.
Such a beautiful word, valedictorian. Six syllables. Latin etymology. Academic perfection. First in class. Ivy League material. Most Likely to Succeed. All of these were her destiny, if she had anything to say about it, and she did. But first she needed a bulletproof GPA. An A in every class, even in AP Calculus and AP Physics, the two which worried her most. But those classes would not terrorize her till her senior year.
Focus on freshman year first, Christine.
She heard the soft sound of casters rolling across carpet. It was Peter the custodian, pulling a trash can across the library. His duties brought him here every morning between 6:35 and 6:45, usually. A big bear of a man, Eastern European maybe, he seemed to be even shier than Christine, which put her slightly at ease. He had a nice smile, too. Very humble. He made eye contact with her, smiled awkwardly and then cast his gaze to the floor.
“Good morning,” Christine said.
“Hello,” Peter replied, his voice low and gruff yet still pleasant.
He sure was no chatterbox. Rather mysterious. Christine wondered briefly what his story was. Probably a married man, she thought. Maybe a few kids – struggling but getting by. Who knows, really, how anyone else actually lives.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. She checked it.
A text from her dad: “got it. by the dumpster at 715″
Huh?
As she puzzled over this, another text came: “sorry dear. ignore. fingers typing randomly lol. have a good day”
Christine labored to focus for the rest of the day. The message of that first text was a like a brainbug in her ear, gnawing, gnawing. In Biology class, she really began to worry. An affair? Was her dad scheduling a meeting with some other woman by a dumpster? Or was he involved with the mob somehow? Why would someone meet by a dumpster? The second text was obviously a cover-up. Her dad had meant to send the first text to someone else. Sent it to her accidentally. Who had he meant to text? And what did “got it” refer to? Something to throw away in the dumpster? Or maybe money? Or a gun? Drugs?
She’d been watching too much Netflix. These ideas were coming too easily, fast and furious. This was her dad, after all. How could Christine be thinking such awful things about her father? He worked so hard for his family. Was so supportive. He was a great dad. He was the best.
Still, that night, at gymnastics, Christine decided to duck outside just before 7:15.
“Can I take five?” she said to Coach Jill, who was one of three coaches. Coach Jill gave her a nod of approval.
Mrs. Gold, waiting with a few other parents in the viewing area, gave Christine a questioning look as she passed.
“Need some fresh air,” Christine said. “Be right back.” And she waved and skipped on by before her mom could say anything else.
Tentatively, Christine navigated her way in the dark of a cool March evening, from the parking lot to the alley and then to the back of the gym, where the dumpsters were. She peeked around the corner.
No one was there.
I’ll wait three minutes, she thought.
But she didn’t need that long, because her dad appeared a minute later, from the other side of the building. A few seconds after, Coach Alexis, the head coach, appeared from a back door and approached Mr. Gold. He handed her something. An envelope? She examined it, then tucked it in a back pocket or maybe under the waistband at the small of her back. Coach Alexis leaned close to Mr. Gold. They were whispering. And then Christine’s dad laughed once, and he left.
Christine retreated just as Coach Alexis turned to look her way. Pressed against the wall, breathing heavily, Christine was struck by a thought: her coach of eight years, since she was just six, was not only a gifted gymnast, a former Olympic hopeful and an inspiration to all of the girls, was not only strong-willed and persuasive, not only blond and fit and petite; she was also quite attractive for her age.
Christine felt sick.