Stiff Competition

by Annelise Ryan

  Hurley plops the sandwiches into a frying pan and then puts a lid on it. He turns to me with a crooked grin and says, “Is this that moment in our relationship when we start talking about the exes and comparing numbers?”

  “Comparing numbers?” I say with a gulp of dread.

  “Yeah, how many other men have you been with before me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. This is an out and out lie. I know exactly how many there have been. “Well, there was David, of course.”

  “My number is sixteen,” Hurley says.

  “Sixteen? Seriously? You’ve slept with sixteen other women besides me?”

  “Fifteen besides you. You’re number sixteen. Eleven of them were during my high school and college years and they were either one-night stands or short-lived affairs. I was a bit randy back then,” he says with a wink and a sheepish smile.

  “I once dated a guy named Randy.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  I smile and shake my head. “No, but he made it to second base several times.”

  “Well, at least he lived up to his name then,” Hurley says with a wink. “I got tamer once I finished college. There have only been four women since then, and you already know about two of them: Kate and Callie. In between those two were Jessica and Melanie.”

  “Jessica came after Kate?”

  Hurley picks up a spatula in preparation for flipping our sandwiches and wags it at me. “Oh, no, you don’t,” he says with a sly smile. “No more details from me until I get your number.”

  I don’t want to tell him my number. It’s considerably lower than his and I’m not sure how he’s going to interpret that. Will he see it as a good thing that I wasn’t a bed-hopper in my younger days? Or will he see it as a sign of how undesirable I am?

  “Let’s go back to talking about Emily,” I say, eager to change the subject.

  Hurley narrows his eyes at me for a few seconds and then opens them wide. “What is it? Why don’t you want to share your number? Is it huge?”

  “No it’s not huge,” I snap back.

  “Then why won’t you tell me what it is?”

  “Fine. It’s five. You are number six. Are you happy?”

  He smiles smugly. “David was number five?” he asks.

  “Are you asking me if I’ve slept with anyone else since David and I split up? Because we already covered this subject when we had the whole pregnancy discussion, remember?”

  “Just checking. Tell me about numbers one through four.” He slides a sandwich onto a plate and brings it to me. Then he goes back for the second one, putting it on a plate for himself and settling in across the table. “Actually, tell me about number one. Who was the first?”

  “Mitch Dalrymple.” I take a bite of my sandwich to stall for time. Hurley makes killer grilled cheese sandwiches, cooking them nice and slow so that the butter infuses into the bread and all the cheese melts into a gooey, delicious mass. He also sprinkles a little cheese on the outside of the bread, creating a crunchy, cheesy crust.

  “How old were you?” Hurley asks.

  “Sixteen. We met over the summer between my sophomore and junior years in high school when I was working at the old Dairy Queen that used to be in town. Mitch had just moved here and he told me he was from Los Angeles and had to move because his parents split up. He worked at the DQ, too, and we bonded over the single parent thing because he said his father had stayed in L.A. He told me he was working because his mother had gotten screwed over by his father when it came to money and he had to do what he could to try to help her make ends meet. He seemed so worldly and experienced to me, and he was a big name-dropper, mentioning famous people he’d seen or met when he lived in L.A. Plus he was really handsome, funny, and easy to talk to. He talked me right into his bed by the end of the summer.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “A little over two weeks. Once school started, Mitch realized there were plenty of other cute girls in town and he moved on pretty quickly. He stole the virginity of several of my classmates by the time the school year was out. Then he moved away. We learned later that the whole L.A. story was made up. They were actually from Texas, where his mother was wanted for check forgery.”

  “Ouch,” Hurley says with a grimace.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” I say with a smile, taking another bite of my sandwich. “But I have to tell you that those two weeks when I was Mitch’s girl, I felt like the queen of the ball.”

  “Were you heartbroken when he moved on?”

  “Of course, but I put up a good front. I was good at it by then because I’d been rejected by any number of boys for the same reason Mitch gave me.”

  “Which was?”

  “That I was too tall. He wanted someone smaller, daintier. You have to understand that back then there weren’t very many boys who were taller than me. Toward the end of my junior year they started catching up and some even surpassed me, but until then I was the tallest person in my school. It made me very popular during the slow songs at school dances but very unpopular for dating. Which sort of segues into guy number two, Teddy Lawrence.”

  I pause long enough to finish off my sandwich and lick the butter off my fingers. Hurley’s eyes watch me with a steamy interest that makes me rethink the possibilities for some cuddle time. But then he seems to snap to attention. He shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, gets up from the table, and puts both of our plates in the sink. “The tale of Teddy will have to wait for another time,” he says. “I’m rethinking the Emily situation. I want to make a quick run by the school to see if she might be out in the parking lot with Johnny. I’ve smelled cigarette smoke on her a few times so maybe she’s just hanging out with him in his car smoking.”

  We head out to the car and as soon as we are under way I say, “Turnabout is fair play. I want to hear about your first. How old were you?”

  “Sixteen, the same as you. It was with Becky Cooper, a cute little redhead who was in my geometry and biology classes.”

  I’m not happy to hear that his first was a redhead. Images of Charlie pop into my head. Then images of my color-challenged hair pop into my head.

  “Becky had freckles that she hated, but to me they were the cutest things ever. I used to sit in class and daydream about tracking those freckles up her arms, up her legs, down her neck . . . to all the places I couldn’t see. But for the longest time, all I had the courage to do was daydream because she was dating the high school quarterback, a senior named Rick McKay. Like the boys you went to school with, I was a little slow in reaching my full potential and at that age I was only about five-six. I didn’t hit a major growth spurt until my senior year in high school and then I kept growing during my first two years in college. As a sophomore, Rick McKay scared the crap out of me because he was close to six feet tall and very muscular. I figured I didn’t stand a chance with Becky, but then one day we got paired together in biology lab. At first I was so tongue-tied I could barely talk to her, but like your Mitch, she was funny and easygoing, and before I knew it we were getting on like we’d been friends all our lives.

  “I’m not sure when I began to suspect that she liked me and was getting tired of Rick, but I noticed she was touching me a lot more all of a sudden. You know . . . a hand on my hand, a brush of her breast against my shoulder as she reached for something, a bit of foot play under the table that may or may not have been intentional. And she started talking smack about Rick, how he ignored her and talked down to her. I saw my chance and made my move. I asked her out to a movie on a Friday night when there was an away football game and I knew Rick wouldn’t be in town. She accepted and I was in heaven. I don’t even remember what movie we saw because I was busy the entire time trying to plot out the rest of the evening. Little did I know that Becky was plotting, too. She invited me back to her place and I discovered that we had the house to ourselves because her parents and her little brother were out of town for the weekend. Then Becky seduced me. To me it was a turning po
int in my life, the start of what I knew was going to be a lifelong relationship.”

  He pauses, shakes his head, and laughs. “How naïve we can be at that age, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Anyway, it turns out that Becky’s only interest in bedding me was to make Rick jealous so he’d pay her the attention she felt she was due. As soon as I went home that night, she was on the phone telling her friends what had happened, knowing that eventually it would get back to Rick. I couldn’t figure out why she wouldn’t take my calls or call me back all weekend, but come Monday at school I came to the truth all too fast. Rick met me in the parking lot before classes started and beat the crap out of me.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, feeling bad for the younger, naïve Hurley.

  “Yep, he told me that if I ever so much as spoke to Becky again he’d have me killed. He was a mean kid, too. He might have actually done it. But it didn’t matter because Becky was back on his arm, smiling and happy, and I knew I’d been played. Not speaking to her after that was easy except for that damned biology lab. Fortunately we only had two more classes together as a team and I skipped them both. Got a D in the class as a result because we didn’t finish our experiment, but I didn’t care.”

  “That’s horrible,” I tell him. “Whatever happened to the two of them? Did they stay together?”

  “No, once Rick graduated, he moved on to college and Becky was left behind. She tried to make another play for me later on, but I’d learned my lesson by then. Though I have to confess, red hair and freckles haunted me throughout the rest of high school.”

  Red hair again. Damn.

  We arrive at the high school and Hurley pulls into the student lot and cruises the aisles. After driving the full circuit, he stops and frowns.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I don’t see Johnny Chester’s car.”

  Hurley pulls out of the lot and goes around to the front of the school. It’s almost two-thirty, which means the school day will be ending in another hour or so. He parks and turns off the engine.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m going inside to talk to the principal. Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

  I follow Hurley inside, where he makes straight for the main office. He and I met the high school principal, Jeanette Knowles, last spring while we were investigating the death of one of the school’s teachers. Knowles is a grandmotherly-looking woman with a warm smile, gray hair, and a matronly build. But beneath that sweet façade is a stern woman with a disposition made of fire and a spine made of steel. Our last encounter wasn’t what I would call friendly, so it’s no surprise that she greets us today with scorn and suspicion. She is out in the main area when we enter the office, chatting with the receptionist.

  “Detective,” she says with obvious disdain. “What on earth brings you back here to my office? I’m pretty sure all of our teachers are here and alive today, and as far as I know none of our students have killed anyone.”

  “I’m here on personal business,” Hurley says with amazing calm. “It’s about my daughter, Emily.”

  “Ah, yes, our newest truant. I hope you realize that if she keeps skipping out on her classes, she may not pass for the year.”

  “I’m aware of the issues,” he says with a hint of impatience. “And if I’m not mistaken, she’s keeping her grades up despite her skips.”

  “That may be, but if she continues this pattern of behavior, those grades are likely going to plummet. And we do have attendance policies. If she misses much more time without a legitimate excuse, she’ll end up with an automatic suspension.”

  “We can discuss that if and when it happens,” Hurley says dismissively. “I’m here because I received a text earlier informing me that Emily hadn’t returned to class after lunch. Is she still absent?”

  “She is,” Knowles says.

  “She’s not at home and normally when she does this, she’s off somewhere with her boyfriend, Johnny Chester. Is he absent also?”

  Knowles lets out a humorless chuckle. “In a manner of speaking,” she says. “He was suspended for two weeks last Friday.”

  “What for?”

  “He was found with contraband in his locker.”

  “What sort of contraband?” Hurley asks impatiently.

  “I’m not at liberty to share that information with you.” Knowles looks smugly pleased as she says this. “Confidentiality, you know.”

  Hurley narrows his eyes down to a laser glare. I have to give Knowles credit; she doesn’t so much as blink. But Hurley isn’t done with her yet.

  “Ms. Knowles,” he says, tight-lipped, “my daughter is missing and may well be in the company of this Chester boy. If I find out that his suspension was because of some dangerous or illegal behavior that has put my daughter in jeopardy or in any sort of compromising situation, and you didn’t inform me of that, I’m going to be all in your business for the foreseeable future. I’m sure you realize that there are any number of ways I can make life difficult for you and the school. So if you’re sure you want to play hardball, I’m ready.”

  Knowles stares back at him for several seconds before firing off her own volley. “Mr. Hurley,” she says, emphasizing the title in what I suspect is an attempt to belittle his position. “As Emily’s parent, it is your responsibility to see to it that your daughter is aware of the dangers inherent in certain things, and to not only teach her the rules, but see to it that she follows them. We here at the school are not the parents of these kids, nor are we their babysitters. So if you want to start laying blame at someone’s feet for your daughter’s behavior, I suggest you start with your own.”

  Another round of staring commences, and at first I’m not sure which side to lean toward because I agree with the arguments put forth by both parties. My inherent bias eventually kicks in, making me want to defend, or at least support, Hurley. The receptionist is sitting at her desk looking relaxed and amused. I imagine she finds exchanges like this entertaining.

  Sensing that both Knowles and Hurley are equally stubborn and hardheaded, I decide to jump into the fray and appeal to Knowles’s softer, more feminine side. “Ms. Knowles, I’m sure you know that Emily has had a very rough time of things this past year. First she was forced to leave her friends behind and move to a town where she doesn’t know anyone. Then her mother died, leaving her in the care of a father she doesn’t know because up until this year she thought he was dead. On top of that, her newfound father is also the new father of a baby boy, which no doubt makes Emily feel like she doesn’t matter. Add to that her age, and all the hormonal ups and downs that go with that, and you’ve got a very troubled young girl in need of understanding and sympathy.”

  Knowles turns her steely glare my way, hands on her ample hips, and proceeds to show me just how foolish I am to think she actually has a softer, feminine side. “Ms. Winston, given that I know you are a new mother and therefore likely exhausted and hormonal, I’m going to cut you some slack. But before you go lecturing us or pointing your finger at anyone here, let me say again that we are not babysitters. We are eager to help and be a part of the team, but our students’ problems are the primary responsibility of their parents, or in this case, parent. And based on our records, that doesn’t include you.”

  I hear Hurley suck air through his teeth and he takes a slight step backward. I, on the other hand, take a step forward until I’m nearly in Knowles’s face. I may have soggy boobs and spit-up inspired hair at the moment, but I also have some cojones and I’m about to show them to Knowles.

  “Your attitude is both appalling and unprincipled,” I tell her. “Pun intended,” I add with a snippy smile. “Let me remind you that my brother-in-law is Lucien Colter, a damn fine attorney and first cousin to Gerhardt Townsend, who I believe is the superintendent of schools for our county and therefore your boss. I’m sure they would both be very interested in hearing your position on this matter.”

  A standoff ensues as Knowles and I stare one anothe
r down, but I’m feeling pretty confident. I saw the way her color paled when I mentioned Lucien’s name. And once again Lucien’s reputation holds sway as Knowles blinks first. “What do you want from me?” she asks through narrowed, tightened lips.

  I look over at Hurley with a half smile and step back.

  Hurley clears his throat. “Um, for starters, you can tell me why the Chester boy was suspended.”

  Knowles sighs before she answers. “We found marijuana in his locker after someone made an anonymous tip.”

  “Thank you,” Hurley says. “I want to call the Chester house to see if Emily is there. Can you give me a phone number please?”

  Knowles does so grudgingly, nodding toward the receptionist who has been sitting behind her desk looking like she wished she had a big tub of buttered popcorn. The receptionist lets out a mournful little sigh—no doubt disappointed that the brush fire before her didn’t turn into a major conflagration—looks up the number on her computer, and writes it on a slip of paper that she then hands to Hurley.

  Hurley looks at Knowles and says, “When I’m done I’d like you to have a list for me with the names and contact numbers for all of Emily’s teachers.”

  “Why?” Knowles asks.

  “Because I want to speak to them,” Hurley retorts. “I want to make them aware of the issues Emily is facing and get their take on her emotional and mental status. And then I want to get them involved in a plan to help her.”

  “You’ll have to do that during the teachers’ regular work hours,” Knowles says. “I won’t have you pestering my staff during their time off, and you’ll need to make appointments. I’m not going to have you interfering with our classes over one student’s truancy. Your daughter is no more deserving of our staff time and attention than any of the other troubled kids we have here.”