The Perfect Secret

by Rob Buyea

  Everyone knew who I was now, and that was okay. I smiled and waved. Seeing Mom’s proud face was the best feeling. I’d kicked butt on the vault, and I wasn’t slowing down.

  My next event was bars. I chalked my hands and saluted the judges. Then I hopped up, and everything around me faded away as I entered my zone. I felt fast and strong through my moves, and I kept it going for my dismount. Look. Stick. Yes! I stuck my landing. Gymnastics 101.

  “Woohoo! Yay, Randi!” My cheering section went nuts again.

  On to the beam. This had the potential to be my best event, but things went wrong from the start. I didn’t realize that the dismount mat was positioned at just one end. So when I mounted the beam, I mounted it facing in the wrong direction. I recognized my mistake as soon as I was up. I froze. I couldn’t flip and land where there was no mat. I glanced at Coach Andrea. She told me to add a pivot turn. That put me facing in the right direction for my final maneuver, but it also meant I lost points because my coach had to talk to me during my routine. I knew all this before I took my first step, but I didn’t let it ruin everything. The beam was only a skinny four inches wide under my foot, but my balance never wavered. I stepped and twisted and flipped with perfection. My routine took too long because of my slow start and extra turn, so I went over the time limit and was deducted points for that, too, but Coach Andrea gave me a hug when I finished and told me I’d looked beautiful up there. My cheering section went nutso again, but their shouts came to an abrupt end when they saw my dismal score. Maybe Mom would be able to explain to everyone else in the group what had happened, or maybe she was just as confused.

  The beam was rotten luck, but I still had one event to go, and I wasn’t about to end my day on a sour note. I was destined for better than that. I took a deep breath and refocused. And this time there were no mistakes. My floor routine was nearly flawless. I notched my second personal best score of the afternoon.

  After all was said and done, my performance earned me a silver medal for all-around. I was second best in the state. So I didn’t win, but I did very well. Well enough that I could still smile when I saw Gavin and the rest of my friends, well enough that Mom had tears in her eyes when she rushed over and threw her arms around me, and well enough that I qualified for Regionals—and that was the first step toward something I never saw coming.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #1

  July: My Goals

  Now that school was out, I needed goals for the summer; I’m a goal-oriented person. Here’s the good news: I had my first one.

  GOALS

  Resolve the strained relationship between Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta.

  Writing your goals down makes them real. That’s something every expert will tell you. It helps you internalize them. Now, I know what you’re thinking. This wasn’t just my goal; it was something all the Recruits wanted. You’re right. But it was up to me to lead the way. For one, I’m the smartest. (Just stating the facts.) And for two, the rest of the Recruits had other things to worry about, other endeavors occupying their time. Randi had Regionals after her stellar state meet, Gavin had football, Scott had his Grandpa, and Trevor and Mark…I wasn’t certain. Yes, they had changed considerably, but not enough for me to believe that mending relationships had become their top priority. They weren’t the next Dr. Phils. So, as you can see, this was up to me. It was my main goal.

  Now to the business at hand. I realize you can’t make people like each other any more than you can make two people fall in love, but the more you get two people together, the better the chances. Thus, our strategy was born. We had to get Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta together as much as possible, and then, hopefully, they would slowly begin talking. First about the small stuff, ultimately about the big stuff—the hard stuff.

  Admittedly, this was a big task. A huge challenge. So huge that all on its own this task could fulfill my requirements for a worthwhile goal. But there was something else that had been on my mind ever since school had ended—before that, actually—and I couldn’t seem to shake it. I hadn’t decided yet; I hadn’t written it down and made it official, but my heart was telling me to go for it.

  I wondered, though: If I do, will I be overstepping my boundaries?

  The good thing about Grandpa living at the Senior Center was that it meant I didn’t have to wait for Mrs. Magenta’s program to start up again before I could go there. I got to visit all the time.

  “Scott!” Grandpa exclaimed when he saw me poking my head into Coach’s room. “Get in here. Coach has me on the ropes today.” He was referring to their chess match. They went at it every afternoon, always in Coach’s room. The familiar surroundings helped Coach stay relaxed and not get as easily confused.

  “Who’s that?” Coach barked.

  “My grandson,” Grandpa told him for the hundredth time.

  “Well, he can’t save you from defeat,” Coach mocked.

  “Maybe not, but he can take over for me while I use the bathroom. When an old guy’s gotta go, he’s gotta go.” Grandpa got up and sat me in his chair. “It’s your move,” he said. “Show Coach what you’re made of.” He patted me on the shoulder and hurried off. He wasn’t holding himself like my little brother, Mickey, does, and that was good because it meant he wasn’t in danger of wetting himself.

  I turned my attention to the game. I looked down and studied the board. I’d had many matches with Grandpa back before his house had burned down, so I wasn’t a rookie, but I didn’t have the experience Coach did.

  “Today, Valentine,” Coach said. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  “I’m not Valentine,” I corrected him. “That’s my friend Gavin. He’s the one you call Valentine. He’s really looking forward to seeing you again, by the way. I was with him last weekend at our other friend Randi’s gymnastics meet, which was really fun. Randi took second in the state with her overall score. Can you believe it? She goes to Regionals now. She’s so—”

  “Today, Junior,” Coach growled.

  “Is Junior my nickname? I’ve always wanted a nickname.”

  “Move!” Coach yelled.

  I slid my knight forward two and to the right one. “Anyway, at Randi’s gymnastics meet, Gavin—I mean Valentine—was telling me all about his new tire target that’s he’s been firing passes through. He’s wondering if you can give him some drills to practice.”

  Back and forth we maneuvered our pieces, and I kept talking. “Valentine’s working hard because he wants to be quarterback. I’ve seen him throw the ball at recess. He’s really good.”

  Coach moved a pawn. “What position are you going out for?” he asked me.

  “Oh, I’m not playing. I’m not very good.” I slid my castle across the board.

  “But you like the game?” Coach asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  “Tell me what my last seven moves were.”

  I scrunched my face. “What?”

  “My last seven moves. What were they?”

  Was Coach confused? I didn’t want him to get upset, so I did what he’d asked. I told him what his last seven moves had been. I remembered them all. That was easy. I have a super memory.

  “I know your position,” he said.

  “No, I’m not playing,” I told him again. He was confused. Where was Grandpa?

  “I didn’t forget what you said, Junior. I heard you. Now you need to listen to me. I’m telling you, I know your position.”

  I didn’t interrupt or try to correct him. I let him finish, because people losing their minds can get easily agitated. Grandpa had told me that happened with Coach sometimes.

  “Your position is on the sideline,” Coach continued, “but it’s just as important as those on the field. You’re the stats man.”

  “What’s tha
t?”

  “You’re the guy who keeps track of the game, documenting every play. What was the call? Who got the ball? How many yards? Who made the tackle? All the stats,” Coach explained. “During halftime you need to analyze the information and tell the coach about any patterns or tendencies you notice. I can tell from the way you play chess that you’re perfect for it.”

  “But I don’t know if there’s a stats man on the team.”

  “There is now. You go and introduce yourself to the coach and tell him I sent you. If you have any problems, you come and find me.”

  “Who’s winning?” Grandpa asked when he got back.

  “We thought you fell in,” Coach jabbed.

  “Missed me, did you? My grandson must be whipping your tail.”

  “I’m holding my own,” I said. I pushed my queen diagonally across the board. “Check.”

  “Ha!” Grandpa laughed.

  Coach sat forward and sneered at me, but he never got to make his next move, because that was when my little brother, Mickey, came tearing into the room, chasing after Grandpa’s cat. Smoky was so excited to see Grandpa that he jumped clear over our board. Mickey wasn’t so graceful. He tripped and crashed into our table and our chess pieces went flying everywhere.

  “What in tarnation is going on here?” Coach hollered.

  Grandpa bent down and scooped Smoky into his arms. “My cat just saved you from defeat,” he said. “He’s special like that.”

  Boy, hearing that made me feel good, because I was the one who’d rescued Smoky and given him to Grandpa, and then Smoky had saved Grandpa on the night when his house had burned down.

  “Gampa, guess what? Guess what?” Mickey squealed, getting back to his feet. “Smoky gets to stay here. Mommy got pamission.”

  “Really?” Grandpa said. “Did you hear that, Smoky? You get to stay.”

  Smoky started purring louder than a car engine.

  “I see you got your cat,” Mom said, entering the room right on cue. “You get to keep him now, but he has to stay in your room. Or in Coach’s when you visit him.”

  “I had a cat once,” Coach said. “An ugly yellow tomcat. A seven-toer. Hector was his name. Just showed up one day and never left. Don’t know why; he hated everyone. But he liked me. He was a good cat.”

  I smiled, partly because I liked Coach’s story, but more because he was remembering so much. It had been a good day for his memory. I was super-excited to start Mrs. Magenta’s program so the Recruits could help Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta before he ran out of good days.

  “Well, c’mon, boys,” Mom said. “We need to get going. I told Dad we’d pick up a pizza on our way home.”

  “Pizza!” Mickey cheered, skipping out the door.

  “Bye, Grandpa. Good game, Coach.” I waved.

  “You’re lucky it got cut short, Junior.”

  That made me smile even bigger. I loved my nickname. I couldn’t wait to tell Gavin. Grandpa winked, and I ran to catch up to Mom and Mickey.

  “How do you think he’s doing?” Mom asked Dad at dinner. She was talking about my brother, Brian.

  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

  That was Dad’s programmed response.

  I had the same answer for her when she asked how I was doing. “I’m fine.” And I was—sort of, but not really. I wasn’t so sure about my brother, though, and neither was Mom.

  “You think so?” she pressed.

  “Yes,” Dad replied.

  This was getting old. Before they’d kicked Brian out of the house, we’d rarely had dinner together. This was Mom’s new thing. It was her way of trying. I gave her credit, only it wasn’t working.

  “I’m thinking about driving over to his apartment to check on him,” she said.

  Whoa. Did my mother really think they could kick my brother out of the house and then go and visit him whenever her heart desired? I understood why she wanted to, but Brian would never go for it. If he wanted to talk to her, he’d answer her phone calls—or call her.

  “Dorothy, he’s fine. You’re not going over there to check on him,” Dad said.

  “It can’t hurt anything. He’s my son.”

  “You are not going over there!” Dad yelled, bringing his fists down on the table. “Your son needs to grow up. Don’t forget how he treated Trevor. Or how he flunked out of college while partying our money away. Let him struggle. We’re done babying him.”

  That was the end of that conversation. We finished the rest of our dinner in silence. Then I loaded the dishwasher and went to my bedroom and called Mark.

  “Dude,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s up?”

  “My mom’s talking about driving over to Brian’s. She wants to check on him.”

  “Oof. Did you tell her that might not be the best idea?”

  “My father did.”

  “And?”

  “She tried convincing him it would be okay, and then he exploded.”

  Mark let out a long breath. “So they’re fighting again?”

  I sat on my bed. “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, bro.”

  “It’ll be one of them moving out next. I can see it coming. The writing’s on the wall.”

  Mark was quiet on the other end. Even though I pretended I didn’t care, we both knew that wasn’t the truth. This was my fault. I was the mistake. Brian had told me so a thousand times.

  “You okay?” Mark asked after a minute.

  “Brian’s gonna find me, you know. At some point our paths are gonna cross. It scares me just thinking about it.”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t think about it,” Mark said. “It’s not doing you any good. Think about Mrs. Magenta’s program that we start next week. Think about football.”

  Easier said than done, I thought. Mark hadn’t seen the way Brian looked at me before driving off in that U-Haul. Mom and Dad had sent my brother packing because of me. Because they’d found out that Brian and his goons bullied me. “Yeah, I guess so,” I said.

  “Dude, stop sweating it. It’s not doing you any good.”

  “You already said that.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “What do you think Brian will do when we see each other?”

  Mark sighed. “I don’t know.”

  I needed a better answer than that. “I’ve gotta go. Talk to you later.”

  “Hang in there, bro. It’ll get better soon.”

  I wished I could believe that, but how was I supposed to when I had parents headed for the big D and an older brother who hated my guts?

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #2

  Mid-July: Mrs. Magenta’s Program Resumes

  In years past I didn’t see many of the kids from school over the summer, but thanks to Mr. Allen that was not going to be the case this year. In fact, it was the first day of Mrs. Magenta’s summer program, so our class from sixth grade was all together again.

  It’s safe to say we broke more than a few rules when we cheated on the CSAs last spring, but the consequence Mr. Allen handed down wasn’t anything I’d consider bad. Rather, the word I would use to describe our consequence would be “constructive.”

  “Hello, and happy summer to all you caring souls,” Mrs. Magenta began.

  “Mrs. Magenta, are you—”

  “Scott!” I snapped. “Quiet,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

  “That’s all right, Natalie. Am I what, Scott?”

  I caught my breath. This was it. Our plan was doomed already, and we hadn’t even gotten started. It was my fault. I’d neglected to add a very important goal to my list: Keep Scott quiet!

  We’d gon
e over this at his birthday party. We weren’t going to let Mrs. Magenta and Mrs. Woods know that we were onto them. Our attempts at getting them together would be better masked if they thought we didn’t know about their relationship or their history, if they believed our actions were innocent as opposed to manipulative. But impulsive Scott was about to let the cat out of the bag already. Here it comes, I thought. I could hear him now, Are you Mrs. Woods’s daughter?

  Scott cleared his throat. “Are you”—he looked at me and then back at Mrs. Magenta—“a fan of ice cream?”

  I exhaled. Thank goodness.

  Mrs. Magenta smiled. “Yes, I love ice cream. A little cookies and cream with peanut butter topping is my favorite.”

  Eww. I grimaced.

  “I like cookie dough best,” Scott said.

  “That’s a good flavor, but now let me ask all of you a question,” Mrs. Magenta said. “We will be returning to the Senior Center this afternoon, but I’m wondering if any of you would object to our continuing with trips to visit our old friends for our community service when school starts up again.”

  No hands were raised. If they had been, I would’ve been on my feet in an instant, yelling, Objection! But none of my colleagues were opposed, and that was good, because getting Mrs. Magenta and Mrs. Woods together was going to be much easier to accomplish at the Senior Center than anywhere else.

  “Wonderful,” Mrs. Magenta said. “I was hoping not. You see, our work at the Senior Center will never really be done. Our friends there will always welcome our company.”

  “Maybe we can do something more for them, or for the place, like we did at the public library?” Trevor said.

  My eyebrows lifted. How thoughtful—and sincere. Where is this coming from? I wondered.

  “Do you have any suggestions?” Mrs. Magenta asked.

  “No. It’s just…I’ve been trying to keep my mind…It’s just an idea that popped into my head, that’s all.”

  “Well, it’s a delightful thought,” Mrs. Magenta said. “Let’s all think about it while we’re there this afternoon and see if we can come up with any projects.”