Fighting Chance

by B K Stevens

  Damn. She’d noticed. I’d made it through dinner last night, because the bruise hadn’t set in yet. It’d sure set in now, big and purple and swollen. I tried out the embarrassed laugh I’d practiced. “Yeah, it was dumb. Berk and I were practicing krav moves, and I tripped and pretty much smashed my face into his fist. My fault, not his. Anyway, it doesn’t hurt.”

  Dad frowned as he poured orange juice. “It looks as if it must hurt. I hope this class isn’t too rough. You never got bruises when you were taking tae kwon do.”

  “This happened outside class. Aaron makes us wear gloves when we practice this technique. Berk and I didn’t have gloves, but we went ahead anyway. Like I said, dumb.” Considering I was making stuff up as I went along, it didn’t sound bad.

  “Well, if anything like this happens again,” Mom said, “we should think about whether this class is a good idea.”

  So now they wanted me to quit krav. Once Aaron started charging us, we probably couldn’t afford it anyhow. Maybe I should quit before they had to ask. But I was learning so much, and the things I was learning had never felt more important. It’d hurt like hell to give it up.

  Then Cassie came to the kitchen, still in pajamas. “No breakfast,” she said, slumping into her chair. “I have a horrible stomachache. I can’t go to school.”

  “Goodness,” Mom said. That’s as close to cursing as she comes. “How about cinnamon toast? That always makes you feel better. And are you sure you can’t go to school? Your English essay’s due, and you’ve worked so hard on that.”

  “I’ll e-mail it to Ms. Andrews. She’ll understand.” Cassie hesitated. “Maybe one slice of cinnamon toast.”

  Mom put steaming platters of bacon and eggs on the table. Even though I knew they were bribes, they tasted good. I noticed Cassie sneak first one piece of bacon, then another. Not the perfect thing to settle a stomach, maybe, but I was glad she had some appetite.

  “I had a good first day yesterday,” Dad announced. “I went from house to house, passing out flyers. Lots of people seemed interested. One lady hired me on the spot to fix her garbage disposal.” He took a check out of his pocket. “First income for Foley Contracting and Handyman Services. Before I cash it, I’ll make a copy and frame it. I’ve got three more jobs lined up, including one for Berk’s mother. She’s wanted to put up a kitchen backsplash for years but never gotten around to it. So I’m doing it Saturday.”

  He paused, like he was expecting applause. Not from me. It’s charity, I thought. Berk’s mom feels sorry for us, so she came up with something she doesn’t need so she can give him money. We’re taking charity from my best friend’s mother.

  “I could use some help on that job, Matt,” Dad said. “I could teach you about tile.”

  Yeah, I’m dying to learn about tile. And going to Berk’s house as a handyman sounded like fun. Maybe, at lunchtime, his mom would give us table scraps. “I’ve got two term papers to work on.”

  “I still think we should move to a bigger city,” Cassie said. “You won’t be able to find enough customers in Ridgecrest. In Richmond—”

  “In Richmond I’d be competing with lots of other handymen,” Dad cut in. “Mom and I are sure we’re better off staying here.”

  “Fine.” Cassie pushed her plate away. “Don’t listen to me. Don’t take me seriously. Nobody in this family ever takes me seriously. I’m going back to bed.”

  She ran upstairs. “Looks like our little girl has hit adolescence,” Mom said. “It had to happen, I guess. She couldn’t stay sweet and sunny forever.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it is?” I asked. “What if she’s really sick?”

  “Oh, no reason to worry.” Dad started clearing plates. “It’s a stage. You were plenty grumpy at her age. She’ll get past it.”

  “Nobody in this family ever takes me seriously,” Cassie had said. As I drove to school, I thought about that. Mom and Dad didn’t take me seriously, either. When I said I was worried about Cassie, Dad brushed it off. They both always brush off anything that clouds their happy little view of life. Now they’d decided we’d do fine on whatever odd jobs Dad could scrape together. They were wrong—I felt sure about that. Krav was probably out, college was probably out, and how long could we stay in our house?

  In homeroom, another note waited for me: “Go to Dr. Lombardo’s office immediately.” This couldn’t be good.

  When I got there, Graciana, Berk, and Joseph already sat stiffly in chairs lined up in front of the big metal desk. I took the last chair, took a deep breath.

  Dr. Lombardo’s face looked as hard and gray as her desk. “I’ve had complaints from two people you’ve interviewed for this so-called memorial issue. They say you asked tactless, disrespectful questions that had nothing to do with paying tribute to Mr. Colson. I’m disappointed in you.”

  We all looked at each other, stunned. “We’ve been very tactful and respectful,” Graciana said, “and all of our questions were relevant. Who made the complaints?”

  “That’s confidential, and it doesn’t matter. Two people described the same problems—I have to conclude their descriptions are accurate. Graciana and Matt, I’m especially disappointed in you. You sat in this office and promised this would be a memorial issue and nothing more. You promised you would make no attempts at investigative journalism and wouldn’t stir up unfounded rumors about Mr. Colson’s death. You broke those promises, and you drew two other students into your schemes. Until now, I’ve thought of you as student leaders. I’m sorry to see you use your leadership capabilities in a negative way.”

  “I don’t think any of us did anything wrong,” Berk said, “but it’s not fair to blame Matt and Graciana most. We all…”

  “Loyalty is usually commendable, Berk,” she said, “but you’re just revealing how strong Matt’s influence on you is. I’m calling an end to this project. You are not to pursue it further in any way. You are not to do anything that might create gossip about Mr. Colson’s death or damage the school’s reputation. And give me all the notes from your interviews. Right now, please.”

  I started to reach for my book bag, but Graciana stopped me with a glance. “My notes are at home. Probably, we all left our notes home. We can bring them in tomorrow, if you really want us to. But we’ve finished all the interviews we’d planned to do. We can use the information we already have to put together the memorial issue.”

  “Out of the question. After the way you’ve behaved, I am not about to reward you by allowing you to put out a special issue.” Dr. Lombardo looked intently at Berk, Joseph, and me. “Is Graciana right? You all left your notes home?”

  We nodded. My hand had frozen halfway to my book bag. I inched it up and scratched my hip, trying to look innocent.

  “All right,” Dr. Lombardo said. “Tomorrow morning, on my desk. Graciana, I’ve already told you you’re being considered for Outstanding Senior. Your irresponsibility has put that possibility in jeopardy. Any hint of additional problems will end it. Matt, I’d be sorry to bar you from sports during your senior year. But if you disobey me, I will.”

  We didn’t say anything until we got to the end of the hallway. Then Graciana stopped walking and wheeled around to face us, eyes blazing. “Make copies of everything before you give her even a scrap of paper. Or we could refuse to cooperate. She can’t have a legal right to make us give her notes we took on our own time. My sister’s in law school. I’ll call her, and—”

  “And Lombardo will kick Matt off the team,” Berk said. “Look, I think she’s out of line, too. But you’re graduating. If you don’t get that award, big deal. You’ve already got your scholarship in your pocket. We’re all coming back next year, we’ll all be applying to colleges and looking for recommendations, and we all want to play basketball.”

  “Dr. Lombardo, however, will not come back,” Joseph said. “She will retire. Even if she wishes, can she forbid us from th
e team?”

  “Maybe.” The fire left Graciana’s eyes. “The new principal might not want to overturn her decision. Berk’s right. You three stand to lose more than I do. We’d better give her the notes.”

  “I guess so,” I said, relieved. The thought of being barred from basketball hadn’t even occurred to me before, and it scared me. Angry as I was at Lombardo, I didn’t want to take a stand that’d guarantee it. “I’m sorry about the memorial issue—that would’ve been a nice thing to do for Coach. Who do you think complained?”

  “All the interviews Berk and I conducted were most pleasant,” Joseph said. “People seemed glad of the opportunity to convey admiration for Mr. Colson. I cannot think of even one who would complain. Can you, Berk?”

  “No,” he said, then winced. “Look, this is probably my fault. Yesterday, I was angry about the things you’d said about Paul. So I went to see the lawyer.”

  “The lawyer?” Graciana said. “You don’t mean Michael Burns, the lawyer who advised Bobby Davis.”

  Berk winced again. “Yeah. I called his office and used your idea, said the school newspaper was doing profiles of successful graduates. It worked—he gave me fifteen minutes. I asked some questions about his accomplishments. That went fine. Then I asked about Davis.” He paused.

  “And that didn’t go fine?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “As soon as I mentioned Bobby Davis, he clammed up. He wouldn’t even say if he knew who Davis was. He started yelling about confidentiality and practically threw me out. You were right, Graciana. Chances are, he’s the one who complained to Lombardo, and that’s why she shut us down. Sorry, you guys.”

  I’ve got to give Graciana credit. She must’ve been dying to scream, “I told you so!” at Berk. But she let it go. “What’s done is done,” she said. “Matt, what happened to your eye?”

  I gave them a quick explanation, and we broke up to go to class. Two, I thought. Lombardo said two people complained. Maybe she made that up to make her decision seem more reasonable—not that it was reasonable at all if the lawyer complained, since the questions Berk asked him weren’t for the memorial issue. But if there was a second person, who could it have been? Ms. Quinn, Ms. Nguyen, Mr. Carver—no. Those interviews were fine. And Paul didn’t like some of our questions, but I couldn’t see him complaining to Lombardo. I could go crazy trying to figure this out, I thought, and gave it up.

  The next bad thing happened at lunch. I ran into Graciana as we headed for the cafeteria, and we started whispering about what to do next. Then I felt a soft, firm arm link through mine.

  “There you are.” Suzette kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’ve saved us two seats at the table nearest the big window—see? Hi, Graciana.”

  She took off. Usually, I sit with guys from the basketball team at lunch. But Suzette had saved me a seat. I didn’t know how to get out of it without making a big deal. And Graciana was looking at me, not saying anything.

  I shrugged. “Guess I’m sitting with Suzette.” I loaded things onto my tray without thinking about them. Great. So now the whole school would think Suzette and I were boyfriend and girlfriend, and I wasn’t sure I even liked her. And to have her claim me while I was talking to Graciana—I couldn’t say why that made everything worse, but it did.

  I sat down across from Suzette, and she smiled at me, a bright, flirty smile.

  “So, stranger,” she said, “it’s been forever since we’ve talked.”

  “I called you.”

  “You called Sunday. It’s Wednesday. Where’ve you been hiding since then?”

  “I’ve been here every day.” It was a stupid conversation, but it was fun to have a girl going after me, especially such a pretty girl. “And I saw you at krav on Monday.”

  “Oh, krav.” She spat the word out, like it tasted bad. “Krav doesn’t count. And oh, my God, I couldn’t believe how Aaron kept pushing me to demonstrate that technique with him. He really wanted an excuse to grab my shirt.”

  “You would’ve been playing the tough guy. You would’ve grabbed his shirt.”

  “He would’ve gotten off on that, too. But he had to settle for Graciana. She really played up to him, didn’t she?”

  I took a bite of fried chicken. Tough, greasy—not as good as Mom’s. “I didn’t see that. She did the technique with him, and she had a little fun.”

  “You bet she had fun. All that ‘your momma’ stuff, trying to look so cute. I hate it when girls throw themselves at guys like that. But I guess she can’t stay away from older men. Anyway, how are things going?”

  “Fine.” I said. Lousy, I thought. I didn’t feel like telling her about my dad’s job, and I couldn’t tell her about Ted Ramsey. I was surprised she hadn’t asked about the bruise.

  “I’m having an awful week,” she said. “My parents are driving me crazy. My dad keeps snapping at my mom, and she keeps whining and crying and drinking and taking pills. I mean, she always drinks and takes pills, but this week it’s worse than usual. It’s pathetic.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That must be rough.”

  “It’s terrible.” She gave herself a shake, like she was getting rid of those thoughts. “I sure could use a break. Do you have plans for the weekend?”

  So that’s why she’d told me those things—so I’d feel sorry for her and ask her out. But I didn’t want to make things tense with Berk again, and I didn’t want Suzette to think we’d spend every weekend together. “Some plans,” I said. “My dad wants me to help him with something. And Berk and I might go bowling.” I’d made the last part up on the spot.

  “I like bowling,” she said. “I’m pretty good. Maybe we could go bowling.”

  “Yeah, with Berk.” I stood up. “But I can’t make plans till I find out when my dad wants my help. Look, I’ve got a quiz next period. I should study. See you around.”

  I picked up my tray and walked away. I’d sounded awkward, and I knew it. I’d told stupid lies, and she probably knew it. Why couldn’t I just tell her I wasn’t ready for an every-weekend relationship? That probably would’ve hurt her feelings less.

  I went to my social studies classroom and sat brooding. Almost ten minutes to go—for once, I was eager for class to begin. Even listening to Mr. Sinclair drone on about the Great Depression would be better than worrying about everything that’d gone wrong.

  Students started drifting in. Gradually, I picked up on an excited, whispered conversation between two girls sitting behind me.

  “My uncle works in the ER,” one was saying. “He was there when they brought her in, and he says she was a mess. Face so swollen and purple it looked like a rotten eggplant, broken jaw, broken collarbone, broken ribs, bruises all over her body, you name it.”

  “I heard her mother came home from work last night and found her on the floor, unconscious,” the other girl said. “And it was a burglar, right? Someone broke into the apartment when she was there alone?”

  The first girl snorted. “My uncle says that’s what she told the police—some guy she’d never seen before, and she never got a good look at him. Nobody believes her. It was probably her father—he’s beat her up before.”

  “No, her father’s in prison,” the second girl said. “Probably, it was someone she was sleeping with. She’s probably a world-class slut, like her sister.”

  God, I thought. Please, no. Please don’t let it be her. I turned around to face the girl sitting behind me. “Hi,” I said.

  She broke into a big smile. “Hi, Matt. Oh, my God—where did you get that bruise?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, feeling almost ashamed it wasn’t worse. “Look, I didn’t mean to listen in, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talk about a girl who got beaten up. Who was it?”

  She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and gave me another big smile. “Oh, you know. That weird goth girl. Marie Ramsey.”


  Twenty-two

  After school, we all went to the hospital, but we decided only Graciana and I would try to see Marie. She didn’t know Joseph and barely knew Berk, and we didn’t want her to feel overwhelmed by too many people. Then we’d all go to Hardee’s to figure out what to do next. If we were allowed to see Marie at all.

  We weren’t. As soon as we mentioned Marie’s name, the receptionist shook her head. “She’s not allowed visitors yet. But a nurse bought a card so all her friends could send get-well wishes.”

  She handed us a large card decorated with rainbows and butterflies. So far, there was only one signature—“Angie,” written in purple ink, the “i” dotted with a heart.

  And no, the receptionist said, she couldn’t tell us how Marie was feeling—no information to anyone outside the immediate family. And no, she couldn’t say if we could visit tomorrow—we should call before coming.

  “But I’ll make sure she gets the flowers,” the receptionist said, and glanced at the messages we’d written on the card. “Matt? Is that Matt Foley?”

  “That’s right,” I said, surprised. “Why do you ask?”

  She hesitated. “Someone mentioned your name. Would you take a seat in the waiting area? I think someone would like to speak to you.”

  We joined Berk and Joseph in the waiting area, explained what had happened, and traded guesses about who wanted to speak to me—Marie, or her mother? Then the elevator door opened, and we got our answer. Lieutenant Hill.

  He stalked over, looking mad. “Outside, Foley,” he said.

  That didn’t sound good. It got worse when we walked to the parking lot, and Hill took a card out of his pocket and read me my rights. I was almost too stunned to feel scared.

  He put the card away. “You understand your rights? You want to call a lawyer?”

  “I understand.” It felt like I was in a television show. “And I don’t need a lawyer, because I haven’t done anything wrong. What’s this about?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” he said, making it feel even more like television. He took out a notebook. “Have you seen Marie Ramsey recently?”