Fighting Chance

by B K Stevens

  “So you don’t like her at all?”

  “No. If you want to try for her again, be my guest, but I think it’s a bad idea. All she ever thinks about is herself. And she’s a gossip and a liar. Those things she said about Graciana and Mr. Bixby? They’re all crap.”

  A young mom with two little boys trailing behind her walked up, carrying a plate of wheat-germ muffins. She spotted the brownies and picked those up, too. Maybe I should warn her, I thought. But it’s for a good cause. And those kids don’t need chocolate. They’ll be better off throwing out the brownies and sticking to wheat germ. I took the money and smiled.

  Berk sat there, letting things sink in. “Wait a minute. Do you like Graciana?”

  I shrugged. “She’s leaving for college soon. And she’s too smart for me.”

  “You do like her.” He broke into this big, dumb grin. “That’s great. And maybe you’re right about Suzette, but I’m gonna find out for myself. If I can.” He stood up. “I’m tired of sitting. I’ll find somebody else to help you.”

  He headed for Graciana. Again, I watched him talking and gesturing. Graciana started toward my table. I struck up a conversation with an old lady deciding between banana bread and crescent rolls, watching out of the corner of my eye as Berk stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered off in Suzette’s direction.

  Graciana slid into Berk’s chair. “We’re getting so many donations. I bet we’ll bring in over five hundred dollars.”

  “I bet we will.” I looked toward the entrance to the parking lot. Cassie and Anita were handing their signs over to Berk and Suzette. Berk was talking and smiling like crazy. Suzette looked bored. Not far from them, Dr. Lombardo greeted people as they arrived, shaking hands with parents and smiling at students. Mr. Quinn stood a few yards away from her, doing pretty much the same thing.

  I picked up a paper plate next to the cash box and handed it to Graciana. “I set these aside for you. They’re called truffles. My mom made them. They’re great.”

  She blushed. “Matt, I said I was sorry.”

  “No, you were right. I was being a jerk. Have a truffle.”

  She bit into one. “Wow. Delicious.”

  “I know. But if you hadn’t yelled at me, I wouldn’t have tried one, just because the name sounds weird.”

  “I didn’t yell at you. I was out of line, but I didn’t yell.”

  “Close enough.” I smiled at her before making change for a middle-school kid. It felt as if something had changed between us.

  I wanted to tell her about Lieutenant Hill, but a big clump of people surged up to our table, all with baked stuff in one hand and money in the other, and for several minutes we couldn’t do anything but make change. Finally the crowd dwindled down to one tall, thin girl with frizzy blond hair, wearing a short leather skirt, a denim jacket, and sunglasses. She was holding a plate of cupcakes and a five-dollar bill.

  “Nice party,” she said. “Are you having another one of these next weekend, to raise money for an award named after Nina?”

  Graciana made change for her. “Thanks for coming, Angie. And I’m sorry about Nina.”

  Angie shrugged. “You probably are. You came to the funeral, anyway. And Mrs. Ramsey told me you brought Marie flowers, and I saw your name on that card. Except for me, you’re the only one who signed it. Plus someone called Matt.” She peered at me over her sunglasses. “Are you Matt?”

  I nodded. “Matt Foley. Are you Angie Kovach, the one who was doing one of the assembly Scenes from Shakespeare with Nina?”

  “Yeah, I was the pure and virtuous Desdemona.” She grinned. “Typecast again! So, I saw you talking to Hedda Hopper a while ago. How can you be friends both with Marie and with the uber-bitch?”

  Here we go again, I thought. I looked to Graciana. “Hedda Hopper?”

  “Gossip columnist,” Graciana said. “Very big in the 40s and 50s, I think. Known for her nastiness.”

  Sounds like Carolyn, I thought. “Was that Nina’s nickname for Carolyn Olson?” I asked Angie. “Did she spread gossip about Nina? Is that why Nina hated her so much? And was Captain America Nina’s nickname for Paul Ericson? Did Nina plan to get back at Carolyn by sleeping with Paul?”

  Angie’s eyebrows shot up. “Marie told you all that?”

  “She also told us Nina had a special place.” Might as well go for broke, I decided. “Sherwood Forest. Do you know where it was?”

  “Nobody knew.” Angie looked me over, like she was trying to figure me out. “There are lots of boarded-up stores near her apartment—I figured she’d found a way to get into one of those. Why do you want to know?”

  “Marie thinks Nina left a book there,” Graciana said, “a book that was special to both of them. It’d be nice if she could find it.”

  “Good luck with that. Last year, when Nina was gone for several days and I got worried about her, I looked all over for Sherwood Forest. Nothing. Did you know Marie’s getting discharged tomorrow?”

  “No,” Graciana said. “I called the hospital this morning, but the receptionist wouldn’t tell me anything. As usual. She’s feeling better?”

  “Yeah. No permanent damage, her mom says. Better not try to see her, though. Ted’s not allowing any visitors at the apartment, either. When I asked him, he just about slugged me. Anyway, I’m glad Marie has some friends.” She gave Graciana a sympathetic smile. “I hope Hedda doesn’t go after you twice as hard now, since she doesn’t have Nina to abuse anymore.”

  We watched her walk away. “So Carolyn’s one of the people spreading gossip about you?” I said.

  “As you say, one of the people. She has many helpers.”

  I nodded glumly. “That was quick thinking about the book. Look, we should talk about what Angie said, and I’ve got other stuff to tell you, too. Want to get a Coke afterward?”

  “Fine,” she said, and switched to customer service mode as a young couple approached, arms loaded with coffee cakes and loaves of bread.

  I took a moment to look around. Cassie and Anita had strolled off to sit in a grassy area near the parking lot and were talking nonstop. Mrs. Dolby kept walking from table to table, urging people to buy more, flashing us a thumbs-up with every sale. Ms. Nguyen was chatting with some students, and Ms. Quinn stood at a table with her daughters, talking to a bald man, very tall and thin. I touched Graciana’s arm.

  “Look,” I said. “Talking to Ms. Quinn. Isn’t that the lawyer who advised Bobby Davis? Michael Burns?”

  Graciana craned her neck. “I think so. That makes sense. If he’s the lawyer Dr. Lombardo was talking about the first time we went to her office—and I bet he is—then he’s an alumnus and a big-time school supporter. Naturally he’d come to something like this. And Ms. Quinn’s been here a long time. Maybe she was his social studies teacher.”

  I watched as Ms. Quinn and Burns shook hands, as he moved on to another table. Maybe five minutes later, it was Graciana’s turn to touch my arm. “Look who just arrived,” she said. “Getting out of that dented Mustang. Ted Ramsey. I didn’t expect him to show up.”

  I watched as he headed straight for Dr. Lombardo and started talking. He looked angry, and he gestured a lot. He pointed at Mr. Quinn, came close to jabbing Dr. Lombardo in the chest with his index finger. Mr. Quinn went rigid, smile frozen on his face. Dr. Lombardo said something curt and turned away, but Ramsey wouldn’t leave her alone. He stood inches from her, still talking, looking angrier by the moment.

  We weren’t the only ones who’d noticed. We watched as Ms. Quinn left her daughters and hurried over to talk to the lawyer, pointing at Ted Ramsey. Burns set off for the entrance to the parking lot.

  I stood up. “I’ve got to hear this,” I said.

  “Careful,” Graciana whispered. “If Lombardo catches you eavesdropping, you’ll get in trouble.”

  “I’m already in trouble,” I said, and made my w
ay toward them carefully. With so many people standing around, it wasn’t hard to stay in the background, to dart from one chattering cluster to another. In about a minute, I got close enough to hear Ted Ramsey’s voice rising above the rest. It sounded slurred. I guess some people drink on Sunday afternoons; I guess that might have something to do with why he was so worked up. I stood behind a group of men munching on macaroons, keeping my head down.

  “Fine,” Ramsey was saying. “Ignore me. I know what I know. They drove her to it, and you let them. You knew they were bullying her, and she told Quinn she was going to kill herself, and neither of you did a damn thing to help her. Schools have to pay when these things happen. Settle with me now, or you’ll hear from my lawyer tomorrow. Then it’ll be a front-page story, and you can kiss your fancy new job goodbye.”

  Burns, too, had made his way to the parking lot entrance. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw him give Ramsey a card, saw him say something to Dr. Lombardo, saw her nod. Burns turned back to Ramsey and spoke again.

  “The hell with that,” Ramsey said. “Nobody’s taking me aside. If you wanna talk, we’ll talk right here. My sister’s dead, the school’s responsible, and someone’s gotta pay. My lawyer—”

  “I don’t believe you have a lawyer, Mr. Ramsey,” Burns said, too loudly. I guess Ramsey had gotten to him. “I know you approached several Friday, and they all turned you down. They could see this was a shakedown, pure and simple.” Too late, he caught himself and lowered his voice. I watched as he talked to Ramsey, softly, intensely. I saw Ramsey’s eyes glaze over, saw his shoulders droop as the words overwhelmed him. He stared at Burns, at Dr. Lombardo, at Mr. Quinn. Then he cursed and walked off.

  Burns and Dr. Lombardo exchanged a few words and shook hands. Mr. Quinn joined them, and he shook hands, too. They watched as Ted Ramsey got in his car and drove away.

  Quite a show, I thought, and turned around to find myself facing Ms. Quinn.

  “Hello, Matt,” she said quietly. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Not much. I wasn’t really paying attention. I—”

  “Of course you were paying attention. You walked over here so you could pay attention. Well. Graciana probably needs your help. Let’s go.”

  It felt like I was walking with a police escort. When we got to the cashier’s table, Graciana had a smile in place, but for once even she looked awkward.

  “Everything’s going well, Ms. Quinn,” she said. “I just did a quick count, and—”

  “You can give me a report later. Or had you forgotten I’m your advisor for this sale?”

  “Of course not. We’d—”

  “That’s good to hear,” Ms. Quinn said dryly, “since apparently you forgot I’m also your advisor for the memorial issue. Or was. You didn’t even tell me when Dr. Lombardo said you couldn’t go forward with it. That’s all right. She told me. She said you were using the memorial issue as an excuse for investigating Coach Colson’s death. She said you’d become obsessed with it. I had to admit that was a possibility. And now, it seems, you’ve become obsessed with Nina Ramsey’s death, too.”

  “Not obsessed,” Graciana said. “But we’ve wondered—”

  “Stop wondering. Her suicide was sad and terrible, but no one could have prevented it. Nina was one of the brightest students I’ve had in years, but she was very emotional. Big highs, big lows. My husband thought she was bipolar, and he’d noticed she seemed especially unstable lately. That’s why he asked her to come see him on the day she died—but you already knew about that, didn’t you?”

  No, we didn’t, but admitting that felt like a bad idea. A shrug seemed like the safest response.

  Ms. Quinn nodded. “Of course you did. And now her brother’s trying to blame John for what happened. It’s not fair. Nina never told John she was going to kill herself. And he’s not a psychiatrist, only a guidance counselor. He was deeply concerned after he talked to her. Later that afternoon, he called a psychologist at the university to ask for advice. Even the psychologist didn’t think there was any immediate cause for alarm. Of course, it was probably too late by then—she was probably already dead. The point is, how could John have foreseen what she’d do? How can anyone blame him?”

  “I see what you mean,” Graciana said—and I was glad she said it, because it would’ve taken me a year to come up with a neutral response.

  “I hope so.” Ms. Quinn let out a short, joyless laugh. “He has his faults, but not being concerned enough about students isn’t one of them. If anything, he’s too concerned. And this should be a happy time for him. Leave him alone, Graciana. A muckraking article about Nina’s death won’t do her any good, won’t do the school any good, won’t do anyone any good. So keep what happened today to yourself. That was just a greedy drunk trying to profit from his sister’s death—there’s no substance to anything he said. I won’t ask you to make promises. I’ll leave it to your good sense, and to your conscience.”

  We waited until she was a safe distance away. “Wow,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “I think we’ve got a lot to talk about later,” she said.

  The bake sale went on for another hour. Toward the end, Aaron showed up with a woman and two little boys—his wife and sons, I found out—and looked over the dwindling displays of baked goods, trying to get the boys to agree on something. Right about then, Cassie ran up to our table, eyes bright. Anita had asked her to come over after the bake sale, she said. Could I pick her up in a few hours?

  “Sure,” I said. “So, you and Anita hit it off?”

  “She’s awesome.” Cassie turned to Graciana and smiled. “Thanks for telling her to be nice to me.” She ran off.

  “Your sister’s pretty smart,” Graciana said.

  “Yeah, she is. And you were right about teaching her some blocks. She loved it so much she’s talking about taking tae kwon do. Speaking of which.” I nodded toward Aaron, who was headed our way, carrying lemon bars and raisin cookies.

  “How are things going, Matt?” he asked. “Any more trouble?”

  “From Bobby Davis, you mean? No. I haven’t seen him again.” And maybe I won’t, I thought, not if Lieutenant Hill decides it’s finally time to go after Jefferson Davis Roberts.

  Thirty-two

  As I went through my workout routine Monday morning, I felt good. Cassie had come home from Anita’s house in a great mood. She and Anita had a plan, she said. She wouldn’t tell me about it yet, but she said it was amazing. After dinner, she helped me study again, and I’ll admit the flashcards worked. The idea of pulling my grades up and trying for a college scholarship seemed less crazy now.

  Both Dad and Mom had come home with good news, too. Mrs. Widrig had loved the backsplash and given Dad the name of a friend who wanted her entire kitchen renovated; he was talking to her tomorrow. Mom, after putting in a long, exhausting day at Wendy’s World, said they’d turned a corner on cleanup. One more day of washing walls and restocking shelves, she said, and then the staff would meet to decide when the store could reopen. And her boss had promised no one would be laid off.

  And the time with Graciana had been good—just Cokes and fries at McDonald’s, but it felt right. We’d talked about the bake sale, analyzing what people said, speculating about why they’d acted the way they did. I liked listening to the way Graciana’s mind worked. Mostly to see how she’d react, I told her my father quit his job. Her first question was, “Why?” I told her, and she got upset, saying it was wrong an honest man had to quit a job he loved because he wouldn’t lie to customers. She said Dad should go to the newspaper and expose Edson Construction. I couldn’t see him doing that, but when I thought about how Suzette reacted, the contrast felt huge.

  I finished my situps and headed out for my run. The Methodist church parking lot’s perfect for laps. It’s big, and it’s always empty this early in the morning, so I could focus on building speed, no
t on zigzagging around cars. It’s quiet, too, far back from the street, on the edge of a wooded area.

  I did my first few laps, enjoying the rush of cold air against my face, feeling good I hadn’t gotten tired yet. When I’d started this routine, even one lap was rough.

  Then a silver Toyota pulled into the lot, and I froze. Even before the door opened, I knew. Bobby Davis.

  He got out, slammed the door, and stood leaning against his car, hands in pockets, grinning. It was a cool morning, but he wasn’t wearing a jacket, just jeans and a sleeveless black tee-shirt. Maybe he thought his biceps would intimidate me. He was right.

  Damn. No one was around to hear if I yelled for help, and I’d left my phone at home. If I tried to run, he could get back in his car and could plow me down before I made it to safety.

  He was still grinning, still standing with hands in pockets. “Good morning, Matt,” he said. “Nice day for a run. You had your Wheaties yet?”

  I focused on making my breathing regular. Don’t panic, I told myself. Whatever he’s planning, you’ll make it worse if you panic. And you’ve trained for this. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Sure you don’t, I thought, but didn’t say anything. No point in making him angry and getting his adrenaline up—it’d just make him that much more enthusiastic about beating me up. So I kept quiet. He waited for a moment, then shook his head.

  “If you tell me what I want to know,” he said, “I’ll go away. You told Hill about me, didn’t you?”

  My parents made me, I almost said, but stopped the words in time. “So what?” I said—not much, but I hoped it sounded tough.