by Score, Lucy
I sighed heavily.
“All right, ladies,” Vicky said, rummaging around in what looked like a diaper bag. “Since you’re here, let’s go over the plan.”
This was quite possibly the worst decision I’d ever made as an adult. Involving high school students in trespassing and vandalism. It was a wonder I wasn’t already fired.
“Fine,” I said. “But if I get arrested, you all showed up here to stop me, not participate.”
They nodded solemnly.
“So, what we’re doing is inserting these baggies of dye in the head of each sprinkler,” Vicky said, pulling out a small plastic bag. “Do not puncture the bags until you’ve installed them in the sprinkler heads.”
“Try not to get any dye on you. It’s not permanent, but we don’t want anything tying us to this,” I insisted as the girls collected the bags.
I watched them jog off into the dark, giggling.
Vicky grinned at me and held up two red packets. “Ready to have some fun?”
We tackled the closest sprinkler head, unscrewing the cap, inserting the baggy, and carefully poking a hole in the very top of the bag.
“Should we be wearing gloves? You know, fingerprints?” Vicky asked, wiggling her fingers.
“Not unless the sheriff’s department budget quadrupled since we were in high school,” I said dryly.
We moved on to the next sprinkler head and repeated the process.
“Come on.” Vicky nudged me. “You’re enjoying this. You don’t have to be all Droopy the Clown.”
“Droopy the Clown is my new persona,” I insisted.
Vicky put her hand on my arm. “Babe, we all go through shitty periods. I’m the mother of three. Rich and I haven’t had sex in four months. I am so far behind on the dishes that I gave up and we only eat off of paper products now.”
I dropped my ass onto the ground while she screwed the sprinkler head back on.
“I lost my job when the start-up I worked for shut down, taking all of the savings I invested with it. That was the day after Javier gently told me I wasn’t passionate enough for him and that he wanted something more than a lukewarm relationship. Meanwhile, Zinnia was just named a 40 Under 40 to the Do Gooders annual list. Her youngest is a violin prodigy. And her husband operated on the Speaker of the House last month.”
“I really want to hate your sister,” Vicky said, flopping down next to me.
“I know. But we can’t because she’s so…”
“Good.” She patted me on the back. “Look at this as a fresh start.”
“Really? Because this feels like more of the same. Another place that I don’t belong. Another job I’m not good at.”
“Uh, I realize this is contrary to the example set by your robot sister of perfection, but most people have to work really hard to get good at something. There’s a lot of work that goes on behind-the-scenes before anyone gets any good at anything.”
I tightened my ponytail, scrubbed a hand over my nose. “By the time I get even marginally better at this, the semester will be over, and it’ll be time to move on again.”
“There’s a lot of time between now and December. Don’t you think it would be good for you to leave a job on good terms? Maybe with a few glowing references? What if you find out you like education or coaching? What if this is the start of something instead of the end?”
I eyed her over the glow of my cell phone. “When did you get so good at pep talks?”
“When I had a thirteen-year-old daughter who looks at me like I’m the dumbest human being on the face of the planet. I had to step up my advice-giving game. Even if most of it is ignored.”
“Coach!” A group of girls rushed up, giggling. “We finished that side of the field.”
“Good work, ladies.” I rose. “Finish this side off, and I’ll go reprogram the timer.”
Thanks to a lengthy article in last year’s Culpepper Courier, I knew exactly where the controller was. I patted the pocket of my cargo shorts, making sure my toolkit was still there.
I jogged around the bleachers, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The field house was a big, blue brick tower built into the back of the home team bleachers. At the top was the announcer’s booth. On the ground level was a maintenance room. A locked maintenance room.
And beneath those bleachers was the spot that Jake Weston kissed me until my knees gave out.
“How’s she going to get in?”
I whirled around on the whisper to see the team gathered behind me.
Sigh. “Forget you saw any of this,” I cautioned, pulling the toolkit out of my pocket. It was bad enough that I’d involved them in vandalism. Now they were accessories to breaking and entering.
“What’s that?”
“What’s she doing?”
Vicky cracked her gum and smirked. “Shh.”
I pulled the tiny tension wrench and pick out of their holders and inserted them both into the lock. “Can I get a little light over here?”
A flood of cell phone flashlights lit my way. So much for covert ops. We could land a plane here.
“What is she doing?”
“She’s picking the lock.”
“No way. Only people in movies do that.”
“Let her concentrate.”
“Five bucks says she can’t open it.”
I felt the last pin give and turned the knob. “Ha. In.”
Their jubilation was hushed but enthusiastic.
I ducked inside. It was a large room with block walls and a dirt floor. There was a collection of groundskeepery implements and industrial-sized trash cans on the far wall. And there, wired into the block next to the light switch, was our pretty little irrigation system controller.
The boys’ practice started at 3:30 p.m. tomorrow. We’d already be on the bus to our first away game, far away from the accusing fingers. It was diabolical, if I said so myself. I keyed in the required changes, double and then triple checked it, and then locked the door and stepped outside before pulling it closed behind me.
“Well?” one of the girls whispered.
I gave them a thumbs-up.
“No, no, no. This is cooler than a thumbs-up,” Sophie S. insisted. She made a heart shape with her fingers, holding them over her chest. One by one, the other girls followed suit. A silent, heart-shaped salute. Damn if I didn’t feel a little teary.
“Shit! What’s that?” Vicky hissed. She pointed in the direction of a single light bobbing in the dark. Bobbing our way in the dark.
“Crap. Okay, everyone go over the fence at the end of the field. Quietly! Go!”
They took off, a roiling mass of adrenaline and good old-fashioned teenage fear.
“Vicky! Go,” I said, shooing her with my hands.
“No way. What if it’s a murderer? I’m not leaving you here to be murdered! What kind of a friend and assistant coach would I be?”
The answer to that would have to be debated later because the bouncing light was getting closer, and it was attached to a fast-moving, muscled form.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed.
“What?” Vicky asked, batting at me as I tried to push her into the shadows of the bleachers.
“Out for a stroll around the maintenance room, ladies?”
Jake fucking Weston slowed to a stop in front of me. He was sweating, shirtless, and smiling. A combination I found perilously attractive.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m starting to think you’re following me.”
“Clearing my head with a night run,” he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Huh. Us, too,” I said.
“Yeah. Us, too,” Vicky said, mimicking my stance. He eyed us with amusement and suspicion.
I heard the jingle of chain metal and a distant giggle.
“Uh-huh,” Jake said. “Sure.”
Shit.
“Okay, Weston. What’s it going to take to get you to f
orget you saw us here?” Vicky asked.
Hands on his hips, he studied his feet for a beat. He was still wearing those dorky shoes. “You still make those salted caramel cookies?” he asked Vicky.
“Hell yeah, I do. I make ’em good.” Apparently, Vicky took her baking very seriously.
“Two dozen of those babies and, providing you didn’t commit a felony, your secret is probably safe with me.”
“Deal,” Vicky said.
We heard another giggle in the dark. I coughed loudly to cover it and looked everywhere but Jake’s sweaty torso.
“I guess we’ll be on our way,” Vicky said slowly.
“Yeah. I guess we’ll be going.”
“I’ll just finish my lap around the field,” Jake said.
“No! I mean, you should walk us to our car?” It came out as a question. “I mean, since it’s dark and nighttime.” Those things meant the same thing.
“It is both of those things,” he agreed, clearly enjoying himself.
“Ugh. Just come on,” I said, spinning his sweaty body around and pushing him in the direction of the stadium entrance.
“Getting a little handsy there, Mars.”
“Funny. Move.”
He walked us to our cars, and while Vicky listened to the four voicemails her family had left for her with a variety of small emergencies, Jake opened my car door.
“I take it you’ll be behaving from here on out,” he said, leaning into my space.
I held up a couple of fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t think that’s quite right,” he said, adjusting my fingers into the proper formation. Zing! My blood wasn’t just sludging its way through my veins. Now it was simmering. Had I ever felt that zing with Javier just from his hand touching mine? Yeah, that was a solid no.
“You look like you’ve got a lot going on in that head of yours,” he observed.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” I told him. Just a mild case of lust with a side of self-doubt, insecurity, and…hope.
He reached around me, and for a second, I thought he was going to wrap his hand around the back of my neck and pull me in for a kiss.
Instead, he tugged the end of my ponytail.
“See ya around, Mars.”
19
Marley
“You must be Miss Cicero.”
I jumped out of my skin and bobbled my insulated lunch bag. I was standing in the hallway, debating whether to brave the teacher’s lounge for lunch or if I should just hide in the locker room and eat my salad alone in my dungeon. If it helped me avoid Amie Jo, it would be worth it.
“Uh, yeah, hi,” I said, recovering slightly. “Marley.”
“I’m Andrea.” She was medium height, medium build, with brilliant red hair and really nice pale skin. I felt like I was staring at a Disney character. “I’m the guidance counselor.”
“Oh, it’s nice to meet you,” I said, executing a sloppy handshake and wondering if I’d been busted. Had someone figured out I’d tampered with the irrigation system last night? Was she really a guidance counselor, or was she an undercover Culpepper cop?
“I’ve been meaning to meet up with you, but floating between the elementary school and here makes it hard,” she told me. “You wouldn’t happen to want to have lunch with me in my office, would you?”
I didn’t care if the woman had bear traps on the floor of her office. If it kept me away from Amie Jo, I’d happily gnaw my foot off. “I’d be happy to,” I told her.
She brightened, and I looked around for the cartoon deer and birds that should have flocked to her.
“Great! Follow me!”
Andrea’s office was a cramped but cozy space with two armchairs in front of a desk that held an ancient computer and a chrysanthemum in a pot painted by some toddler artist. She immediately earned my trust by kicking off her heels at the door and slipping her feet into comfy slippers.
“Do you try to get to know all the new faculty?” I asked, unpacking my lunch—a chopped Niçoise salad with lemon vinaigrette. After Tuesday night’s frozen fish sticks, I’d begged my parents to let me take over the grocery shopping and meal prep.
For dinner, we were having marinated chicken breasts that were currently cooking away in the Crock-Pot Mom had never used and a new green bean recipe I’d found while I should have been studying soccer drills.
“I do,” she said, pulling a foil-wrapped sandwich from her lunch bag. “And your mom is one of my good friends.”
I paused, mixing the hardboiled egg and tuna into the lettuce. I smelled a setup.
“And my mom asked you to talk to me,” I guessed.
Andrea smiled, and I blinked when she didn’t burst into a song. “Maybe. She’s been concerned about you for quite some time.”
“Why ever would that be? Because I showed up on her doorstop unemployed, single, and homeless?” I took a big bite of salad. It tasted bitter on my tongue.
“Actually, she was worried before that.”
“When I was gainfully employed and in a steady, monogamous relationship?” I clarified.
“She sensed you weren’t happy.”
I sighed. This was very much like my optimistic, everything-has-a-silver-lining mother. She didn’t want to have the conversations that could upset someone. She’d just enlist a stranger to do it.
“I’m fine. I was fine then. I’m fine now. I’ll be fine at the end of the semester.”
“Is that what you want out of life? To feel fine?” Andrea asked innocently. She nibbled at the edge of her sandwich and stared at my salad.
I was suddenly tired of all the things I never said. All the things I told myself to stop feeling.
“Has she told you about my sister?”
“Zinnia? Yes, of course.”
“Can you imagine what it’s like to grow up being average when your sister is blazing a trail toward being the best at everything she does while you’re busy dealing with puberty and trying to be, at the very best, average?”
I took another bite of salad. Andrea watched the fork on its way to my mouth. “Do you want some of this?” I asked.
“Normally, I’d pretend to be polite and say no. But I was running late this morning and accidentally packed myself a mayonnaise and lettuce sandwich. So yes, I will be your friend for life if you share that delicious-looking salad with me.”
She threw the soggy sad mess of sandwich in the trash, and I scooped half of my salad onto her foil. She pulled a plastic fork out of her bottom drawer and dug in. “Okay, this is delicious. Who knew salad could taste good?” she moaned.
“It’s a pretty simple recipe.”
“I’m going to come back to this salad thing because I have an idea. But first, let’s finish the thought on your sister,” Andrea said, taking care to layer tuna, egg, and black olive on her fork.
“It’s not really anything. My sister is great at everything. I’m not.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“I don’t know? Fine? It’s not like I can hate her for being so great. She’s also annoyingly nice.”
“It would be easier if she were an ass about being so great,” Andrea guessed.
“Exactly. But she’s all humble and ‘I feel blessed, now let’s talk about you.’ So really, there’s no thing. I’m me. She’s Zinnia.”
“You feel like you’re not as good because your sister is an extraordinary person.”
“And I’m just ordinary. Only I can’t even seem to get that right.” I credited Andrea’s innocent fairy princess sweetness as the reason I was hurling my entire childhood worth of insecurities at her. “I’ve lost every job I’ve ever had. I’ve never had strong feelings for any of the guys I’ve dated. I can’t seem to do what everyone else does. It’s like I’m missing an important piece of my DNA or I missed an entire semester of school when they taught everyone how to adult.”
Andrea leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Excellent work.”
“On the salad?”
/>
“Yes, but also on the deep dive of where you feel you are in life. I have a proposition.”
“This is going to involve salads, isn’t it?”
“I propose we meet for lunch once a week. You provide the delicious meal, and I’ll provide free therapy. Have you ever talked to a therapist before?”
“You think I need therapy?” More like my mother thought I needed therapy.
“I think we could all use an independent third party to talk to, to say the things you can’t say to people with a vested interest in your life,” Andrea said diplomatically. “And I could use some actual food to get me through the workday.”
“What if I think I’m a lost cause?” I asked.
“You don’t,” Andrea said, finishing the last scrap of lettuce on her foil. “And neither do I.”
“What does my mom say about my sister?”
Andrea grinned. “Oh, she’s worried about Zinnia, too. Thinks she’s too focused on success and the outward appearance of it. But we decided to tackle you first.”
* * *
I left Andrea’s office feeling unsettled and nearly walked right into Jake’s broad chest. Too bad it was covered by a sexy button-down today. Damn. He had the sleeves rolled to the elbows. I liked that.
“Long time, no see, Mars,” Jake said, hitching an eyebrow.
What was he expecting? A confession of what he’d nearly caught me doing last night?
“Uh. Yeah.” My verbal abilities were failing me.
“Missed you at lunch,” he said.
“Are you flirting with me?” I asked.
“If you have to ask, then I’m not doing a very good job.”
Everything that came out of Jake’s mouth sounded like it was suggestively threatening. No wonder his female—and some of his male—students were in a constant lather.
If I had to sit in a classroom and watch him—
“Hello? You in there?” He tapped me on the forehead.
I swatted his hand away. “Uh, yeah. I was just wondering what kind of teacher you are.”
“You have a free period next, don’t you? Why don’t you swing by? Do some observing?”