Touchdown (13 page)

Avner rifled through his jacket pocket. “Here, look at this.” He handed Mindy a small worn-out book. “These are my poems. Goldie never had a chance to read them.”

Goldie rolled her eyes. “Avner, how would I have had time to read your poems? I had to plan our whole wedding all by myself!”

Mindy fingered the pages as Avner unlocked the minivan and got into the driver's seat.

Anyway, why would Mindy want to read those poems? Goldie wondered.

As Mindy climbed into the car, Avner continued. “Poetry helped me get through the trauma of it all . . . her being killed on our wedding night, the funeral, that first horrific week of mourning her loss. When I write, I can express my truth. Maybe it'll help you to read them.”

“That is so beautiful, Avner,” Mindy said.

Goldie dabbed at her eyes and sniffed. Mindy had lost so much.

Mindy wiped a few tears out of her eyes. “Thank you so much, Avner. I'd love to read your poems.”

Avner cleared his throat. “So I'm starving. Would you like to grab something to eat? Maybe pizza at that place on Central Avenue?”

“That sounds great. I love pizza—” Mindy was interrupted by the sound of Mozart coming out of Avner's phone.

Goldie sighed. “He still hasn't changed that ring tone to something more current?”

“Hi, Chumie,” Avner said. “What's up? Oh, really . . . I'm sorry. Okay, sure . . . of course. Whatever you say. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

Goldie's ears twitched. Was she seriously hearing what she thought she was hearing?

“What was that about?” Mindy asked.

Avner shrugged. “Chumie needs me to meet me at Brenda's Boutique. I'm sorry, I won't be able to join you for pizza after all.”

“Why?” Mindy asked.

“Yes, please, do tell—why, Avner?” Goldie shrieked.

Avner started to reverse out of the parking spot. “Mindy, you should know that Chumie and I are dating.”

Goldie felt as though a bomb just dropped on her lap.

Mindy wrinkled her nose. “Seriously?”

Avner nodded. “Yes. We are seriously dating.”

“But it's only been a couple of weeks since my sister passed.”

Goldie spent the next few seconds hyperventilating as Avner's cheeks reddened.

Mindy nodded slowly. “What about Goldie?”

“Mindy, I wouldn't expect you, of all people, to judge me like this.”

Mindy raised her eyebrows. “What . . . did she put a spell on you?”

Avner shrugged. “Anything is possible.”

“Goldie always did say that Chumie was a witch,” Mindy said as she stared at Avner. “But she'd always thought highly of you.”

Goldie caught her breath at the news, then bid Mindy and Avner goodbye.

“Let's go, Charlie,” she said. It was time to pay the witch a visit.

• • •

Chumie had just finished sewing a mother-of-the-bride's dress alteration when her Cup of Joe slowly started tipping over.

“Agh!” Chumie jumped away from the scalding liquid and it splashed onto the plush carpet.

“Hi, Chumie.”

Chumie turned around to see Goldie smiling gleefully.

Chumie narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here? She reached for the paper towels and began to work on the carpet stain.

Goldie crossed her arms. “Wouldn't you like to know. And, sweetie, I have many tricks up my sleeve.” Goldie plopped onto a small, ornate sofa and reclined against the arm.

Chumie smirked as she rubbed the carpet. “So I guess you heard the news. Avner and I are serious. It didn't take long. I guess he was just dying to forget the last girl he dated. I heard she was ugly.”

“Chumie, we both know that you're sloppy seconds, you always were, and you always will be.”

“It doesn't matter what was, Goldie. This time I'm going to win. I'm getting a proposal any day now.” Chumie continued rubbing the stain vigorously.

Goldie snickered. “That's not happening.”

Chumie put down her towel and stared at Goldie. “Wanna bet?”

“Avner would never go for you.”

“Obviously he is.”

“But you've barely dated. How would you get a proposal?”

“We've known each other all our lives.”

“Still.” Goldie shook her head. “He's only with you because you clearly bewitched him. I don't know how but I won't let you take advantage of him like that.”

“You can think whatever you want,” Chumie snorted. “But if you haven't noticed yet, you're dead. I'm the only one on this earth that can see you. So yes, let's bet. I'll get my proposal in a week's time. And then I'm going to win the prize.”

“Prize?” Goldie gasped and sat up. “You don't even love him.”

“And you did?” Chumie rolled her eyes. “We both know that Avner was just part of a package deal. A comfortable life. The big house, the summer house, the two kids, the rare purebred family puppy dog, the closets full of shoes. Everyone in the community respecting you, wanting to be you—it's all going to be mine now.” She smiled contentedly.

Goldie sputtered with outrage. “Ew, I would never get a dog. They're messy. Chumie, you will always be tacky. You will never be me. You can't replace me. And he won't marry you.”

Chumie raised her hands and focused them in the direction of the ugly brown coffee stain. With a small twitch of her nose the coffee stain disappeared.

Goldie's eyes widened and she jumped off the couch. “Why, you are a witch! I knew Avner wouldn't go for you under normal circumstances.”

“Maybe I am and maybe I'm not,” Chumie said and raised her eyebrows. “Some people have generous daddies, and I have my own special gifts. You're not the only one with tricks up her sleeve.”

“Whatever,” Goldie huffed. “I'm so out of here.”

“What, Goldie, are you scared?”

Goldie glared. “No.”

“You should be.”

Goldie stepped back. “What? And if you trick him into marrying you—how long can you keep your spell on him? When it wears off, he'll leave you.”

Chumie cackled. “No, he won't. Not after I'm carrying his child. He's a proud man, Goldie. We both know he'll do the honorable thing.”

Goldie stared at the witch, horrified. For the first time in her life—and death—she was at a loss for words.

Chumie continued to cackle. “By the end of the week he'll be mine. And there's nothing you can do except watch. Wow, I'm enjoying this.” Chumie opened up her laptop. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work do. You know how hard it is to plan a wedding.”

• • •

Charlie was waiting for Goldie outside Brenda's Boutique.

“What am I going to do?” she asked.

“Goldie, you'll have to figure that out for yourself. The tribunal is expecting you back in one human week and—”

“I need to borrow that jock's body and get to New York ASAP! But teach me one of your angel tricks so I can start using them here. Please? That coffee stunt with Chumie was pure luck but I didn't want her to know it . . . ”

“That was me, Goldie. I'm not allowed to teach you tricks.”

“But, Charlie, I didn't do anything terrible enough to deserve this. Please help me.”

Charlie shrugged. “Tell me, why should I bend the rules for you?”

Goldie pursed her lips. “Don't you remember that huge fundraiser I put together for the orphans in that foreign country? I've done good things.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows. “You only hosted that party to show off your latest kitchen renovations.”

“Charlie, I hand-frosted three hundred cookies. That has to count for something.”

Charlie smiled. “Goldie, honey, we both know you only did that because Chantilly's mixed up the order.”

“Charlie!” Goldie pleaded. “Help me! Do you want me to grovel? I can grovel. Watch.” Goldie attempted puppy-dog eyes and clasped her hands together.

“Fine,” Charlie finally agreed. “Let me see what I can do.” He watched, amused, as Goldie did a victory dance.

Clay stood outside the locker room talking to Austin, the defense tackle, before the big game. Coach had just taken him aside to remind him that his colleague—a scout—had flown all the way in from New York just to see Clay play. On top of knowing that his every move would be scrutinized he had the added weight of trying to win the season. After all, if he led his team to victory today they would advance to the conference championship and a big bowl game. The loser would get to watch from home. No pressure.

His cell phone rang and he nearly jumped out of his pads.

Austin elbowed Clay on his sore shoulder. “What? Hot chicks blow up your phone at the worst time?”

Clay fumbled for his phone. “Hello?”

“Clay? It's Leigh.”

“Are you still angry at me?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Your voice. Something isn't right. What's up?” Clay asked as Austin smirked at him.

“Nothing. You're still dating Carolyn, right?”

“I suppose. Lately all we seem to do together is shop, which I must say is tiring. Though at least now she's happy and she stopped bugging me about getting more serious. We hang out at the parties—But what does that have to do with anything?”

“I don't know. But you didn't break up with her like you said you would. Hey, it doesn't matter, right? Do you still have my iPod?”

Clay shuffled through his bag. Leigh's pink iPod was at the bottom, underneath his football cleats and his Gatorade.

“Yup, I do, Leigh. Sorry, I meant to get that back to you.”

“Yeah. So, I guess next time you're home for the weekend you'll drop it off?”

“Wait—aren't you coming to the game?” The silence on the other end of the line confirmed Clay's suspicions. “But you're my lucky charm,” he tried.

“You don't need me, Clayton Harper, you've got Carolyn. And I've got better things to do than cheer you on.”

Clay scowled. “Listen Leigh, I don't know what Carolyn's got to do with it. I thought you forgave me for being a jerk at the party. And that was a while back. So what's really bothering you?”

“Seriously? You can't figure it out?”

Clay slowly exhaled. “You've just been getting so distant, like you don't want to hang out with me anymore. What did I do? You gotta tell me so at least I can fix things.”

“What, with all your buddies listening? No, thank you, Clay.”

Clay turned around. Sure enough, his team was lazily staring at him and his dramatic phone conversation. “Fine, Leigh. Just please come to the game. You'll tell me what happened and I'll make it up to you. Give me a chance?”

After a pause, Leigh quietly said, “I guess I owe you that. I'll see if I can make it.”

Clay hung up and dumped his phone into his bag.

Austin looked over and smirked. “Women,” he said.

• • •

Clay looked up to see his dad and little brother walking up to the locker room. Football was the one and only thing his dad had ever supported him in. And he never missed a game. Clay ruffled Evan's light brown feathery hair to greet him.

“So how's the shoulder?” Dad asked.

Clay tensed up. “It was starting to heal but I don't know—” He still hadn't told his parents about his drunken night, how Leigh had saved him. Telling them about this shoulder injury seemed like more than they could handle.

Mr. Harper looked his son in the eye. “Well now, you're still good enough to play. It can't be that bad.”

Clay was silent.

Evan, glued to his computer game, was oblivious to the exchange.

Dad straightened his shirt collar. “You're not going to sit out the game over an injury, are you?”

Clay shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Evan and I didn't drive up here to watch you sissy out on the bench and some second-stringer stealing your glory.”

“I wasn't planning on it.”

“Listen.” Dad cocked his head. “Coach said your moves are always good, but the scouts want to see a passion for the game.”

“I know. I'll do my best.”

His father snorted. “Best isn't good enough anymore. What if you don't sign with anyone? I can't help you out. You know it's football or some pansy job.”

“Or a different job. Russell said—”

“Russ would do anything to be able to play again. You know that. You owe him that.” His dad glared at him. “Football is our life.”

Evan looked sorrowfully up at his brother and then resumed his game.

Clay's jaw clenched. It was a common side effect of conversing with his father. “Dad. I got it.”

“Clay. You go be a man. Because a man doesn't let anything get in the way of winning.” His father grabbed his shoulder. “Good luck.”

• • •

Clay was trying to forget the conversation with his dad as he finished tying the laces on his cleats when Coach walked over.

“How's the shoulder?” He clapped Clay playfully on his injury.

Clay winced. “Good.”

“So, are you ready to win?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know we're all counting on you, Clayton.”

Clay nodded. He understood.

Coach turned and shouted out loud to the team. “We are a family! You're going to win this game because it's a battle. And you fight for your family!” Coach's voice went up a few octaves and his prominent forehead vein pulsated as he yelled. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Coach!” the team grunted, everyone standing up a little taller, alert, ready to fight.

“So stretch! What are y'all waiting for?”

All his teammates sat down on the locker room floor and began stretching their muscles, but Clay walked out into the hallway and began pacing.

The voices rang in his head: “We're all counting on you. We are a family. My son doesn't let anything get in the way of winning. You go be a man. This game is a battle. You fight for your family. Football is our life . . . Do you want some pansy job? We're going to win this game. This is your last chance . . . ” He gingerly felt his shoulder. It was sore, but it wasn't on fire. He'd played with worse injuries.