Payback Time (3 page)

I hadn't thought about the connections I'd be making, but as sports stringer, I'd be dealing with editors of real newspapers, something that wouldn't have happened if I'd remained the news reporter for the
Lincoln Light—
unless the big dailies suddenly became interested in the accomplishments of Lincoln High's chess club. "Sounds great," I said. "In fact, it sounds fantastic."

McNulty leaned back. "See. We're all part of one big family."

I cleared my throat. "How about we get started? I've got some questions. First—"

"No, no, no," McNulty said, pointing the pencil at me again. "No questions—not today not ever. This job takes forever and pays peanuts. Here's how it works. You write down or tape what I tell you. When I'm done, jazz it up however you want, but never make me, my coaches, or my players look bad. Understand?"

Mr. Dewey had warned us about people like McNulty, but this was my first time dealing with one. "A reporter who lets himself be pushed around is a traitor to his profession." That's what Dewey had said.

I could feel myself trying to say: "
Coach, I will ask the questions I want to ask, and I will write what I want to write.
"

In the classroom, practicing with bald, bowtied Mr. Dewey, I had spit out similar words like a machine gun spits out bullets. But McNulty's eyes were scary. I squirmed as he stared at me, feeling like a snot-nosed preschooler who'd been caught marking a wall with crayons. "Understood?" he said again, a threat in his voice, as though he might force me to do cartwheels in front of the football team if I argued.

"Yes, sir."

From a drawer he took out three sheets of paper covered with black type and shoved them at me. "Here's the information for the football preview. Horst Diamond will be the focus, and you'll be leading every game story with his name, too. He's a lock for a D-I scholarship. UW is drooling over him, but he's got a shot at a bigger school—Notre Dame, or even USC. Your job is to get him publicity."

I scanned the three sheets. "But what if somebody else has a better game?"

"Nobody's going to have a better game. Run or pass—everything we do goes through Horst. I want a swarm of college coaches around here. They'll see him, and they'll see me and the program I run. I do not intend to spend my life coaching high school."

McNulty stood. "Read those pages, prepare a few questions, and before practice tomorrow you can interview Horst. He'll be at the field fifteen minutes early. Have your photographer come along for that." He paused. "You've got a photographer, right?"

"A photographer?"

"Every sports story needs pictures. Either you've got to take them yourself, or you've got to get a photographer. Didn't you know that?"

B
ACK HOME,
I washed down an almond pastry with a cup of hot chocolate. While I ate, my mind spun in circles. When Mr. Dewey had told us to be courageous, he'd been talking about journalists uncovering corruption. But Coach McNulty? Horst Diamond? They were just sports figures. Sports is—well—sports. So why make a big deal out of nothing?

As I started on a second almond pastry I remembered what McNulty had said about the photographer. All I know about cameras is that I hate having my picture taken. I called Alyssa.

"Relax, Mitch," she said. "I've got you a photographer."

"You do? Who?"

"Kimi Yon."

"Kimi Yon?"

"She's into sports photography, or at least that's what she says. Personally, I think she wants to get some photos published because that would look good on her college applications. Harvard, Yale, and Princeton are the only schools good enough for her."

"You don't like Kimi?"

"I like her okay. I'm just being bitchy. Don't tell her what I said, okay?"

"I won't." I paused. "Does Kimi know she'll be working with me?"

"Mitch, don't say it that way. Besides, it's not like she's going to the Winter Ball with you." Alyssa laughed at the thought, and I managed to laugh along.

"Could you give me her number? I've got an interview tomorrow with Horst Diamond."

"It's 789–9365. Mitch, I'm sorry. What I said was mean."

"Forget it."

"Look, I've got to get off. I told you about my dad and minutes. "

 

Kids who don't like Kimi joke that there are actually two Kimis: the one who gets an A on everything and the one who gets an A+. When I first met her, I thought she was totally into herself and her grades, but my opinion of her changed one day in AP American History.

We were the only sophomores in a class filled with juniors and seniors. Our teacher, Ms. Simonson, was new. "I'm going to use the same methods that Socrates used in ancient Greece." That's what she said on the first day her eyes shining, and every day she tried to get discussions going. Most days, nothing much happened. She wasn't a great teacher, but she worked harder than any teacher I've ever had.

Ms. Simonson was also short, fat, and ugly. Early in November the seniors started calling her Yoda, after the little Zen guy from Star Wars. They'd whisper, but they'd whisper so loudly that everyone could hear. I laughed the first time; she did look a lot like Yoda.

Only they wouldn't stop. Mario Chalmers, a basketball player and one of the big shots in the school, was the worst. He'd make some Yoda comment, and his friends would roll around in their chairs and laugh. Ms. Simonson pretended not to hear, but her face would turn bright red. It was like watching somebody pull the wings off a fly. What could I do, though? I was Mitch, and he was Mario Chalmers.

Then, one Friday, Kimi Yon stood up, right in the middle of class, and glared at Chalmers. "Stop it!" she shouted after he'd made yet another Yoda joke. "Just stop it!" Her eyes glowed with rage. "You're not funny."

The whole room fell silent. Even Ms. Simonson stood like a statue. Chalmers's face looked as if a vampire had sucked the blood out of him. He glanced around for help, but his buddies had their heads down. He turned back to Kimi, and her eyes were still on fire. He shrugged, dropped his head onto his chest, and slouched deep into his chair. After that, Chalmers and his friends messed around some, but they never called Ms. Simonson Yoda again.

Now Alyssa had just told me that Kimi Yon—beautiful, brilliant, courageous Kimi Yon—was going to be my partner. If I had been any other guy I'd have been out-of-my-mind happy at the thought. But I wasn't any other guy, and that was the problem.

 

Even though I make jokes about being fat, that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. When school ended in mid-June, I promised myself that I wouldn't return to Lincoln in September with a stomach as soft as a jelly roll. But once you get out of shape, it's hard to get back into shape. And my parents' business doesn't make it any easier.

They run a catering service that supplies fancy desserts to expensive restaurants like Ray's Boathouse and Canlis. Because they run their own business, I never have to job hunt. They don't believe in having me work during the school year, but in the summer I put in twenty hours a week, mainly helping with the afternoon deliveries.

That's the good part. The bad part is that bakeries are always bringing new pastries to my mom, and I'm her guinea pig. Every night after dinner, my dad goes off to read the newspaper, leaving my mom and me alone in the kitchen. She puts a piece of chocolate cake or peach-blueberry pie slathered in whipped cream in front of me. Then she sits down across from me, her own dessert in front of her. "Try a few bites, Dan," she says. "I want to know what you think."

Once either of us starts eating a dessert, we don't stop until it's gone, which is why we're both overweight while my dad isn't. I finish the whole thing, grade it as though I'm some sort of food expert, and my mom smiles and thanks me. It's as if eating huge desserts is part of my job. So June and July and half of August had slipped by, and pies and cakes had slipped down my throat. And now I'd be going places with Kimi Yon. Standing next to her, I'd look fatter and shorter and paler. If only I'd started exercising and stopped eating.

There was no point in postponing the inevitable. I flipped open my cell phone, punched in the numbers as fast as I could, and hit the green call button.

"Hello." A man's voice—her father. Alyssa had given me Kimi's home number, not her cell.

My palms got sweaty. "Is Kimi home?"

"Who is this? My daughter not talk to boys unless I know."

"I'm Mitch True. I'm the sports—"

In the background I heard her voice. "Dad, give me the phone." Her father said something in what I figured was Chinese, and then Kimi came on the line. "Hello. Who is this?"

"It's Mitch True," I said. "You know me, I think, from Ms. Simonson's class. But maybe you don't know me. I'm sort of—" I stopped. How could I describe myself?

"I know you, Mitch. Everybody knows you. I'm glad to be working with you."

"You are?"

"Sure. You're the best writer in the school." She paused. "When do we start?"

I swallowed. "Well, I've got an interview with Horst Diamond scheduled for tomorrow, and pictures would be great."

"Okay. What time?"

"Eight forty-five at Gilman Park."

"The Fifteen bus goes right by Gilman. I'll be there."

In the summer my mom always drove in to work with my dad so that I could use her car. I took a deep breath. "I can give you a ride."

Silence.

I'd crossed the line—Kimi wouldn't want to be seen in the same car with me. "Look," I said, "it's okay if you'd rather take the bus."

"I'd rather get a ride. It's just that my father is so weird. He's the most incredibly stereotypical Asian dad. He'll ask you a million questions, and then he'll follow you down the street shouting driving instructions."

"I don't care," I said, thinking that he couldn't be that bad.

She sighed. "All right. My address is—"

I wrote down the number. "See you at eight twenty," I said.

I closed my cell, amazed. Kimi
wanted
to work with me.

Before heading to work that afternoon, I drove to Brown Bear car wash. I washed the car, wiped it dry, and vacuumed the seats and the floor. When I finished it looked better, but it was still a ten-year-old silver Ford Focus with a dented front passenger fender and a missing rear wheel cover.

 

I woke early Tuesday morning and showered. I toweled dry, dug out my bottle of Calvin Klein Obsession, and sprayed a little on. But then I felt ridiculous—we weren't going on a date—and washed it off. For breakfast I ate a vanilla yogurt and half a cinnamon bagel—no butter. Starting
now
I was getting in shape.

Five minutes later I pulled up in front of Kimi's house on Cleopatra Place. I'd driven by it before, not because I was stalking her (I'm fat and ugly, not a pervert), but because Cleopatra is a good shortcut when Eighth Avenue backs up, and I'd seen her in front of her house.

My dad fights weeds all the time, and our yard looks good, but Kimi's yard made my dad's garden look like Kit Carson's wilderness. It was as if Mr. Yon's flowers were on steroids, while weeds knew better than to poke their ugly heads out of the ground.

I strode up the walkway to the front door, but it swung open before I reached it. "Come in," her father said, "but no shoes." He was smiling and bowing, but his eyes were fierce. I looked around for Kimi's mother, and then I remembered hearing that Kimi's mother was dead.

I kicked off my shoes. Kimi was perched on a snow-white sofa, her head bowed and the palms of her hands pressing against her forehead. She wore faded jeans and a U2 T-shirt. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair. "We've got to go, Dad."

"You sit down," Mr. Yon said, ignoring her.

I sat. "I'm Mitch True."

"You wear seat belt?"

"Yes. Always."

"Dad."

"And you drive slow."

"Yes, sir. I drive slow."

"You make sure Kimi wear seat belt, and you drive slow."

"Yes, Mr. Yon. I will."

"Dad, we've got to go," Kimi said, moving toward the door. I followed, yanking my shoes back on. She almost ran down the walkway; she was in the passenger seat before I was halfway to the car.

"Oh my God, he is
so
embarrassing," Kimi said as we pulled away. "He acts like I'm going be kidnapped and forced to become a sex slave in Thailand."

I pictured Mr. Yon sitting alone in his spotless house, worried sick. Who could blame him? Kimi was amazing, and he'd just seen me—me!—drive off with her.

"He just cares a lot," I said, sounding like my mom.

O
NCE
I
'D PULLED INTO
an empty parking space at Gilman Park and killed the engine, I turned to Kimi. "We'll do the interview first. Then you can take photos of Horst."

Kimi pursed her lips. "For three years it's been nothing but Horst. Everybody at Lincoln is sick of him, except for Britt Lind, and I bet she's sick of him too. Let's look for somebody new."

I cleared my throat. How could I tell Kimi that Coach McNulty was calling the shots? She'd have stood up to him the same way she'd stood up to Mario Chalmers.

"Sure," I said, "if there is somebody new. But if Horst is the best player—"

"You're right. Still, we can keep our eyes open."

We walked across the field toward the west corner where McNulty waited, clipboard in hand. Horst loomed next to him, gripping and regripping a leather football. McNulty looked at his watch as we neared. "Practice starts in seventeen minutes. Once it begins, the interview ends." And then he was gone.

Horst was wearing shorts and a muscle shirt. He must have spent the summer at the beach and in the gym because his bulging biceps were deep bronze. He smiled, his teeth bleached weirdly white. "Hey, Kimi, you here to interview me?"

Kimi nodded toward me. "Mitch does the interview; I take the photos."

Horst's eyes never left Kimi. "I look best holding the ball up like this, like I'm scanning the field for a receiver." He flexed. Was there a new movie,
Son of Popeye,
that I hadn't heard about? Did he think he was auditioning for the lead?