So Not Happening (22 page)
“Our team's unraveling, Matt. You saw it out there tonight. No wins, no college scholarships. Dude, if we keep that up, we won't get recruiters out here to even look at us.”
I stay stooped down within earshot of Dante.
Matt pulls his helmet off “Maybe. I don't know.”
“I
do
know. The Brotherhood. That's the answer. We need you in. We need to be a team off the field in order to be a team
on
the field.”
“You gotta give me more information, Dante.”
“You either trust me or you don't. We're your family, Matt.” Dante stops. “Do you need something?”
From my bent position, I glance up. His steely eyes are fixed on me. “Um . . . just picking up water bottles.” I giggle. “Gets a little messy down here.” I twirl my hair around a finger. “Sorry about the game.” I offer a friendly wink, grab Matt's towel, and walk away.
A few minutes later, after I've helped Lindy pile all the equipment, I grab my notebook and plant myself in front of the first coach I find.
“Coach Dallas, can I have a word with you?” He's definitely the youngest of the coaches. If anyone is more likely to be hanging out with the players, it's him. “I'm Bella Kirkwood with the
Truman
High Tribune.
I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
His eyes move swiftly to his players as they gather around the head coach. “I really have to go, kid.”
“I'll just take a few minutes of your time.” I begin my questions, not waiting for permission. “Last year the Tigers were so close to winning state. Does that make you even more intent on capturing the title this season?”
“Uh . . . “ The coach struggles to focus on me as his colleague begins yelling at the team in various tones of mad and furious. “Sure, yeah. We really want to make it to state this year. We have a long history of being champs, so we'd like to recapture that.”
“And do you think last year's loss of two players has hurt the team morale?”
His expression freezes and he pins me with his full attention. “No. And we didn't lose two players. Zach Epps is still alive to us. Still a part of this team.”
“From a nursing home bed?” I continue my barrage. “Were you here last year? What can you tell me about the night Zach was hurt?”
“I've got work to do, Miss Kirkwood. That's all the time I have.”
“Coach, I want to drum up some school enthusiasm for the team through a series of articles. I'm just trying to get a little background info.”
He sets his jaw. “Last year was my first year. And I know nothing about Zach's incident besides what the paper reported. Why?”
I fire off some mundane questions, trying to sound less intrusive and soothe any suspicions he might have. “What college did you go to?”
“Ole Miss.”
“Is that home, then—Mississippi?”
“Of course not. I was a Tiger.” He swats a player on the shoulder. A Truman Tiger.” His sleeve rises. And I see a tattoo.
Truman Brotherhood.
“I have to talk to my team now.” Coach Dallas walks away, catching up to Dante to talk.
I close my notebook and grab my purse from the ground. Two familiar-looking shoes appear beside mine, and I jump up. “Luke, thank God you're here. Big news.”
“Walk with me.” He gestures toward the exiting crowd. “You must've worked pretty hard tonight. You have a hair out of place.” He reaches out and tucks a wilted strand behind my ear and my mind completely empties. “Can't have my staff looking disheveled. So how did it go? Come up with anything? Did Jared Campbell's brother give you any information?”
“Who?”
“Coach Dallas—that's Jared's stepbrother.”
“What? Why didn't anyone tell me this? So Coach Lambourn is Jared's stepdad?” At Luke's nod, I check behind me to make sure no one is tuned in to our conversation as we stroll across the field. “I overheard Dante talking to Matt again, but just more of the same. Still wanting him to join their group. Matt sounds closer to caving in.”
“Any ideas on what this Brotherhood is?”
“No. But Dante won't tell Matt everything about it until he commits, so it's a heavily guarded secret.”
“One we need to uncover.”
“Right.” I thrill a little at his use of “we.” Like we're a team on this. Like he finally takes me seriously. I grab Luke's arm. “Oh, get this—guess who has a Brotherhood tattoo?”
“Your mom?”
“Coach Dallas—on his upper arm.
And
he was very cagey when I asked him about Zach Epps.” I fill him in on my brief interview.
“And your theory?”
I can't believe Luke's asking my opinion. I wonder if he's fevered. He is
not
acting like his usual snarky self. “Um ...” I try to focus on the issue at hand as we weave through long-faced Tiger fans. “I think it's pretty obvious Coach Dallas wants to reignite that long history of winning he mentioned. In his day, the team was a brilliant success. Maybe he wants to win so bad that he's formed this supergroup of players that he trains really hard and . . . “ And here's where my theory dead-ends. “And who knows what else they do.”
“It has to be more than additional training if it's so secret.”
“Yeah, I guess the players wouldn't need to meet in a dark field to discuss some extra bench presses.”
“Keep thinking on it. Maybe pray about it, if you're into that sort of thing.”
I stop and an old lady with a giant foam finger rams into me. “What did you just say?”
Luke smiles. “You know—pray or something. A good reporter can't do this alone. We need some help. That's your assignment for tonight—see you later.”
He leaves me standing in the center of the field with gaping mouth and whirling brain. The president of the Jerk Club of Truman High just told
me
to pray about it? He's the one who probably has to add “Be nice” to his daily to-do list. Who does he think he is? Like I wouldn't do that? As if I'm such a weak Christian I need that reminder?
Okay, so maybe I needed that reminder. Whatever.
Maybe God and I have been living in different stratospheres lately. It's like I can't get a grip on anything anymore. Nothing is going how it's supposed to. I have an evil stepbrother, my mom married a man who likes to play pirate, my cat is gone, my boyfriend ignores me, and Mia has forgotten I exist. And I'm supposed to find faith in the midst of this how? What was it that youth pastor said at FCA? That we should look for our Mary moments? What if I don't want to find mine? Maybe it's in New York, but I'm not there to intercept it.
I glance across the field to see if Lindy's waiting for Matt like I instructed her to. Though I don't see her anywhere, my eyes land on a lone figure in the bleachers. Sitting. Covered up as if it's chilly, yet it's at least ninety steamy degrees this evening.
With legs that seem to move of their own volition, I retrace my steps back toward the stands.
Kelsey Anderson. The girl who was at FCA, the one who dated Zach Epps.
My heart pounding with dread, I continue up the steel stairs and walk toward the girl who sits alone, staring out onto the field like it holds her captive, transfixed. Her pale, haunted face tugs at my conscience. “He
might he calling you to a Mary moment..
.” No, I totally don't want to talk to her. She's all spacey and weird. I don't even know her!
I stop a few feet beside Kelsey. Clearing my throat, I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Hey, Kelsey.”
She jumps. But says nothing.
“I, um, just wondered if you noticed the game was over.” Oh
my
gosh. I need a script. Why do I say these dumb things?
“I mean, of course you know the game's over since you're all alone out here and all, oh, but not that anything's wrong with being alone. I like to be alone sometimes too. Well, maybe not as alone as I have been in Truman, but in Manhattan I liked nothing better than to be by myself and with some Ben and Jerry's and—”
“Zach would've done anything to have been here tonight.” Her fragile voice stops me like a shotgun blast. “He would've done anything for the team.”
I take that as an invitation to sit down. “So Zach . . . was he a good player?”
She slowly nods her head. “One of the best. He wanted to go pro.” Her lips curve at some memory. “Coach told him he had it in him too.”
“And which coach would that be?”
“All of them. They knew Zach was really gonna be something. He was their hope for state. Their star quarterback.” Kelsey lapses into silence again.
“Is there someone I can call for you? Do you have some friends you could hang out with tonight?” I can't just leave her here alone.
She shakes her head. “They've kind of moved on, you know?” Her hollow brown eyes finally meet mine. “I know I'm different—I'm not the same. They want to go to parties and shop and laugh. They care about clothes and boys.”
Maybe you could introduce me to them?
“But when the person you love the most in the world lies in a nursing home and dies a little every day, none of those things matter.”
“No, I don't guess they would.” My words sound flat and useless. “Hey . . . um, Kelsey, you mentioned that Zach went to a party the night of the accident. What do you know about that?”
She shrugs and returns her stare to the field. “Just another party with the football guys. Usually he got an invitation for me, but not the last few times he went. Not that night.”
And he always had a ticket, an invitation, to get in?”
She nods. “They would always pick us up somewhere then blindfold us. It was fun at the time. Mysterious.”
“Did Zach ever figure out who threw the parties?”
“I don't know.”
“Kelsey, was anyone with Zach when he crashed?”
“No, but I should've been.”
My hand covers hers. “You can't think that.”
She sniffs. “We had gotten into this huge fight. I thought he was cheating on me, going to the parties by himself, without me. When I'd press him for details, he wouldn't say a word. Just got mad and said I didn't trust him.” Tears spill down her cheeks. “Maybe if I had trusted him, he would've let me go to the last parties with him. Maybe I could've saved him.”
“Did anyone see the crash? If it was on the night of the party, where were his friends?”
“I have to go.” She draws the blanket around her. “I want to go tell Zach about the game tonight.”
“Kelsey—“ I stand up with her. “Don't you think there are some things that don't add up here?”
She lifts a shoulder and walks past me. “That's life though, isn't it? Bad things happen—things don't make sense. Like Carson Penturf.”
“Wait—who's that?”
“Carson played center. Until last fall.”
“And then?”
“Then he stepped off a cliff and broke his neck.”
“The guy who killed himself last year, right?”
She lifts a thin brow. “That's what they said. I have to go. Visiting hours will be over soon.”
“Wait, I just have a few more questions.”
“They don't like questions around here, Bella. They'll just call you crazy like they did me. Besides, you can't argue with a police report. Or the football team.”
“Is that what you did?”
“I have to go.”
And she runs away on toothpick legs, her blanket flying behind her like one of Robbie's capes.
W
e left a list for you. And I'll have my cell phone, but Jake says it gets so loud in the arena that I won't be able to hear it. But remember, no Coke after seven. He needs to be in bed by ten. And I printed off instructions for the Heimlich and CPR, and—”
“Mom,” I interrupt. “Seriously, just go. Robbie and I will be fine. I won't let him choke or OD on caffeine.”
“I know it's only four o'clock, but we've got to be in Tulsa by five.” Jake scoops his youngest son into his hulkish arms. “We won't be back until you're asleep, so that's a long time to stir up trouble for Bella. You won't do that, right? You don't want to be banished to the poop deck, do you?”
Robbie giggles. “No, Captain Iron Jack. I'll keep an eye on the ship while yer gone. Arghhh.”
Pirate jokes. Perfect. This makes me want to hurl myself off the poop deck.
The doorbell chimes as Mom and her wrestler walk to the foyer.
“Flowers for Bella Kirkwood.” Mom closes the door and hands them over to my waiting arms. “Roses. Very nice.”
With a big goofy smile on my face, I rip into the card.
I'm sorry for my distance lately. Being without you makes me kind
of crazy. Can't wait until we see each other again. Love, Hunter.
“They're from Hunter.” I clutch the flowers to my chest then peck my mom on the cheek. “Don't worry about a thing. We'll be fine here. And, Jake, um . . . good luck or break a leg or whatever it is you people say.”
Jake grins and pats me on the back. “It's definitely
not
break a leg.”
Break a skull? Don't bust a seam? Have a concussion-free
evening?
I shut the door behind them as Budge stomps down the stairs. I turn my head so he won't see the giggle that his Aladdin-inspired uniform always sets off.
“What?” he growls. “You think you're too good for the Wiener Palace?”
I swivel to face him. “No, of course not.” My eyes narrow in on his name tag. “I can only hope to one day be called a Sultan of Pork.”
“Not everybody has a dad who gets rich off of boob jobs.”
“Not everybody cares what you think.” Immediately I feel bad. I know I shouldn't talk to Budge like that, but he totally pushes my buttons. “Actually . . . Budge, there is something I've been wanting to talk to you about.”
He crosses his arms over his velvet vest, wrinkling his puffy sleeves. “You said you didn't care what I thought.”
“When it comes to your hot dog career dreams.”
And your genie
pants.
“But I would like to hear your take on some stuff that happened at Truman High last year.”
His face freezes. Then reddens. “What's it to you?”
“You know what I'm going to ask you about, don't you? About the football players?”
“I don't know anything.”
“Did you know them? Zach Epps or Carson Penturf?”
“I said I don't know anything.” Budge crams on his sultan's hat, a tall silk thing with an enormous ruby sprouting peacock plumes.
