“What do you mean?”
“Up there.” Odom shielded his eyes against the sun. “Just below the press box.”
Lamar squinted. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Over in the viewing stands, there was now a second set of feet clanging up and down the aluminum steps.
“What’s the deal with that kid?” said Odom. “Who the hell runs stadium steps because they want to?”
“Good grief,” said Calhoun. “Can you take over for me again? . . .”
Lamar arrived at the bottom step just as Chris touched it—“Hey, Coach”—and pivoted to head back up.”
“Stop,” said Lamar. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Heavy breathing. “Getting in condition, Coach.”
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday that only players were allowed on the field?”
“I’m not on the field, Coach. I’m in the stands.”
“And stop calling me Coach.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
“Sit down.” Lamar joined her on the bottom bench. “Maybe I wasn’t perfectly clear yesterday, but when I said you couldn’t be on the field, I meant the entire grounds, including the stands.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“Now I am.”
A pout. But not one of self-pity. Just a moment of frustration until Chris figured out her next move.
“And please don’t pout,” said Lamar. “Not that.”
“Then make me a manager.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” said the coach. “Just relax and stop all . . . this . . .”
“This what?”
“All of it. You’re driving me nuts,” said Lamar. “And when you’re a freshman, I think you’d be a great manager.”
Chris shook her head. “I’ll lose a whole year.”
“Of what?”
“Getting better. I want to learn.”
She got up and began jogging away. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”
“Stop calling me—”
“Sorry . . .”
“Hut! Hut! Hut!”
The football was snapped. Players violently collided. The quarterback got leveled just after releasing a perfect fade route to the back corner of the end zone. Couldn’t blame that one on the defender.
A whistle. The head coach clapped hard a single time. “Now that’s what I’m talking about!”
Behind him, two assistant coaches stood next to each other, looking in a different direction.
Odom canted his head and said out the side of his mouth, “Technically she’s not on the grounds.”
“What do I have to do?”
They continued watching Chris run laps around the outside of the fence.
Odom shook his head, “I don’t think she’s going to quit.”
“You don’t have to smile about it.”
Practice ended. Everyone headed for the locker room. Almost everyone.
Lamar strolled toward the student parking lot. Chris came dashing around the corner of the fence, head down.
“Sorry, Coach, didn’t mean to run into you.”
“You win,” said Lamar.
“Win what?”
“You can be a manager.”
Big grin. “Really?” Jumping up and down now.
“And no jumping when you’re manager,” said Lamar. “You need to take this seriously. You need to be a help, not a distraction. Meet me in my office before practice tomorrow. And bring your last report card.”
“You got it, Coach.” She began jumping again.
Lamar turned toward the locker room. “I’m already regretting this.”
Chapter 11
Central Florida
The Plymouth Satellite blazed north through that rural swath of the state where you were never more than five minutes away from the ability to purchase marmalade.
Coleman looked down and found a Cheeto stuck to his shirt. “Ooooh, my lucky day.” He popped it in his mouth. Crunch, crunch. “Serge, don’t take this wrong, but a cemetery tour is kind of dull. Nothing’s moving.”
“Visiting these final resting places is in large part a pretext.” The speedometer needle climbed as the muscle car raced down the orange center line of the two-lane road like a 1970s B-movie starring Steve McQueen. “The graves of people who lived life to the fullest are highly inspirational. They’re the perfect place to reflect and remind yourself to never stop chasing your dreams.”
“I had a cool dream last night,” said Coleman.
“It’s not that kind of dream.”
“Wait, I want to tell you,” said Coleman. “I was sleeping.”
“That’s usually when you dream.”
“No, I mean I was sleeping in the dream,” said Coleman. “Nothing happened.”
Serge turned and stared curiously. Coleman was nodding to himself. “Much better than my nightmares. A few days ago I dreamed that I had a job and had to work all night in the dream and then I woke up tired. I hate that. What about you?”
“Okay, here’s the thing I love about dreams.” Serge took his hands off the wheel and rubbed them together. “You get to meet famous people throughout history. I’ve gotten to know Genghis Khan, General Custer, Joan of Arc, Tolstoy—who by the way was really long-winded—Galileo, Gandhi, Gershwin, the Marx Brothers, Richard the Lionhearted. But the high expectations can also lead to major disappointment. For some reason I have this recurring dream that I’m on a passenger train with Jesus, and it begins with him showing me magic tricks, like pulling quarters out of my ear, and I’m like, ‘We get it. You’re Jesus. Give it a rest.’ And every time, before it’s over, we somehow end up in a fistfight. But here’s the weird part: He’s the one who always starts the shit, poking me in the chest with a finger, over and over: ‘What are you going to do about it? Huh? Big man? What have you got to say now?’ And I tell him, ‘Christ, this isn’t like you.’ And then he sucker-punches me! Who would ever see that coming?”
The Satellite sped on down the winding road. Vultures were picking apart an armadillo and took flight. Coleman cracked a can of Pabst. “You’re driving pretty fast, even for you.”
“Nobody could ever write a better job description for me: Florida, no appointments and a tank of gas,” said Serge. “Haven’t I mentioned this to you before?”
“Only about a gazillion times.”
“Unfortunately, today we have an appointment.” He checked his wrist. “And it’s going to be close.”
Serge gave it more gas, and the red needle in the dashboard climbed higher. Twenty minutes later, they skidded onto the shoulder of the road, next to a barbed-wire fence and bales of hay. Across the street, bells rang in a steeple as congregants poured out the front doors.
“How do you know what he looks like?” asked Coleman.
“I don’t.” Serge climbed out. “I can narrow it down with choir robes, but then it’s just my gut.”
They walked against the stream toward the front of the church. Most of the choir people were still up at the altar, stretching out their fellowship time.