“Look at the Florida knowledge on you,” said Serge.
“I’m your little history helper, remember? I’ve heard lots of stories about the whole lake region, some not on the books.”
“Such as?”
“Lost treasure,” said Cheyenne. “That was a favorite on the school yard. Trunks of precious metals supposedly went missing during the hurricane of ’28.”
“I’m sure a lot of everything went missing in that one.”
“Yeah, but this tale had other scary and mysterious details,” said Cheyenne. “Like a vicious sugar baron whose body was discovered with bullet holes and buried before the authorities found out.”
“Then how did you and your schoolmates hear about it?” asked Serge.
“The guys who did the burying allegedly told their families, and the story was passed down generation to generation by word of mouth. But it’s probably just that, a story.” Cheyenne’s fork toyed with the food on her plate. “It must be fun to take road trips like you do.”
“I’m sure you’ve taken a million.”
“Not really.”
“But what about you saying there’s too many places you’ve got to see?”
“That’s why.”
“Okay, then come with us.” Serge collapsed the other side of his salad. “Shit.”
“Really?”
Kyle touched her wrist. “What about the motel?”
“I’ve piled up a ton of vacation.”
The brother grabbed his cowboy hat from under the chair. “Then I guess I’ll need to make it a foursome. When do we leave? . . .”
Chapter 35
Pahokee
Senior year of high school arrived with all the fanfare of raging hormones.
Social calendars filled up. A few students now had cars. Others got new clothes for the merciless battlefield that is popularity. And of course there was football season, with the mandatory post-game gatherings at burger joints. Yes, they still do that.
Chris was blossoming with her own crowd. The varsity team, the cheerleading squad, the marching band and various hangers-on. She was welcome at their restaurant tables, where they laughed and relived big plays and threw french fries at each other.
But Chris was still different. She didn’t have any money. Others always chipped in for her food and told her not to worry, but good luck with that.
She never stopped smiling, but it began eating at her stomach, figuratively and literally.
One Thursday afternoon that fall, Chris thought hard about a dilemma that she’d been twisting in her mind and rotating to inspect from all angles. She made her choice. After all, how much difference can one make?”
That night, she left her grandmother’s apartment and quietly headed down the stairs. Chris glanced around one last time before running off into the darkness behind the building and disappearing like a ninja . . .
The next afternoon, community fever grew as hours counted down to another huge gridiron contest in The Muck. The Blue Devils were still undefeated, and it was the second-to-last game of the season; the last before the Big Game. Signs that normally advertised breakfast specials and free tire rotation now had their letters rearranged into some variation of Beat Cardinal Newman! The barbershop was full of experts and bullshit.
At a storefront on a downtown street, bells jingled.
The pawnshop owner’s hand was shaking a Rolex that had stopped working. He looked up. He saw her letterman jacket. “We going to win tonight?”
“Bank on it,” said Chris.
“Are you one of the cheerleaders?”
“No, a kicker.”
“You’re on the team?” He paused with a finger to his mouth. “Wait, I heard something about you . . . Well, that’s great. So how can I help?”
“I need to sell something.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Chris pulled a shiny coin from her pocket and placed it on the glass counter.
“Wow, that sure is pretty.” He turned it over. “Says twenty dollars. But of course you realize that they don’t use these anymore.”
“I know. We effectively went off the gold standard under Roosevelt,” said Chris. “Some technically argue Nixon. Now it’s full faith and credit.”
“What do you say I give you—”
Chris removed a book from her backpack and placed it on the counter. The Red Book, the bible of coin-collecting price guides. “With all due respect, I know exactly what it’s worth.”
It was the last thing the pawn man expected. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m not exactly killing it here in this town business-wise. Straight up, I need to make a profit, and who knows how long till I sell it. How about half of what it books for?”
“How about the melt value of the gold?” asked Chris. “That way you can’t lose, and you get the whole numismatic collecting up-charge.”
The pawn man thought: Where did this kid come from? Most adults don’t negotiate this well. He slowly began to nod. “I can live with that. You just need to fill out this form. I’ll get money from the register.” He began counting out hundreds . . .
The football game went pretty much as expected. The home crowd had everything to cheer about all night as Pahokee took an early lead and never looked back for the trounce. There was even a late kickoff return that went all the way for a touchdown, crowning the night.
Revving convertibles and trucks, stereos blaring, converged again on Max’s Shake Spot. It was a nicely converted old gas station from the thirties in the period’s art deco design. Max had used old photos to replicate the original green-and-orange neon that trimmed the building all the way around to the outside restroom doors. Team pennants and banners filled the walls, along with a couple of framed jerseys and photos of former players who had gone on to the pros. The school’s fall schedule and results had been dutifully tallied on a chalkboard. All the chairs were filled in the dining room, and the crowd spilled outside to the picnic tables on the porch.
“I can’t believe about Coach Calhoun!”
“What have you heard?”
“Just rumors, but they can’t be true.”
“We have to do something!”
“Chris, you were pretty close to him. What do you think?”
“I feel the same as you,” said the kicker. “But I know what he told me: Don’t worry about him. And don’t let anything distract us. We have to win the Muck Bowl.”
The Muck Bowl.
More than historic.
Pahokee versus Glades Central. David and Goliath. Except David always had his slingshot. Either team could go undefeated the rest of the year, even win state championships in their separate divisions, but it wouldn’t mean anything if they didn’t prevail in the end-of-the-regular-season rivalry.
“The Muck Bowl.” Nodding around the table. “Coach Calhoun is right. We’ll deal with it later . . .”
The waitress came over and they ordered. It was pay in advance, and Chris stood up with her wallet. “I’ve got this.”
“Chris, since when do you have money?”
“Since I started doing some odd jobs.”