I was very proud of myself for not casting a single glance at the boys’ side the entire duration . . . until about ten minutes before class let out. That’s when I noticed a tall, solitary figure exit the field early. His lithe, athletic body and sure, easy stride held my gaze captive before I caught myself and ducked my head back to my neon feet. That’s when I let out a hard kick that knocked the ball plumb into the goal post. The whistle blew.
“Well done, Katie!” yelled an approving Coach Sams. “Only wait till it’s your turn next time.”
I “yes ma’amed” her, then continued playing subpar soccer for the remainder of class. Afterwards, I hippety-hopped back to the locker room to grab my gym bag and backpack, not bothering to change clothes. Even though I didn’t want to have a serious meeting with Mrs. Woodward in a sweaty top and cut-off bottoms, I was in a big hurry, I really was. Fear and helplessness—two feelings I loathed—were fueling me on. I bypassed incoming athletes on my way out, practically sprinting to my car.
The Hummer was conspicuously missing from the lot, and I started to get an uneasy feeling. Yanking the door open, I threw my bags in, slid the key into ignition, turned it—nothing. Aw, heck fire! Did not need this today! My hand slammed against the steering wheel before trying again. It gave the smallest of clicks. That’s it though, the engine never turned over. I was stranded—another thing I hated (especially in light of recent events).
An idea was taking shape in my mind. And it took the form of a certain cadet. Hmmm. Cadet Davenport leaves class early and suddenly my car doesn’t start? Maybe I really was starting to get paranoid. I mean he couldn’t know what I was up to. Right? And my car had been giving me trouble for a while. Only made sense that it would break down eventually. Despite these plausible arguments, I still had a very strong suspicion that he had something to do with it. A simple coincidence? I thought of him saying them seeing me that night was a coincidence. Then I thought of Mama telling me there was no such a thing.
But she was a paranoid, right? Wrong.
That switch in me flipped again, shedding light on his shady deeds. How dare he play so dirty! I flung the door open and sprinted back across the parking lot to find Miguel. After hurriedly filling him in on my situation, he handed me the keys to his pickup without hesitation. Two minutes later, I was heading back out of the parking lot—now stuck behind a train of cars all trying to exit at once. Arg! My face flamed. Thank Goodness Miguel’s truck had A.C.
Five excruciating minutes of waiting with the air turned on full blast, and I screeched into the street only to crawl through the school-zone. Then I booked it down the side roads, leaving tread marks leading straight to church. I picked up Mikey (by literally picking him up) and flung him into the truck before speeding away, driving way too fast for a low-rider I noted.
“Wow! I get to wide up fwunt . . . and without a boostuh!” Mikey was too enthralled to notice my mood.
We crawled through another school zone to Andrew’s school, where I pulled a shrewdy by bypassing the carpool lane to turn into the faculty parking lot.
“Hey Kadee, Pete said to pick up Drewy from The Learwning Center today—you forgotted!” he accused.
“No, I didn’t. Daddy’s gonna pick him up today instead, so I decided to talk to Mrs. Woodward about . . . somethin’ important.”
Mikey shook his head. “Oh no! Drewy’s gonna be so mad!”
His own fault for playing for the wrong team.
I hoisted a backpack-strapped Mikey out and ran up the steps to stab the buzzer. “Katherine Connelly to see Mrs. Woodward,” I announced, trying to sound official and unwinded at the same time.
“Do you have an appointment?” The by-the-books voice asked.
“Uh . . . yes? . . . She’s expectin’ me,” I added, lying better.
A long pause ensued. “Mrs. Woodward is presently busy, dear. You’ll have to schedule an appointment for next week; she has bus duty this week . . . unless it’s an emergency,” she added doubtfully.
Dagnabbit! Should I wait her out? I looked over to where the buses were loading and couldn’t see Mrs. Woodward directing traffic. A dour-looking teacher, with a hat so outdated you could only call it a bonnet, was standing around in the heat doing the job. So that meant Mrs. Woodward was still in her room. But refused to see me. Now how could I get in there without attracting the drama that typically comes with claiming an emergency? An emergency of a different kind.
I stabbed the buzzer again. “Excuse me, it’s Katie Connelly again.” I tried for more casual. “Would it be alright if my little brother uses the bathroom? It’s kind of an emergency—he’s still in preschool.” I winked at Mikey’s indignant face.
A resigned voice said to come in, followed by the loud pop of the lock being released.
“Just go with it, okay?” I whispered as we hustled to the counter. Mrs. Jackson, the guardian of the front office, peered down at us suspiciously from behind thick glasses. Her eyes appeared owl-like and wizened, and I wondered if that’s how I looked all the time.
“’Scuse me, ma’am,” Mikey hit his mark perfectly, “where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the right.” She pointed us in the right direction before getting back to the serious business of running the front office.
“Thank you!” we chorused before rushing out like we were both dying to go. We tore down the hall, heading left, before skidding to a stop outside Mrs. Woodward’s room. I was slapping my little coconspirator five, when I heard the soothing tone of his voice. Oh no. High-pitched laughter reverberated through the door. Oh yes . . . He’d got to her first. Felt like ripping the door right off the hinges. Instead, I did the customary knock thing so hard my knuckles were bound to turn black and blue. My staccato rapping must’ve signaled both my arrival and the mood I’d arrived in, because the musical tinkle in the room instantly muted to low murmuring.
A put-upon Mrs. Woodward poked her head through the door. “Why Kate Connelly!” She conspicuously exchanged a backward glance with the unfazed cadet. “Your ears must be burnin’ . . . we were just talkin’ about you!”
I bet. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Woodward. I hope I’m not interruptin’ anything,” I said, hoping the opposite. No actual response was forthcoming, just a lot of hemming and hawing, so I continued: “I need to speak with you, if I may, for a few minutes.” She turned as if to ask his permission while I prayed I could keep my hands glued to my sides.
“It’s fine, Mrs. Woodward,” he said.
“Peggy, please—I insist.”
He chuckled a little. Big fat faker. “Okay—Peggy. I was just leaving anyway. Duty calls.”
“Oh.” Her face drooped disappointment. “I guess come in then.” This was directed at me like I was an IRS agent.
I remained resolutely polite. “Thank you.”
“Pete!” Mikey hurled himself at him.
I grit my teeth as the cadet—formerly-known-as-Pete—swooped him up in his arms like nothing untoward had happened. Now I wanted to rip his arms right off and beat him with them! How dare he hug us from the front while stabbing us in the back!
Mrs. Woodward clasped her hands together. “Well, it certainly looks like y’all are still gettin’ along!”