The Perfect Disaster

by Abby Tyler

  She would have to handle the conversation carefully, though. If Mrs. Humphries got even a whiff of what Ginny was up to, the whole town would be all over the situation and her strategy might not work at all.

  Mrs. Humphries reminded Ginny of the principal from the movie version of Grease with her big pearl earrings, broad-shouldered suits, and the perpetually pinched expression that suggested she disapproved of everything.

  She had been the elementary school secretary before Ginny was born. The only person who might rival the information in her head would be the high school secretary, Sadie.

  “How can I help you, Ginny dear?” Mrs. Humphries asked, patting the hairpiece that quite clearly filled out the thinness of her steely gray updo.

  “Do any of the custodians work at the high school as well as here?” she asked.

  Mrs. Humphries eyes shined as if Ginny had just offered up a glamorous new piece of gossip.

  “Whatever would you need a custodian at the high school for?” she asked.

  “Well, I do have some duties over there as well as here,” Ginny said smoothly. “And there’s a closet there that holds many of my things. I’d like to start locking it, but I don’t have a key.”

  Mrs. Humphries cast her eyes down in disappointment. “Well, Mr. Farley specializes in the heating units at all three schools,” she said. “He can get into pretty much any room or closet on any campus.”

  “Thank you so much,” she said.

  Her eyes sparked again. “Did you have a way into the closet before? Perhaps a person who is no longer so willing to…assist?”

  “Oh no. I’m just moving some things after hours, and Sadie isn’t there to call someone for me.”

  Mrs. Humphries’s expression collapsed again. Poor thing, just looking for a little tidbit to send on down the gossip line.

  Ginny turned and headed out. She knew Mr. Farley. He was the perfect ally. Quiet, discreet, and—unlike Mrs. Humphries—not the least bit nosy.

  It was a whole week before Ginny got any indication that the things she’d left for Carter might have had any sort of impact. She had just left the building to check on Roscoe, when someone called out, “Miss Page!”

  Ginny stopped. A high school boy in a football jersey ran up. She didn’t recognize him, but then she didn’t know the team super well—just Toby, the quarterback, and a few of the receivers. They were mostly a blur of indistinct faces, hidden by helmets.

  “Hello,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  “I need to ask you something.”

  “You’re on the football team?”

  “Yes. And coach assigned us something, and I thought maybe you would know what I should do.”

  Ginny’s heart sped up a little. What had Carter done?

  “What is it?”

  The boy slid his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped the front compartment. “I think you see my little brother Tommy,” he said. “In your special room with all the balls.”

  Ginny spotted the resemblance. Both boys had a smattering of freckles across their cheeks, and coarse reddish-brown hair.

  “I do. Are you Frank? Tommy talks about you all the time. He really looks up to you.”

  “That’s cool,” he said sheepishly.

  “Why are you over here at the elementary?”

  “I’m in that program where we read to the kindergarteners.”

  “Oh! How nice. What did you need help with?”

  When he whipped out a section of fabric cut into the shape of a superhero cape, Ginny had to hide her smile.

  “When Tommy saw this, he said that you had done something like it with him.”

  Frank was right. The superhero cape was a strategy she had not used often, but it was perfect for what she was trying to do with Carter and his team.

  “I think I have done that once or twice,” Ginny said carefully. “So what are you doing with one?”

  “Coach said that we should write our superpowers on this cape. I have no idea what to put on mine and the team meeting is right after school.”

  He held out the cape. “I don’t know what to say on mine.”

  “Well, what are some things you do well?”

  “I don’t know. I just sit on the bench. I don’t tackle very well. I’m not that great of the catcher. Not fast.”

  “That’s okay. Try not to think in terms of what you can’t do. What made you start playing football to begin with?”

  “Because my dad made me?”

  Ginny bit back a smile. She was used to these sorts of answers. Small town, big city. Parenting was often the same.

  “Go beyond athletic skills,” she said. “There’s a lot more to football than that. There’s planning. Team building. Supporting and encouraging your teammates.”

  Frank stared up into the sky. “Well, whenever the water boys don’t show up to practice, I always make sure the igloos are filled up, and we have enough cups.”

  “There you go, perfect. You would write I pitch in wherever needed.”

  “Okay. And hey. When James was all busted up about not being able to play on his hurt ankle, I sat with him on the sideline.”

  “Excellent. So you’re supportive when other people are feeling down, and you encourage injured teammates.”

  “All right! That’s three things. I only needed three things.”

  “I bet on the way back to school you’ll think of some more,” Ginny said. “Sitting alone in a car will really open up your head and let you think.”

  “Okay. All right. Thanks.” He shoved the cape into his backpack and turned back toward the lot.

  “You’re welcome!” Ginny wanted to ask him about the assignment, and what Carter might’ve said to them about it. But he’d already jumped into his car and fired up the engine.

  As she walked home for a briefer than usual visit with Roscoe, Ginny had to smile to herself. Carter might not have done the assignment she had given him himself, but he saw something in it that was useful for his team. Maybe that was a good second choice.

  To get direct to Carter, she would have to up her game.

  She already had lots of ideas.

  Chapter 18

  Carter sat in his office after school, looking at the newest thing Ginny had sent over to him. He assumed it was her. Nobody else would have done it.

  Clearly, she had someone at the school helping her get things in his office.

  It didn’t matter. The team building stuff she’d sent had been very helpful. The guys had totally dug the superhero capes exercise, even though they were skeptical at first. And the work they had done on setting goals and focusing their efforts on their strengths had been a good way to organize his somewhat rambling talks, as well as their practices. It particularly helped the captain of the team. He was headed off to college next year, and he was learning skills that would definitely be useful for the long-term.

  Ginny was definitely an asset on all that.

  But this new stuff was a lot more personal. He hadn’t given it to his team.

  He fingered the poster board titled Happiness List.

  What made him happy?

  This team, for sure. He really believed what he said about it not being about winning or losing. It was teamwork. Loyalty. And one of the things that he knew he’d done well with his boys was to keep them loyal. They would support each other. And if they had criticism, they kept it inside the team. And constructive. Nobody tore anybody else down inside his organization.

  What else made him happy?

  He remembered those walks with Roscoe, particularly the calm he and Ginny had felt after helping her dog in the storm, looking out over the park in the rain.

  He’d loved the sense of absolute accomplishment when Roscoe finally started to click to the commands. Then there was the laughter and sheer relief that they were actually doing something right.

  But none of those things were really about Ginny. They were situations. Those situations could have occurred with anyone.

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p; The meetings he’d had with parents since Ginny had roused them all at Homecoming were unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It made him question everything, and even wonder if he should move on to some other school.

  He rested his head on his hands. What a mess.

  He kept staring at the happiness list.

  What made him happy?

  Maybe he wasn’t looking deeply enough. Maybe he ought to be looking for more.

  Dodge, his assistant coach, poked his head in. “You up for Old Man Football? They’re assembling outside.”

  He’d forgotten. “Give me a sec to change.”

  “See you out there.”

  Carter shoved the happiness list partway under his desk calendar and grabbed his duffle bag. The Old Man Football league was one of the responsibilities he’d inherited when he came to Applebottom to coach.

  Mostly the league existed to extend the real or imagined glory days of some of the old players. Archie, the game announcer, always suited up, even though he was all of eighty years old. And Fred, the chief of the volunteer fire department, always showed and often dragged a few of the others from the fire crew out.

  T-bone sometimes played too, and it was pretty comical to see the mayor out of his leather vest and motorcycle boots, wearing sneakers and a jersey.

  Once Carter was in his own shoulder pads and practice jersey, he tossed his bag back in his office and paused. He remembered those jerseys he and Ginny had found. He dug around in her closet and found the box, leaving the banners behind. When he carried it out onto the field, Dodge was already out there, directing the others in a warm up.

  He set the box on the bench. Nearby, Micah was warming up with kicks in the sideline net. He had a leg on him at least. He was the town lawyer now, and played in high school a decade or so ago. He was at the younger end of the group.

  The old timers didn’t always bother with pads. They were content to stand out there and catch the odd pass, maybe run a few yards. The only people who got tackled with any force were Dodge and Carter.

  Carter ran out on the field to toss passes to a line of receivers, a favorite part of the warm up, which often lasted longer than the scrimmage. When it seemed that everyone who was going to come had showed up, he grabbed a handful of jerseys from the box. “Got something fun,” he called out. He passed them out, red shirts for one side and blue for the other.

  “Hey, this was my number,” Archie said, holding up the number five.

  “You were a quarterback?” Carter asked.

  “I was. Class of 1958.” Archie tugged the shirt over his head. Without shoulder pads, it fit fine.

  “You should keep it,” Carter said. “Bring it next time.”

  Archie didn’t take his eyes off the jersey, stroking the number on his chest.

  “Where’d you find these, Coach?” asked Micah as he pulled on a blue jersey.

  “In a closet. Some had gone to rot.”

  Micah straightened the top over his pads. He intended to actually play.

  “You sure your tender lawyer bones can handle a tackle?” Carter teased.

  “You bet they can.”

  Micah jogged out onto the field. He was about Carter’s age, but he’d grown up here. He might be someone to ask about Ginny and what the hell to do.

  Carter lined up the teams, serving as quarterback since someone needed to call the plays. Dodge led the other side.

  The afternoon cooled as they ran down the field, passing and grunting and laughing at their own incompetence. Micah kicked a field goal, and Archie carried the ball for a touchdown.

  Carter watched the men, faces alight with exertion and shared memories. They seemed to revel in the feeling that nothing great was ever truly lost.

  As the game wound down, Micah stood next to Carter. “This sure makes these old men happy,” Micah said.

  “It does.”

  “Thanks for continuing the tradition.”

  “How long has this been around?” Carter asked.

  “My dad did it,” Micah said. “And I’ve been out of school twelve years.”

  “You should get more of the young people out,” Carter said.

  “They’re busy,” Micah said. “Marriage and kids and all that.”

  “Not you, though.”

  Micah shrugged. “My girl didn’t want to live in Applebottom. My parents needed me here. So we parted ways.”

  That was remarkably close to Carter’s story, other than the public humiliation part. “Nobody around here’s caught your eye?”

  “I’m up to my neck in my dad’s mess,” Micah said. “I heard you snagged that new girl, though. The OT.”

  Carter looked out over the field. The old men were still talking about their glory days. “We dated a while. We didn’t see eye-to-eye on my job.”

  Micah turned to him. “She doesn’t like that you’re a coach? You’re like the king of the town, other than maybe T-bone over there.”

  “No, the job is fine. Just not how I’m doing it.”

  Micah pulled off his helmet. “Well, doing a public thing like coaching football has its critics, that’s for sure.” He laughed. “Was she right or was she wrong?”

  Carter kicked at a tuft of grass that had been displaced. “She was probably right. But I blew up about it.”

  “Is she worth trying to fix it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then fix it.”

  “No clue how to do that.”

  A ball sailed near them, and Carter reached up to snatch it from the air. He tossed it back to Fred, who gave him a shout of thanks.

  “Nice catch,” Micah said. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “Just go big. Sounds like you need a Hail Mary. I bet you’re good at those.” Micah gave him a little salute and took off for the locker room.

  With his departure, the bulk of the players started heading inside as well.

  Carter collected jerseys to be washed. A couple more of the regulars held on to theirs and he let it go. They’d earned them.

  He looked out over the empty field. In football, a Hail Mary was a long throw, one you could only pray would land in the right player’s hands to save the game. It was a long shot, the play you made when you really had nothing left to lose.

  As he picked up the box to follow the men inside, he wondered what his Hail Mary play with Ginny could actually be.

  And even if he figured it out, whether or not he’d have the guts to try it.

  On Friday, Ginny’s heart almost leaped out of her chest to see a note from Carter in her box. She snatched it up greedily.

  She knew he must have gotten all the assignments she’d sent him. Some were very personal, asking about the things that made him happy and creating a calendar of favorite moments, both past events and future hopes.

  As disappointed as she was about his reaction to her opinions about football, she hoped some of them included her. This was fixable. Would he want to fix it? Could he?

  Ginny couldn’t wait to go to her room to read it. She had to do it now. Would he apologize? Say he’d be there Tuesday for the dog lesson? Maybe ask her to the Harvest Dance?

  But it was none of that. As Ginny scanned the words, she slowly realized it was just a thank you note for all of the team building exercises she had sent.

  Her stomach fell to her shoes. He thought she was doing it out of professional courtesy. Even the personal stuff. He didn’t get it. Not at all.

  Or didn’t want to.

  Ginny arrived at the high school that afternoon with a heavy heart. She assumed she wouldn’t see Carter. The note had made it clear that they had a different sort of relationship now.

  When she stepped into the equipment room, an easel in the corner held a board covered with sticky notes. At the top was the title Short-term goals.

  Ginny walked up to it.

  Some of the goals were obviously geared toward the game.

  Complete five passes.
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  Learn a new fake handoff play.

  Perfect the onside kick.

  But a few others were more about the team.

  Fire up Simon before each punt.

  Find a better position for Devin.

  Get Marcus more playing action.

  Talk to each other on the field.

  Ginny plucked an extra sticky off the pad in the corner and wrote take more risks. She stuck it near the top.

  She moved on to the offices. Carter’s was empty, but they all were. No one was in the locker room at all.

  She peeked in his window. Sitting on his desk, right in front of his chair, was a small poster board she’d had Mr. Farley leave there. At the top were the words Happiness List.

  And Carter had put quite a few things on it.

  Ginny pressed against the glass, trying to read it upside down in the half-dark.

  1. My team. They have heart.

  2. The school. It fosters camaraderie.

  3. The community. They support and finance us.

  There was a fourth, but it was partially obscured by a play binder.

  What did it say?

  Ginny thought she saw an R and an O. Roscoe? Or was it a P and A? Page? Her? Ginny Page?

  Her face was so close to the window, she fogged the glass.

  A door in the equipment room opened. Oh! She smeared the steamy spot off the glass and dashed past the offices to the dressing room.

  She dropped her bag on a bench and hustled to the closet door.

  Locked. That was strange. Normally it was just open.

  She glanced over just in time to see Mr. Farley coming her way.

  “You asked for a key,” he said.

  Ginny forced her breath to slow down. At least it wasn’t Carter catching her spying on his list. “Thank you,” she said.

  Mr. Farley bent his tall, wiry frame to peer at the lock on the closet door. He seemed lost in the oversized navy jumpsuit with the Applebottom logo over the pocket.

  When he had opened the door, he turned to hand her a key. “Just making sure it worked. Can’t get you one for the locker room without the principal’s say so, but if the building’s open, you can get in your closet.”