The Perfect Star

by Rob Buyea

  “See ya.”

  That left just Mrs. Woods and me in the room. “Great save today, Miss Cunningham.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Miss Kurtsman knew she could count on you. That’s why she entrusted her anchor role to you.”

  I nodded.

  “We should all be so lucky to have such friends. Miss Kurtsman made that comment about Mr. Mason, and I’m saying it about you. I know you’re focused on winning more gymnastics championships, and I have no doubt you will, but you’re much more than a gymnast, Miss Cunningham. You’re one of the best friends I know of. I saw it in the way you befriended Miss Kurtsman and Mr. Mason in sixth grade, I saw it with Mr. Davids last year, and I saw it again this morning.”

  I looked up at her, but I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. “Have a good day, Miss Cunningham.”

  I nodded, and then Mrs. Woods quietly walked out the door. You would think hearing such nice things would’ve made me feel extra special, and it did, but boy, it also stirred up all kinds of emotions.

  What kind of friend would I be if I moved away and left the Recruits behind? If I left Gav behind?

  And what kind of daughter was I for the way I was treating Mom?

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #15

  November: Business Meeting #2

  I would never advocate for skipping school. I’d received five perfect attendance certificates thus far and had been on my way to number six, but this was a necessary sacrifice. Mother believed it would be easier to convince the sheriffs that I was her assistant if we visited Mr. Holmes on a weekday, because wouldn’t I have been in school otherwise?

  My heart kicked into high speed the moment we pulled into the prison parking lot, and it started beating even faster after I climbed out of the car and began looking around. I’d seen a cell tower before, but somehow the one next to this place seemed gigantic—and eerie. The single row of tiny flowers growing in front of the concrete fortress did nothing to make the building feel inviting. Intimidating was more like it. But the single most unnerving site was the chain-link fences erected beside the main building, encompassing what was commonly referred to as the prison yard. The fence had to be twenty or thirty feet tall, and scariest of all, lining the top of the chain link for the yard’s entire perimeter were coils of razor-sharp barbed wire. It was terrifying.

  Mother stopped outside the entrance. “Ready?” she asked.

  I pulled in a deep breath. “Ready,” I said. But I was nowhere near ready.

  We walked through the door, and I was shocked to see a metal detector only a few feet away. Next to it was an X-ray machine for bags and purses. It was similar to airport security, except there were no lines and this felt way more serious. The sheriff on duty came out. I noted the name on his badge—Sheriff Martin.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m Gloria Kurtsman, attorney, and this is my assistant, Natalie.” Mother handed him her ID. “We’re scheduled to meet with Mr. Holmes.”

  The sheriff glanced at Mother’s ID and gave it back to her. Then he looked at me. “This is your paralegal?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Assistant,” I corrected him, preferring that term. “Yes, I’m young, but I also happen to be an expert at law. Thank you for your role in helping us to uphold it.”

  He cracked a grin. “Well, according to policy—”

  “According to policy, attorneys and assistants are permitted to meet with prisoners, so you’ll let us meet with Mr. Holmes now,” I said, and smiled. “Please. I don’t believe you want an ageism lawsuit on your hands.”

  Sheriff Martin needed a second to recover, but he managed to find his voice again. “You—you are correct. That is our policy,” he stammered. “Go ahead and place your bags on the belt and step through the metal detector. One at a time, please.”

  We did what he’d asked, and then we were inside. It was that simple.

  Sheriff Martin showed us to the meeting area and told us to have a seat while he went to inform Mr. Holmes that there was an attorney here for him. “Sheriff Martin,” I said, stopping him before he was gone. “Will you please tell Mr. Holmes that Natalie is here to see him as well?”

  Sheriff Martin cocked his head, giving me a peculiar look. “Sure thing,” he replied.

  Mr. Holmes had the right to refuse to see anyone, and I worried he might do that if he thought only Mother was here, but based on his note, if he heard my name, he would agree. I held my breath and waited—for three very long minutes—and then the door opened and Mr. Holmes entered the room and took a seat across from us. Sheriff Martin stayed so that he could supervise our visit, but he sat far enough away that we had privacy.

  “Who else have you told?” Mr. Holmes growled, eyeing Mother.

  “No one,” I said, trying to sound brave.

  “Mr. Holmes, I’m Gloria, Natalie’s mother. Natalie is crafty, but she’s also smart. Given prison policies, there was not much she could do for you on her own, so she came to me for help. I’m bound by attorney-client privilege to keep everything we talk about today confidential. Natalie and I made the same agreement before she told me anything about your case.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “I met Robbie.”

  “How’s my boy?” Mr. Holmes asked, his tone softening.

  “He’s good, but sad,” I said.

  Mr. Holmes sighed. “I need your help.”

  “We’re here to listen,” I assured him.

  He took a deep breath and started at the beginning. “When I lost my factory job, I lost our health insurance with it. Being a hairdresser, my wife, Stephanie, didn’t get insurance at her job. So buy new insurance, you say. Not so easy when you’re out of work and can’t afford it. I got the coaching position, but that paid next to nothing.

  “We went along like that for a while, until Robbie fell out of a tree and broke his arm. That scared me like I’d never been scared before. Me and Steph scraped together enough money to pay for his ER visit and all, but that was a close call. If he’d needed surgery or if any other terrible thing were to happen, we were doomed. I couldn’t let that happen to my family. So I found a way.

  “I took enough money from the booster club that I was able to get our boys on a plan, but I never did that for me or Steph. That was next. It was easy until you came along. You and your friends and all your questions.”

  “This is not Natalie’s fault,” Mother interjected, defending me.

  “No, it’s not,” Mr. Holmes admitted, hanging his head. “I’m the one responsible for my bad decisions, and I’ve made many. I don’t want to blame anyone; I only want to make sure my family is okay.”

  “Keep going,” I said.

  “A few weeks ago I had a scare. I started sweating and having crushing chest pains. I couldn’t breathe. I was feeling numb and tingly. I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought I was going to die.

  “The guard found me and got me help. The doc here checked me out and told me I’d had a panic attack. Most likely brought on by all my stress and worrying. I got a full exam, and found out my blood pressure was through the roof and my cholesterol was bad. I’m lucky I’m in here, because they got me the meds I need and I’m going to be okay. What scares me is Stephanie. She hasn’t been to a doctor in forever. She could be like me—or worse. She’s got some family history stuff that should be monitored.

  “I need her to be okay. My boys need her. Can you help her? Please?”

  Mr. Holmes had gone from being a scary and coldhearted man to a desperate and helpless one. His story could’ve been on any one of our index cards at camp. He was one accident away from losing everything.

  “We’ll
try,” Mother told him. “We’ll try to get her help.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Mr. Holmes didn’t stick around after that. He pushed back from the table and left the room.

  Mother and I also left—with a lot to think about. I didn’t know how I felt. Mr. Holmes certainly had made mistakes, and had done many wrong things, but he’d done them to protect his family. Yes, his anger toward Gavin was not acceptable or easily forgiven, but when a person feels helpless, one can see how he might end up on Holmes’s path.

  “Natalie,” Mother said when we got into the car. “Mr. Holmes just shared a lesson with you that you’ll likely never learn in school: life is not always fair.”

  If school wasn’t going to teach students that, then maybe The Razzle-Dazzle Show could? My plan for helping Mr. Holmes was already beginning to take shape.

  Randi had told me Natalie was up to something, so I started thinking that maybe the fact that she’d been kind of ignoring me had nothing to do with me. That should’ve been good news, but it just got me worrying more. Not about the big US, but about Natalie. I couldn’t imagine what she was up to this time—and when Randi told me that she’d asked and Natalie wouldn’t tell her because she was sworn to secrecy under lawyer law (whether really true or not, Randi couldn’t say), I believed it. It was Natalie we were talking about. So I didn’t bring it up when I saw her, but I hoped to find out the story “soon,” which was what I guessed she’d told Randi. Well, “soon” showed up faster than I’d expected, and not at all when I expected.

  Brian and Madison were over for dinner. Brian had the night off from class. Mom was doing a lot of talking, because having them there always got her excited. She liked Madison a lot. So did I. She was way cooler than Brian’s old goons, Chris and Garrett—and way hotter, too. Mom was going on and on about Thanksgiving plans, telling everyone when dinner was going to be served and what we were having and making sure Brian was coming—and Madison was invited, too, of course. Like I said, on and on.

  “I’ve got it, Mom. Don’t worry. We’ll be here,” Brian promised.

  “Right after Trevor’s big game,” Madison added.

  I smiled. Told you I liked her.

  “You guys ready for that Stonebreaker kid?” Brian asked.

  “How’d you know about him?”

  “Oh, I’ve got my ways, don’t you worry,” he said, giving me a hard time.

  “No, really. How’d you know?”

  Brian smirked. “I was maybe talking about you at work and one of the guys mentioned that his son plays for the Titans. Said they’re undefeated and that their Stonebreaker kid is a real bruiser. He showed me a picture of the kid that was in one of the papers. He did look tough.”

  “You were talking about me?”

  “I said maybe, and don’t let that go to your head. You know who else I saw?”

  “Who?”

  “Your girlfriend. She was at Kids Klub not long ago. That little boy you guys visit told me she’d come to see him.”

  Robbie. Robbie Holmes. What are you doing now, Natalie? I wondered.

  “You kissed her yet?” Brian asked, trying to embarrass me.

  Madison jabbed him in the side with her elbow. Normally my brother’s heckling would’ve irked me, but I didn’t even respond. My brain was too busy trying to figure out what Natalie could be doing with little Robbie Holmes.

  “Brian, stop,” Mom said, trying to stick up for me, but she just made it worse. “He’s too young for that.”

  “Oh, really?” Dad said. “Too young? I can’t seem to recall, when was your first kiss, Dorothy?”

  “You hush up. That’s not important,” Mom snipped.

  “Mom!” Brian squawked.

  Madison jabbed him again.

  “You be quiet too,” Mom warned my brother. She pushed back in her chair. “Time to clear the table. Madison, would you mind giving me a hand?”

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Joseph.”

  “Kiss-up,” Brain teased.

  Madison jabbed him hard for that one. Then she got up and carried a pile of dishes into the kitchen. Dad got Brian talking about classes and work, and I took that chance to slip away from the table.

  I wasn’t staying quiet much longer. Maybe I didn’t have the guts to kiss Natalie, but once I was done with football, the gloves were coming off and I was demanding answers.

  Her clock was ticking.

  I got to interview Mr. Allen about our first-ever school pep rally on The Razzle-Dazzle Show. Everybody was asking questions—teachers and students—so the interview was a way to get answers. It was my idea.

  I started with a very important question. “Mr. Allen, there’s going to be cotton candy, right?”

  “There will be cotton candy,” he confirmed.

  “Good. You promised.”

  “Yes, I did,” he agreed.

  “What else can you tell us?” I looked at my notes. “When is it going to be?”

  “I’ve scheduled the event for next Wednesday, our last day of school before Thanksgiving break.”

  “That’s only twenty-four hours before the showdown,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. I’ve decided that holding the pep rally during school hours makes the most sense. Chances are that nothing productive will be happening the day before break anyway, especially since we only have a half day, and the daytime means we can get the whole school involved.”

  “That’s awesome!” I exclaimed. “No boring social studies!”

  “I’m glad you agree,” Mr. Allen said, and chuckled. He went on to explain some of the details. Our pep rally was going to include several different contests between grade levels. One was a float contest that kids could sign up to work on. I would’ve done that, but it was during practice. Another competition was a cheering contest, to see which grade had the most spirit, and another was a team relay race through an obstacle course. At the finish line you had to run through a poster of the Titan mascot. And after that it was cotton candy.

  My interview with Mr. Allen was a big hit. Natalie decided the best way to continue building excitement for the pep rally and our big game was by doing different showdown-related stories on our broadcast every morning—and that meant a feature on the beast. Once Natalie caught wind that Stonebreaker was a transfer and repeating eighth grade, she went wild. This hot-topic issue was the sort of thing she ate up. You should’ve seen her on our show.

  Natalie started slowly. She did a very thorough job of presenting all the different arguments for and against transfers, painting a clear picture of the debate, but then she finished with a bang. She left no doubt about where she stood on the issue. “It’s unfortunate, but our league is behind the eight ball on this because there is no policy on transfers, so you can say what you want, but if you ask me, this Stonebreaker addition is borderline cheating. The Titans couldn’t beat us fair and square last year, so they went and found a fifteen-year-old transfer to help them get the job done this season. I can’t wait until Coach Magenta and the guys show them it still wasn’t enough.”

  I’d never expected Natalie to dish out trash talk, but boy, was she good at it. You could hear cheers and hoots from all over the school after she said that. It wasn’t even the pep rally yet, but she had Lake View Middle psyched and ready to go.

  Problem was, I wasn’t ready. Stonebreaker had been chasing me in my nightmares, and now he was starting to come after me in all of my daydreams—and I did a lot of daydreaming in school, especially in Mrs. Boringest’s class.

  To make matters worse, the same day our Stonebreaker segment ran on The Razzle-Dazzle Show, there was a story about him on the local evening news. Those same TV people who’d come to our field when Coach Magenta had first gotten the job were talking to Stonebreaker now. He’d already broken the state record for most tackles in a single season—and he
hadn’t even gotten to play in their last game!

  “Brutus, congratulations on your outstanding year,” the reporter said. “But what do you say to the people complaining about you being a transfer?”

  “They’re a bunch of poor losers,” he growled. “If they’d won, they wouldn’t be saying anything. Nothing but crybabies. And the people over at Lake View are only whining because they’re scared—and they should be, because the pain train is coming.” He flexed his muscles for the camera, and I almost peed my pants.

  The reporter’s eyes got big. “What are your thoughts on going up against an undefeated Warriors team and their star quarterback?” she asked next.

  Stonebreaker snarled. “The Warriors are gonna pay the price for me sitting out last game—and it’s gonna hurt. That Davids kid better run fast, because I’m gonna be breathing down his neck all game long.”

  That scared me half to death, and he wasn’t even talking about me. Natalie had been trying to watch out for me by telling Mr. Allen, but she’d only gotten the beast angrier.

  “He’s ugly,” Mickey said.

  “Yup,” Dad agreed.

  “My goodness, he’s got a beard,” Mom cried. “Look at him. Is he really only fifteen?”

  “That’s what they say,” Dad said.

  “He wants to beat your team up,” Mickey observed.

  “Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I said, and gulped.

  “Scott, you’d better not get on the field with that—”

  “Ugly mean guy!” Mickey yelled, finishing Mom’s thought.

  Dad laughed, but not me. That night I dreamed that the poster at the end of the pep rally relay race was Stonebreaker, and it tackled me and ate all my cotton candy while I was pinned to the ground. I woke up kicking and fighting against my blankets.

  I didn’t fall back asleep for the rest of the night. I didn’t want to. I didn’t eat breakfast in the morning, either—and Mom had doughnuts. My stomach didn’t feel good. It was full of nerves. I didn’t throw up, but I was feeling yuckier than Coach Magenta with her morning sickness.