“Okay,” he said, sounding skeptical. “You looked like a goose walked over your grave.”
“Uh ... no... no goose here,” she said and then practically ran out of the funeral home.
She jumped into her minivan to find Bob already inside. She held up one hand. “I know, I know, you don’t have to say it. I really stink at this. I’m sorry.”
His eyes grew wide. “What are you apologizing for? I thought you did great!”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you’re an angel, and you have to be nice.”
He snorted. “I don’t have to be nice. That’s not in the angel handbook, and really, you did fine.”
She paused, trying to collect herself. “Is there really an angel handbook?”
He laughed. “That’s proprietary. And you should really drive away. He’s watching.”
She hurried to start the van. “Really? Why’s he watching?” She stared at the funeral home, but she couldn’t see anyone watching. Dwight was still in there, so she thought Mike was probably otherwise engaged. Or maybe they were both watching.
“I don’t know why he’s watching. I can’t read minds. Maybe he’s watching because you’re sitting in your minivan talking to yourself.”
She laughed loudly, and she felt the tight cord of anxiety she’d been living with release with a pleasant snap. “He can’t see me. It’s dark out.”
“I know, but he might wonder why you’re still sitting here. You should get home. You’ve got some studying to do.”
She laughed again. “Do I ever. I’m going to be the worst soccer ref in the history of soccer refs.”
“Maybe. But by the sounds of it, they probably won’t fire you.”
Chapter 24
Sandra spent every waking moment trying to learn soccer rules, and she felt she was making great progress. She had it in her mind that she wanted to pass the written test before her shadow game, even though Mike had told her that she had two weeks to do it. Mike had texted her several times “just to check in,” and she sensed a vague flirtatious vibe with each message. She answered him as briefly and professionally as possible. “Doing great. Will text you if I have any questions.” “Still studying. Will let you know if I need help.” But so far, she truly didn’t need help. The rules made sense. Most of them followed common sense, and those that didn’t, she worked to memorize. She highlighted. She took notes. She quizzed herself. She made Peter quiz her. She tried to make Nate quiz her, but he was too busy. She fell asleep reading the rule book and she watched clips on YouTube while she made dinner.
What she didn’t do was go for a run. She had good intentions, but it just never happened. She thought about running, planned to run, even bought herself a new pair of (expensive) regulation sneakers, but then they just sat by the door, staying shiny in the box. She didn’t have time to run. And she didn’t want to bother Ethel, not already, not when she would soon be bothering her for every single game. So she focused on the mental preparation, not the physical, not yet. There would be time for that, right?
Then Mike White called—three days after her first and only training meeting, during which precious little training had taken place. “Can you do a shadow game tomorrow at nine?”
“What?” She was certain she’d misheard him.
“I’m pairing you with Birch Kabouya.”
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” He hadn’t said Birch, had he, as in a birch tree? And why was she suddenly craving kombucha?
“Birch Ka-boo-ya,” he said, over-enunciating this time. “He’s good people, one of my best, and he’s looking forward to helping you. He doesn’t want to do any more middle school games either.” Mike paused to laugh. “So he’s happy to have fresh meat.”
A wave of nausea washed over her. She didn’t like being called meat, no matter what the context.
“So, can you make it?”
She scanned her schedule. Yes, she thought she could. Oh wait, it was ladies’ craft day at church. She had already paid for the supplies. But she could miss it, couldn’t she? Sure. They probably wouldn’t even notice she was gone. “Sure. Where?”
“Fryeburg Middle School.”
Fryeburg? That was a kazillion miles away. “Seriously?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get paid mileage.”
“Okay.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“Great. Did you get your uniform yet?”
Of course not. She’d only ordered it three days ago. “Nope.”
“No problem. Just wear something comfortable, and have fun.”
Her heart did a weird little leap at the word “fun.” This had the potential for fun? That hadn’t occurred to her yet. Several other thoughts had: When is Nate going to talk to Ethan’s and Jack’s parents? Did Mike White kill Frank, and how am I going to figure that out? Is Frank innocent, and if so, how can I clear his name? I need to learn the soccer rules. I need to study the soccer rules. How am I going to learn all these stupid soccer rules?
But she hadn’t thought about having fun. In fact, fun was a fairly foreign concept at this stage of her life. Sure, she had things she enjoyed: Sammy falling asleep and allowing her to watch an episode of Downton Abbey uninterrupted. Or ordering a pizza so she didn’t have to cook supper. Or eating chocolate chips straight out of the bag. But she wasn’t sure these things counted as fun. She’d stopped having fun years ago, hadn’t she? So the idea that fun was about to reenter her life sent an almost-guilty thrill coursing through her veins. Fun? Sure, why not? Let’s give it a shot! “Okay, I will. Thanks.”
“You bet. And check your online schedule. I’ve already assigned you some games.” Before she could express her disbelief at this announcement, he said goodbye and hung up. She hurried toward her laptop but then couldn’t find it. Where was it? She flung things around in a mad search and found it underneath a pile of unfolded laundry. She collapsed into said pile, flipped the computer open, and then waited impatiently as the system logged her in. And then there it was. Her first game. Monday afternoon. She swallowed hard. Suddenly, fun seemed unlikely.
Chapter 25
Sandra drove to Fryeburg with a heavy blanket of guilt wrapped snug around her shoulders. Nate had made it clear that he was not happy to be stuck with three children all day. He’d called it “babysitting,” as though they weren’t his kids. She tried to shake it off, tried to remind herself that Nate had given her his blessing for this whole thing, had even told her he was proud of her. Maybe he was just cranky. He had a lot on his mind.
She turned her discontent toward her angel. Where was Bob, anyway? A horrific thought dawned. What if Fryeburg was outside his zone? No! It couldn’t be! No way could she do this without him! Before she realized it was happening, her fear morphed into anger. How dare he leave her out here dangling like this? This was his idea! Now she had to go meet someone named Birch, run for the first time since her failed attempt at high school softball, and try to solve a crime all by herself? She was so furious that her eyes blurred with tears. This made her even angrier. It didn’t matter the emotion—hers all manifested in tears: sadness, fear, anger, even joy. Always crying. She swatted at her cheeks and then she saw him. At least she thought it was him.
Up ahead stood a short, stocky man with his thumb out in the air. If it wasn’t Bob, it certainly looked like him. But she didn’t dare pick him up, did she? What if it wasn’t him? She slowed down to get a better look, and he gave her a wide smile. It was him. What on earth was he doing?
She slammed on the brakes, and he trotted over to the car. “Can I git a ride?” he asked, trying for a local accent—and failing.
“What are you doing?”
Without permission, he opened the door and got in.
“Wait, are you visible right now?”
“Yep. Didn’t want people to wonder why you were pulling over. But I’ll turn it off in a sec.” He looked out the windshield. “Let’s go.”
“Why are you hitch
hiking?” she cried.
He motioned toward the road, as if to say he wasn’t going to answer her until she drove. When she pulled back out into traffic, he said, “I was trying to make a Highway to Heaven joke, but I guess you’re not familiar with the show.”
She scowled, wondering whether she should smack him or not. “I am quite familiar with the show,” she said, sounding overly defensive but unable to reel it in, “but your joke still doesn’t make any sense.”
Bob’s eyes grew wide. “You know, in the beginning. Jonathan is walking down the road, and Victor picks him up.”
“But he wasn’t hitchhiking!” Sandra cried. “Victor just recognized him and pulled over!”
Bob looked thoughtful. “Oh yeah, you might be right. Anyway, about this game. Are you ready?”
But she wasn’t ready for the conversation to transition. “What if someone else had pulled over?”
“Well, then, I would’ve asked them for a ride to Fryeburg.”
She doubted that. She also didn’t know what else to say. So she gave up. “No, I am most certainly not ready for this. I am fully expecting to keel over and die right there in the grass.”
He looked at her, surprised. “What do you mean?”
She shook her head. “Never mind.” She’d keep her physical fitness, or lack thereof, to herself for the time being. It would become public knowledge soon enough. She turned on her blinker and slowed to take the turn, but Bob protested.
“Where are you going?”
She glanced down at the GPS. “To the Fryeburg Middle School.”
He put his hand on the dashboard, as if that would stop her from making the turn. She wondered if he did have the power to stop her car from turning. “This is not the right road.”
“It is so! Look at the map!”
“I am an angel of the Lord! I am smarter than your map app!”
His incidental rhyme would have been funny, but the tone of his voice obliterated any inkling of humor. That was the first time she’d ever heard him raise his voice, and it was an intimidating sound, despite his less than intimidating image. She turned her blinker off and returned her foot to the accelerator. “Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I just get a bit defensive sometimes.”
She bit back a smirk. “Fair enough. So do I.”
After a terse minute of carpooling, Bob said, “Take the next left.”
She did as she was told, and after a short, bumpy ride, a soccer field rose into view. “You were right.”
He didn’t say anything.
She pulled into a parking spot. “Are you staying here for the whole game?”
He nodded. “I plan to. Unless there’s a crisis.”
She took a deep, shaky breath. “I hope there isn’t one. I take great comfort in the fact that you’re here.”
He put a gentle hand on her forearm. She looked down at it and saw that she was still white-knuckling the steering wheel. She willed herself to relax.
“You’re going to be great. Trust me. I’ve watched a lot of soccer games. I know things.”
For reasons she couldn’t identify, she believed him, and her nerves nearly abated. “Should we have a code word or something?”
He snickered. “What? What do you mean?”
“I mean, if I need you, I can’t exactly call out, ‘Angel Bob! Come quick!’ now, can I?”
He gave her a sideways smile. “You can if you want. Or, you can just say a silent prayer, and then God will give me my orders.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Does God send angels every time someone asks?”
At first he said nothing, so she said, “Proprietary?” realizing halfway through the word that he was saying the same word himself. She laughed. “Jinx.” She pulled her baseball cap on, partly to shield her eyes from the sun and partly to hide her face, and then she stepped out of her minivan.
Chapter 26
As Sandra made her way to the field, she could no longer see Bob, but she could still feel his presence. She didn’t know how close he was, but she knew he was there.
A tall, lanky man wearing a fluorescent yellow shirt came running toward her with his hand extended. His long dreadlocks were gathered into a ponytail on the top of his head, the ends of them springing out in all directions, making him look like a failed prototype of a Trolls doll.
She did not need an introduction, but he gave one anyway. “Birch Kabouya at your service!” he announced with an exuberance she thought excessive.
With trepidation, she took his offered hand into her own and then tried not to grimace at its dampness. She couldn’t blame the man. His flushed cheeks and glistening forehead suggested he’d already been running around. But it was still gross. The realization that she’d soon be just as sweaty and gross, if not sweatier and grosser, was cold comfort.
“I’m so, so excited that you’ve decided to do this, man. All us refs are! Do you have any friends who want to ref too? Do you have any questions for me yet?” If she had any, he gave her no chance to voice them. “As we get going, feel free to ask me things. I might not be able to answer you right away, as this is a real game that counts and everything, we usually start new refs with preseason games that don’t count, but that’s okay, we’re still glad you’re here, so even if I’m not looking at you, I can still hear you, so go right ahead and ask, and I’ll answer when I get a chance, okay?” This was the chattiest man she’d ever encountered. Was he on something? “So, before the game, you need to check the field, do a perimeter walk or jog, and check the nets and everything. You know.”
She didn’t know. Check the nets for what?
“And the posts. Don’t forget the posts.”
Right. She didn’t know what he wanted her to do about the posts, but she wouldn’t forget them.
“I’ve already done the perimeter, and pretty soon we’re going to do the coin flip. Do you have a coin yet?”
Yes. She owned a coin, but she kept mum about it. All her loose change was back in her van’s cup holder, covered in embarrassing crusty coffee and fuzz. Besides, she needed to conserve her energy.
He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a giant fake coin. “You can just use a regular coin if you want, but eventually, you’ll want to get one of these. They’re only like six bucks, and they’re easier to see.”
She could not imagine spending six bucks on a fake coin.
“Oh look! There’s the other ref. I’ve worked with him before. He’s good people. Come on”—he started to walk away—“I’ll introduce you.”
Sandra hurried to keep up with Birch, and was somewhat relieved to observe that the second ref appeared to be far less energetic. He waited for them to reach him before extending his hand. “Bob Bernier.”
Uh-oh. It was going to be confusing to have two Bobs around.
“People call me Moose.”
Good. One problem solved.
She shook his hand. “Sandra Provost. Pleasure to meet you.”
Moose looked at Birch. “So that explains it. I wondered why you had a middle school game. I haven’t reffed with you in years, since back when you were just starting out.”
Birch laughed as though that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “I’ve done lots of ’em this year. This year’s been hard. Not enough of us to go around, so White keeps asking me to do these junior high games. But I don’t mind. It’s like a vacation. The game is so much slower, I barely have to run.”
The expression on Moose’s face made it clear that this last comment annoyed him. Clear to her, at least. Maybe not to Birch, who was still talking about how many games he’d reffed. Listening to him, she understood why people were so excited she’d signed up for the gig. Birch had games every day except for Sunday, and on many days, he did two games. She couldn’t imagine running up and down the field for one entire game, let alone two. How was she going to do this? What had she been thinking? Birch joked about all the money he was raking in, then complained about two schools who still owed hi
m hundreds of dollars each, and then finished up his monologue by detailing how much physical therapy he was doing on his knees. She glanced at them, but they looked like normal—albeit knobby—knees.
Moose smiled at her, as if amused that she was staring at Birch’s jumbo patellae. “You’re shadowing one of the best. This guy can be a pain in the rump, but he’s a good official. You got lucky. White’s got that other new guy, the cop who is pale as a ghost, shadowing Dodge.”
“Jeepers!” Birch cried. Then he looked at her and sort of whispered, “Dodge is a drunk.”
She nodded because she didn’t know what else to do. It was hard to feel sorry for Dwight.
“Right,” Moose said, “but they’re both basketball refs, so birds of a feather and all that. Let’s get this thing done. I’ve got a pot roast and a pie to get home to.”
The mention of food made Sandra’s nervous tummy tumble. Wasn’t it a bit early in the day for pot roast? Birch followed him to midfield, and Sandra, left without instruction, wondered if she was supposed to follow as well. When they reached the intersection of midfield and the sideline, Birch noticed she wasn’t alongside him and waved at her impatiently. She swallowed her annoyance. If he’d told her to follow, she would’ve followed. Was she supposed to read his mind? She trotted over to where the two officials and team captains were now standing in a small circle. Birch enthusiastically introduced himself, and then Moose followed suit, calling himself “Bob” not “Moose” and using less enthusiasm than his counterpart had. Sandra did not introduce herself, though the young athletes still shook her hand as if she mattered. She wondered what they thought of her, standing there in her almost-too-tight workout clothes that looked brand-new. She’d only taken the tags off them today, but she’d bought them a long time ago, one day when they’d been on sale and she’d been high on good intentions.
The home team won the toss and chose to have the ball. The purple team—Sandra had already forgotten who they were, and their jerseys only said Tigers—chose their goal. Birch turned and ran across the field, and this time she followed, barely getting to the other side before he blew his whistle and the game began. Wait! The game had already started? She wasn’t ready! She didn’t even know what she was supposed to be doing! The ball was already six feet from the goal, and she was still frozen in place. This was madness! She would never catch up. Here we go, she told herself in a voice that sounded vaguely like herself, but unlike anything she’d heard in years. You’re going to do this if it kills you. But it won’t kill you.
The Whistle Blower Page 9
