by Mary Manners
“Ah…so this is the infamous Slasher.” Jake released her hand to wiggle from his suit jacket and drape it over the back of his desk chair. “I’m pleased to see you again, Miss O’Malley. Corey did tell me a bit about you.”
“Apparently he has.” Her irritated gaze faltered. She smoothed the hand he’d grasped with her other, soothing as if his touch had scorched. “I…you…”
“What’s the matter?” Suddenly the room felt unbearably warm. Jake turned to check the thermostat, adjusted the air a few degrees cooler. “You never imagined the thirsty lawnmower guy baking in the blistering afternoon sun could be the pastor you were in such hot pursuit of on Friday?”
“Obviously not.” Carin sighed as the air kicked on, rushing over her from the vent above. Jake watched her hair flutter, and she smoothed it with one hand, tucking the strands behind her ear. “I stand corrected.”
“Well, now that we’ve got that cleared up…Corey, drop the stash of cookies and take a seat at the table so we can talk.”
“No, thanks.” Corey shook his head. “You two are doing just fine, Jake. Maybe I should leave and let you hash things out. Just call me when the fireworks are over.”
“It’s not up for debate.” The tone of Jake’s voice spurred Corey to release the bag of cookies and double-time it to the little round table. Jake pulled a chair for Carin and motioned for her to join Corey. Then he closed the office door and settled into a chair as well.
The three sat, surrounded by awkward silence as the air conditioning whooshed. Corey fidgeted and tugged at the collar of his navy polo shirt. “Well, are we gonna talk or what?”
Carin shifted in her seat. “You’re a wonderful speaker, Jake,” she offered. “That was a beautiful service. It really moved me.”
“Where to?” Corey released his collar and rocked back in his chair. His gaze, tinged with a bit of defiance, locked with Carin’s.
“Not funny.” Jake pushed Corey’s chair back toward the table until all four legs clattered against the tile. “Sit up.”
“Sorry.” Corey straightened in the seat. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Apparently Corey often can’t help himself,” Carin interjected as she turned to address Jake. “In pranks and disruptions, your brother definitely gets an A-plus. He’s outstanding. He could teach a college honors class on the subject of delaying instruction. Pure genius.”
“That good at it?” Jake’s mood darkened to thunderstorm status. “Hmmm, go on.”
“On the other hand, in grammar and writing he can use more than a little practice.”
“I gather he’s not bound for the honor roll?”
“Not even close, at the rate he’s going.” Carin pulled a folded sheet of computer paper from her purse. “Here’s a print out of Corey’s English grades for the first grading period so far.” The paper rattled as she unfolded it then dropped it on the table and slid it toward Jake. “As you can see, Corey’s quickly slipping into the abyss of failure.”
“An F?” Corey sat up and snatched the paper. “There’s no way. It has to be a mistake. I’ve never made an F.”
“Let me see that.” Jake took it and scanned the print. His voice was strained, his patience tattered. “It says so right here, Corey. You have two missing assignments and a failing grade on last week’s Chapter Two test.”
“There’s no mistake,” Carin said firmly. “And the most disappointing thing is I know you can do better, Corey. You know you can, too.”
“This isn’t fair. You ambushed me!” Corey’s chair toppled as he leapt up. “It’s Sunday, for crying out loud. Who has a school conference on Sunday?”
“We do. We are.” Carin’s voice maintained calm as Corey huffed, pacing the room. Jake imagined that in teaching middle school she’d had a lot of practice with defiant kids. He, on the other hand, felt his patience snap like a worn rubber band.
“Enough.” Jake reached for the chair Corey had toppled and righted it, setting it down hard. “Corey, you will sit down, lower your voice, and show respect to Miss O’Malley.”
“But—”
“Now.”
Corey paused a moment, and Jake knew he was debating his options. Finding none favorable, he expelled a heavy breath and wilted back into the chair. He hid his eyes beneath a fan of dark hair and crossed his arms tight over his chest.
Jake started a silent count toward ten.
“Corey, I’m here because you are my student, and I care about you.” Carin leaned in to murmur. Her voice was low and coaxing, yet filled with resolve. “We both have a long year ahead of us, so we need to work together. I want to help you.”
Corey slouched in the seat and turned away, his cheeks flushed. “Why do you care?”
The question seemed to startle Carin. “Does it matter?”
Her gaze faltered as Corey’s eyes filled with tears, startling Jake, as well. He’d seen all sorts of reactions from Corey in the past—sulking, arguing, stomping away to slam a door—but the crying jag was something new. Maybe it was a breakthrough of some sort.
“Yes.” Corey swiped the tears away, scowling. “Shouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so.” Carin reached over to brush damp hair from Corey’s forehead, and Jake’s breath caught at the tender gesture. He realized just how long it had been since Corey had felt the comforting touch of their mom. He coughed to dislodge the lump that filled his throat.
“So…” Corey challenged.
Carin settled her hands in her lap and drew a breath. “Corey, you have the capability to be an amazing writer.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Corey’s voice stabbed, but his eyes widened slightly at the compliment. He sniffled, and Jake sensed he struggled to keep the tears from his voice. “I like football, and baseball, too. English is a waste of time. Who cares if a word is a dangling participle or the object of a preposition?”
“I care, and you should, too.” She drummed delicate fingers on the tabletop. “Besides, I’m not talking about grammar. I’m talking about writing. It’s a way to express yourself, to communicate with others. And grammar is the foundation of all writing—like block work is the foundation of a building. Good writing can open doors to so many things, Corey.”
“I can open my own doors.” Corey shrugged. “Besides, I’m gonna play football. That’s the only door I want to open.”
“And you can shine above all the other good players with your writing,” Carin insisted. “Especially when you’re filling out college applications or corresponding with scouts—or an agent—should it come to that, eventually. You have to trust me on this.”
His eyes filled with tears again. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I have a plan.” She tossed a look at Jake. “Providing you agree, Jake.”
“Here we go,” Corey swiped his eyes and slouched low in the chair. “Write, write, and write some more. I hope you have a huge stash of pens, ’cause you’re gonna need them.”
Carin ignored the sarcasm and continued, turning her attention to Jake. “As Corey knows, I’m the sponsor of the student newspaper at East Ridge Middle. It’s a good newspaper, but it can be better. I’m looking for co-editors, two students who can be taught to gather information and write lead stories. I’ve already spoken with one student about helping to move things in a new direction, and she’s agreed. Now, if Corey would just hop on board, I know he’d be perfect for the job as well.”
“Me? Are you crazy?”
“Corey!” Jake glared at him. “Check the attitude.”
“But she wants me to work with a girl, Jake.” He slapped the thighs of his khakis, and Jake noticed a new rip at the knee. He grimaced as Corey continued. “The guys will laugh me right off the football team.”
“Nonsense. They’ll do no such thing.” The last of Jake’s patience snapped.
“Boy, are you out of the loop.” Corey wiggled his thumb into the hole at his knee, tearing the fabric even more.
“Consider it penance, then, for yo
ur insufferable behavior.” Jake wagged a finger sharply. “It’s got to stop, Corey. And I mean, now.”
“That’s a stiff penalty.” Corey swiped his nose with the back of his hand. He flipped hair from his eyes and scowled at Carin. “Who is the girl—the one you want me to work with?”
“Amy MacGregor.”
“No way.” Corey stiffened in the chair. “Anyone but her. She’s a know-it-all. It’s not fair. I won’t do it.”
“That’s fine.” Jake’s voice remained cool, though his temper reached red alert. “We’ll use the time you practice for football as study time instead. Straight home from school each afternoon. No game. I’m sure Coach McCrosky would agree once he gets a look at your grades.”
“What? No!”
“There’s one more thing,” Carin broke in, as if she hadn’t heard Corey’s objections. “I want you to keep a journal and write at least a page every day.”
“What? Why?”
“Because, you have to actually do some writing in order to improve your writing skills. And if you write each day, and turn your journal in, I’ll count the journal entries toward credit for those two essays you failed to complete. You still have to finish the grammar pages you missed, though, and retake the chapter test you failed to study for.”
“This is bad…” Corey groaned. “I don’t want to keep a journal, and I don’t want to work on the paper with—with Amy MacGregor.”
“Settle down before you give yourself a stroke,” Jake admonished. “Miss O’Malley’s requests are more than reasonable…and very generous.”
“But—”
“You made your bed, now—”
“I know…sleep in it.”
“Lie in it,” Carin corrected.
“Whatever.” Corey raked a hand through his hair. “Oh, I despise figures of speech.”
Jake tapped his fingers along the table. “I consider this issue settled.” He opened a file drawer at his desk. “Just so happens I have an extra notebook right here, perfect for a journal. You can write your first entry today, Corey, and be on the road to hauling your English grade right out of that abyss of failure.”
Corey’s gaze narrowed. “And if I decide to run away instead?”
“Consider the consequences.”
“That’s what you always say.” Corey gritted his teeth and sighed as if the world was in its final hours. “I’ll do it, but I don’t have to like it.”
“No, you don’t have to like it at all,” Jake agreed. “But you’ll do a good job, regardless, because you don’t want to revisit this topic.” His tone left no room for argument. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.” Corey tossed the notebook onto the table. “Can I go now? Dillon’s parents are waiting to take me to that ballgame.”
“May I. And you can go as soon as you’ve finished writing a page—or more—in your journal.” Jake gathered the notebook and handed it to him once more.
“What am I supposed to write about?”
“Anything,” Carin explained. She reached into her purse and found a pen. “Anything at all.”
****
Jake sipped sweet tea at the kitchen table as he poured over his planner, making notes in the schedule for the week ahead. A blood drive with the local donor bank was slated for Tuesday, and Mrs. Jenkins was scheduled for a hip replacement on Wednesday morning. The sweet older woman was nervous beyond words, so he’d promised to sit with her pre-op and wait through the surgery, covering her with prayer. Afterwards, he’d head back to the church to meet with the trustee committee to work through finalizing plans for the playground improvement project. And tomorrow he had a planning meeting with Patrick to hash out details for a youth outing to a local amusement park.
I’m covered up until Thursday…again.
Jake sighed as the front door slammed, signaling Corey’s arrival home from the ball game. He bounded into the room and went straight to the refrigerator as if he hadn’t just spent the last several hours plowing through hot dogs, nachos, and overstuffed bags of buttery popcorn.
“Hey.” Corey nodded as he grabbed a gallon jug of milk from the refrigerator door. “What’s up?” He twisted off the lid and guzzled straight from the container.
“Don’t do that. Get a glass,” Jake scolded.
“Oops, sorry. I forgot.” Corey spun to grab a glass from the dish drain. He filled it to the brim then launched an assault on the pantry. A bag of cookies and a container of microwavable macaroni and cheese filled his arms when he turned back to Jake.
“How was the game?”
“Incredible. We had lower-bowl seats, so I could follow every play.”
“Good. And I see Patrick and Julie starved you while you were at the ball field.”
“Nah. I had two chili dogs and one of those giant, soft pretzels dipped in cheese. Oh, and Dillon and I shared a bag of salted peanuts.”
“Just listening to you makes my gut twist in agony.”
“Not me. I’m still hungry.” As if to emphasize the point, Corey delved into the bag of cookies and brought out a pair. He popped the first into his mouth, and then twisted one chocolate side from the second to scrape creamy white filling with his teeth.
Jake closed his planner and leaned back in the chair. He tapped the table with one hand while he motioned Corey to join him. “While you’re eating your way through the next five courses, have a seat and let’s talk.”
“I can talk standing up.” Corey’s voice was garbled through a mouthful of cookie. He washed the crumbs down with a swig of milk.
“I said sit.”
“Oh, brother, here it comes. Not the lecture…anything but the lecture.” Corey slouched into a chair, crossed his arms, and feigned a look of total disinterest as his hand disappeared into the cookie bag again. “Besides, you’ve already lectured me today. There ought to be a quota.”
“I’ll cut to the chase.” Jake leveled a look. “The honeymoon’s over, Corey. I allowed you some slack last spring, because of the accident and the fact that you came to a new school so late in the year. But now you have a fresh start, a clean slate, and you’ve had a chance to heal—”
“At least on the outside, right?”
“Guilt won’t work anymore, Corey.” Jake struggled to keep his tone firm, though he wanted to draw Corey into his arms and soothe away the hurt. That would do neither of them any good now. “You can’t make excuses forever. We have to move on. You have to move on. So, either show improvement in your schoolwork beginning right now—today—or you’re off the football team. It’s your choice. No more chances. End of discussion. Is that totally clear?”
Corey dropped the bag of cookies and crossed his arms. “I heard you when you said it the first time, in your office this morning, with Miss O’Malley.”
“Good.” Jake tapped his pencil against the cover of his planner. “It was nice of her to come out to the church to help you.”
“You mean filet me…and then grill me.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Jake shook his head. “She seems nice…and caring.”
Corey leaned back in the chair, balancing on only two legs. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know that look. You had it with Rachelle before I came along to mess things up for you.”
“You didn’t mess up anything, Corey. What happened with Rachelle wasn’t your fault.”
“She didn’t like me.”
“It wasn’t you, Corey. It was…” Jake sighed. How could he explain? “Maybe you should get a head start on your journal for tomorrow.”
Corey let the chair slip forward again. The front legs clattered to the tile. “You’re no fun anymore, Jake. All you do is boss me around.”
Jake’s heart tore at the comment, and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “I’m not bossing you. I’m just stating the facts.”
“It wasn’t like this…with Mom and Dad.” Corey’s voice caught, and Jake wondered if he might break down
and cry again. “It was easy.”
“It will get easier again, Corey. Trust me.”
“You said God doesn’t make mistakes.” Corey’s lower lip trembled, and suddenly he looked a whole lot younger than twelve. He rubbed his eyes, fought back a sniffle and turned his face away from Jake. “But He took Mom and Dad, and that has to be a mistake, doesn’t it?”
“Sometimes we don’t understand right away why things happen.” Hadn’t Jake asked himself the same question a hundred times over? The answer was always the same. “Sometimes we never understand. But that doesn’t mean those things are mistakes.”
“So you think it was right for Mom and Dad to…to die?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Corey pushed back from the table. “I’m going to bed.”
“Corey, wait.” Jake reached for him. “We should talk this out.”
“I’m tired, Jake. And I’m not hungry anymore.” Corey wiggled from Jake’s grasp and looked at him with damp, wounded eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut before uttering a word. Instead, he grabbed the bag of cookies and the mac-and-cheese and tossed them back into the pantry. “See you in the morning.”
“Goodnight.” Filled with a sense of helplessness, Jake watched him lope through the doorway and into the hall.
“Whatever.” Corey’s voice drifted back.
Jake pressed a hand to his throbbing forehead and wished he could banish the offensive word from the English language, forever. A door slammed, and the springs on Corey’s bed squeaked in protest beneath his weight. Then oppressive silence blanketed the house.
How will I ever reach him? I miss my brother…the happy-go-lucky kid he used to be. Jake stood and stretched his legs. He refilled his glass with sweet tea and wandered out to the back porch to collapse into a padded rattan chair. The night was unseasonably warm—an Indian summer—but the musky scent of fall clung to the air. The sky was a swatch of black velvet dotted by sparkling sequins, and in the distance, cicadas sang a melancholy tune. Jake sipped tea and allowed his mind to wander to thoughts of Carin O’Malley.
