A Time to Dance

by Karen Kingsbury

  “You know, Jake. The Christian squad. Coach always gives the best spots to the Christian kids. Everyone knows that.”

  Jake felt his face go hot, then ice cold. “You’re crazy, Parker. That’s a lie and anyone on the team’ll tell you so.”

  Casey grabbed a handful of Jake’s T-shirt and jerked him close so their faces were only inches apart. “I’m the best quarterback on the team.” He hissed the words, giving Jake another jerk for emphasis. “So tell me why I’m sitting the bench and you’re getting all the p.t.”

  “Playing time is earned.” Jake placed his hands squarely on Casey Parker’s shoulders and shoved him. “Anyone who’s played for Coach Reynolds knows that.”

  “That right?” Casey shoved Jake, this time into the kitchen counter.

  Before Jake could retaliate, a group of girls rushed into the kitchen squealing at them.

  “Break it up, guys.”

  “Yeah, come on . . . let it go.”

  Jake straightened his shirt and glared at Casey. When the girls left, Casey shot an angry look at Jake, his expression pinched. “It’s time we got to the bottom of this thing.”

  “Let’s take it outside.”

  “Fine. But not on the grass.”

  “Where then?”

  “The streets.” He sneered at Jake. “You think you’re the only one with speed?” Casey spat at him. “Well, you’re wrong.”

  “You’re talking about a race?” Jake’s spine tingled. No one was listening to their conversation. It wouldn’t be a big deal. Just a simple race between the two of them. Then Casey would know once and for all not to mess with Jake Daniels. “Any time, Parker. Your car’ll look parked next to mine.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “Where do you want to do it?”

  Casey narrowed his eyes, his voice strained with anger. “Haynes Street . . . the milelong stretch in front of the high school.”

  “Done.”

  “Meet me at Haynes and Jefferson in thirty minutes.” Casey turned and headed back to Darla.

  Jake had just one more thing to say, and he said it loud enough for Darla to hear. “Don’t forget to bring the winner’s trophy.”

  Late-night hours after a game were John’s favorite times to catch up on his classroom work. He taught six health classes each day, and it was easy to fall behind. Especially during the season. Good thing he had more energy than usual tonight.

  Generally, he’d get into his office, go through a day’s worth of papers, and start feeling tired. Then he’d head home and crawl into bed with Abby sometime around eleven o’clock. But tonight he had enough stamina to work until morning. Not that he would. He’d promised Abby he wouldn’t stay out too late. Besides, she was right. He needed his energy for their Saturday night dance lessons.

  John scanned a series of papers and entered the tests in his grade book.

  He’d never been one of those coaches who watched game films on Friday nights. As much energy as it took to coach a football game, he needed to fill his mind with something completely different. Grading was just the thing. So far that night he’d breezed through three days’ worth of papers.

  All the while he couldn’t stop thinking about Nathan Pike.

  Something deep in his gut told him Nathan hadn’t come to the stadium for any reason other than the one he’d given—to congratulate John on coaching the team to a victory. He paused and thought about the scenario that had unfolded after the game. No doubt there were troubling pieces to the way it played out. Why hadn’t Nathan entered the stadium through the main gates like everyone else? And why would he spend the entire day at the library only to drive ten miles out of the way to a football game? John couldn’t remember seeing him at any other game so far that season.

  Still, John was an expert at looking into kids’ eyes and finding the truth. And something about Nathan’s story rang truer than anything the kid had ever said before.

  John corrected another batch of papers and then stretched. The framed picture near the edge of his desk caught his attention. He and Abby, at Nicole’s wedding. Abby had thought it a strange choice. After all, there was nearly two feet of space between them, and even a stranger could see the tension on their faces. It was hardly a happy picture.

  But it was honest.

  They had made their decision to divorce, and that night, when the kids had gone on their honeymoon, John had planned to take his things and move in with a fellow teacher—a guy who had divorced his wife a year earlier. In fact, when the picture was snapped, John’s car was already packed with his belongings.

  The deal was all but done.

  Kade and Sean had been spending the week with friends, and Abby had plans to fly to New York and meet with her editor. Their entire lives were falling apart, and the children had known nothing about any of it.

  That night, after the wedding, John was only halfway down the road when he stopped and parked the car. He didn’t know how to turn it around, didn’t know how to erase the mistakes they’d made . . . but he knew he couldn’t drive another inch away from the only woman he’d ever loved. The woman God intended for him to love forever. At that point, the divorce plans were all very neat and tidy, the arrangements they’d made about how to tell the kids and how they’d split time . . . everything was set. Everything but one troubling detail.

  He still loved Abby. Loved her with all his heart and soul.

  So he climbed out of the car and walked back home. He found her outside, where he had known he’d find her. On the pier, in their private spot. And in the hour that followed the walls they’d built around their hearts came crashing down until all that remained were two people who had created a life and a family and a love that could not be thrown away.

  John sighed.

  How he loved Abby . . . more so now than ever before.

  He could hear her voice the last time she’d visited his classroom. “Take the picture down, John.” She’d stared at it, her face filled with disgust. “It’s awful. I look like an old, bitter woman.”

  “No. It makes me remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “How close we came to losing it all.”

  Besides, that wasn’t the only picture on his desk. There was the other one right beside it. A smaller photo of John and Abby laughing at some family function a few months ago. Abby was right. She looked a decade younger in the later photo. It was amazing what happiness could do for a person’s face.

  He looked up at the clock on his classroom wall. Twelve-thirty. Abby would be asleep by now. The thought made him suddenly tired. He shot a look at the papers on his desk. The pile was half finished, but the rest could wait. If he had to, he could stay late Monday night, too.

  The restlessness he’d felt earlier had worn off. If he went home now, he wouldn’t lie awake wondering about this play or that one. He’d cuddle up to Abby, breathe in the fragrance of her sleeping beside him, and drift off to sleep in a matter of minutes.

  That settled it.

  He gathered his papers, stacked them neatly, and slipped them in the appropriate folders. Then he grabbed his keys, closed up his classroom, and headed for the parking lot.

  As he pulled out of the school entrance, he worked the muscles in his legs. He was more tired than he’d thought. The streets were long since deserted, and because John and Abby only lived a few minutes from the school, he could almost count on being home in bed with Abby in five minutes flat.

  He looked both ways, began to buckle his seat belt, and swung his car right onto Haynes Street.

  A sound came up behind him, almost like an approaching freight train. All within an instant’s time, John reminded himself that there were no train tracks in that part of Marion. He glanced in his rearview mirror just as a series of lights blinded him from behind.

  What in the world? He was going to be hit. Dear God . . . help me!

  There was no time to react . . . no time to think about whether he should hit the brake or the gas. The
roaring noise behind him became deafening and then there was a terrible jolt. Screeching tires and breaking glass filled John’s senses—along with something else.

  A blinding pain burned through John’s back, an indescribable hurt like nothing he’d ever felt in his life.

  His vision blurred, leaving him gasping for air in complete darkness. He found his voice and screamed the only thing that filled his mind, the only thing he could put into words.

  “Aaaabby!”

  His voice echoed for what felt like forever. It was impossible to draw another breath.

  Then there was nothing but silence.

  Twelve

  THE AIR BAG INFLATED IMMEDIATELY.

  One minute Jake was barreling down Haynes Street, stunned at the speed Casey Parker had gotten out of his Honda. The next, there was the most horrific crash Jake had ever imagined possible.

  His car was still now, but the bag smothered his face. He punched at it, gasping for air. What had happened? Had he blown a tire or lost control? Jake tried to shake off the dizzy feeling. No, that wasn’t it. He’d been racing . . . racing Casey Parker.

  Jake had the lead, but just barely. He’d stepped on the gas and watched the speedometer climb toward the one hundred mark. It was faster than he’d ever intended to drive, but the race would be over in half a mile. Then he’d seen movement, a truck or a car turning onto the road just ahead of him.

  Was that what had happened? Had he hit someone? His mouth was dry; he couldn’t catch his breath. Oh, God . . . not that. Jake kicked at the air bag, fighting free from it enough to open his door. He set his feet on the pavement, his chest heaving. Why couldn’t he grab a mouthful of air?

  Stand up, you idiot! But his body wouldn’t cooperate. His muscles were like limp noodles, unable to move. A few seconds passed until, slowly, his lungs began to fill. Then it hit him. He’d had the wind knocked out of him.

  Breathe . . . come on, breathe.

  Finally he felt the oxygen make its way through his system. As it did, his legs jerked into action. He stood and looked around. Casey Parker was gone. “God, no . . .”

  His heart thumped wildly against the wall of his chest as he turned and looked at the roadway in front of his car. There, about twenty yards ahead, was the crumpled remains of what looked like a pickup truck. It was impossible to tell what color it was. Jake wanted to throw up but instead he began to cry. He had no cell phone, no way to call for help. The entire school was surrounded by open fields, so no residents would have heard the crash.

  He stared at the twisted metal and knew without a doubt that the driver was dead. Passengers, too, if there were any. In driver’s ed they’d taught them to wear seat belts because usually, almost always, there was room to live in a smashed-up vehicle.

  But not this one. The front end was all that was left. The back was crumpled like tinfoil, and the cab . . . well, the cab seemed to have been swallowed up by the other pieces.

  Something inside him told him to run, flee as fast as he could. If he’d just killed someone, he would spend years in prison. He glanced back at his car. The front end was totaled, but there was a chance it might still run.

  He shook his head, and the thought vanished.

  What was he thinking? However impossible it looked, someone might be alive in the wreckage! He walked closer. Whatever . . . whoever lay inside the totaled pickup, he didn’t really want to see it.

  His heart raced so fast now, he thought he might pass out. The trembling he’d felt earlier had become full-blown shaking. The sound of his teeth chattering filled the night air as he approached the back of the other vehicle.

  Suddenly something caught his eyes.

  He looked down at the ground and there, in the ten feet that separated him from the destroyed pickup, was a license plate. Jake inched toward it and his heart stopped.

  GO EAGLES

  Go Eagles? No, God . . . please . . . it can’t be. Only one person had a license plate like that. And he drove a pickup truck.

  “Coach!” Jake felt his eyes grow wide, his heart stop as he ran the remaining steps to the side of the wreckage.

  From inside there was a moaning sound, but the doors were so mangled, Jake couldn’t see anything, let alone find a way in to help him. “Coach, is that you?”

  Of course it was. Jake gripped the sides of his face and made jerky turns in a dozen different directions. Why hadn’t anyone else come by? Where was Casey Parker? He pulled his hair and shouted again. “Coach! I’ll get help. Hang on!”

  With every bit of strength Jake had ever mustered, he pulled on what looked like part of the door. Open, you stupid door . . . open. Come on.

  “Coach, hang in there.”

  Panic came upon him like a tidal wave. What had he done? He’d taken his car past a hundred miles an hour and hit Coach Reynolds . . . How could that possibly have happened? Coach should have been home hours ago. And now what? Coach was lying inside the twisted metal dying, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Coach . . . can you hear me?”

  Nothing.

  “God . . .” Jake threw his head back and tossed his arms in the air. He wept, shouting like a crazy person. “Please, God, help me! Don’t let Coach die!”

  At that moment, Jake heard a car coming up behind him. Thank You, God . . . whatever happens to me, let Coach live. Please.

  He positioned himself in the middle of the road, waving his arms frantically. Almost immediately he recognized the car. Casey Parker. The Honda came to a screeching halt and Casey jumped out.

  “I think it was Coach’s truck.” Casey looked as bad as Jake felt. Shaking, pale-faced, deeply in shock. “I . . . had to come back.” He held up a cell phone. “I already called 9-1-1.”

  “He’s . . . he’s . . .” Jake was jerking violently, too frightened to speak.

  Casey ran up to the wreckage. “Help me, Jake. We have to get him out.”

  The two boys worked with frantic determination, trying to find a way inside the pickup truck. But there was none. They didn’t give up, not even when they heard sirens—not until the emergency vehicles pulled up and EMTs ordered them away from the vehicle.

  “That’s . . . that’s my coach in there!” Jake couldn’t think straight, couldn’t make his mouth work. “Help him!”

  Casey took over. “Our coach is trapped inside. We’re sure it’s him.”

  One of the paramedics hesitated. “Coach John Reynolds?”

  “Yeah.” Casey nodded, licking his lips. He looked like he might faint at any moment, but at least he could talk. Jake thrust his hands in his pocket and stared at the ground. He wanted to crawl into a manhole and never come out, or fall asleep and have his mother beside him, waking him, promising him it was all just a bad dream.

  Instead, a police car pulled up.

  Jake and Casey stood ten feet from the wreckage, alternately watching the rescue effort and staring at the asphalt. Jake hadn’t given the police much thought. He was too concerned with whether the paramedics would be able to reach Coach Reynolds and, when they did, whether they could save him or not.

  He was so distracted that when the officers positioned themselves in front of him and Casey, Jake stepped to the side for a better view.

  “You the driver of the red Integra?” The officer shone a flashlight at his face.

  Jake’s heart skipped a beat and he squinted. Oh God . . . help . . . “Yes . . . yes, sir.”

  “You injured?”

  “No, sir.” Jake’s throat was so tight he had to force the words out. “I had an air bag.”

  The other officer shone a flashlight in Casey’s face. “You the driver of the Honda?”

  Casey’s teeth were clattering. “Yeah.”

  “We had a tip from a driver a mile down the road, said she saw a yellow Honda and a red Integra racing like a couple of speed demons down Haynes Street.” The first officer took a step closer to Jake. “That true?”

  Jake shot a look at Casey. This was a nightmare. What were they do
ing here? Why had he ever agreed to race Casey? Wasn’t he going to go home? Just a few more minutes and then he’d call it a night, wasn’t that what he’d told himself?

  “Get your license.” The officer pointed to Jake’s car. Then he gestured to Casey’s Honda. “You, too.”

  Jake and Casey did as they were told. The first officer handed the laminated cards to the second. “Run a check on them, will ya?” Then he turned back to Jake. “Listen, pal. Make it easier on yourself here. Forensics teams will tell us how fast you were going—down to the mile. You don’t cooperate now, and we’ll make the process miserable for you and your parents.”

  The sound of a power tool filled the air. Please, God . . . let them get him out of there.

  Jake tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. This time he didn’t look at Casey. “Yes, sir . . . we . . . we were racing, sir.”

  “You aware there’s a law against that?”

  Jake and Casey nodded in unison. The other officer joined them again. “Clean records for both.”

  “Not after tonight.” He nodded to his partner. “Cuff ’em. Then call their parents.”

  Jake’s blood ran cold—not because he was going to jail but because they were taking him away from Coach. He wanted to scream, shout at everyone to back off and let him stay until he knew everything was okay. His heart felt heavier than cement as the realization set in. Coach might die . . . he might already be dead. And even if he wasn’t, nothing would ever be okay again. Jake was the worst, most awful sort of person, and whatever happened to him after this, he deserved every minute of it.

  The first officer grabbed Jake’s wrists and held them tightly together behind his back. The metal pinched his skin, and Jake was almost glad. In seconds the handcuffs were on, and the officer walked back to his car. The other officer did the same to Casey, and then left, so the two of them were alone on the road, cuffed and staring at Coach Reynolds’s destroyed vehicle.

  The medics were still working frantically around what was left of Coach’s truck, still desperate to get him out. Jake closed his eyes and willed them to hurry up. God, how could You let this happen? It should be me in there, not Coach. He didn’t do anything wrong. Get him out, please . . .