The Perfect Secret

by Rob Buyea

  “Of course it’s a good idea,” I said, springing to my feet. The time for patience was gone. I had to convince her or this could be documented as a failure. “Mrs. Davids, we can do this. If you can’t read English, you’re at a huge disadvantage. I understand this might be embarrassing, but nobody needs to know. It will be our secret.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “I’ll have them sign an attorney-client confidentiality contract with me. We’ll all be sworn to secrecy by lawyer oath. You have nothing to worry about.”

  She hesitated, which meant she was contemplating. “Mrs. Davids, I’m not doing this for me. I want to help you. I want you to be able to read to Meggie at bedtime.”

  That did the trick. Those last words brought a weak smile to her face. She wanted that, too. Mrs. Davids reached out and pulled the alphabet paper back, and, after a deep breath, she began making her way down the list.

  “How was football?” Mom asked when I got home after my first practice. “How was football?” she asked after my second practice. “How was football?” she asked and asked and asked.

  “Great,” I lied over and over and over.

  “No concussion?”

  “Mom, we aren’t even wearing full pads yet. You can’t get a concussion if you aren’t hitting at practice.” I thought I was telling the truth about that at least but turns out I was wrong.

  “When do you start the hitting?”

  “Next week.”

  “No concussions, Niño,” she reminded me.

  “No concussions,” I said.

  I wanted to tell her she could stop worrying, ’cause Coach Holmes wasn’t going to play me. The guy hated my guts. “Your kind is supposed to play soccer,” he’d hissed in my face after Scott had opened his mouth and told him to put me in at quarterback. And just in case it still wasn’t clear how he felt about me, he was going out of his way to show me.

  Our football field sat on the top of a knoll in back of our school. Coach had said it was good luck to find seagulls on your field. There were never seagulls on ours. I could’ve used them that afternoon.

  I was playing catch with Mark before practice, just throwing the ball around like a bunch of other guys. Coach Holmes came out and blew his whistle to get things started, and I sailed one more tight spiral so that he could see my arm. I wasn’t the only one to throw a pass, but I was the only one he went after.

  “Pablo!” he yelled.

  We all looked around. Who was Pablo?

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you,” Holmes said, pointing at me. “I blew the whistle because I wanted the balls put away and you guys lined up. Give me a mile on the track for not being a team player.”

  I’d already spent so much time on the track you’da thought I was on the cross-country team, but I didn’t gripe. I never said a word. Whining and complaining wasn’t gonna help anything. I put my helmet on, buckled my chin strap, and started running.

  I finished my mile pretty quick and ran back onto the field and joined the skill drills, but Coach Holmes had other ideas. “Give me another mile, Pablo. That one wasn’t fast enough.”

  I was onto him. He was trying to get me to lose my temper and say something stupid so he’d have a reason to treat me like dirt. I wasn’t falling for it. I smiled. Then I turned around and jogged back to the track and ran the second mile—and I ran it faster.

  Holmes loomed on the sideline, away from the rest of the team, waiting for me when I finished. “Our sissy water boy is taking too long. Go get the bags,” he growled.

  I made one step in the direction of the equipment shed, and Holmes lost his temper. He couldn’t take it that I wasn’t fighting back. (But I was. Just not the way he wanted me to.) He grabbed me by the front of my jersey and yanked me close. He held me there, huffing and puffing in my face like the big bad wolf. “That’s your kind of work, Pablo. Cheap manual labor is all your people are good for, Pablo. Better get used to it, Pablo.” He shoved me.

  I didn’t give him the chance to do anything more. I took off for the bags. I’d given up telling myself that things would get better. I’d been dreaming about football all my life, and it felt like it had become the worst thing I could imagine—turns out, I was wrong about that, too. The hope that I’d get my chance to shine was gone, but what wasn’t dwindling was my determination. Coach Holmes wasn’t going to break me. I made Trevor, Mark, and Scott swear not to say anything to anyone, ’cause that would only make it worse. And I never mentioned a word of what was happening to Mom, not to Dad when he asked about practice, and not to Randi or Kurtsman when they asked about football.

  “It’s going great,” I lied to everyone. I lied ’cause I was going to handle things on my own, like a man. I lied ’cause I didn’t want to disappoint anyone—especially Dad.

  The only one who didn’t grill me about football was Meggie. Maybe she didn’t know any better. Or maybe she did. All she ever asked was, “Gavvy, can you read this book to me?”

  “Okay.” I always said okay. “What book tonight?”

  Megs had one of her Mudge stories. Our public library didn’t charge you when stuff was overdue and that was good, ’cause Magenta was the one who’d sent me home with these Mudge books at the end of last year. I liked this big blockhead dog a heckuva lot better than Clifford. Meggie loved all dogs, though. Matter of fact, she was beginning to ask about getting one, but I didn’t see Mom and Dad going for that. Megs wasn’t worried. She figured Santa would bring her one if Mom and Dad didn’t. The girl was always so positive about things—and that was something I needed more than anything else those days.

  When we finished the story about Mudge visiting the farm—which was my favorite one—I gave Megs a kiss good night.

  “Gavvy, Mommy and I stopped at a tag sale today. I got this for you.” She handed me the book she had hidden under her pillow.

  I flipped through the pages. There were a lot of pictures. Not like picture book stuff but cool cartoons and pencil drawings.

  “When I saw it, I thought of you because it’s got sketches inside like you make. The lady at the tag sale said it’s called a graphic novel.”

  “Thanks, Megs.” I gave her another kiss on the head and went to my room. I’d started reading the newspaper over the summer ’cause that was the one thing I always saw my old man reading. Truth was, I was also imagining seeing my name and picture in it for football. Not anymore.

  I kicked the paper under my bed and sat down with the book Meggie had just given me—March: Book Two. It was the story of a real guy, John Lewis. And you know what he did? He fought against much worse circumstances than what Coach Holmes dished out—and he did it through peaceful protest. They called the things he did nonviolent civil disobedience. That was what I was doing. And I gotta tell you, even though the things in his book were different, they were also the same.

  Graphic novels don’t take as long to read. I finished the book that night. And when I got done, I flipped through it again. It got me drawing my own cartoon—a quarterback dropped back to pass, but he was holding a soccer ball instead of a football.

  Mom and I agreed with Coach Andrea that I should take a short break from gymnastics. I had earned it, plus my body needed it. I would benefit both physically and mentally from the time off. Not to mention, this would also give me a chance to get adjusted to seventh grade. So that was the plan, but the plan went out the window before it even got started.

  The letter that changed the course of everything, the one that altered my destiny, sat waiting for me after school. I grabbed the mail when I got off the bus, before heading into the house. As I walked up our front path, I thumbed through the stack of envelopes out of habit, not expecting to find anything. The third one was from a place I’d never heard of—Elite Stars Camp—and it was addressed to me. I hurried inside, threw my stuff down, and tore it open. It wasn’t a typed letter but a
handwritten note.

  Dear Randi,

  Congratulations on your outstanding performance at Regionals. I was in attendance and saw it firsthand. You should be proud. You dazzled on the floor and the beam, and flew on bars, but that is not why I’m writing. After I saw you attempt the more difficult vault, when you very easily could have played it safe, I knew I would be contacting you. True, your vault didn’t end perfectly, but your fearless attitude and willingness to go after it were the most impressive things I saw all afternoon. You have what it takes to make a champion—the un-coachable attributes. I’d like to invite you to our Elite Stars three-day camp. This camp runs from Friday afternoon to Sunday afternoon and is reserved for special invitees only. There will be multiple sports represented but only a small number of athletes per sport, which allows for individualized attention and instruction. I have enclosed a brochure with more information. I hope to see you in the near future.

  Yours in gymnastics,

  Ally Merot

  Coach Andrea and Mom and my friends had all told me how awesome I’d been at Regionals, but they were going to say that no matter what, so I only half-believed them. I all-the-way believed it after reading Ally’s note.

  As soon as Mom pulled into the driveway, I ran outside, waving my letter in the air. I was telling her all about it before she even got out of the car.

  “Randi, I’m so excited for you,” she said, hugging me. “This is the break we needed. What an incredible opportunity.”

  I flinched when she said “we” but let it go. “I want to do it,” I said. “Can I?”

  “Let’s go inside and talk. We’ve got a lot to discuss. And I need to make sure we can afford it.”

  The first thing Mom did was call Coach Andrea to tell her the news. Coach Andrea was thrilled. She’d heard of this camp and agreed it was something I should attend if we could make it work.

  Mom and I talked about it over dinner and into the night. We were long past the question of whether I was going or not. I was definitely going. We spent most of that time talking about how awesome the experience was going to be.

  That was where my talking about this incredible opportunity ended, though. I kept the news to myself. I didn’t mention it to Natalie, because I didn’t want her to think I didn’t care about our mission with Mrs. Magenta and Mrs. Woods. And I didn’t tell Gav because the last thing I wanted to do was brag about gymnastics when he wasn’t having the best football experience. How did I know that? Because he hadn’t told me anything about football practices yet, and when I asked him, I got the kind of answer you give when you don’t want to talk about something. “It’s great,” was all he ever said. No, it wasn’t. Did he forget who he was talking to?

  Somewhere along the way we found ourselves keeping more secrets than just our plans for Mrs. Magenta and Mrs. Woods. I didn’t know how to feel about that. I just hoped destiny was looking out for us.

  I had four different teachers this year, and that meant four folders and subjects to try to keep organized. That also meant four different people to lose papers for. Luckily, the deluxe clipboard that Coach and Grandpa had given me was exactly what I needed. I stored everything my teachers gave me throughout the day inside it. I was supposed to take my papers and put them into the right folders after school, but the problem was, I never had time because I had to get to practice. I just crammed it all in my backpack to sort later. The reason I had to have an empty clipboard was in case I needed it at practice. So far I hadn’t, but I could’ve used some extra muscles and extra hands.

  Coach Holmes and Coach Frazier were confused. They still thought “stats man” meant “equipment boy.” I was responsible for the water bottles, cones, med kit, pinnies, and all the practice bags. We had blocking dummies, hitting shields, and more. Some of the bags were superheavy. I couldn’t even lift them, so I had to drag them. It always took me too long to get all the stuff out to the field. I hated missing any part of practice, but I wasn’t hating it as much as Gavin. He did more running than anything else. Coach Holmes wasn’t even giving him a chance at quarterback. He wasn’t giving him a chance at anything. You didn’t need to be the stats man to see that.

  Even though football hadn’t been what I was hoping for, I was still excited about going to see Grandpa and Coach. I hadn’t seen them since football had begun, so that night was my first chance to tell them all about it. I wished Gavin could come with me, but I was going with my family. We were bringing pizza and salad so that we could have dinner with Grandpa, and we had invited Coach to join us. After-school programs like Mrs. Magenta’s weren’t starting for a few weeks, so that everyone—teachers and students—had a chance to get used to a new school year.

  When we made it to the Senior Center, Mom and Dad began setting out paper plates and drinks and other stuff in the Community Hall, where there was more space. I liked helping, but Mickey and I didn’t stick around. We raced to get Grandpa and Coach. Running in the halls is a lot of fun, but they never let you do that stuff in school, so we always did it at the Senior Center. Mickey thought he was faster than me—and he wasn’t!—so I had to show him. We burst into Coach’s room on two wheels.

  “Whoa!” Grandpa exclaimed. “No running in here, you wild men.”

  “Smoky!” Mickey squealed. He scurried over to the chair and started petting the kitty.

  “How’s football, Junior?” Coach asked, eager for answers.

  “Yes, how’s it going?” Grandpa asked.

  I had thought that we would talk about football at dinner, and I had thought I’d be ready to tell them all about it—until they asked. Grandpa picked up on my hesitation.

  “What’s wrong?” he said.

  I sighed. “It’s not great,” I admitted. “Coach Holmes hasn’t given Gavin a chance at quarterback. He has his favorites, and Gavin isn’t one of them.”

  “That’s too bad,” Grandpa said.

  “If you can’t win the coach, win the team,” Coach said.

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “If you can’t win the coach…win the team,” Coach repeated, more slowly this time. “You need to pour your heart out at practice in every drill, every sprint, and every play, no matter your position or your role. When the team sees how hard you work, they’ll start supporting you and quietly making noise. But only if you’re a team player and not a loner. You’ve got to work hard, but you also need to encourage your teammates. If Valentine does that, then he’ll win the team and Coach Holmes won’t be able to keep this up.”

  Boy, I wished Gavin were with me. This was one of Coach’s classic pep talks. He already had me feeling better.

  “I’ll tell him—” I started to say.

  “Can we go eat?” Mickey interrupted. “Mommy got ice cream!”

  “Oh boy,” Grandpa said. “That sounds good. Let’s leave Smoky here for now.”

  “You’ve got to eat pizza first,” Mickey reminded him. “Pizza!” he yelled, running out the door.

  “Wish I still had that energy,” Grandpa said.

  “You want to race?” Coach challenged. “See what we’ve got left?”

  I could’ve hugged my brother. He’d gotten them moving along before they could ask how football was for me. I’ve never been good at lying, but I didn’t want to have to tell Grandpa and Coach or anyone else the truth. They didn’t need to worry, because I was going to win the team, too—like Gavin—and then things would be great for both of us.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #7

  Mid-September: Extra! Extra!

  Something of importance finally occurred during our second week of school.

  “As I’m sure you can see, I’m due to have a baby in the very near future,” Mrs. Yazmire said, stating the obvious.

  “You me
an she’s not just fat?” Tommy whispered behind me.

  Snickering followed. I shook my head in disgust. Were boys programmed to be this stupid? Seriously. Thankfully, Mrs. Yazmire didn’t hear his idiotic remark.

  “I’m telling you this because I’ll be going out on maternity leave,” she continued. “The school will be hiring a long-term sub to fill in for me while I’m away.”

  My hand shot into the air.

  “Yes, Natalie,” Mrs. Yazmire said.

  “Do you know who our substitute will be? Has the person been hired?”

  “It’s not finalized yet, so I’m not at liberty to say, but I should be able to tell you very soon.”

  “Not finalized” was all I needed to hear. “Not finalized” meant there was still a chance. I marched to the main office straightaway after class.

  “Hi, Natalie,” Mrs. Lane, our secretary, said. “What brings you here?”

  “I was hoping to see Principal Allen,” I said.

  “Oh. Is he expecting you?”

  “No, but I have a bit of an emergency.”

  “I know he’s busy. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No.”

  I didn’t mean to be so short, but it was imperative that I see Principal Allen right then—not later. Time was of the essence.

  “I wouldn’t normally do this,” Mrs. Lane whispered, “but let me see what I can do.” She rose from her swivel chair and went and knocked on Principal Allen’s door.

  Thanks to last year’s fallout with the CSAs, I’d made a name for myself and had a reputation among the office staff for being a go-getter. Simply put, they liked me—and that clearly had its advantages.

  “Natalie, how are you?” Principal Allen asked, suddenly coming out of his office. Mrs. Lane was right behind him. She winked.

  “I’m doing well, thank you. And you?”

  “Me? Guess I can’t complain. But never mind me. How can I help you?”