“He doesn’t drive anything, Jess. I don’t even think he takes the school bus!”
Jessica was enjoying pleading Roger’s case. When she became a lawyer, she’d have to defend plenty of lost causes like Roger Barrett, and there was no better time than now to begin sharpening her skills. “But, Lila, underneath the glasses and worn clothes is a boy who needs the kind of things a smart girl like you can teach him. Why don’t you give the guy a break and go out with him? You know he wants you to.”
“Jessica Wakefield, have you lost your mind? If you think he’s so great, go out with him yourself.”
Jessica looked at her friend as if she’d suggested drinking Drano. The joke had gone far enough. It was one thing to defend Roger, quite another to date him. “No way, Jose,” she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.
* * *
Roger stuffed his books into his locker, cursing himself for losing control in front of Lila. If only I hadn’t slipped like that, he thought, maybe she wouldn’t think I was such a fool.
“You look like your cat just died.”
Recognizing the voice, Roger turned around and smiled at Olivia Davidson, the arts editor for The Oracle, and one of his closest friends in school. “Hi, Liv,” he said weakly.
“What’s wrong?” Olivia asked.
“I just made a fool of myself in front of Lila Fowler.”
“And that’s why you have bags under your eyes?”
“Oh, that.” Roger dismissed his tired expression with a shrug. “You’d have bags, too, if you were up till three in the morning studying.”
“Not again.” Olivia’s voice was full of sympathy now. “How long is that going to go on, Roger?”
“Probably till I graduate—or at least until I truly understand trigonometry.”
“Poor Roger.”
Yeah, that’s the problem: Roger is poor, he thought grimly. But he didn’t want anyone, even Olivia, to know the truth—that he spent almost all of his after-school hours working as a janitor in a Sweet Valley office building. He’d gone to great pains to convince everyone that he spent all these afternoons studying. In truth, his studying was done when he should have been sleeping.
“Hey, I shouldn’t be complaining. If I want to be a doctor, I’ve got to understand this stuff. I’ve got to get used to sleepless nights and be prepared to work hard.”
Olivia shook her head, letting her untamed curls cascade around her narrow shoulders. “But not too hard,” she insisted. “School’s supposed to be fun, too.”
Maybe for some people, he thought, but not when your mother’s too sick to hold a steady job and your father’s too drunk. “But what about you, Liv? You work pretty hard. When do you have time for play?”
“All the time. I mean, working at the museum and giving tours and lectures about the artists doesn’t seem like work. That job is a dream come true for me—not to mention that it pays for the clothes on my back.”
Roger eyed her carefully. “That’s a new skirt, isn’t it?” He wasn’t sure he liked it, but it was in keeping with Olivia’s offbeat sense of style.
Olivia proudly showed off the floral print skirt. It was so long it nearly covered her Chinese sandals. “The latest in chic from Martha’s Thrift Shop. Goes well with the scarf, don’t you think?” She fingered the long strip of faded silk tied loosely around her neck.
“Liv, when are you going to start shopping at the mall like everyone else around here?”
“What? And be like everyone else? That’s not my style, Roger. I guess that’s why I’m arts editor of The Oracle and not fashion editor. Speaking of which, I’ve got to hand my latest column in to Penny. See you later, Roger.”
Olivia was already out of sight when the bell rang. Putting his legs into high gear, Roger ran up the stairs to his first class.
Three
Bruce Patman threw his towel against his cubicle in the boys’ locker room in disgust. “I don’t believe Coach Schultz, making us run in the rain.” Droplets of water dripped from his dark hair onto his red and white Sweet Valley running shorts.
“Yeah, I’m glad we were playing inside,” said John Pfeifer. He and Todd Wilkins had just finished a one-on-one game of basketball. “But I can understand why the coach would want you to be prepared for the Bart trials tomorrow.”
“I hope the skies clear up by then,” Bruce said. “Running in the muck is not my idea of a good time.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to try out for the race if it’s raining?” As sports editor for The Oracle, John smelled a scoop here. For weeks Bruce had been bragging about how he was going to blow everybody away at the trials. He’d even gone as far as working out with the track team in addition to running extra laps after school. If he didn’t compete now, it would be big news.
“Of course I’m running,” Bruce insisted. “I still aim to prove I’m the best athlete in school, certainly better than those clowns on the track team.” He looked around quickly to make sure the guys he had just been training with were in the shower and safely out of earshot. “All I meant was that if the track is muddy, I’m not going to get a chance to break four minutes.”
“As if you stand a chance of getting anywhere near four minutes,” Todd interjected.
Bruce looked at the tall basketball player as if he were a worm. “Hey, Wilkins, you should talk. I don’t hear anyone around here calling you speedy.”
“At least I don’t make any claims to be. You’re the only one who seems to think you’re a cinch to win the trials—not to mention coming out the big man in the Bart.”
Todd wasn’t usually so testy; in fact, he was one of the most easygoing students at Sweet Valley. But when he was pushed hard enough, his anger ran deep, and he still had good reason to hold a grudge against Bruce. The smooth-talking Bruce had tried to take advantage of Elizabeth Wakefield, Todd’s girlfriend, when she’d been at her most vulnerable—after an accident that had left her acting completely out of character for several weeks. Fortunately, Bruce had failed. But only barely.
“Tell me, Wilkins, who do you think’s going to win? Esteban? You know he’s the school’s distance runner only because no one else wanted to be. Riley? The guy’s purely a sprinter. And no one else from the track team even has the guts to try out.” Bruce sneered. “Face it, Wilkins, I’m our school’s only hope. And I’m willing to wager I’m just as fast as those guys from the other schools. I plan to take home that trophy next Saturday.”
“And I suppose it wouldn’t bother you that you’d be depriving some guy of a college education if you win?” Todd was referring to the full scholarship to Sweet Valley College that went along with the trophy.
“Come off it, Wilkins. Nobody’s run that race just for the scholarship in years.”
“Have you made up your mind yet about whether to try out, Todd?” asked John.
“I’m still not sure. But I could use the scholarship—unlike some people in this room.” Todd eyed Bruce coldly as he took off his soaked T-shirt. “I imagine I have as good a chance as anyone. These legs of mine do OK on the basketball court. What about you, John?” Todd asked.
“Nah, covering the race for The Oracle will keep me busy enough. Besides, scholarship or no scholarship, there’s no way I’m going to subject myself to Coach Schultz’s practices. That man’s a killer.”
“Maybe,” Todd said as he headed toward the showers. “But he’s one of the best coaches this school has ever had.”
“Yeah, John, he’s not so bad,” put in Tony Esteban, who’d come in from the shower area just in time to hear Todd’s comment, “if you happen to be a football player. He saves all his real coaching for them. When it comes to us runners, he’s nothing but a drill sergeant.”
“And you can bet he’s going to make the guys who qualify for the race work their tails off,” John added. “Nobody from Sweet Valley has won this race in years. He’s hungry. You can see the fire in his eyes.”
“That’s not fire, John. It’s fear,” said Bruc
e. “If you ask me, I think the coach’s days here as athletic director are numbered—and winning the race has nothing to do with it.”
John whipped around and gave Bruce a fierce look. “What are you talking about, Patman?”
“Last week’s school board meeting, that’s what. My father said he never saw the coach so mad in his life. Seems the board turned down Schultz’s request for more money—and he threatened to quit.”
“I’d think even you could tell he was bluffing,” John scoffed.
Bruce shook his head stubbornly. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never heard Dad say a word about those meetings before, but he was pretty concerned when he came back this time. Take my word, guys, we may be seeing the coach’s last hurrah.”
Tony snorted. As a member of the track team, a team that had a far poorer record than any of the other ones at school, he’d been subjected to more of Coach Schultz’s workouts and lectures than he cared to think about. “I say good riddance.”
“Hey, Tony,” John noted, “just because he made you do ten extra laps the other day doesn’t mean he’s not going to be missed.”
“He doesn’t have to coach track. He could hire someone else to do it. He should stick to football,” Tony said stubbornly. “You’re not going to see me working overtime for him and that race.”
“Suit yourself,” Bruce said. “That just makes my chances of winning that much better.”
“Who cares?” Tony said. “I mean, if it were a long-distance race it would be a whole different story. But this isn’t even my event. As far as I’m concerned, the best part about the Bart is the dance afterward.”
“I’m with you on that,” Bruce agreed. “As long as I win.”
“Sure,” John added. “So you can play the big hero role you do so well. Who’re you going with?”
Bruce shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. What about you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Annie Whitman maybe.”
The boys let out a chorus of whistles. “Have you made an appointment?” Tony questioned. “I’ve heard she’s booked up for weeks and isn’t going to quit until she’s had a go at every guy in school.”
“She’s well on her way,” Bruce noted. “Charlie Cashman took her up to Miller’s Point on Saturday, and from the way he looked yesterday when I ran into him, all I can say is that he must have had a very good time.”
“How about you, Bruce? She going to get a chance to work her magic on you?” Tony asked.
Bruce smiled slyly. “Only if she’s lucky.”
* * *
Jessica strode confidently into her father’s law office that afternoon. “Hi, Mrs. Kelly, is my father in?”
“He’s on the phone right now,” the receptionist said, looking down at her telephone console. “He asked me to tell you to have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
“Fine,” Jessica said cheerfully, settling down on one of the gray velvet couches in the waiting area.
She took a magazine from the glass coffee table and began to leaf through the pages, but she could concentrate only on the wonderful experience that lay ahead of her. She was glad she’d decided to become a lawyer. Law was an exciting field to be in these days, she reflected, especially for a woman. For a second she thought of Joyce Davenport, the public defender on “Hill Street Blues.” Now there was someone Jessica could admire. Glamorous, dedicated to her career, upholding the rights of others, yet still making time for romance. That’s the kind of lawyer I’d like to be, Jessica thought, though a second later she discarded the notion. It was one thing to defend lost causes but quite another to have to defend really grizzly, dangerous criminals. Civil law, something more along the lines of her father’s practice, was much better, she concluded. Conferring with other lawyers—including lots of handsome men—certainly had to be at least as exciting, and a lot less dangerous.
She wondered what case her father would have her work on first. She found herself relishing the prospect of working by his side, helping him prepare his clients’ defenses. He spent a good deal of time at the county courthouse, and Jessica couldn’t wait for her father to take her down there with him. From dinner-table conversation she recalled that one of the cases he was handling concerned someone who was suing George Fowler, Lila’s father. The Fowlers had trod upon many helpless citizens of the town over the years, and her father was among a growing number of residents who were beginning to stand up and fight against the Fowler power. She’d volunteer to help on that one. She thought gleefully about the prospect of being able to give the man what he had coming to him, not to mention gloating over her father’s victory in front of Lila. Even though they were friends, there was an unspoken rivalry between the two of them.
Just then her father appeared, interrupting Jessica’s thoughts. “Well, Jessica, are you ready to start?” He was smiling proudly.
Ned Wakefield had always hoped one of his children would take an interest in law, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought it would be Jessica. Delight shone in his face as his daughter smiled up at him and nodded. “Come along with me, honey,” he said.
Jessica rose and followed her father. She was surprised when they didn’t turn left down the short hall to his office but instead headed straight to the utility room in the back of the suite. “Jess,” her father said, walking into the brightly lit room, “I don’t think you’ve met my new office manager, Trudy Roman. She’ll explain what needs to be done around here. Trudy, this is my daughter Jessica. I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I’ll leave the two of you alone. Enjoy yourself, Jess, and if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to speak up. Not that I’ve ever known you to stay silent when something was on your mind,” he added with a smile. He closed the door behind him as he left.
Jessica looked around the room. She’d hardly noticed it the few times she’d been up to her father’s office in the past. Not that there was much worth noticing. One wall was lined with gray steel shelving filled with various office supplies and papers. On the other side of the room was a copying machine, and on a low table next to it was a big computer.
Trudy approached her with a stack of papers several inches thick. “Jessica, I want four copies of each of these documents, collated and stapled,” she announced in a clipped, no-nonsense voice.
“What are they?” Jessica asked.
“Legal briefs,” she responded. “Your father needs them right away. You know how to work a copying machine, don’t you?”
“Oh, sure,” Jessica said confidently. “There’s nothing to it.”
“Good,” Trudy said. “I’ve got things to do in the outer offices, so you’ll be on your own here. I’ll be in the conference room if you need me.”
Jessica sighed as she began to feed the papers into the machine. She wondered if Joyce Davenport had started in the copy room. Although Jessica had never operated her father’s copier before, she’d run off dozens of copies of cheers on a similar machine in the principal’s office. The work was monotonous, and after about five minutes of it she was ready to climb the walls. This wasn’t the kind of job she’d bargained for. Looking around the room, she discovered a portable radio on one of the shelves and tuned it to the local rock station. At least the music would help relieve the dreariness.
Not for long. Less than a minute later Trudy marched into the office. “What do you think you’re doing, Miss Wakefield?”
“Making copies, as you wanted,” Jessica said, not bothering to hide her boredom.
Trudy clicked off the radio. “Not with that noise machine you’re not. Your father asked me to come in here and remind you that this is an office, not a disco,” she proclaimed. “I suggest you get back to work.”
“Battle-ax,” Jessica hissed after Trudy closed the door behind her. How dare that woman order her around? Jessica wondered what act of desperation had made her father hire this tyrant.
It took her nearly an hour and a half to finish her assignment. Before giving them to Trudy, however, Jessica decided
to take a look at some of the documents she’d been copying, figuring that was how her father expected her to learn. From the wording at the top, they appeared to have something to do with real estate, though even after she began reading, Jessica wasn’t exactly sure. The documents were in English—sort of—but the language was so convoluted that it was beginning to give her a headache. It made for even duller reading than her chemistry text.
This was law? she thought. Where was the excitement of court cases, the challenge of defending the people that her father was always talking about? This was no fun at all. The realization, coupled with the thought of having to be at Trudy’s constant beck and call, suddenly made the thought of spending another day in that office unbearable.
She carried the stack of documents into the conference room. “I’ve finished,” she told Trudy. “Now what?”
“Go to the office-supplies store downstairs and get another box of these forms.” Opening up one of the files on the table, she handed Jessica a standard legal form.
Jessica took her time walking down the narrow hallway to the elevator. She didn’t think her father would be too proud of her when she told him she’d had enough of this job after only one day. While waiting for the elevator to arrive, she began to think how she could break the news to him. She was sure she’d come up with a plausible excuse. She always did.
“You new here?”
Lost in her scheming, Jessica was startled by a voice. She turned around to see where it came from—and definitely liked what she saw. Over six feet tall, with wavy golden hair and smiling brown eyes, the boy who’d asked the question was leaning lazily against the wall. “What makes you think I work here?” she asked.
“No pocketbook,” he said, moving closer. “I don’t know of any girl who’d be walking around here without a pocketbook unless she had it stashed away somewhere in an office drawer.”
“How do you know so much about feminine habits?” she asked. “Or do you keep a pocketbook hidden away, too?”
He laughed. “When you work in an office, you notice those things,” he said just as the elevator arrived. Graciously he held out his arm. “After you, um…”
Racing Hearts Page 2
