“Seeing as how you can’t follow simple instructions,” he went on, “and work silently maybe you’ll learn something shining helmets in detention. That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“Varsity or JV?” George was all defiance.
“Both,” Rapier replied.
“Fine,” she said.
I raised my hand. When Rapier’s beady eyes landed on me, I said, “Coach that’s a lot of helmets. Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?”
There were over fifty players on JV alone. One person doing all that work, especially when the person was George and she’d only been caught talking, just wasn’t right. I’d tried to be respectful, but it didn’t matter.
“No, Doherty, I don’t think I was harsh at all,” he said. “Harsh would be making her clean the urinals in the boys’ locker room, which is what’s coming if St. Claire can’t learn to shut that big, fat mouth of hers. If you’ve got something else to say, you can join her.”
He paused, waiting to see if I’d say anything, grinned when I didn’t.
“If not, get back to work.”
I looked over at George whose normally pale face was as red as my hair. She avoided my gaze, but I knew what was bothering her—that comment about her mouth. It’d always been a sore spot. Girls teased her, made fun of her full, naturally puffy lips. Boys had been cruder with their comments. When I saw her hastily swipe away a tear, it was the last straw.
Raising my hand, I waited.
Rapier flipped a page, ignoring me.
I cleared my throat.
Rolling his eyes, he dropped the Sports Illustrated to the desktop. “What now, Doherty? Need the bathroom pass?”
“No sir,” I said, lowering my hand, “I was just thinking I’d take you up on that offer.”
“What offer?”
“I want to stay after and help George shine helmets.”
“Why?” he asked, suspicious.
“Well,” I said, “Varsity’s out and JV’s not much better. I just figured if they can’t play worth a darn, they should look good losing.” All eyes were suddenly on me, but I didn’t care. “I mean, it’s not their fault. Everyone knows all the talent in the world can’t cover up bad coaching.” I took a deep breath, decided to go for broke. “And don’t ever talk about my mom. She’s the best, and I’m sure how you speak to me about her is some form of harassment. I’m not going to take it anymore. You’re a teacher. Act like it.”
When the bell rang, Coach was still sitting there, hands crinkled in the pages of his magazine, face alternating between shades of red and purple. There was this vein in his forehead that looked about ready to burst.
Even if George and I had to clean a thousand helmets, it was so worth it.
#
“I still can’t believe it.” George smiled as she picked at her lunch. She hadn’t cried another tear since we’d left Chemistry three periods ago. “Rapier’ll probably give us detention for the rest of our lives, but I don’t care. Don’t worry about getting me anything for my birthday. That was the best present ever.”
“So I should just take back all those diamonds?” I asked, eating a chip.
George’s eyes lit up. “Let’s not get crazy now. If you already bought them, I don’t see the need to return anything. Seriously though, you were amazing, standing up for your mom like that. Aunt Jeanine is the best, and he’s a total skeezebag for saying different.”
“Yeah, but Mom can take care of herself.” I’d never forget that scene in the principal’s office or Mom’s fierceness. Rapier had never stood a chance. “Seeing you cry was worse.”
“Yeah, right,” George scoffed, “as if Rapier could make me weep. Looking at his face too long might do the trick, but no. Just too much mascara.”
I eyed her steadily. George hardly ever cried—in public—but we’d been friends since we were ten, so I knew when she was lying. And I loved her too much to call her on it.
“Anyway”—George pulled out her phone—”so what’d you think? That bit with the belt? Scary stuff, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said, looking away as George restarted the church video. “Scary.”
“I did find out a few more things, but this was by far the most interesting.”
An arm landed on my shoulder, a familiar head popping up between George and me.
“What’s interesting?” Ronnie asked.
“Down South religion at its finest.” George held the video out for him to see. She’d removed the earphones and upped the volume, so we could hear. “What’re you doing here Scarlett?”
Ronnie shrugged. “World History got boring, so I decided to drop by and see my two favorite girls. I remembered you two had second lunch.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet,” George gushed, affecting a drawl so strong it put Mr. V’s to shame.
“Sweet as honeysuckle straight off the vine,” I said in my own Southern twang.
“Oh, stop it,” Ronnie said. “You’re making me blush.”
Actually he did look a little flustered, though it was hard to tell with his dark complexion. Some people had all the luck. Eyes widening as Jim Wilder began to unfasten his belt, Ronnie mumbled, “Man, that’s messed up.”
George and I nodded in agreement, unable to tear our eyes away from the shocking scene.
“So, it’s true then?”
The excited voice came from just behind us, and as I turned, I was nearly blinded by all the pink. Barbara Jean Eckersly stood there in her signature color—pink sweater, pink jeans, pink purse, pink tennis shoes—bouncing on the balls of her feet like she was preparing to take flight. The concentration of such a bright color moving up and down like that was probably enough to cause an epileptic fit. She looked like a walking, talking highlighter.
It took me a second to recall her question and a few more to realize she was speaking to me.
“Is what true?” I asked, eyes still adjusting.
“Why, the rumor about you and Grant McCreary,” she said as if it was obvious. “At first, I had a hard time believing it, I don’t mind telling you. It’s just that you’re”—she floundered a moment—”Well, you’re Delilah Doherty. The very idea that someone like Grant McCreary would go for someone like you is…well, it’s not logical, is it?”
She paused as if waiting for me to agree, but I was too amazed by her correct usage of the word “logical.” Luckily, she didn’t require a response.
“Anyhoo,” she said without seeming to draw breath, “when I saw the forms, I was just plain flabbergasted.”
And there it was, big word number two.
“Absolutely flabbergasted,” she repeated. “But then I saw Grant walking with the I.S.S. kids, and I just knew it had to be true. I mean, Principal Claxton wouldn’t punish someone like him unless he’d done something bad. I mean bad bad. Like sexual assault bad. So, it’s true isn’t it? He really did try something on you, didn’t he?”
From the whirlwind that was Barbara Jean, I got the gist of it. Somehow word had gotten out, but the question was who told. I knew I hadn’t. Some people loved to be the center of gossip, but I was definitely not one them. Confused, I looked to George.
“What?” she said startled. “I know you’re not looking at me. I would never do that to you, D. Never.”
I nodded. George was right, but who then? Bruce? I had a hard time believing that one, too.
“Wow,” Barbara Jean whispered. “It is true. I can tell by the look on your face. What a scumbag.”
“Who’d you hear it from, Eckersly?” George asked the question before I had a chance.
“Oh, no one,” she said, nervously twining her fingers. “I mean, everyone’s talking about it. This morning the papers were just there, sitting innocent as anything on the principal’s desk, waiting to be signed. It was only natural for someone to read them.”
Belatedly, I recalled that Barbara Jean was in charge of the morning announcements. She was also, I cringed, an un-official office aide. Well, that explain
ed that.
“Well, bye,” she said, shuffling away, having gotten what she came for.
George glared after her.
“What’d she mean assault?”
Through all that I’d forgotten about Ronnie.
Turning to him, I feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Delilah,” he said warningly.
“That loser Grant McCreary put the moves on her,” George said, and I gave her a look. “What? He was bound to hear it sooner or later. The bees are already buzzing. Look.”
She was right, of course. With Barbara Jean on the job, I watched as the not-exactly-confirmed but not-exactly-denied rumor traveled from table to table. It was spreading quicker than wildfire. There was no way I could’ve kept it from anyone even if I’d wanted to.
“Listen, Ronnie,” I said, forcing a chuckle. “It actually wasn’t as bad as all that. You’ll probably laugh when I tell you.”
But Ronnie wasn’t laughing. In fact, his eyes were glaring at something at the other end of the lunchroom. I looked back. The group of I.S.S. students had just walked in with a grinning McCreary bringing up the rear. He was talking to one of his friends, oblivious.
A blur passed through my line of sight. As I watched, Alexis Walker, who’d just been in a huddle with a rosy-cheeked Barbara Jean—seriously, now even the girl’s face was pink—hurried over to her Queen Mother, Serena, and started talking at a furious pace. Serena was sitting closer than close to Wilder, so he must’ve been getting an earful.
Slowly, Wilder lifted his head, his eyes finding mine in an instant.
“This should be good,” George said.
I noticed it then. Ronnie was walking at a fast clip, barreling his way through the crush of people, headed right for McCreary.
“George,” I said, “why didn’t you stop him?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, trailing behind me as we tried to catch up with Ronnie. “Me stop Scarlett? A hundred-and-eighty pounds of angry male? Piece of cake.”
“You could’ve at least tried. Jumped on his back, tripped him with your boot, something.”
“Sorry,” George said, sounding anything but.
I went faster. Ronnie was almost through the crowd when McCreary finally spotted him.
Frowning, McCreary said, “You got something to say?”
“Yeah, I do.”
But the person who answered wasn’t Ronnie. It was Wilder.
In a move that almost seemed choreographed it was so in sync, both Ronnie and Wilder threw simultaneous punches at a surprised McCreary. Wilder went high, Ronnie low; and George and I got there just in time to see McCreary crumple to the floor. While he groaned, Ronnie muttered, “Serves you right, pig,” the words echoing across the near-silent cafeteria. A couple of Grant’s friends went to help him up.
“I warned you,” Wilder said down to McCreary, hand still clenched after delivering that amazing left hook. “If you ever touch her again, I’ll kill you.”
McCreary went white. He didn’t doubt Wilder and neither did I. His tone was deadly serious.
I had never been one for violence, but good Lord. Wilder was magnificent in that moment. Be still my savage heart because it was dangerously close to escaping and jumping into his back pocket.
“Not bad Wilder.” Ronnie was shaking his fist out like it hurt. No wonder McCreary ended up on the ground.
“You either,” Wilder said back.
“You two,” Rapier boomed, addressing the partners in crime. “Principal’s office, now!”
Ronnie and Wilder were sent home for fighting, each sentenced to a week of I.S.S. By the end of sixth period, people were saying Wilder had done everything from bashing McCreary’s head against the wall to pulling a knife. McCreary left sporting a second black eye, an icepack over his groin and a deflated ego.
Or, at least, he tried to leave.
At the end of the day, McCreary’s car had curiously vanished from its place in the senior lot.
All in all, it was pretty exciting for a Monday.
CHAPTER 16
Aunt B had three business rules:
1) No stealing. 2) No fighting. 3) No badmouthing the competition.
The last was just poor form; the second could and usually did attract trouble; and the first was simply a matter of character. Rules one and two were strictly enforced. I was really scared for Ronnie after he’d hit McCreary.
But there was no need to worry.
It’d been four days, and if anything, Aunt B respected Ronnie more. Heck, she practically made him employee of the month, giving him longer breaks, bagging brownies for him to take home, even giving him an extra day off. Punching the daylights out of McCreary wasn’t fighting, she’d said. In her book, it was a public service.
Ronnie was taking one of his extra-long breaks when Willie Stubbs staggered in, already sloshed at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon. As usual, he reeked of cigarette smoke.
With a mental sigh, I steeled myself, taking my position behind the register.
“Gimme two of them pumpkin-nut muffins,” he said, voice gruff. “And a bag of ladyfingers.”
“How’re you going to pay for that, Mr. Stubbs?” It sounded harsh, but I had to ask. Willie never came to the bakery with money. He spent it all on booze then came around expecting a hand out. Well, if he could afford his Jack Daniels, he could certainly pay a six dollar tab.
He squinted at me, glassy eyes and all. “What’d you say?”
“Payment,” I responded. “Cash, credit card, what’ll it be?”
“Hell girl, I got your payment right here.” He brandished his gun like a sword before slamming it hard onto the countertop, business end aimed my way. “Now, give me those damn muffins.”
“Willie Stubbs, you better not be cursing at my niece.” Aunt B appeared, holding a piping-hot pan of cinnamon rolls. “What’s the problem?”
“She won’t give me my damn muffins,” Willie whined, pointing his gun like an index finger. “That ain’t no way to run a business.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t give them to you,” I said. “I just want to know how you’re going to pay.” It was like talking to a brick wall.
Willie muttered something, scratched the side of his face. “Can’t you just let me have ‘em?” When I shook my head, he held out his gun again. “But I got this here gun. I could just shoot you and be done with it.”
I sighed. “You’re not shooting anybody, Mr. Stubbs. There aren’t even any bullets in that gun.”
“Yeah, but there could be,” he said, eyes bright. “My wife don’t know I know, but I do.” He leaned in as if sharing a secret. “I know where she keeps ‘em. Goes out shooting most weekends. One of these days, I could have me some bullets. No one would ever know.”
I stared at the gun with newfound wariness. Well, when he put it that way...
“Stop scaring her,” Aunt B chided, shoving a muffin into Willie’s free hand then shooing him away. “Now, get your sorry butt outta here before I call Garrison.”
Willie left the shop laughing, twirling his gun and sliding it in the back of his jeans.
“Don’t worry,” Ronnie said, coming up behind me. “If he ever finds those bullets, the first thing he shoots will be his own ass.”
“And on that note”—I lifted the apron up and over my head—”I need to get George’s gift out of the car. Plus there’s a new cd I want to check out. Be back in a few.”
Aunt B and Ronnie exchanged a look.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” they said in perfect unison.
No matter how many times they did that it was still creepy.
After retrieving George’s boots from my trunk—they’d cost about three months’ salary, but my best friend’s eighteenth only happened once—I walked to the music store.
It’d been a while since I’d been inside. Honestly, I was afraid what I might see. The memory of Wilder caught between Miss Double D’s thighs assaulted me even now, as I stood o
utside, hand resting on the door. But I’d never been very good with gutlessness. With a deep breath, I pushed inside.
Expecting the worst, I walked in on nothing more than a father-son talk—which, given the scowl on Jim Wilder’s face, wasn’t going too well. The reverend was clad in his Sunday best, shoes shining, clothing crisp, hair slicked to perfection. He didn’t look like a child abuser—but I guess they never did. Both Wilder and his dad turned as the door opened, and I pulled up short, noticing Jim swiftly reclosing the bandage around his neck.
“Well hello,” the reverend said, smiling pleasantly.
His heart-of-gold greeting didn’t fool me. I stepped further inside, frown firmly in place.
“Delilah Doherty isn’t it?” he prompted. “I’m Jim Wilder, pastor down at Mercy Hope. It sure is a pleasure to meet you.”
Man, this guy was a piece a work.
“Whatever,” I mumbled, scuttling past, ignoring the hand he held out. No thank you, Mr. Wilder. I don’t shake hands with men who act all pious in public then beat their children and badmouth my family. Just a guess, but I didn’t think he’d take too kindly to that.
Jim looked surprised by my rudeness. His smile faded but came back stronger than before.
“Alright then, I guess I’ll be going,” he said aloud. To his son, he added lowly, “Don’t forget what we talked about, Ethan.”
Sitting down, I grabbed a cd, placed the earphones on like a shield against further conversation. If Jim Wilder tried anything, I’d hit him with the cd. I’d always been crap at sports, but I could do real damage with a Frisbee.
“And don’t you be a stranger, Delilah,” the reverend said. “Remember you and your family will always have a place at Mercy Hope. Be blessed.”
With those words, he left, and I was glad to see him gone.
“I don’t think the preacher is used to being ignored,” Wilder said amusement in his voice. As he came closer, I saw it in his eyes as well.
“I don’t buy his act,” I said, lowering the earphones.
“Oh, it’s not an act,” Wilder assured. “He really is that full of it.”
I laughed. “Full of what exactly?”
The Unbelievable, Inconceivable, Unforeseeable Truth About Ethan Wilder Page 15
