Buzz Kill (3 page)

“And she's obviously still mad about your father beating hers for mayor, too,” Laura noted as we walked toward the equipment storage closet. “She's got it in for you
and
your dad.”

“Well . . .” I tossed my mat into a bin. “In less than a year, Viv and I will part ways forever. I'd say the odds of my accidentally shining again at her expense are pretty slim.”

I looked once more at Chase.
Good thing I really don't have designs on him. Viv would
destroy
me if I ever “stole” a guy she liked!

Laura was also watching the mysterious Mr. Albright—of course. But she didn't think I should keep my distance. On the contrary, she suggested, “Hey, maybe you could do an exposé on Chase and win another one of those Peacemakers. He is a total—gorgeous—puzzle.”

I reached for the door to the locker room. “I'm pretty sure what I'd uncover would earn the headline ‘Self-Absorbed Rich Kid Too Snooty for Small Town.' Which is not exactly a man-bites-dog story.” I kind of snorted. “Let's face it. Nobody from Honeywell, Pennsylvania, will ever win the investigative reporting prize. What the heck would you look into?”

Laura and I both laughed, then, because nothing significant—not counting football championships—ever happened in our sleepy town.

It never occurred to either one of us that a question on our class's collective mind, that morning, might actually turn out to be a
huge
story. No, it wasn't until we'd had a substitute phys ed teacher for over a week, and my dad had slid into the role of de facto head coach of the Stingers, that I, at least, realized somebody might want to make a sincere effort to answer . . .

What the heck really happened to Coach Killdare?

“Millicent, what is that stain on your uniform?” my father inquired, shooting me a quick glance as he drove me back to school, where I had an after-hours interview—and he had football practice—to conduct. He wrinkled his nose. “And why do you smell like rancid butter?”

“I had a little accident with the dispenser,” I admitted, wiping ineffectually at the oil slick on the hideous gold-buttoned, red polyester shirt I was required to wear at the theater, where I was scheduled to work that night. The uniform was supposed to resemble an usher's getup from the Lassiter Bijou's silent-movie heyday, but I was pretty sure I looked more like an organ grinder's monkey in a fright wig. “Can we
please
go back home so I can get a jacket,” I begged yet again. “I'll just run in quick—”

“I asked you, twice, if you had everything you needed before we left.” Dad cut me off. “This is a lesson in responsibility.”

Actually, it was going to be a lesson in
humiliation,
because all the football players and cheerleaders would be at school, too.

“Weren't you supposed to do this story days ago?” Dad added, turning on to the winding road to the high school, which was located just outside the quaint little town he ruled with an iron fist. “I remember you mentioning a ‘lame article' about stadium repairs quite a while back.”

“Actually, it was due eons ago,” I informed him. In fact, I'd deliberately delayed another six days after Viv had given me her two-day warning in the gym. “But I can't give my editor the satisfaction of thinking she's really my boss.”

Dad gave me another look. “Millie—she
is
your boss.”

“Well, in that case, I'm supposed to get a quote from you,” I said, without bothering to retrieve my notebook. Ever since the “cancer cluster” debacle, my father had distanced himself from anything school related except football. He could
never
wean himself off that addiction, and I strongly suspected that he wished he'd had a boy who could've played. Actually, I sometimes thought he secretly wished he'd just remained childless. “So, any comment on the bleachers?”

As I'd expected, he didn't answer. After pulling into the school lot, he parked his sensible Dodge sedan in a visitor's spot close to one marked H. Killdare—a little perk that I knew my dad would've liked and that had gone unused . . . I did a quick calculation, surprised to realize the
real
head coach had been gone for over a week.

“Dad, have you heard any news on Mr. Killdare?” I asked—not that I was eager to see Hollerin' Hank in the gym again. His absence just seemed odd. “Like, has he called to say where he's at?”

“No. But Principal Woolsey seems to vaguely recall Hank saying something about taking time off.” I could tell Dad—like pretty much everybody else—considered Mr. Woolsey completely incompetent when he confided, “Frankly, I think he's afraid he dropped the ball and should know where his head coach has vanished to during the height of football season.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Mr. Woolsey,” I agreed. “But would Coach Killdare really blow off the season?”

“Emergencies arise, Millicent.” Dad rammed the car into “park.” “Some of which trump football, even.”

I opened my mouth to mention my sixth birthday party, which my father had missed because of a game, then let it go. In retrospect, there had been a lot of squealing, and Laura'd peed her pants after drinking too much lemonade. Who could blame a grown man for trying to avoid that scene? But I couldn't imagine
anything
that would keep Hollerin' Hank from football.

“Jeez, maybe Laura's right,” I mumbled. “Maybe something really happened to Mr. Killdare!”

My dad didn't share my concern. He gestured to the book on my lap. “I don't want you reading while you work the concession stand tonight, Millie. That's like stealing from your employer.”

How had I sprung from a father who was ambitious, followed rules, and—I studied my dad's face—was olive-skinned, and dark-haired, and had a long, narrow nose? A nose that nobody would ever compare to that of a bulldog, like always happened to me?

In fact, Dad was probably decent-looking, by middle-age standards, and I wondered, as I sometimes did,
Does he ever consider dating?

“Millie, did you hear me about reading equaling stealing?” he prompted.

“But we're going to discuss this book in Philosophy Club,” I said, holding up my copy of Hegel's
Phenomenology of Spirit
—and invoking the organization I'd founded last year because my dad was worried about my lack of “extracurriculars.” Although I was still technically the only member, I added, “I need to be ready for the meeting.”

Dad wasn't convinced. “Reading at work is stealing, Millie. Period.”

“Fine.” I tucked the book under my arm, thinking it was probably more like stealing when I ate Charleston Chews from the candy counter. But honestly, I hadn't sold one in a year and felt like I was doing the owner, Mr. Lassiter, a favor by getting rid of them. If one of our old patrons ever did purchase one and tried to sink his or her dentures through stale, rock-hard nougat, my employer might just find himself footing a big dental bill. I didn't mention that to my dad, though, and promised, “I'll find something else to do when
nobody's
buying popcorn.”

For some reason, my father still seemed exasperated, and as we got out of the car, he muttered, “I am going to talk to Isabel about when and where you read. You seem to actually listen to her.”

I had one foot on the pavement, but I stopped short, surprised that Dad had just called “my” librarian, Isabel Parkins, by her first name. I consulted with Ms. Parkins on at least a biweekly basis—she was both a book recommender and something of a confidante—but I rarely mentioned her to Dad. And I certainly never used her first name.

Then again, Ms. Parkins
was
head of Honeywell's public library, a key part of Mayor Jack Ostermeyer's fiefdom.

“Millie, will you get out of the car?” Dad suggested, adding, with a rare hint of laughter in his voice, “I think your date for the evening is waiting for you!”

I slammed the door, not sure what the heck he was talking about because I hadn't had a date since . . . well, never. But when I looked across the parking lot, I spotted . . .

Oh, good grief.

What a pair Head of Custodial Services “Big Pete” Lamar and I must've made when we entered the football field, me in my organ-grinder's-assistant suit and my “date”—weighing in at about three hundred pounds—lumbering along in soiled, olive-drab coveralls and heavy work boots.

We look like homecoming king and queen—at Clown College.

“Let's get this over with,” I sighed, flipping open my notebook as we made our way down the track toward the far end of the bleachers. I clicked my ballpoint, ignoring the stares of the football players gathering around my dad. “What's the deal with the stadium? How bad are these cracks?”

“It's actually a mess,” Big Pete said, huffing from the walk. He began rifling through a huge ring of keys that he'd dug out from some cavernous recess in his pants. “We gotta empty out a storage space under the seats and bring in a crew to do repairs—then go through a state safety inspection. Pretty big—expensive—job.”

Okay, that surprised me. I'd expected him to confirm my suspicion that the story wasn't even worth covering, and reluctantly took down his quote about the cost.

“Hank Killdare was the first to notice 'em and make a fuss,” Big Pete added. “Said he didn't want the whole stadium collapsin' during a game. Threatened to go to the real press . . .” He obviously realized he'd insulted me and gave me a sheepish look. “Sorry . . . Anyhow, Killdare said fix 'em—or else.”

“So these cracks . . . Are they really serious?”

“Eh.” Big Pete shrugged. “Probably just cosmetic, to be honest. But when Hank Killdare gets a bee in his bonnet . . .” Grinning at his own—clearly inadvertent—pun, he jabbed a thick finger at my notebook. “Hey, write that down! Stingers coach has a bee in his bonnet!”

I wasn't laughing—or writing. I was looking at my father, who by then was surrounded by players, including Ryan, who waved to me; Mike Price, who was, as usual, doing his own lower-primate impersonation; and the always attention-grabbing Chase Albright, who stood with his arms crossed and a look of concentration on his gorgeous high-and-mighty face, now and then nodding at something my dad said.

Is this school really a “boondoggle”? Have my dad and Hollerin' Hank clashed about fixing the stadium, as well as coaching strategies?

The cheerleaders had arrived for practice, too, and I found Viv at the head of the pack, her lips frozen in what everyone else accepted as a smile, but which I always thought looked like a wolfish snarl, complete with wrinkled snout and sharp incisors.

And did Viv know how much fixing the cracks will cost? Did she
know
I'll have to write a story that really will make Dad look bad? Because he gets blamed for everything that goes wrong at Honeywell High.

How sick to use me against my own father . 
.
 .

“I guess you'll wanna see the storage space, huh?”

“What?” I turned around to see Big Pete heading toward a door I'd never noticed before, in the cinder-block wall under the bleachers. I also saw a bunch of fine, jagged fissures in that wall, which often bore the weight of hundreds of people, because Honeywell's nationally known football program packed in the crowds. “What did you say?” I asked again, catching up to my guide.

“I guess you'll wanna see the storage space,” he repeated, jamming a key in the lock before I could tell him that, no, I didn't really need to see a bunch of old javelins or tackling dummies or whatever they kept under bleachers. Especially since, as I drew closer, I started to
smell
something coming from behind that portal.

Stepping reluctantly beside Pete, I fought the urge to cover my nose, thinking,
Jeez, what's really in there? Mascot Buzz's unwashed, sweaty bee costume? The eviscerated organs of our vanquished sports foes?

“Look, I really don't think I need . . .”

I was just about to insist that we keep that door closed when Pete, looking confused himself, hauled it open. The stench got even worse, and we both looked at each other, like,
What the heck?

Looking back, I'd never be sure what, exactly, compelled both of us to walk toward that odor instead of running away from it. Maybe it was the fact that I'd come to document the whole bleachers problem, and clearly there was something seriously messed up inside that dark hole. Regardless, after a moment of hesitation, I made the first move, taking a tentative step into the shadows—only to stumble and fall against something. Something big and hard, but squishy and slippery, too, as if it was covered in nylon.

This is wrong,
I thought on instinct.
Something is very wrong here.

Then, as my eyes started to adjust and I began to recognize exactly what—or whom—I was resting against, Big Pete gave me the quote of a lifetime, albeit one that I couldn't have put in a G-rated school newspaper article, even if I'd been able to write anything down.

“Holy ****! It's a
dead guy
—on a John Deere!”

“Let me go!” I cried, slugging somebody—hard—in the shoulder. “LET ME GO!”

The individual who was clutching me to a rock-hard chest didn't listen. On the contrary, he spun me around, so we were in a Heimlich-maneuver position, then began dragging me so the soles of my old Adidas scraped concrete. “Deep breaths,” he whispered in a low, strangely soothing voice that was at odds with the way I was straitjacketed and struggling in his arms. “You're okay. Stop screaming.”

I wanted to protest that I, Millie Ostermeyer, had never screamed in my entire life—not even on Hersheypark's Skyrush roller coaster—but as I was hauled into slightly fresher air and fading sunlight, I realized that I was, indeed, shrieking and maybe borderline incoherent. And when I finally did inhale deeply—catching a whiff of very nice soap or cologne, layered on top of the smell of
rotting flesh
—I also realized who was holding me—and recalled what I'd fallen onto moments before.