Just to See You Smile (10 page)

Britte felt Anne touch her elbow and then imperceptibly squeeze it as they stood in the commons facing Mr. Hughes. Same time, same channel, just a different day.

Anne said, “Gordon, we need to give Coach a chance here. She's got to do some experimenting, find the right combinations. We're not even halfway through—”

“The season's only—”

She held out a palm, effectively halting his words. “I know, end of January is it. But we've got the tournament over Christmas break. That'll give us a lot of games.”

The man sputtered in Britte's direction. “Didn't Joel speak to you? I met with him this afternoon.”

“No. I haven't seen him today.”

“Britte, I demand that you start Jordan on Saturday.”

Again, Anne's gentle pressure, keeping her still. “I don't think we should interfere.” Her voice had taken on that steely edge. “We only make things worse when we tell the coach what to do.”

Britte scanned the crowd, blocking out the man's barely concealed tirade. Mr. Kingsley wasn't in sight.
Coward.
He'd been in the stands. Why hadn't he told her about the meeting? Oh, no… She caught sight of Jordan and her mother at a distance, their faces red.
Lord, please don't let me take this out on that girl.
The dad's voice was a dull roar now.
Please don't let him take it out on her either.

“Gordon,” Anne's tone was final now, “no matter her age or her experience, Miss Olafsson is the coach. The girls are
undefeated. Not everyone gets equal playing time on winning teams. Excuse us.”

“Mr. Hughes,” Britte said. “Jordan gives 100 percent. It's not her fault.” She let Anne pull her away.

She stuck close to Britte, escorting her out to the parking lot even before the concession stand closed up. “Thanks, Annie.”

“You're welcome. That man…” She blew out a breath. “Listen, honey, just for the record, you're not running the show like you did in previous years. And that's fine. That's your prerogative. But parents like Gordon Hughes who counted on a ‘low-key, everybody play, have a good time' season are going to be disappointed.”

“I don't see it that way, Anne.”

“No problem. That's just my two cents. It's impossible to keep all of them happy anyway.”

Britte agreed. “Something would be wrong if no one complained.”

Anne laughed. “True. Now I've got to go. I'm a working girl, you know! You can't tease me about that anymore.”

“I never meant it seriously when I said you didn't
do
anything because you're a stay-at-home mom.”

“I know that.” She patted Britte's cheek softly. “Lighten up. Try hitting the weight room. It's Christmastime and you're headed to supersectionals.” She opened her car door. “At the least. See you.”

Britte took her time getting into her own car. Where would she be without Anne? She looked up at the cold black sky, stars twinkling brightly over the small town.
Where would I be without You, Lord? I'm doing my best. Is there a way to please everyone?

“Miss O.” Mr. Kingsley hurried across the parking lot, his coat flapping.

“Well, I wondered where my knight in shining armor was tonight.”

He stopped near her car and zipped up his coat. “Off slaying a variety of dragons. Sorry I didn't catch up with you today. Gordon Hughes.”

“Ahh, yes. The saga continues.”

“He stated his case, concluding that he wants to file a formal complaint if you don't give Jordan more playing time.”

“He can't make a formal complaint based on that!”

“I know. Those weren't his exact words, but it's what he meant.”

It was an echo of what she had told Mr. Kingsley at the Christmas party.

He went on. “I suggested he make an appointment with you for a time more suitable than after a game in the commons. He needs to talk formally with you before doing anything else.”

“Tonight he seemed under the impression that you would tell me to play Jordan more.”

Mr. Kingsley laughed.

“That must have been some diplomatic answer you gave him.”

“Must have been, if it confused him that much. Britte, I backed you up. I told him you're the coach. My position is to let you coach. I said we can make recommendations, but the final word is yours. Fair enough?”

She grinned. “Fair enough. Thank you, Mr. Kingsley.”

“Just doing my political job. See you tomorrow.” He headed toward the street.

“So how do you like being a politician?”

“I like it just fine,” he said over his shoulder, “especially in Valley Oaks. It's a good town.”

Yeah, that's what the other principals said.
She opened her car door. “Goodnight.”

“Oh, by the way, good job, Coach.” He sauntered off.

Britte turned her back to him, grinned, and clenched a fist. “Yesss!”

“Last minute, as always.”

Britte looked up from her desk and saw Ethan standing in her classroom doorway. She grinned. “This is not last minute.”

He waved a notebook. “It's Friday afternoon, 4:25. Next week's lesson plans are due in five minutes.”

She grinned. “For your information, I finished that
ages
ago.”

“Tsk, tsk,” he exaggerated. “You're copying last year's lesson plans again. Not bothering to create new, challenging, and thrilling educational activities for all those young minds thirsting after the knowledge you have—”

“Oh, shush.” She didn't take too seriously Mr. Kingsley's requirement that teachers hand in weekly lesson plans for his approval. “I'm writing a memo about next week's school board meeting, reminding him to take care of our trip to State.”

“Finished?”

“Hold on a sec.”

“We're down to,” he glanced at his watch, “three and a half minutes.”

She grabbed a yellow highlighter and colored “Mr. Kinglsey,” signed her name to the note, and taped it to the top page in her lesson plan book. She shut the book and said, “There. That should be obvious enough for him. Ethan!”

He had disappeared. Britte gathered her attaché bag full of test papers, turned off the lights, and locked her door. Ethan was halfway down the hall. She ran to catch up to him. “Mr. Parkhurst, you carry way too much angst over this silly lesson plan deadline.”

“And you're way too flippant.” He didn't slow his pace. “There's this little thing called tenure, which you don't have to worry about. I'd better cut off the ponytail this weekend.”

“Don't you dare. All the kids think you're cool. You'll get tenure this year. Alec Sutton's on the board. He's in your court, and he doesn't care about your hair. And Mr. Kingsley has given you rave reviews.”

“I should offer to coach track. We're still short a track coach you know. And spring is coming.”

She laughed. “It's not even Christmas! Not to mention that you detest track!”

They crossed the commons. Voices and the dribbling of basketballs echoed from inside the gym where the boys were practicing. Wrestlers were down in the small gym. With limited space in the school, Britte had become accustomed to ever-changing practice schedules. She had just enough time to run home for a bite to eat before meeting her girls back at the school at 5:30.

She slung her arm across Ethan's shoulders. He was about her height and angular. “If you grew a scraggly beard, you'd look just like a starving artist. Maybe then they'd feel sorry for you.”

He stroked his chin. “Now that's a new thought.”

Laughing, she preceded him into the office. Mr. Kingsley stood behind the counter, his hands cradling a box chock-full of lesson plan books. Lynnie sat at her desk talking to him. She was the secretary, a short, slender, 40-something mother of two students in the building. Her permed, light brown hair was evidence of a no-nonsense efficiency that kept the
school running in an orderly fashion. She turned toward Britte now, her large brown eyes widening slightly behind her glasses, a brow rising subtly. Her message wasn't lost. Britte was pushing it with the General.

“Hey,” Britte teased loudly, “it's Friday, gang! What are we waiting for? Let's go home!” She added her book to the stack and tapped it. “There's a note in there for you.”

“Mmm.” He looked beyond her. “Ethan, by any chance are you a runner? You've got the build for a runner.”

She patted her friend's shoulder on the way out. Poor kid. “You all have a nice weekend.”

Hurrying across the commons, she wondered if Mr. Kingsley had meant his mailbox when he said to put the memo in his box. The man was a fanatic when it came to order. He had a box or basket or cubbyhole or shelf for everything. Oh, well. He'd get it just the same.

“Mr. Carlucci!” at least half the girls varsity team cried in unison, standing outside the bus. “Come to the dance tonight! Please!”

Britte laughed, shaking her head. “Go home, girls! We've got exactly 97 minutes to get ourselves foo-fooed. And I know you all take longer than I do!”

They eventually drifted off across the parking lot toward their cars. The streetlights were already on. It had been a long ride to their afternoon game and back.

“Tanner, you really can come tonight. That is, on the off chance you've got nothing else going.”

The freshman coach stood beside her. Surely the guy had a date. He was single, her age, a pilot for a charter airline, studying to become a high school history teacher, and way, way too good-looking. She had never seen such long, dark eyelashes.

“Actually, it sounds kind of fun.”

“Spoken like a true dyed-in-the-wool, soon-to-be high school teacher. Bring a date and get those girls off your back once and for all.”

He laughed as they walked to their cars. “You know I'm too busy to date.”

“Especially during basketball. Hey, thanks for taking Anne's place on the bus.” Because of Anne's new work schedule, she had driven herself to the game.

“My pleasure. We've got a great group this year. You're doing a terrific job with them, Britte.”

“Thanks, Tanner. And thanks for giving Gordon Hughes that look.”

“What look?”

“You know which one, Mr. Innocent,” she teased. “I heard his comments behind my back, and I saw you look up at the bleachers. I doubt you were smiling at him. I hope you gave him the look I've seen you give your freshmen when they're acting particularly flighty.”

“Oh,
that
look. No, I was smiling.”

She laughed and opened her car door. “You were not. So why don't you come tonight? Chalk up some points for dedication with the administration. Maybe they'll hire you whenever it is you're going to finish college.”

“Are chaperones allowed to dance?”

“You bet. Well, at least Ethan and I do.”

“Ethan? I figured Joel's more your type.”

“Mr. Kingsley? Hardly. Can you picture him doing hiphop?”

“Hip-hop? I was thinking cheek to cheek.”

She hooted.

He strolled toward his car. “Like it or not, Coach, you're definitely more Marine than English lit!”

Christmas dance. Another obligatory event.

Joel nodded to a group of sophomore girls staring at him and moved along before they started teasing him about not dancing.

This was his third dance of the year. The commons had been turned into a winter wonderland with twinkling lights strung everywhere. The so-called music was deafening, which meant there wasn't much opportunity to converse
with the kids or the handful of teachers and parents who were there as chaperones. Cal stood near the front door, arms crossed, gun and nightstick in plain view.

Joel checked the boys' rest room again. At least Suzette the French teacher hadn't shown up. Last dance, he'd spent a lot more time in the boys' rest room, avoiding her. He'd probably rather talk with Gordon Hughes than chaperone another dance. From politician to babysitter… All in a day's work.

The DJ finally took a break and the volume decreased from blast to low thunder. Joel joined Anne and Alec Sutton near the refreshment table.

Britte and Ethan emerged from the group of dancers near the center of the floor. They were laughing, their faces flushed. Those two in particular had a way with the teens that Joel had never attained as a teacher or administrator. Nights like this he doubted he ever would. The English and math teachers even went so far as to dance. Not the slow stuff, only the fast-moving, formless style, joining unselfconsciously with the students. They headed his way now, on the edge of the crowd. Were they dating? He had to remember to ask Lynnie. Without sounding overly interested. He was just…curious. On second thought, maybe he wouldn't ask her.

Britte positively glowed, warmed from the exercise, her hair loosened from its ponytail. Unlike the young girls, she wore an ankle-length, high-necked dress suitable for church. He wondered if she were demented or merely winsome. Covertly watching her now, he considered her offbeat characteristics. She was outspoken, unreasonably so at times, which branded her as somewhat controversial. She displayed weight room bravado. She ran practices like a drill sergeant. She hilariously kicked up her heels at high school dances. And—the most bewildering of all—she executed a hammerlock on that strapping Sutton boy! Through it all she somehow
managed to maintain a quality of modesty. Of wholesomeness. The woman kept throwing his preconceived notions back into his face.

She laughed now. “Mr. and Mrs. Sutton! Come out and dance.”

“Drew would have a fit,” Anne replied. “This is his space. We'll stay right here where the kids can't see us. Would you all like some water or punch?” She passed cups to them.

Joel had noticed the Suttons dancing to the slow music off in a corner. They were an admirable, respectable couple. He was grateful for clicking with Alec, a school board member. They met now and then at the Center for a game of racquetball. Anne was often at the school either coaching or helping in some voluntary capacity.

Britte turned with a carefree expression directed atypically toward him. “Mr. Kingsley, the kids want you to dance. Find a partner. Theresa won't mind. Oh!” She laughed. “What I mean is, she loves to dance! And you know, you'll make way-cool points with the students.”

“Sorry to disappoint them, but I'm not joining the ‘waycool' contest.”

Britte nudged Anne with her elbow. “Annie, tell him what you told me the other day when I wanted to get violent with a certain dad.”

“What was that?” she asked.

Britte smiled at him. “Lighten up!”

Lighten up? He was responsible for 250 partying teenagers. “Any suggestions?”

“A little exercise like dancing might help!”

“I'll hit the weight room tomorrow.”

“Chicken.”

Britte Olafsson truly did have a distressing attitude. He considered ordering her to hit the deck with 100 push-ups. She could probably do them, though he knew it wasn't
appropriate. Still, he wasn't about to let her remark pass. “All right, Miss O. You talked me into it. I'd like to have the next dance with you.”

Ethan sprayed a mouthful of water toward the wall and began coughing. Anne buried her face in her husband's shoulder. Britte, for once—well, twice if you counted the Christmas gift exchange—was speechless.

Patting Ethan on the back, Joel grinned at her. “Chicken?”

Her blonde hair was almost white against her reddened face. “No. As a matter of fact, I'd be delighted, Mr.Kingsley.”

The lights were too dim for Britte to discern the color of his eyes, but the rock-like appearance of his shoulders was for real. Her left hand told her so. She tried to ignore what her right one was telling her, enveloped as it was in his broad left hand. Or what the small of her back sensed about the strength in the subtle pressure of his right hand. This near, he was taller than she thought. More…intimidating.

“Mr. Kingsley, is this appropriate?” she nearly shouted the words to be heard above the staccato beat of drums.

“Certainly, Miss O.” His deep voice rose above the music. “The collecting of way-cool points is always appropriate.”

“Uh, the music's a little faster than this pace. It might affect your score.”

“This is my
only
pace. I think sometimes a harmless display of individualism promotes respect. This pace could very well increase my score. Yours too, for that matter.”

She glanced over his shoulder. The teens whirred around them, keeping time with the music, smiling, flashing thumbsup signs toward them. On the edge of the crowd, Ethan
grinned in between coughs. Anne clung to Alec's arm, both of them doubled over in laughter.

“Deal with it, Miss O. Nobody calls me chicken and gets away with it.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he pulled her closer and nimbly steered them out of the way of flailing dancers. Every which way they turned was more of the same. And so he kept her close.

Deal with it? Deal with dancing slowly to a techno beat? What she had to deal with was the beating of her heart that had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with the General holding her in his arms.