Mrs. Peters hung up her phone, sat back in her chair and rubbed her temple. It was only 8:30 in the morning, and already it was turning out to be a long day. She had just gotten off the phone with Missy’s parents and would finally be able to give some definitive answers to the steady stream of people coming into her office. Stephanie was able to limp away with a sprained ankle and wrist; but nothing broken. As the cushion to the fall, Missy didn’t fair quite as well; she had a sprained knee, a fractured femur and some bruised ribs. A painful result, but it could have been so much worse. Of course, it went without saying that both girls were on the bench as far as cheering, for the rest of football season for sure, and possibly the rest of the year.
The post puzzling thing about the whole incident – other than why Ms. Williams would allow them to perform such a dangerous stunt – was the girls’ attitudes about being on the sidelines indefinitely. When she’d talked to them that morning, both had seemed relieved. The cheerleaders were such a tight-knit, intense group. You hardly ever saw them apart from another girl on the squad, and on game days they always wore their uniform to school the entire day (Mrs. Peters expected some would wear their uniform every day if they could). Even girls who couldn’t cheer that day for some minor injury or illness showed up in uniform.
Mrs. Peters sighed. Well, there was no use trying to figure out the minds of teenage girls, that she knew.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday was a change the light bulbs day. Pretty much everyone at the school, from teachers to students were used to seeing Scott walk into a classroom or office carrying a box of light bulbs or tubes, and tended to just smile at him then forget he was there. He tended to overhear some very interesting conversations. On this Monday, there was plenty of buzz around school about the accident at the football game on Friday; plus a puzzling exchange between Ms. Williams and Coach Ryan, the athletic director.
“Look, I know we talked about this last spring, but last spring we didn’t know that the cross country team would get an invitation to the tournament in New York. It’s really a once-in-a-lifetime chance,” Ryan was saying.
“As is this clinic in Boulder,” Ms. Williams said, her voice icy.
“I understand that,” Ryan countered, “but the cheer squad got to go to Boulder last year – a very expensive trip, by the way – and the cross country team has never had this kind of opportunity. The clinic will be there next year.”
“Yes, but no one cares about cross country,” Ms. Williams replied. Scott glanced at the faceoff, and felt a slight shiver go up his spine at the look on Ms. Williams face. Yikes.
“The athletic department is not run like a popularity contest,” Ryan said, his voice becoming heated.
“Clearly,” Ms. Williams said. “Or you would not be standing in front of me.”
What did that even mean? Scott thought. Obviously, she was trying to take a shot at Ryan’s position as athletic director, but still, that woman had a screw loose.
“You are not changing my mind.”
The silence drew Scott’s gaze again, and again a shiver ran up his spine. “This isn’t over,” she finally said, her voice dripping with ice and venom. She left the room and Scott would have sworn the temperature rose five degrees.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sunday, July 04, 2010
...
The late morning/early afternoon sun was streaming in the windows of Mrs. Peters’ office, gleaming off the mahogany finish of her desk and filing cabinet and turning the pale yellow walls into sunshine. Outside the nearly floor to ceiling windows, Mrs. Peters could see students crossing Eastbrook’s center courtyard, occasionally stopping to chat with a friend or two. Most associated with Eastbrook affectionaltely referred to this particular courtyard – one of three on the Eastbrook campus as ‘the pig yard’ because of a school legend wherein an agriculture class in the 1950s raised a litter of piglets in the corner of the courtyard. Whether or not this was true not many people knew, but these days no one could imagine anything like that happening in this courtyard. It was one of the first places that visitors saw on a tour of campus, and maintained an appropriately refined appearance – if you didn’t count the occasional boxes of laundry detergent being dumped into the pond by harmless pranksters. It was paved with sandstone and dotted with Japanese maples, dogwoods, and redwoods; a huge old oak tree stood in one corner, a coveted lunch spot or study spot for those with free periods. Several wooden and wrought iron benches were placed throughout the courtyard, and in the center stood the fountain. Mrs. Peters smiled at her view as she stretched and gently worked at a knot in her kneck. The view from her office – for which she’d campaigned several years before landing the coveted space – always made her smile at how perfectly academic it looked.
It had been a long morning, but typical of the first day of school. As the director of student services, Mrs. Peters spent a lot of time dealing with paperwork – forms of all kinds, from registration to waivers to permission slips from everything from extra curricular activities to field trips. She dealt with every special parent request, and oversaw all student-wide assemblies and actvities. There were days when it made her want to lay down and take a nap and days when she wanted to smack more than a few obstinate adults-behaving-like-toddlers. But most days she loved it.
She picked up the pile of late registration forms and set them in her to-go box before grabbing a stack of notes that needed to be delivered to various classrooms. By next week, Mrs. Peters would be sending a student worker off to do that task, but she liked doing it the first day of school.
“Hi Mrs. Peters,” a senior girl waved to her as she passed by the senior lockers.
“Hi, Karen,” she smiled and waved back. Mrs. Peters had known Karen since she was born; her parents were very active Eastbrook alumni. She’d been invited to Karen’s Bat Mitzvah, and her older sister Janey’s wedding. Mrs. Peters had made many of those kinds of connections through the years she’d worked at Eastbrook. In fact, it was part of what she loved most about the job.
Mrs. Peters made her rounds of the school, passing along messages and paperwork as she did, smiling at all the bright and shiny faces. Even the scowling ones seem bright and shiny today, she thought. Drama had yet to present itself – kids liked each other, staff liked each other – or at least had no opinion yet. She relished these serene days, no matter how long or not long it lasted.
“Hi Mrs. Peters.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Peters stopped short, realizing she’d almost run into Scott coming out of the cafeteria. She laughed. “Sorry about that. You’d think I’d have learned by now not to space out when I’m walking somewhere.”
“No worries,” Scott smiled. “How’s your day going?”
“Busy as always, but really well, thanks.” Mrs. Peters motioned to Scott’s box of food. “You headed to eat lunch?”
“Yep.”
“Come keep me company while you do,” she said. “I’m headed back to my office.”
“Sounds better than the closet, that’s for sure.”
“So tell me how Eve is doing,” Mrs. Peters asked as they walked down the hallway.
“Really well,” Scott said. “The new quarter started a few weeks ago, and she has an entirely new group of students. She’s loving that.” Eve taught piano at a music academy.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Peters replied. “What is it she loves so much about the new students?” They’d arrived at her office. She unlocked the door and turned the light on; Scott explained as he took a seat on Mrs. Peters denim sofa.
“She says that it’s a chance to try some new directions. The students tend to get into one particular groove – same practice techniques, same styles, same ideas. The new students make it more fresh, I guess is one way she puts it.”
“Well, I’m happy she’s getting that chance again.”
“It’s actually unusual for her not to have at least one or two veteran students, Scott said around a bite of meatball; he grabbed his napkin to catch a stray drop of marinara sauce.
They chatted about school and the first day – comparing their individual impressions of the freshman class.
A persistent beeping interrupted their conversation.
“Sorry,” Scott said, glancing at his pager. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Of course not.”
He threw away his trash on his way to Mrs. Peters’ desk, then picked up the phone that she’d pushed to the edge.
“Hi Judy, it’s Scott…..mmmhh….where……”
Mrs. Peters smiled to herself as she started to organize her afternoon to-do pile. It always amazed her how Scott could keep such an even keel at work, particularly when talking to people. She knew he got frustrated – he knew she was one of the only people he could be honestly frustrated around – but he rarely showed it. He had the best dead-pan face of anyone she’d ever known.
“I’ll take care of it,” he was finally saying. “Is there anything else you know of right now that needs done this afternoon? Sure. Bye.”
“Well, here’s another first,” Scott said with a grin as he hung up the phone.
“How so?”
“Never had to paint over vandalism on the first day.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Peters said, shaking her head. “You’re kidding me I hope.”
“Sorry,” Scott replied. “A nice, first day of school message painted on the back of the scoreboard.”
“And?” Mrs. Peters raised an eyebrow.
“180 days and counting.”
It had been a long morning, but typical of the first day of school. As the director of student services, Mrs. Peters spent a lot of time dealing with paperwork – forms of all kinds, from registration to waivers to permission slips from everything from extra curricular activities to field trips. She dealt with every special parent request, and oversaw all student-wide assemblies and actvities. There were days when it made her want to lay down and take a nap and days when she wanted to smack more than a few obstinate adults-behaving-like-toddlers. But most days she loved it.
She picked up the pile of late registration forms and set them in her to-go box before grabbing a stack of notes that needed to be delivered to various classrooms. By next week, Mrs. Peters would be sending a student worker off to do that task, but she liked doing it the first day of school.
“Hi Mrs. Peters,” a senior girl waved to her as she passed by the senior lockers.
“Hi, Karen,” she smiled and waved back. Mrs. Peters had known Karen since she was born; her parents were very active Eastbrook alumni. She’d been invited to Karen’s Bat Mitzvah, and her older sister Janey’s wedding. Mrs. Peters had made many of those kinds of connections through the years she’d worked at Eastbrook. In fact, it was part of what she loved most about the job.
Mrs. Peters made her rounds of the school, passing along messages and paperwork as she did, smiling at all the bright and shiny faces. Even the scowling ones seem bright and shiny today, she thought. Drama had yet to present itself – kids liked each other, staff liked each other – or at least had no opinion yet. She relished these serene days, no matter how long or not long it lasted.
“Hi Mrs. Peters.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Peters stopped short, realizing she’d almost run into Scott coming out of the cafeteria. She laughed. “Sorry about that. You’d think I’d have learned by now not to space out when I’m walking somewhere.”
“No worries,” Scott smiled. “How’s your day going?”
“Busy as always, but really well, thanks.” Mrs. Peters motioned to Scott’s box of food. “You headed to eat lunch?”
“Yep.”
“Come keep me company while you do,” she said. “I’m headed back to my office.”
“Sounds better than the closet, that’s for sure.”
“So tell me how Eve is doing,” Mrs. Peters asked as they walked down the hallway.
“Really well,” Scott said. “The new quarter started a few weeks ago, and she has an entirely new group of students. She’s loving that.” Eve taught piano at a music academy.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Peters replied. “What is it she loves so much about the new students?” They’d arrived at her office. She unlocked the door and turned the light on; Scott explained as he took a seat on Mrs. Peters denim sofa.
“She says that it’s a chance to try some new directions. The students tend to get into one particular groove – same practice techniques, same styles, same ideas. The new students make it more fresh, I guess is one way she puts it.”
“Well, I’m happy she’s getting that chance again.”
“It’s actually unusual for her not to have at least one or two veteran students, Scott said around a bite of meatball; he grabbed his napkin to catch a stray drop of marinara sauce.
They chatted about school and the first day – comparing their individual impressions of the freshman class.
A persistent beeping interrupted their conversation.
“Sorry,” Scott said, glancing at his pager. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Of course not.”
He threw away his trash on his way to Mrs. Peters’ desk, then picked up the phone that she’d pushed to the edge.
“Hi Judy, it’s Scott…..mmmhh….where……”
Mrs. Peters smiled to herself as she started to organize her afternoon to-do pile. It always amazed her how Scott could keep such an even keel at work, particularly when talking to people. She knew he got frustrated – he knew she was one of the only people he could be honestly frustrated around – but he rarely showed it. He had the best dead-pan face of anyone she’d ever known.
“I’ll take care of it,” he was finally saying. “Is there anything else you know of right now that needs done this afternoon? Sure. Bye.”
“Well, here’s another first,” Scott said with a grin as he hung up the phone.
“How so?”
“Never had to paint over vandalism on the first day.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Peters said, shaking her head. “You’re kidding me I hope.”
“Sorry,” Scott replied. “A nice, first day of school message painted on the back of the scoreboard.”
“And?” Mrs. Peters raised an eyebrow.
“180 days and counting.”
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
...
“Just put it over there,” Mrs. Lashley, the art teacher, pointed to the far corner of her classroom. Scott nodded and hoisted a card table under each arm, making his way to the spot she’d chosen. The bell rang as a few more students walked into the room, adding their own chatter to the already bubbling room. Every class had been like that; those kids who hadn’t seen each other all summer were catching up, and those who had were keeping up a running commentary and analyzation of the day’s events.
Scott quickly set up the tables and left, nodding at Mrs. Lashley as she waved her thanks. He walked about halfway down the empty hallway before turning to and quietly opening another door.
The fortyish, dark-haired man at the front of the classroom finished his introduction to the junior-level Western Civ. class before handing out a pre-test and then coming over to Scott.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Richardson,” Scott said.
“Not at all,” Mr. Richardson smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “I know you’ve got to just come when you can.”
“What’s the problem,” Scott asked.
“Two of my power outlets aren’t working,” Mr. Richardson answered, leading Scott over to his desk in the front corner of the classroom.
“Have you tried the others in the room?”
“Yes. And all the lights are working fine as well.”
“I’ll take a look at it. It might take a day or two to find the problem or fix it,” Scott said.
“That’s fine,” Mr. Richardson said. “As soon as you can is just fine.”
As Mr. Richardson got back to his class, Scott removed the plates and checked the hardware, hoping that the problem would just be a faulty outlet. Of course not. That would be too easy, he thought. He used the current detector he’d brought with him to confirm that there was, in fact, no power coming to the outlet. Quickly putting the plates back on, he stood up and pulled a small spiral notebook out of his back pocket, adding “Outlets. Lamar Building. Room 12. No detectable current” to the growing list. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to call an electrician.
Scott’s next stop was just down the hall from Mr. Richardson’s class, but might has well have been on the moon.
“It’s about time,” Mr. Jones snapped as Scott stepped into the room. Mr. Jones quickly gave his American history class a short reading selection and stepped over to Scott. “I paged you at least an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. I got here as quickly as I could,” Scott said, his voice calm and unruffled.
“Hmmph,” Mr. Jones huffed. “Well, I’m not in the mood for excuses. I need three more desks for my students. Three of whom have been sitting on the floor in each of my classes, by the way.”
“I’m on it.”
It was a common first day problem. The class numbers somehow never managed to be exactly right. Late registrations, last minute schedule shifting…it all culminated on the first day of school, and meant a lot of desk hauling for Scott. He put three desks in the Mr. Jones’ room, then proceeded to move four desks from Mrs. Winters’ room to Miss England’s room, rebooted three computers – technically not his job, but the IT guy only came in twice a week, and who else were they going to call? -- and adjusted air conditioning before heading to the cafeteteria for lunch. Not bad for the first day of school, he thought as he walked into the cafeteria. He waved at Mrs. England, the cafeteria administrator, as he grabbed the lunch she’d set aside for him – a meatball sub with chips and a big chocolate chip cookie. He walked quickly to his closet and sat down in his office chair with sigh. Overall not a bad first day of school morning, and at the moment he was caught up. But Scott had been at Eastbrook long enough to know that the peace probably wouldn’t last, and he better take advantage of a short break while he could. And a meatball sub was just the way to do it.
Scott quickly set up the tables and left, nodding at Mrs. Lashley as she waved her thanks. He walked about halfway down the empty hallway before turning to and quietly opening another door.
The fortyish, dark-haired man at the front of the classroom finished his introduction to the junior-level Western Civ. class before handing out a pre-test and then coming over to Scott.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Richardson,” Scott said.
“Not at all,” Mr. Richardson smiled and waved his hand dismissively. “I know you’ve got to just come when you can.”
“What’s the problem,” Scott asked.
“Two of my power outlets aren’t working,” Mr. Richardson answered, leading Scott over to his desk in the front corner of the classroom.
“Have you tried the others in the room?”
“Yes. And all the lights are working fine as well.”
“I’ll take a look at it. It might take a day or two to find the problem or fix it,” Scott said.
“That’s fine,” Mr. Richardson said. “As soon as you can is just fine.”
As Mr. Richardson got back to his class, Scott removed the plates and checked the hardware, hoping that the problem would just be a faulty outlet. Of course not. That would be too easy, he thought. He used the current detector he’d brought with him to confirm that there was, in fact, no power coming to the outlet. Quickly putting the plates back on, he stood up and pulled a small spiral notebook out of his back pocket, adding “Outlets. Lamar Building. Room 12. No detectable current” to the growing list. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to call an electrician.
Scott’s next stop was just down the hall from Mr. Richardson’s class, but might has well have been on the moon.
“It’s about time,” Mr. Jones snapped as Scott stepped into the room. Mr. Jones quickly gave his American history class a short reading selection and stepped over to Scott. “I paged you at least an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. I got here as quickly as I could,” Scott said, his voice calm and unruffled.
“Hmmph,” Mr. Jones huffed. “Well, I’m not in the mood for excuses. I need three more desks for my students. Three of whom have been sitting on the floor in each of my classes, by the way.”
“I’m on it.”
It was a common first day problem. The class numbers somehow never managed to be exactly right. Late registrations, last minute schedule shifting…it all culminated on the first day of school, and meant a lot of desk hauling for Scott. He put three desks in the Mr. Jones’ room, then proceeded to move four desks from Mrs. Winters’ room to Miss England’s room, rebooted three computers – technically not his job, but the IT guy only came in twice a week, and who else were they going to call? -- and adjusted air conditioning before heading to the cafeteteria for lunch. Not bad for the first day of school, he thought as he walked into the cafeteria. He waved at Mrs. England, the cafeteria administrator, as he grabbed the lunch she’d set aside for him – a meatball sub with chips and a big chocolate chip cookie. He walked quickly to his closet and sat down in his office chair with sigh. Overall not a bad first day of school morning, and at the moment he was caught up. But Scott had been at Eastbrook long enough to know that the peace probably wouldn’t last, and he better take advantage of a short break while he could. And a meatball sub was just the way to do it.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Oh what a beautiful morning
As ready as Scott was to for school to end in every spring, he secretly welcomed the students back to Eastbrook. Well…welcomed was a strong word, but he did enjoy the change. He enjoyed the pattern that school in and school out lent to the year, the rhythm it beat out in the lives of those involved in Eastbrook.
Or maybe he was just looking forward to cooler weather.
“Mmmmmm,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “Smells like the first day of school.”
Eve smiled and tilted her head, accepting the kiss he planted on her cheek as she flipped over another pancake.
“The pancakes are about done,” she said, “and the bacon is in the oven staying warm. How do you want your eggs?”
“Fried.”
“Okay. If you could go ahead and get out some plates and glasses that would be great.”
For the past few years – ever since Scott had taken the position as director of facility maintenance at Eastbrook – Eve had cooked Scott a big breakfast on the first day of school. The first time she did it, he’d teased her about not actually being in school, just working at one.
“Yes, but it takes extra energy dealing with all the students and staff and faculty.” She’d said. “Plus, I love you, so stop complaining.”
“I forgot to tell you that Zandra called last night,” Eve said as she plated the eggs and brought everything to the kitchen table. “She asked if we wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night. They’re grilling.”
“Sure,” Scott said around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. One of life’s rules: never turn down grilling.
They chatted about the upcoming week and whether or not they’d have time to clean out the garage, then Eve glanced at the clock, declared she had to rush to finish getting ready to go to work and took her plate to the kitchen.
“I’ll wash the dishes tonight,” Scott said, putting the last of his breakfast in his mouth before following her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Eve said with a quick kiss. “I’ll see you later, then.”
Scott quickly rinsed his plate, finished getting ready and headed to Eastbrook. The faculty and staff parking lot was mostly empty when he arrived, but several teachers had already shown up to get ready for the day, and a few more filed in behind him. He waved to Mrs. Sharon, one of the art teachers, and Mr. Hawkins, the band director, as he headed toward his office. Well, closet, really. But with a desk and a phone and a computer. It was cozy.
Turning on the light, he sat down and checked the calendar blotter on his desk. He’d left the day pretty wide open, anticipating the “emergency” pages he’d get throughout the day. Grabbing his big ring of keys off the hook on the wall, he left the office and went around opening up various buildings and rooms before the masses descended. A couple of hours later, as the students were well into their first hour classes, Scott was changing a lightbulb in the band hall when he got his first page of the day. He glanced at his watch. “Well that’s a new record,” he said to himself, pleasantly surprised. He finished installing the light and putting on the fixture before calling the number – the business office, a number he’d had memorized after just two days on the job.
“Hey Catherine,” he said when the phone picked up. “It’s Scott.”
“Oh, Thank God,” she said. “It’s a nightmare up here. Two parents got into a fender bender dropping their kids off – late, I might add – causing another fender bender in the parking lot as someone tried to avoid them. Now the street traffic’s backed up and neither one will budge. The police are on their way, but maybe you could come help out?”
Now, that was a new one.
“I’ll be there.”
Or maybe he was just looking forward to cooler weather.
“Mmmmmm,” he said, walking into the kitchen. “Smells like the first day of school.”
Eve smiled and tilted her head, accepting the kiss he planted on her cheek as she flipped over another pancake.
“The pancakes are about done,” she said, “and the bacon is in the oven staying warm. How do you want your eggs?”
“Fried.”
“Okay. If you could go ahead and get out some plates and glasses that would be great.”
For the past few years – ever since Scott had taken the position as director of facility maintenance at Eastbrook – Eve had cooked Scott a big breakfast on the first day of school. The first time she did it, he’d teased her about not actually being in school, just working at one.
“Yes, but it takes extra energy dealing with all the students and staff and faculty.” She’d said. “Plus, I love you, so stop complaining.”
“I forgot to tell you that Zandra called last night,” Eve said as she plated the eggs and brought everything to the kitchen table. “She asked if we wanted to come over for dinner tomorrow night. They’re grilling.”
“Sure,” Scott said around a mouthful of eggs and bacon. One of life’s rules: never turn down grilling.
They chatted about the upcoming week and whether or not they’d have time to clean out the garage, then Eve glanced at the clock, declared she had to rush to finish getting ready to go to work and took her plate to the kitchen.
“I’ll wash the dishes tonight,” Scott said, putting the last of his breakfast in his mouth before following her. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Eve said with a quick kiss. “I’ll see you later, then.”
Scott quickly rinsed his plate, finished getting ready and headed to Eastbrook. The faculty and staff parking lot was mostly empty when he arrived, but several teachers had already shown up to get ready for the day, and a few more filed in behind him. He waved to Mrs. Sharon, one of the art teachers, and Mr. Hawkins, the band director, as he headed toward his office. Well, closet, really. But with a desk and a phone and a computer. It was cozy.
Turning on the light, he sat down and checked the calendar blotter on his desk. He’d left the day pretty wide open, anticipating the “emergency” pages he’d get throughout the day. Grabbing his big ring of keys off the hook on the wall, he left the office and went around opening up various buildings and rooms before the masses descended. A couple of hours later, as the students were well into their first hour classes, Scott was changing a lightbulb in the band hall when he got his first page of the day. He glanced at his watch. “Well that’s a new record,” he said to himself, pleasantly surprised. He finished installing the light and putting on the fixture before calling the number – the business office, a number he’d had memorized after just two days on the job.
“Hey Catherine,” he said when the phone picked up. “It’s Scott.”
“Oh, Thank God,” she said. “It’s a nightmare up here. Two parents got into a fender bender dropping their kids off – late, I might add – causing another fender bender in the parking lot as someone tried to avoid them. Now the street traffic’s backed up and neither one will budge. The police are on their way, but maybe you could come help out?”
Now, that was a new one.
“I’ll be there.”
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Demise of the Cheer Squad: A Mystery
Writer's note: I'm back! Now for another story in serial form. Enjoy!
“Let me hear your TIGER yell! – Grrr, Grrr – Let me hear your Tiger yell! – Grr, Grr.”
Green and gold pleated skirts swished with each “grr” as the majority of the fans in the stands complied with the perky request – several hundred “tiger claws” may not be intimidating to the opposing team, but they kept the crowd pumped and in the fourth quarter, it was important to stay pumped.
“Okay, Jill, take a break.”
With her smile still turned on to full wattage, Jill McCormick – captain of the cheer squad, homecoming queen, class secretary, prom committee chair and girlfriend of the quarterback – executed her signature air splits which let her squad know that it was time for a quick break.
“Great,” only Jill could hear the voice, instructions coming to her straight from Ms. Williams, the cheer sponsor, through a tiny earpiece concealed behind her glowing blond hair. “Once coach calls the next time out; I want you to do the 10-2 pyramid.”
Jill risked a glance up to the press box, but her smile didn’t falter. Not for the first time did she wish the mike connecting her and Ms. Williams was two-way.
“Okay, team, in positions for the 10-2,” Jill said to the squad, clapping her hands one, two, three.
Sonya and Heidi glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, then turned toward Jill.
“Are you sure about that?” Sonya asked.
“Am I ever NOT sure about something,” Jill said through clenched – but still smiling – teeth. “Do it.”
As the cheer squad reorganized themselves on the sidelines, waiting for a time-out, Andrea Belton watched them closely, carefully critiquing every move.
“Looks like they’re getting ready for a time-out pyramid,” Andrea said to Mrs. Peters who had been sitting next to Andrea and listening to endless cheerleading commentary while wearing a genuine smile throughout the entire game.
“Oh my gosh!” Andrea exclaimed, clutching Mrs. Peters’ arm. “I think they’re going for the 10-2!”
“What’s the 10-2?”
“The pyramid that almost got us disqualified at the last 4A competition.”
Mrs. Peters raised her eyebrows. “Why?” she asked
“It’s pretty dangerous,” Andrea answered. “Really tall, not very stable and the top two levels instead of just one do the complicated dismounts.”
“Why would Jill ask the team to do that? And why would they go along with it?”
“Well you never go along with the captain – that’s pretty much drilled into your head the first day of try-outs. Never rebel against the captain, especially during competition or public performance. As far as why she’s doing a 10-2,” Andrea shrugged. “Jill wants to get noticed and she’s obsessed with doing what no one else is doing. She’s a Ms. Williams clone, really.” Andrea leaned a little closer to Mrs. Peters and lowered her voice. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think Ms. Williams is a little crazy. Literally.”
“That’s quite an accusation,” Mrs. Peters said. Her voice was only slightly disapproving; Mrs. Peters had been around teenagers long enough to take allowances for youthful exaggeration.
“Yeah, well, you spend every afternoon with her,” Andrea said. She rapped on her cast-encased ankle resting on the seat in front of her. “Sometimes I’m glad that I had an excuse to get out.”
“Surely if you wanted out you could have just quit.”
Andrea laughed. “Mrs. Peters, I don’t think you’re listening to what I’m saying. I’m not really joking.”
Mrs. Peters shook her head, but laughed at what she assumed was still just youthful drama, and watched with Andrea and the rest of the cheering Eastbrook Tigers fans as the Tiger Cheerleaders mounted a pyramid. Andrea was right, Mrs. Peters thought, that is one tall pyramid. The smiles of the girls at the base of the pyramid never faltered, even when their thin shoulders supported another three rows.
“Go Tigers! Go Tigers! Reach – The- Top!”
The crowd gasped as the three girls at the base of the pyramid stood up, still shouldering the rest of the squad. As the crowd cheered, Missy Wright flipped from the top of the pyramid, landing perfectly on her feat in a victory pose. The two girls who had been beneath her prepared for their own flying dismounts, and Mrs. Peters glanced over at Andrea to see her reaction. But at the gasp of the crowd, the look of horror on Andrea’s face and the eerie silence that followed, Mrs. Peters’ focus flew back to the pyramid, now huddle of girls and athletic trainers.
“What happened, Andrea,” Mrs. Peters asked.
“Oh, Mrs. Peters,” Andrea’s eyes were wide and frightened when she turned. “Stephanie didn’t make her jump. I mean, she jumped, but she stumbled or somthing and she didn’t get enough height. It was more of a fall than a jump. And se landed on Missy.”
“Oh dear.”
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Author's note...
Well, hope you enjoyed the story of Gia and Pete and John and all the rest. Thanks for sticking with me, even through all the gaps and long waits. Stay tuned for more writing!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Healing
Somehow, we all managed to start going through the daily motions of life, but there was no life in it. We were in shock. When we came out of shock, we mourned. We were angry and bitter and hurt. But somehow, things were different than they would have been pre-John. Instead of distancing our selves from each other, we clung to each other and relied on each other. We loved each other.
Several months later I was sitting in my favorite lawn chair in the back yard on a cool -- okay, hot and muggy -- morning, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking what I promised myself was my last cigarette. A shadow passed over me and Pete sat down in the chair next to me, handing me a book. It was a Bible.
"What's this?" I asked.
Pete shrugged. "I've been going through John's stuff. He left one for each of us. There should be a letter inside."
My eyes filled with tears and Pete reached over to take my hand.
"So tell me," I said, sniffing. "What's happened? I have to be honest. I expected you to react...differently. But here you are...good ol' Pete. No, better than the old Pete." And it was true. Pete was a different person. He was our rock, our leader. We could count on him. It was a little disconcerting, but really nice too.
"John and I talked a lot that last week. About choices. I've realized these past few weeks that I had a choice -- I could drown myself in guilt for the rest of my life or I could honor John's sacrifice and actually live this new life that was handed to me. What he did was amazing and I want to be that kind of person -- I want to have the capacity for that kind of love." He nodded at the Bible in my lap. "I got one too. I've been reading it. Maybe we can all figure this life thing out after all."
I shook my head, but squeezed Pete's hand. "No," I said. "I don't think I'll ever figure it out. But we can learn how to live it, maybe. And be grateful for it."
Pete raised my hand to his lips and kissed it softly. His eyes were still sad, but held more of smile than I'd seen in a long time. "Maybe you're right," he said.
Several months later I was sitting in my favorite lawn chair in the back yard on a cool -- okay, hot and muggy -- morning, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking what I promised myself was my last cigarette. A shadow passed over me and Pete sat down in the chair next to me, handing me a book. It was a Bible.
"What's this?" I asked.
Pete shrugged. "I've been going through John's stuff. He left one for each of us. There should be a letter inside."
My eyes filled with tears and Pete reached over to take my hand.
"So tell me," I said, sniffing. "What's happened? I have to be honest. I expected you to react...differently. But here you are...good ol' Pete. No, better than the old Pete." And it was true. Pete was a different person. He was our rock, our leader. We could count on him. It was a little disconcerting, but really nice too.
"John and I talked a lot that last week. About choices. I've realized these past few weeks that I had a choice -- I could drown myself in guilt for the rest of my life or I could honor John's sacrifice and actually live this new life that was handed to me. What he did was amazing and I want to be that kind of person -- I want to have the capacity for that kind of love." He nodded at the Bible in my lap. "I got one too. I've been reading it. Maybe we can all figure this life thing out after all."
I shook my head, but squeezed Pete's hand. "No," I said. "I don't think I'll ever figure it out. But we can learn how to live it, maybe. And be grateful for it."
Pete raised my hand to his lips and kissed it softly. His eyes were still sad, but held more of smile than I'd seen in a long time. "Maybe you're right," he said.
John
The man's eyebrows rose slightly and a slight smile touched his lips.
"You are rich?" he asked. "Perhaps you have brought cash with you?"
John shook his head. "No," he said. "But I'll stay in John's place. I'll pay his debt."
The man stared at John for a long moment. Long enough for John's words to sink in and my brain to register one clear though: surely John can't be serious? Doesn't he know what that means?
"You understand what this means." The man could have been reading my mind.
John nodded, a look of peace on his face that I could not in a million years wrap my head around.
"John," I croaked, my voice tinged with desperation. "John, what are you doing."
John took a few steps toward me and wrapped his arms around me. "And this is love," he whispered, "that a man lay down his life for his friend."
I shook my head against his chest as my own chest began to constrict. "No."
John gently pushed me toward Paul, who put his arm around me to hold me up, which was good because my legs weren't holding up too well at this point. I could feel Paul trembling slightly, but he just nodded to John. By this time, the reality of what was happning finally caught up to Pete.
"No," he said in a surprisingly firm voice. "John, I'm not letting you do this."
"It's not up to you," John said. "But one day you'll understand."
He turned to the man who'd been watching us, his face only showing the faintest traces of incredulty at a situation I could be fairly certain he'd never encountered before. As John told the man "I'm ready," Paul leaned down to whisper in my ear: "You're going to have to be strong, Gia, and hold it together for a few minutes. I'm going to have to get Pete to the car, you know?" I nodded, and reached inside me for whatever strength I could find. John turned toward Pete and smiled as the two thugs began walking toward us to lead John from the room.
"Sorry, Pete," John said. "But I think you'll forgive me later." Before Pete could respond John reached back and planted a monster punch across Pete's face, knocking him out. Paul was ready for it, and I moved to help him grab Pete. After one last look at John's retreating figure and the bizarre, chilling room, I helped Paul wrestle Pete out the door and into the car. I felt completely numb as we shoved him in the back seat. Paul hurried around to the driver's side as I slid into the front seat. As I shut the door, I heard the gun shots. I doubled over, moaning; Paul clutched the wheel for a brief moment, tears running down his face. Then he turned keys and shot out of the driveway.
"You are rich?" he asked. "Perhaps you have brought cash with you?"
John shook his head. "No," he said. "But I'll stay in John's place. I'll pay his debt."
The man stared at John for a long moment. Long enough for John's words to sink in and my brain to register one clear though: surely John can't be serious? Doesn't he know what that means?
"You understand what this means." The man could have been reading my mind.
John nodded, a look of peace on his face that I could not in a million years wrap my head around.
"John," I croaked, my voice tinged with desperation. "John, what are you doing."
John took a few steps toward me and wrapped his arms around me. "And this is love," he whispered, "that a man lay down his life for his friend."
I shook my head against his chest as my own chest began to constrict. "No."
John gently pushed me toward Paul, who put his arm around me to hold me up, which was good because my legs weren't holding up too well at this point. I could feel Paul trembling slightly, but he just nodded to John. By this time, the reality of what was happning finally caught up to Pete.
"No," he said in a surprisingly firm voice. "John, I'm not letting you do this."
"It's not up to you," John said. "But one day you'll understand."
He turned to the man who'd been watching us, his face only showing the faintest traces of incredulty at a situation I could be fairly certain he'd never encountered before. As John told the man "I'm ready," Paul leaned down to whisper in my ear: "You're going to have to be strong, Gia, and hold it together for a few minutes. I'm going to have to get Pete to the car, you know?" I nodded, and reached inside me for whatever strength I could find. John turned toward Pete and smiled as the two thugs began walking toward us to lead John from the room.
"Sorry, Pete," John said. "But I think you'll forgive me later." Before Pete could respond John reached back and planted a monster punch across Pete's face, knocking him out. Paul was ready for it, and I moved to help him grab Pete. After one last look at John's retreating figure and the bizarre, chilling room, I helped Paul wrestle Pete out the door and into the car. I felt completely numb as we shoved him in the back seat. Paul hurried around to the driver's side as I slid into the front seat. As I shut the door, I heard the gun shots. I doubled over, moaning; Paul clutched the wheel for a brief moment, tears running down his face. Then he turned keys and shot out of the driveway.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Consequences and choices
We followed the big black car to a part of Houston I'd never been to before. I had vague thoughts that maybe I should be paying attention to where we were, just in case I had to find my way back on my own -- after all, who knew what was going to happen -- but I was only a little bit sure I'd be able to find my way back to I-610.
The car pulled up in front of a huge house, a mansion really; not exactly what I was expecting. I'd been picturing some kind of condemned building with druggies laying around on the sidewalk outside and hookers on the corner. This place looked straight out of Architectural Digest, or an episode of one of those reality shows about rich people. We followed the driveway past the circular area near the front door and the fountain in its center. We drove around the side of the house past a sunroom that even in the dark I could see was full of green plants and gorgeous flowers. We parked in front of a five car garage and got out of the car. One of the thugs motioned for us to follow and we did, through a back door, into a commercial-grade kitchen and through a back hallway to room that must have taken up a good third of the bottom floor of the house, if not half.
The room was dotted with poker tables. I counted five, but only two were being used at the moment; most of the people around the poker tables looked strung-out, worried, sweaty and like they hadn't slept in a really long time. A wet bar stood at one end of the room, a bored-looking bartender behind it. Good grief; these people had their own personal bartender! Some model-like women sat on bar stools watching the room and sipping cocktails, their dresses barely covering...well, anything. A small group of people sat just opposite the bar on some couches. They looked a little spaced out, and I realized that a few weeks ago, that's probably where I could have found Pete. Drugged out on one of those couches, or losing his shirt at one of the tables. My stomach gave a sickening lurch.
"Peter." a smooth, deep voice with a slight Russian accent came from one of the tables. I turned to see a man with iron gray hair and nearly black eyes stand and walk toward us. He looked to be in his 50s, and was dressed in black dress pants and a thin gray sweater. Even I could tell his clothes had cost more than my current car.
"You brought friends," he said. "They are perhaps not so good of friends since they want to watch you die."
My head spun and I clutched Paul's arm to steady myself.
"Actually," John said, stepping forward. "I've come to work out a deal."
The car pulled up in front of a huge house, a mansion really; not exactly what I was expecting. I'd been picturing some kind of condemned building with druggies laying around on the sidewalk outside and hookers on the corner. This place looked straight out of Architectural Digest, or an episode of one of those reality shows about rich people. We followed the driveway past the circular area near the front door and the fountain in its center. We drove around the side of the house past a sunroom that even in the dark I could see was full of green plants and gorgeous flowers. We parked in front of a five car garage and got out of the car. One of the thugs motioned for us to follow and we did, through a back door, into a commercial-grade kitchen and through a back hallway to room that must have taken up a good third of the bottom floor of the house, if not half.
The room was dotted with poker tables. I counted five, but only two were being used at the moment; most of the people around the poker tables looked strung-out, worried, sweaty and like they hadn't slept in a really long time. A wet bar stood at one end of the room, a bored-looking bartender behind it. Good grief; these people had their own personal bartender! Some model-like women sat on bar stools watching the room and sipping cocktails, their dresses barely covering...well, anything. A small group of people sat just opposite the bar on some couches. They looked a little spaced out, and I realized that a few weeks ago, that's probably where I could have found Pete. Drugged out on one of those couches, or losing his shirt at one of the tables. My stomach gave a sickening lurch.
"Peter." a smooth, deep voice with a slight Russian accent came from one of the tables. I turned to see a man with iron gray hair and nearly black eyes stand and walk toward us. He looked to be in his 50s, and was dressed in black dress pants and a thin gray sweater. Even I could tell his clothes had cost more than my current car.
"You brought friends," he said. "They are perhaps not so good of friends since they want to watch you die."
My head spun and I clutched Paul's arm to steady myself.
"Actually," John said, stepping forward. "I've come to work out a deal."
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
And this is love...
I could see Pete's hands shaking, but his face was resolute. He turned to the rest of us, as frozen as the Great Lakes in January.
"Bye, guys," he said.
His words pushed us into motion, and for a few minutes it was hugs and tears. I saw Paul and John talking in the corner, John's face peaceful and stubborn while Paul's skin seemed two sizes two small as it stretched tightly across his pained face.
It was my turn for goodbye, but I wasn't ready.
"I'm coming with you," I said, surprising myself.
"No." Pete's response was immediate.
"Yes." I could be stubborn too. "I'm coming.You'll have to punch me out to stop me."
I could tell he was thinking about it, but as I braced myself Paul and John walked up.
"We're going to drive you," Paul said, putting a hand on Pete's shoulder. "Let's go."
We followed Paul out to his car. John slid into the passenger seat, while Pete and I climbed in the back. The two thugs got into their shiny car and we followed them out of the driveway.
"Bye, guys," he said.
His words pushed us into motion, and for a few minutes it was hugs and tears. I saw Paul and John talking in the corner, John's face peaceful and stubborn while Paul's skin seemed two sizes two small as it stretched tightly across his pained face.
It was my turn for goodbye, but I wasn't ready.
"I'm coming with you," I said, surprising myself.
"No." Pete's response was immediate.
"Yes." I could be stubborn too. "I'm coming.You'll have to punch me out to stop me."
I could tell he was thinking about it, but as I braced myself Paul and John walked up.
"We're going to drive you," Paul said, putting a hand on Pete's shoulder. "Let's go."
We followed Paul out to his car. John slid into the passenger seat, while Pete and I climbed in the back. The two thugs got into their shiny car and we followed them out of the driveway.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Car Ride
All day I tried to talk to Pete. I'd be sitting next to him, flipping through a magazine and trying to figure out what exactly the thoughts and feelings were bouncing around my sleep-deprived brain. Nothing came. We spent the day about how we'd spent the one before, but around 8 p.m. we heard the low purr of a very expensive car pull up the driveway. Lights shone through the front window and we all just did our best impression of a deer in the headlights. I knew it was coming, but the knock on the door still made me jump. Pete stood up and walked to the door; he looked scared and resolute and strong. Tears came to my eyes as he opened the door to to two very large, very greasy guys with big muscles and faces that looked like they'd been pounded a few times.
"Guess this is it," Pete's voice just barely shook on the last word. The goons nodded.
"Guess this is it," Pete's voice just barely shook on the last word. The goons nodded.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Lawn chairs
"Hey John."
"Gia."
It was one thing I loved about John -- he knew when to talk and when to be quiet. Which got my mind wandering.
"Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?" I asked this strange guy who had become such a staple in our lives.
He smiled and shook his head. "Sorry," he admitted, "but no."
"You told me that my name means hope."
"That's right," he said, his smile widening. "I remember now. And you looked at me like I had a snake growing out of my head or something."
"You know, I think I'd have a different reaction if you told me that today."
He turned slightly in his chair and looked at me more directly, his head cocked inquisitively, his face open and inquisitive. "Why do you say that?"
"You get to know a person when they're living in your backyard," I said, turning slightly myself. "And you are hopeful. You make people around you hopeful and peaceful." The words were coming without much thought, but as I said them it was mini lightbulbs kept flashing in my head. "You know, John, I never thought of it until right now -- and the Lord only knows why I'm thinking of it now -- but you really are just this...shiny, happy, peaceful, hopeful, light that's made our two little houses a whole lot brighter. I know you're the reason Maria and Grant have a healthier relationship, and now that I'm thinking about it Kathleen's been a lot less grouchy the past few months. What gives? Why are you still here? I mean, I'm glad clearly, but why? Seems like a lot of give and not much get to me."
John was silent a minute, clearly surprised by my words. Maybe just their timing.
"Well, that's a lot of questions," he said with a smile. "But first off...thanks. Secondly, it's not really me, and I know we talked about this some the other night, but all I can say is that shiny light is Jesus -- I'm just the stuff the light shines through. And as for why I'm still here..." he shrugged. "I go where the Spirit tells me go and stay as long as I need to. Maybe you all needed a little joy in your lives," he grinned again, "a little 'shiny, happy.' But it's not all one way. You guys have a unique family life going on here. There's a lot of love on both sides of this fence; you all just needed a little help not fighting it so much maybe. But I have to say, it's been awesome. I am really blessed here."
My eyes were filling up with tears, which was practically a miracle considering how much I'd cried in the past few days. I reached out my hand and John met it with his own. I squeezed. "Thank you," I said. "And I'm not entirely clear on what for -- more than just being here and being such a rock. But for that too. Just...thanks."
He put his other hand around mine and looked me square in the eyes. "Gia," he said. "I don't know when I'll get a chance to talk to you just like this again. So here's something very important -- no matter what happens in the next few days, please start looking for Jesus. If things turn out to be hard, you won't want to; you'll want to be angry and that's okay. Jesus is big enough for your anger. He wants you to come find him and it's the only way you'll get through this crisis -- or if there is no crisis -- the next one. Please, Gia."
The love and authenticity of his request made my heart ache, but I couldn't respond. So I squeezed his hand. But he knew what I meant.
"Gia."
It was one thing I loved about John -- he knew when to talk and when to be quiet. Which got my mind wandering.
"Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?" I asked this strange guy who had become such a staple in our lives.
He smiled and shook his head. "Sorry," he admitted, "but no."
"You told me that my name means hope."
"That's right," he said, his smile widening. "I remember now. And you looked at me like I had a snake growing out of my head or something."
"You know, I think I'd have a different reaction if you told me that today."
He turned slightly in his chair and looked at me more directly, his head cocked inquisitively, his face open and inquisitive. "Why do you say that?"
"You get to know a person when they're living in your backyard," I said, turning slightly myself. "And you are hopeful. You make people around you hopeful and peaceful." The words were coming without much thought, but as I said them it was mini lightbulbs kept flashing in my head. "You know, John, I never thought of it until right now -- and the Lord only knows why I'm thinking of it now -- but you really are just this...shiny, happy, peaceful, hopeful, light that's made our two little houses a whole lot brighter. I know you're the reason Maria and Grant have a healthier relationship, and now that I'm thinking about it Kathleen's been a lot less grouchy the past few months. What gives? Why are you still here? I mean, I'm glad clearly, but why? Seems like a lot of give and not much get to me."
John was silent a minute, clearly surprised by my words. Maybe just their timing.
"Well, that's a lot of questions," he said with a smile. "But first off...thanks. Secondly, it's not really me, and I know we talked about this some the other night, but all I can say is that shiny light is Jesus -- I'm just the stuff the light shines through. And as for why I'm still here..." he shrugged. "I go where the Spirit tells me go and stay as long as I need to. Maybe you all needed a little joy in your lives," he grinned again, "a little 'shiny, happy.' But it's not all one way. You guys have a unique family life going on here. There's a lot of love on both sides of this fence; you all just needed a little help not fighting it so much maybe. But I have to say, it's been awesome. I am really blessed here."
My eyes were filling up with tears, which was practically a miracle considering how much I'd cried in the past few days. I reached out my hand and John met it with his own. I squeezed. "Thank you," I said. "And I'm not entirely clear on what for -- more than just being here and being such a rock. But for that too. Just...thanks."
He put his other hand around mine and looked me square in the eyes. "Gia," he said. "I don't know when I'll get a chance to talk to you just like this again. So here's something very important -- no matter what happens in the next few days, please start looking for Jesus. If things turn out to be hard, you won't want to; you'll want to be angry and that's okay. Jesus is big enough for your anger. He wants you to come find him and it's the only way you'll get through this crisis -- or if there is no crisis -- the next one. Please, Gia."
The love and authenticity of his request made my heart ache, but I couldn't respond. So I squeezed his hand. But he knew what I meant.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Waiting
Two days is a long time without sleep, but when you know that chances are someone you love is about to die, then two days just isn't long enough.
We didn't go to work. No one talked about it, but we all stayed pretty much at our house or the guys house. We didn't talk about Pete's deadline, although I know everyone was calling just about anyone we could think of who might have some money. No rich uncles were hanging out in the shadows. We played cards and watched movies and went out. Tod would sit with his guitar and strum ridiculously sad songs. Grant and Maria didn't have even one tiny fight.
I sat outside on a lawn chair watching the sun come up that last morning. My heart felt like a chunk of lead inside my chest, like it was trying to crush the life right out of me. I felt something move beside me and looked to see John pulling up another lawn chair. He looked over at me and smiled, but it was a sad smile.
We didn't go to work. No one talked about it, but we all stayed pretty much at our house or the guys house. We didn't talk about Pete's deadline, although I know everyone was calling just about anyone we could think of who might have some money. No rich uncles were hanging out in the shadows. We played cards and watched movies and went out. Tod would sit with his guitar and strum ridiculously sad songs. Grant and Maria didn't have even one tiny fight.
I sat outside on a lawn chair watching the sun come up that last morning. My heart felt like a chunk of lead inside my chest, like it was trying to crush the life right out of me. I felt something move beside me and looked to see John pulling up another lawn chair. He looked over at me and smiled, but it was a sad smile.
Monday, June 30, 2008
The Truth
I slammed the pitcher down on the counter with a loud curse at my hands that were shaking so bad I couldn't even pour myself a glass of water. I'd come home a little early from the show, too amped up to sit around and act normal. Phil was keeping his eye on Pete, making sure that he didn't run off to who knows where after the show. I'd had a couple of beers to calm myself down, but they didn't work and possibly just made me more edgy. Well, that or the fact that Pete showed up with two black eyes. He didn't want to talk about it -- in fact, very clearly ignored it and made it clear he wanted us to ignore them as well. But the fact that he still showed up was so unusual that even Kathleen looked thrown off. Part of me felt bruised myself just looking at his beautiful eyes surrounded by swollen, purple flesh. But part of me felt some kind of confirmation that now was the time to confront Pete. John had smiled when Pete walked in and whispered, "God's with us tonight, G." And while I wasn't totally convinced of that, everything did seem to be falling into place.
I finally got some water in my glass without making a huge mess and heard cars pull up outside. Without really thinking about it I started pulling chips and pretzels and other munchies out of the pantry; Tod was always starving after a show. Everyone began filing into the house, grabbing the food out of my hands as they went by. Tod grinned at me. "Tonight I don't know if it's post-show munchies or nervous munchies," he murmured. "But either way...thanks."
The chatter began to die out as everyone sprawled in the living room. After a few minutes the only sounds were crinkling foil and crunching junk food. I was trying to catch Phil's eye -- we'd all agreed Phil should start things off -- when Pete shocked us.
"I know what's going on," he said, his voice low and husky. "I know why we're all sitting in here sweating and avoiding eye contact. I know you all aren't blind or stupid."
Maria crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Pete. "Te queremos mi hermano" She said. They hugged for a long moment before Maria sat down on the floor next to him; he gripped her hand like a lifeline. We waited.
"It's bad, guys." He said. "It's going to sound like I'm making it up, but I assure you, I'm not. I've been gambling, which you may have guessed. There have been a few instances with drugs, but mostly just the gambling. It started out with just some guys I met on the job. But I kept getting in with more serious games, bigger stakes...bigger players." He paused.
"Organized?" Kathleen asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
Pete nodded. "Asian. A small-time group, relatively speaking. But big enough to pack a devastating punch...no pun intended."
"How deep are you in," John asked.
"Two and a half million."
My heart stopped and it's safe to say everyone else's did as well. Grant turned green.
"Pete," he said. "Dude...that's...." There were no words.
"I know."
John looked thoughtfully at Pete. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that your forthrightness was somewhat motivated by a deadline."
Pete nodded. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I've got two days."
Silence.
I couldn't stand it.
"And then what." I cursed my squeaky and panicked voice. "Then what?"
Pete exchanged a look with John and I could hear Maria start to cry as she realized what refused to.
Pete turned toward me, his swollen eyes full of pain and regret and something I'd never seen before -- tears.
"Then I don't come back." he told me.
I finally got some water in my glass without making a huge mess and heard cars pull up outside. Without really thinking about it I started pulling chips and pretzels and other munchies out of the pantry; Tod was always starving after a show. Everyone began filing into the house, grabbing the food out of my hands as they went by. Tod grinned at me. "Tonight I don't know if it's post-show munchies or nervous munchies," he murmured. "But either way...thanks."
The chatter began to die out as everyone sprawled in the living room. After a few minutes the only sounds were crinkling foil and crunching junk food. I was trying to catch Phil's eye -- we'd all agreed Phil should start things off -- when Pete shocked us.
"I know what's going on," he said, his voice low and husky. "I know why we're all sitting in here sweating and avoiding eye contact. I know you all aren't blind or stupid."
Maria crossed the room and wrapped her arms around Pete. "Te queremos mi hermano" She said. They hugged for a long moment before Maria sat down on the floor next to him; he gripped her hand like a lifeline. We waited.
"It's bad, guys." He said. "It's going to sound like I'm making it up, but I assure you, I'm not. I've been gambling, which you may have guessed. There have been a few instances with drugs, but mostly just the gambling. It started out with just some guys I met on the job. But I kept getting in with more serious games, bigger stakes...bigger players." He paused.
"Organized?" Kathleen asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
Pete nodded. "Asian. A small-time group, relatively speaking. But big enough to pack a devastating punch...no pun intended."
"How deep are you in," John asked.
"Two and a half million."
My heart stopped and it's safe to say everyone else's did as well. Grant turned green.
"Pete," he said. "Dude...that's...." There were no words.
"I know."
John looked thoughtfully at Pete. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that your forthrightness was somewhat motivated by a deadline."
Pete nodded. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I've got two days."
Silence.
I couldn't stand it.
"And then what." I cursed my squeaky and panicked voice. "Then what?"
Pete exchanged a look with John and I could hear Maria start to cry as she realized what refused to.
Pete turned toward me, his swollen eyes full of pain and regret and something I'd never seen before -- tears.
"Then I don't come back." he told me.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
what are friends for
"So, basically, I think we need to do something."
It had been two weeks since I'd gone to the bank with Phil and he'd told me his new theories about Pete. We'd both been watching him closely since then -- what there was to watch. Phil's gambling theory fit, and after Pete came home last night with what looked like two-day bags under his eyes, a fat lip and a bruise on his cheekbone, I'd decided that just sitting by wasn't an option anymore. Everyone was sitting in my living room, digesting what Phil and I had told them.
"Like an intervention?" Kathleen rolled her eyes. "Come on, Gia. Do you really think that's going to do anything. He'll probably lie to us -- IF anything is going on -- and then laugh himself out the door. And try getting him to come back after that. You know Pete."
"Actually, Kathleen," Maria chimed in. Her normally laughing and sparkling dark eyes were serious. "We do know Pete. And this isn't him. There is a stranger living in that house, and I agree with Gia. It's time to find Pete again."
I looked around the room, and saw determination staring back at me. I wasn't worried about Kathleen. We'd already figured she'd be the dissenting opinion, but we knew Phil could make her see reason.
"We thought we'd talk to him this weekend," I said. As I anticipated, everyone got a nervous look on their face. "I know it's soon," I said, "but the sooner the better, I think. He should show up for the show Saturday night, so we're going to keep him around and talk to him on Sunday. And John, we really want you there too," I looked at our new friend, who looked surprised.
"Pete really respects you, and I have a feeling you'll have a calming influence."
He nodded. "I know this seems drastic, and like the last thing you want to be doing," he said gently. "But if we're truly Pete's friends -- if we truly care about him -- we have to try and make him confront the truth and get some help. Otherwise it's like watching him walk blindfolded toward the edge of the Grand Canyon and not reach out to take off the blindfold."
I felt drained just thinking about confronting Pete, and I could see the tension in everyone else as well. It was going to be a long weekend.
It had been two weeks since I'd gone to the bank with Phil and he'd told me his new theories about Pete. We'd both been watching him closely since then -- what there was to watch. Phil's gambling theory fit, and after Pete came home last night with what looked like two-day bags under his eyes, a fat lip and a bruise on his cheekbone, I'd decided that just sitting by wasn't an option anymore. Everyone was sitting in my living room, digesting what Phil and I had told them.
"Like an intervention?" Kathleen rolled her eyes. "Come on, Gia. Do you really think that's going to do anything. He'll probably lie to us -- IF anything is going on -- and then laugh himself out the door. And try getting him to come back after that. You know Pete."
"Actually, Kathleen," Maria chimed in. Her normally laughing and sparkling dark eyes were serious. "We do know Pete. And this isn't him. There is a stranger living in that house, and I agree with Gia. It's time to find Pete again."
I looked around the room, and saw determination staring back at me. I wasn't worried about Kathleen. We'd already figured she'd be the dissenting opinion, but we knew Phil could make her see reason.
"We thought we'd talk to him this weekend," I said. As I anticipated, everyone got a nervous look on their face. "I know it's soon," I said, "but the sooner the better, I think. He should show up for the show Saturday night, so we're going to keep him around and talk to him on Sunday. And John, we really want you there too," I looked at our new friend, who looked surprised.
"Pete really respects you, and I have a feeling you'll have a calming influence."
He nodded. "I know this seems drastic, and like the last thing you want to be doing," he said gently. "But if we're truly Pete's friends -- if we truly care about him -- we have to try and make him confront the truth and get some help. Otherwise it's like watching him walk blindfolded toward the edge of the Grand Canyon and not reach out to take off the blindfold."
I felt drained just thinking about confronting Pete, and I could see the tension in everyone else as well. It was going to be a long weekend.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Poker night
The last few bites of my apple were disappearing when Phil poked his head in the back door,
"Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and swallowed. "Nope," I answered. "What's up?"
"I'm heading out to run some errands and wanted some company. You up for it?"
"Of course. Let me grab my keys."
Once we were in Phil's car, chatting and listening to the radio, I noticed the slight wrinkle in Phil's forehead.
"Okay, spill it," I said. "There's a reason you need company this afternoon, and I want to know what it is."
Phil was quiet for a moment, but his lack of denial was clear.
"I'm worried about Pete," he finally said.
My stomach clenched and my heart started pounding. "Oh?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even and calm.
"Yeah," Pete glanced over and I could tell I wasn't fooling him either, but he let it slide. "One of my errands happens to be withdrawing some cash for him. About $1,000."
"What!?" All attempts at calm and detached were gone as fast as a soap bubble in a hurricane. "Why in the world are you loaning him $1,000?"
Phil sighed. "Well, it's that or he loses his truck and then his job."
"Okay, that's the surface why, but I'm looking for a bigger picture here, Phil."
"When I asked him all he said was 'poker night.'"
My heart began to slow a bit. "So maybe he had a few bad nights, right?" I said.
The frown lines were back on Phil's forehead. "Maybe," he said without conviction. "But I've been noticing a...semi-return to Pete's former here then gone behavior. And after he said that I'm starting to wonder if he's got a problem."
"A gambling problem?" It seemed ludicrous.
"Well, that, and I think he's rolling in a crowd that's pretty out of his league," Phil continued. "I think he's in way over his head, and for more than just $1,000."
We sat in silence as Phil pulled into the bank parking lot. I stayed in the car as he went inside and tried to process what Phil had said. It made sense and would explain everything. But I couldn't shake images of various movies in which guys who couldn't pay their gambling debts got bones broken and appendages removed. I didn't want it to be true, but the more I thought about it the more possible it became.
"Busy?" he asked.
I shook my head and swallowed. "Nope," I answered. "What's up?"
"I'm heading out to run some errands and wanted some company. You up for it?"
"Of course. Let me grab my keys."
Once we were in Phil's car, chatting and listening to the radio, I noticed the slight wrinkle in Phil's forehead.
"Okay, spill it," I said. "There's a reason you need company this afternoon, and I want to know what it is."
Phil was quiet for a moment, but his lack of denial was clear.
"I'm worried about Pete," he finally said.
My stomach clenched and my heart started pounding. "Oh?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even and calm.
"Yeah," Pete glanced over and I could tell I wasn't fooling him either, but he let it slide. "One of my errands happens to be withdrawing some cash for him. About $1,000."
"What!?" All attempts at calm and detached were gone as fast as a soap bubble in a hurricane. "Why in the world are you loaning him $1,000?"
Phil sighed. "Well, it's that or he loses his truck and then his job."
"Okay, that's the surface why, but I'm looking for a bigger picture here, Phil."
"When I asked him all he said was 'poker night.'"
My heart began to slow a bit. "So maybe he had a few bad nights, right?" I said.
The frown lines were back on Phil's forehead. "Maybe," he said without conviction. "But I've been noticing a...semi-return to Pete's former here then gone behavior. And after he said that I'm starting to wonder if he's got a problem."
"A gambling problem?" It seemed ludicrous.
"Well, that, and I think he's rolling in a crowd that's pretty out of his league," Phil continued. "I think he's in way over his head, and for more than just $1,000."
We sat in silence as Phil pulled into the bank parking lot. I stayed in the car as he went inside and tried to process what Phil had said. It made sense and would explain everything. But I couldn't shake images of various movies in which guys who couldn't pay their gambling debts got bones broken and appendages removed. I didn't want it to be true, but the more I thought about it the more possible it became.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Carrie
"I have a hard time believing that someone as intellectual and creative as you really buys into God," Pete spoke from across the circle.
"I look at it a little opposite to that," John said. "I'm intellectual and creative because of God, not in spite of Him."
"I don't know man," I could barely make out that Tod was shaking his head. "That doesn't quite make sense."
John leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "My mom died when I was six. It was just me and my dad, and like a lot of single dads he had to work and I fended for myself a lot and by the time I got to high school I was pretty self reliant, and pretty confident that it was just me taking care of me. I didn't need anyone, certainly not a God that I'd never really seen do all that much for me."
I saw a flash of white that looked like a grin. "Now we get to the part of the story where I meet a girl. Junior year, calculus. Her name was Carrie, and she blew me away. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and confident enough to stand up to my bullshit and call it for what it was...a whole lot of posing. She made it pretty clear straight off that she was a Christian and somehow that just made her more alluring; she wasn't like any Christians I'd ever known. Clearly, I was head over heals so when she started wanting to take me to a Bible study with her, I didn't put up a fight. It was a great group and the perfect place to really introduce me to Jesus; there were several other high school kids and everyone else was young and smart and people I'd have hung out with normally. Carrie knew I'd need to hear the gospel from people I'd actually be willing to listen to."
"So what did it," Phil spoke quietly from beside me. "What did they say that made the difference."
John thought for a moment. "It wasn't one thing," he said. "It was months of studying and talking and praying. Eventually what they said started making sense; when I opened myself up to the possibility that the Bible was true it just felt right, but it was the kind of feeling that takes over your whole being. There was an emptiness inside of me that I'd never even known was there and it was full now. I started studying more intensely with Kevin, the leader of the group. He helped me see the truth behind the faith growing inside me. I'd started feeling like God was real and Jesus really did die and come back to life to save me from a life of sin and death; Kevin helped me know it in my head. And after that everything changed."
"How?" I asked.
"I started looking at the world differently; life had purpose now, and the stuff that didn't," he shrugged, "I stopped worrying about it. Jesus took me -- all that unique John-stuff -- and made it better."
"What I really want to know, " Maria spoke up from her spot in Grant's lap, "is what happened to Carrie."
John grinned again. "Carrie and I went to college together, but about my sophomore year I started getting this idea that what God really wanted from me was a commitment to being different. I had no family -- my dad had died the year before -- and was in a perfect position in life to start going out in the world and really be Jesus to other people."
"So that's what you call this...gypsying of yours," Tod spoke again. "Being Jesus to the world."
"Exactly. I help people out when they need it, I try to spread a little happiness, and love, and if God tells me to, I talk to them about Jesus. Sometimes I just move on, knowing I've planted some seeds or maybe watered seeds someone else has planted."
Maria wasn't quite satisfied. "Well then where is she," she asked. "Did you break her heart?"
"I don't think so," John said. "Don't get me wrong, my heart was bruised pretty bad when I set out, and I think hers was too. We talked a lot about what I wanted to do with my life now, and I asked her to come along. But she said no; she said it was my calling."
I felt my nose prickle; sad, romantic stories really do get to me. I could just picture the tearful goodbye.
John laughed then. "Don't feel too bad for her, Maria," he said. "She's married now and has three kids. I stop by and see them usually once a year or so; they're really happy."
"What can I say," Maria laughed too. "I love a happy ending."
"I look at it a little opposite to that," John said. "I'm intellectual and creative because of God, not in spite of Him."
"I don't know man," I could barely make out that Tod was shaking his head. "That doesn't quite make sense."
John leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "My mom died when I was six. It was just me and my dad, and like a lot of single dads he had to work and I fended for myself a lot and by the time I got to high school I was pretty self reliant, and pretty confident that it was just me taking care of me. I didn't need anyone, certainly not a God that I'd never really seen do all that much for me."
I saw a flash of white that looked like a grin. "Now we get to the part of the story where I meet a girl. Junior year, calculus. Her name was Carrie, and she blew me away. She was beautiful, smart, funny, and confident enough to stand up to my bullshit and call it for what it was...a whole lot of posing. She made it pretty clear straight off that she was a Christian and somehow that just made her more alluring; she wasn't like any Christians I'd ever known. Clearly, I was head over heals so when she started wanting to take me to a Bible study with her, I didn't put up a fight. It was a great group and the perfect place to really introduce me to Jesus; there were several other high school kids and everyone else was young and smart and people I'd have hung out with normally. Carrie knew I'd need to hear the gospel from people I'd actually be willing to listen to."
"So what did it," Phil spoke quietly from beside me. "What did they say that made the difference."
John thought for a moment. "It wasn't one thing," he said. "It was months of studying and talking and praying. Eventually what they said started making sense; when I opened myself up to the possibility that the Bible was true it just felt right, but it was the kind of feeling that takes over your whole being. There was an emptiness inside of me that I'd never even known was there and it was full now. I started studying more intensely with Kevin, the leader of the group. He helped me see the truth behind the faith growing inside me. I'd started feeling like God was real and Jesus really did die and come back to life to save me from a life of sin and death; Kevin helped me know it in my head. And after that everything changed."
"How?" I asked.
"I started looking at the world differently; life had purpose now, and the stuff that didn't," he shrugged, "I stopped worrying about it. Jesus took me -- all that unique John-stuff -- and made it better."
"What I really want to know, " Maria spoke up from her spot in Grant's lap, "is what happened to Carrie."
John grinned again. "Carrie and I went to college together, but about my sophomore year I started getting this idea that what God really wanted from me was a commitment to being different. I had no family -- my dad had died the year before -- and was in a perfect position in life to start going out in the world and really be Jesus to other people."
"So that's what you call this...gypsying of yours," Tod spoke again. "Being Jesus to the world."
"Exactly. I help people out when they need it, I try to spread a little happiness, and love, and if God tells me to, I talk to them about Jesus. Sometimes I just move on, knowing I've planted some seeds or maybe watered seeds someone else has planted."
Maria wasn't quite satisfied. "Well then where is she," she asked. "Did you break her heart?"
"I don't think so," John said. "Don't get me wrong, my heart was bruised pretty bad when I set out, and I think hers was too. We talked a lot about what I wanted to do with my life now, and I asked her to come along. But she said no; she said it was my calling."
I felt my nose prickle; sad, romantic stories really do get to me. I could just picture the tearful goodbye.
John laughed then. "Don't feel too bad for her, Maria," he said. "She's married now and has three kids. I stop by and see them usually once a year or so; they're really happy."
"What can I say," Maria laughed too. "I love a happy ending."
Monday, April 28, 2008
so...God?
"Is tomorrow really Monday?"
Kathleen asked this mostly rhetorical question from her spot on everyone's favorite chaise lawn chair. Her empty plate rested on her stomach while her left hand lazily brushed the still-damp grass. Mellow had been the theme word for the weekend. My Llama had taken the weekend off so that Grant could go to a big family celebration with Maria. I'd had a date with a guy from work Friday night, but had made it home by 11 p.m.; Phil and John came over then and Kathleen and I proceeded to smoke them at a 5,000 point game of spades before sending them home in a rainstorm sometime around 2:30 in the morning. It was still raining on Saturday, so Kathleen and I spent the day baking and watching movies. Sunday afternoon the sun came out again and they guys decided to grill. As the light began to turn purple and indigo, we all lounged around the guys' backyard, bellies full of Tod's amazing burgers and Maria's equally amazing dulce de leche. It was the kind of atmosphere that made people want to talk -- you were relaxed, satisfied, and you couldn't really see anyone that well.
"So John," Tod said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette. "You've been here a while now."
"True."
"And even after months of living with you, playing with you, hanging out with you...I have to say, you're still a very mysterious guy."
John laughed. "I don't try to hide anything," he said.
"Also true," Tod replied. "But it's not so much things you're hiding...I mean, we've all heard the stories and we all know about your weakness for macaroni and cheese with pickles -- which is disgusting, by the way -- it's more just the way you are."
I could just barely see John smile in the fading light. "I see," he said. "Well, that is mysterious I guess. But maybe not in the way you mean. Because it's not really me that's mysterious. It's God."
The peaceful, comfortable silence we'd all been marinating in got a bit thicker. I can freely admit that God is never something I'd talked about with any of my friends, and not something I'd really given much thought to. I held my breath wondering if we were about to have a heavy conversation, an argument, or if people were just going to get up and break the evening's summery spell. And a small part of me just wanted John to elaborate, because Tod was right.
Kathleen asked this mostly rhetorical question from her spot on everyone's favorite chaise lawn chair. Her empty plate rested on her stomach while her left hand lazily brushed the still-damp grass. Mellow had been the theme word for the weekend. My Llama had taken the weekend off so that Grant could go to a big family celebration with Maria. I'd had a date with a guy from work Friday night, but had made it home by 11 p.m.; Phil and John came over then and Kathleen and I proceeded to smoke them at a 5,000 point game of spades before sending them home in a rainstorm sometime around 2:30 in the morning. It was still raining on Saturday, so Kathleen and I spent the day baking and watching movies. Sunday afternoon the sun came out again and they guys decided to grill. As the light began to turn purple and indigo, we all lounged around the guys' backyard, bellies full of Tod's amazing burgers and Maria's equally amazing dulce de leche. It was the kind of atmosphere that made people want to talk -- you were relaxed, satisfied, and you couldn't really see anyone that well.
"So John," Tod said, blowing out a thin stream of smoke from his cigarette. "You've been here a while now."
"True."
"And even after months of living with you, playing with you, hanging out with you...I have to say, you're still a very mysterious guy."
John laughed. "I don't try to hide anything," he said.
"Also true," Tod replied. "But it's not so much things you're hiding...I mean, we've all heard the stories and we all know about your weakness for macaroni and cheese with pickles -- which is disgusting, by the way -- it's more just the way you are."
I could just barely see John smile in the fading light. "I see," he said. "Well, that is mysterious I guess. But maybe not in the way you mean. Because it's not really me that's mysterious. It's God."
The peaceful, comfortable silence we'd all been marinating in got a bit thicker. I can freely admit that God is never something I'd talked about with any of my friends, and not something I'd really given much thought to. I held my breath wondering if we were about to have a heavy conversation, an argument, or if people were just going to get up and break the evening's summery spell. And a small part of me just wanted John to elaborate, because Tod was right.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
change?
Okay, I'll be honest. I left Waffle House buzzing, and not just from the copious amounts of sugar in my maple syrup-and-whipped-cream-topped French toast. After my conversation with Pete in the truck, it was as though the CD in my head that had been skipping on the same song for the past few months had finally fixed itself and was playing my favorite songs again. A tiny part of me entertained the idea that maybe Pete and I could work things out romantically speaking, but I shut that train of thought down pretty fast. Mostly because I knew that my level of trust for Pete was still pretty low. And partly because I knew that if Pete and I got back together, Kathleen would officially lose it. But SXSW was officially awesome and the band blew everyone's mind. So much so that John decided to stick around a while; the guys cleaned out the storeroom above the detached garage (which was air conditioned thanks to Phil's studio being the half of the above-garage space) for John to sleep in. When I asked John how long he was planning on staying he just smiled and said "Until it's time to go."
Pete was around more after we got back from the festival; there were nights when the rumble of his old Chevy woke me up just before the sun did, but for a few months at least things seemed back to normal. Sort of.
Pete was around more after we got back from the festival; there were nights when the rumble of his old Chevy woke me up just before the sun did, but for a few months at least things seemed back to normal. Sort of.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
at Waffle House
"This place is so disgusting." Kathleen wrinkled her nose and grabbed a napkin to swat at some non-existent crumbs in the booth we'd snagged.
"But it's road trip food. We are on a road trip." Tod slid in next to her, put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "Lighten up, K. Road trip! Austin! Concerts! There is no room in this booth for a gloomy face."
And you couldn't deny that Tod's face was far from gloomy. In fact, I looked around as we all looked at our greasy menus. We'd taken up two booths -- me, Kathleen, Tod and Phil; Grant, Maria, Pete, and John. Maria's arms were waiving around, her mouth moving at light-speed. Pete and John were shaking with laughter; John's head fell to the table, his back still convulsing. Grant just shook his head, obviously having heard the story already. Tod turned around to ask what the racket was all about. His left hand still rested on the menu sitting on the table, his long fingers tapping out a rhythm. Phil and Kathleen were talking, I think about a new CD they were listening to in the car. I looked down at my menu and saw that my hands were shaking slightly. Odd. But maybe appropriate given that I felt like I'd just missed getting run over by a car, or made it to shore after being dumped into some wicked white water rapids.
Fingers snapped in my face.
"Hello space cadet," Tod said. "Beverage?" He motioned to the apron-clad waitress smacking watermelon gum at our table.
"Coffee," I said. "With cream, please."
As she moved on, Phil raised his eyebrow at me. "No offense, Gia, but you don't look like you need more caffeine."
I shook my head. "Why do you have to be so darn perceptive all the time," I said, smacking him lightly. "But I'm fine, really."
"But it's road trip food. We are on a road trip." Tod slid in next to her, put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "Lighten up, K. Road trip! Austin! Concerts! There is no room in this booth for a gloomy face."
And you couldn't deny that Tod's face was far from gloomy. In fact, I looked around as we all looked at our greasy menus. We'd taken up two booths -- me, Kathleen, Tod and Phil; Grant, Maria, Pete, and John. Maria's arms were waiving around, her mouth moving at light-speed. Pete and John were shaking with laughter; John's head fell to the table, his back still convulsing. Grant just shook his head, obviously having heard the story already. Tod turned around to ask what the racket was all about. His left hand still rested on the menu sitting on the table, his long fingers tapping out a rhythm. Phil and Kathleen were talking, I think about a new CD they were listening to in the car. I looked down at my menu and saw that my hands were shaking slightly. Odd. But maybe appropriate given that I felt like I'd just missed getting run over by a car, or made it to shore after being dumped into some wicked white water rapids.
Fingers snapped in my face.
"Hello space cadet," Tod said. "Beverage?" He motioned to the apron-clad waitress smacking watermelon gum at our table.
"Coffee," I said. "With cream, please."
As she moved on, Phil raised his eyebrow at me. "No offense, Gia, but you don't look like you need more caffeine."
I shook my head. "Why do you have to be so darn perceptive all the time," I said, smacking him lightly. "But I'm fine, really."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)