Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (30 page)

I muster up a smile as I watch one of the other team’s players sink an easy lay-up. “At least I don’t have that problem. Priscilla hates sports.”

“What about Sam? Does he like basketball? You should bring him to one of the games.”

I reach for the water bottle at my feet. How long before people finally quit referring to Sam and me as if we were a couple? Bad enough I think about him every day. Bad enough I keep reliving the moment I flung those cruel words in his face. Bad enough I can’t forget the hurt in his eyes, his disbelief at what I said.

Bad enough I have to live with myself.

“It’s tax season. He’s working nights straight through April fifteenth.” Such a convenient excuse.

“I like Sam. Jack does, too. We’ve been talking about giving him a call. Our own accountant retired last summer.” Ruth pops a few more kernels in her mouth, offers out the bag. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“Maybe I will.” I take my eyes off the court and reach for the bag when suddenly the crowd is on their feet, erupting with shouts and boos. My eyes fly to the scoreboard and my heart sinks. We’re still behind by four and now a foul has been called on one of our best players. The other team takes their stance at the free-throw line. The first shot sinks clean, straight through the basket. The second bounces against the rim, then drops through the ropes. A six-point lead for the other side.

“We’re going to lose,” I mutter, with one eye on the scoreboard and the other on Nick. The coach isn’t happy and neither are his players. The young boys huddle with him in a tight circle. Even from our seats three rows up, the air reeks of sweat and desperation. I flick more popcorn in my mouth. “I hate basketball.”

“Don’t worry, Nick will pull them through,” Ruth says. “The other team wants to let the clock wind down but I’ll bet Nick won’t let them. He’ll come up with something. It happens on television all the time.”

But this isn’t television, this is real life. And it’s torture listening to Nick bark at the team. These are kids I know. These boys were in my classroom a few short years ago. Back then they were ten-year-olds shooting hoops at recess. Now they’re lanky high school students sporting wispy beards. All legs and limbs, knobby knees, and squeaky gym shoes, they’ve lobbed the ball back and forth these past few weeks on their way to a winning season.

But they’re not winning tonight. And the look on their faces as Nick chews into them is no different than the ten-year-olds in his classroom today. I shove more popcorn in my mouth, chomp the inside of my bottom lip, wince in pain. Serves me right. Coaching can’t be that different from teaching. And ranting at a student doesn’t teach them anything but fear. That’s no way to earn the players’ respect. No way to coach a winning team.

The crowd erupts as the home team sinks another shot.

Ruth grins, high-fives me. “What did I tell you?”

“Work it, Jake, work it!” Nick paces the court, screaming from the sidelines. He jabs his finger toward center court. “Get the ball, guys! Move it, move it! What’s your problem?” The clock ticks down, second by second. “Time out, time out!” His hands rise in furious protest and he gestures at the team in with an impatient nod.

I gobble popcorn as we watch the five boys gather in another quick huddle. Nick glowers and snaps orders as he slaps his clipboard against his knee. Their faces strain and tense as he pushes them back onto the court.

“This isn’t good. Look at Nick. He knows we’re going to lose.” I want to bolt from the bleachers and straight out the side door.

Ruth pats my hand. “It’s not over yet. We can still win.”

But she’s wrong. The team is doomed. There’s only one minute left in the game and we’re four points behind, but it might as well be forty. Our boys already wear the look of defeat.

Nick yanks a large boy with a mean sulky look to his feet. I recognize Billy Iverson immediately. Billy, big and tough, was a bully in my classroom as well as on the playground. Nick whispers something hurriedly in his ear and Billy nods with a lazy half smile. What are they up to? Nick slaps him on the butt, pushes him toward the official’s bench. I hold my breath as the buzzer sounds and Billy lumbers onto the floor.

The crowd is on their feet, stamping and whistling as the clock ticks down the remaining seconds. The visiting team has control of the ball. “Defense, defense,” people scream from all sides as eight players chase the visiting team’s top scorer with the ball. He heads down the court. Billy Iverson stands directly beneath the hoop. Arms and legs connect as the boy slams into Billy, who head-butts him in the face. Bodies topple, whistles blow, hands and players squirm for control of the ball.

The floor is slick with blood.

“Foul! Foul on 44!” Nick is on his feet, his face nearly purple as he screams the words.

Foul on 44? But that’s the other team’s player, the one who had the ball. If anyone should be fouled, it should be Billy. Am I the only one who saw what happened? The whole thing was choreographed by Nick. He sent Billy in to take the other player out and buy them some time… buy them a shot at winning the game.

“Did you see that?” I grip Ruth’s arm as the boy from the other team comes to his feet. Blood gushes from his nose as they help him off the court. His hand is pressed against the back of his head and his face is white. The thought of Billy head-butting the boy makes me want to vomit. “Did you see what he did?”

Ruth winces. “I’ll bet his nose is broken.”

“This isn’t right,” I mutter as Billy lines up at the foul line and aims the first shot. “He’s the one who should be called on the foul. He deliberately hurt that boy.”

“Billy didn’t do anything wrong,” Ruth replies. “It’s called taking a charge and it’s perfectly legal. Billy had every right to stand where he was. He had control of the floor.”

“But…” My words are lost in the roar of the crowd as Billy sinks the second of two shots. We’re still down by two, but suddenly the game is in our hands to win or lose.

And we got here by cheating.

“You must have seen it, Ruth. Billy deliberately hit that boy in the face. Nick ordered him to do it.”

She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Nick wouldn’t do something like that. That’s cheating.”

“But he did, Ruth, I swear,” I insist. “I saw it.”

She shrugs. “Well, the refs didn’t see it and neither did I.”

I crumple the empty popcorn bag in my hands. No matter what Ruth or anyone else thinks, the foul on 44 was a cheap shot and ordered by Nick. I stare at him as he calls in his players for one last huddle. What kind of a man teaches kids to win by cheating?

The buzzer sounds. The crowd chants, delirious with screaming. Eight seconds to go. Everyone is on their feet. The visiting team has control of the ball and rushes it down the court. A lay-up, an easy shot… missed. The crowd explodes as Nick’s team takes the ball and races it back toward the basket.

Four seconds left. Three… two… one…

A hopeless shot worth three points flies from midcourt. The ball kisses the rim, dances around the edge, and slides through the net.

“We won!” Ruth jumps up and down, grabs me in a fierce hug as the home crowd explodes in a deafening roar. “What a fantastic game. Come on, let’s go congratulate Nick.”

The victory song blares as we climb down the bleachers, but my feet feel dead, like I’m wearing Frankenstein shoes. It would have been so much better to have played fair and lost than to witness the ending played out in front of us. Didn’t Nick hear the loudspeaker announcement at the beginning of the game before the playing of the “Star Spangled Banner”? The announcement reminded the crowd of the three Rs of sportsmanship:
Respect, Responsibility, Restraint
.

Too bad we didn’t see any of that from the coach.

Nick’s face is flush as we step off the bleachers and onto the court. “Some game, huh?” He grins. “Had you a little nervous we might lose?”

Ruth wraps him in a big hug. “You pulled off the perfect ending.”

He wipes the sweat from his face. “I didn’t do much. My job is to keep the kids moving, knock a little sense into them.”

“You really knocked some sense into them tonight.” I barely manage a smile. If I don’t get away soon, I’ll throw up all over the glossy gym floor.

I fish for my keys. Thank God Ruth and I came in separate cars. At least nothing will stop me from leaving. “Thanks for coming, Ruth. We’ll talk later.” I whirl and start for the exit.

“But Patty, where are you—”

I ignore her protest and step up my pace. Better that than to whip up some lame excuse about why I’m leaving. Better that than to scream at Nick, to accuse him of being a cheat.

He grabs my arm as I bolt for the door. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“Home.” I turn my head away at the mere sight of him. He might think he can get away with duping everyone else, but he can’t fool me. I saw what happened. I saw what he did. Nick’s not charming his way out of this one. “I… I feel sick,” I stammer. “I guess I shouldn’t have eaten all that popcorn.”

“You should know better.” He releases my arm. “Stay away from that stuff, Patty. Popcorn makes you fat.”

Did he just call me fat?

My face burns as I push through the crowd and out the thick double doors into the bitter night. I suck in deep breaths of cold frosty air. The popcorn churns in my stomach, a big greasy mess. How did I let Nick make such a mess of my life? Even if Ruth didn’t see what happened, even if the refs thought the charge perfectly legally, I know what I saw. Sam was right. Nick is a cheat. And maybe he’s a liar, too.

As God as my witness, I will never, ever eat popcorn again. And I’ve definitely just been to my last basketball game.

Never again.

Never.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“The credentials you’ve listed in your questionnaire are impressive.” Mayor Davis taps his pen against a thick sheaf of papers that includes my Teacher of the Year nomination and supporting documentation. “You’re involved in training substitute teachers…” He glances at the paperwork, begins to read aloud “…
plus I’m responsible for coordinating our school’s spelling bee. I run the after-school program, and also serve as peer mentor to other teachers.
” He leans back in his chair, eyes me with a how-much-of-this-is-true-and-how-much-are-you-padding-your-questionnaire smile. “You sound like a very busy woman.”

“No busier than anyone else,” I say.

The small staff room of the
James Bay Journal
newspaper office grows quiet as seven pair of eyes train on me. The round-table discussion is designed as an informal let’s-get-to-know-you-better-session, but it’s part of the competition and determines who’ll make it to the final round. If I want to make the cut, I need to start talking. I know what they’re waiting for. They want to hear about my philosophy of education. They’re waiting for me to promote my values, to pump myself up, beat my chest, and tell them I’m the best thing that ever walked through the door of James Bay Elementary.

But I haven’t got it in me. I’m still nursing a sugar hangover from last night’s binge. Will I ever learn to keep my hand out of the cookie jar? Greasy popcorn and chocolate chip cookies don’t mix.

Neither do dreams of basketball and romance, which came crashing to an end last night.

“Three teachers from the same elementary school making it to the semifinal round. That’s never happened before.” Mayor Davis looks up, nods. “Pretty impressive, if you ask me. Obviously your principal is doing something right.”

They don’t know the half of it. Chuck Stevens deserves his own award: Wishy-Washy Boss of the Year. He’d throw the entire teaching staff in front of a moving bus if it meant saving his own butt. And as for our three finalists? My bet is on Amy. She’s out there actively promoting herself, throwing parties, donating to charities, throwing her husband’s money around in hope of buying herself a ticket to the final round. It’s enough to make me want to throw up. And as for Nick? I swallow down a gag.

Kent Phillips, President of our hometown bank, leans close to the Mayor. “You see that win the basketball team pulled off last night?”

Mayor Davis gives him a discreet thumbs-up. “We’re talking play-offs this year.”

Is that part of it? Does basketball count? But that’s not fair. What does shooting hoops or winning games have to do with teaching? And for that matter, why should the way you look have anything to do with it? I tug at the ill-fitting skirt that somehow managed to hike halfway up my thigh. I knew I made the wrong choice when I plucked this suit off the hanger this morning. The skirt bunches at the waist and it’s too tight through the hips. But the blue in the jacket is an exact match with the color of my eyes, which is why I bought it. Problem is, I counted on losing a few more pounds.
Not.
This morning, I thought I could get away with it.
Not
. Guaranteed my personal fashionista Priscilla would have talked me out of wearing it.
Not
.

For that to happen, she’d have to be talking to me.

Chief Dennis, James Bay Chief of Police, flips through his paperwork, frowns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think there’s something missing.”

“I’m sorry. Could you be more specific?” The application was submitted months ago and I completed the questionnaire and wrote the paper before Christmas. I try not to squirm. I’m the last candidate being interviewed today but I already know the interview hasn’t gone well. They ask a question, I mumble an answer. Why did I even bother showing up? I should have stayed home and slept in like any normal person on a Saturday morning, because there’s no way in hell I’m going to win this contest. I’m a fifth-grade teacher in a too-tight skirt who can barely manage her own life, let alone a group of ten-year-olds. Whoever takes home that trophy and the one-thousand-dollar prize will be someone who makes Bay County proud. Someone photogenic, someone well known, someone with his feet planted firmly on the floor, out there in the community representing our educational system.

Someone like Nick Lamont.