Golden Filly Collection Two (52 page)
“And the situation at The Meadows has nothing to do with this?”
What could Trish say? She gathered her thoughts before answering. The truth was always best, her father always said.
“I brought up The Meadows because she was talking about ordinary people influencing government, like I said. I just thought we’d kick it around a bit, but she got all excited and pretty soon everyone was volunteering to do the research, and Doug said our team would pick up stuff at the courthouse, and so here I am.”
Marge nodded, one fingertip on her chin. “You know, Tee, I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“How could I get hurt? I’m just studying government.” She didn’t say, “You worry too much,” even though she wanted to. Sometimes keeping your mouth shut was smarter than spouting off.
By the time Trish read all the stuff they’d collected, she felt like her head was stuffed. You didn’t just walk in and come out ten minutes later with a petition in hand and start collecting signatures. She glanced at the clock. Five to midnight. And she hadn’t yet written the paper due in english. Here school hadn’t been going two weeks and she was already behind.
She drew her notebook out and started writing. Two pages taking the pro side of an issue. “Should Horse Racing Continue at Portland Meadows?” easy topic. She sure knew plenty about it.
She closed her books at twelve-thirty and climbed into bed. At least she didn’t have to be up at four to work horses at the track before school. That would have gone on the…She fell asleep before she could finish the thought.
Her class spent the next three days working on their petition. On Monday they car-pooled over to the courthouse and submitted their final forms. The clerk looked them over, read their application, assigned it a number, and typed in the required information. When they left they had the original ready to make copies.
Curt and another reporter, along with a photographer, met them on the courthouse steps. After asking questions, they lined the class up and, with Ms. Wainwright standing to the side, took pictures.
“Now, where are you going to collect signatures?” Curt asked.
“At a couple of malls and several grocery stores. We have to make copies first, so that won’t start until tomorrow.”
“Some of us are going to go house to house,” one of the boys said. “We’re working in teams of three so we’ll be plenty safe.”
“Since it’s Saturday, we can work all day,” Rhonda added.
All the student teams had their assignments, along with clipboards, extra copies of the petition, and plenty of pens, by the time they left school late that afternoon.
Trish, Doug, and Rhonda had volunteered to work at Clackamas Town Center to the southeast of Portland. “That way we can go shopping afterward,” Rhonda whispered. Trish just shook her head. Shopping and guys had gone to her friend’s head.
They had their spiels down pat the next morning when the four of them—Jason came along like he promised—arrived at the huge mall.
“Now remember, qualify them first. Ask if they are registered voters ’cause otherwise their signature won’t count.” Trish opened her trunk to remove their box of supplies.
By the end of their two-hour stint, Trish felt as if her tongue would stick to the roof of her mouth, it was so dry. Her shoulders ached, her feet hurt, and her friends suffered the same.
“I’m starved.” Rhonda sank down on a bench overlooking the central courtyard. “Let’s head for the food.”
“We have to wait for Jennifer and her team. They’ll be here any minute. Just keep at this till they come.” Trish pushed herself to her feet. “Come on, not much longer.” She walked over to a woman coming in the door. “Please, ma’am, we have a petition here to keep Portland Meadows Racetrack open. Are you a registered voter?” When the woman nodded, Trish extended the clipboard. “Would you be willing to sign here?”
Trish saw the other team push open the doors. Help had arrived.
The story and pictures hit the front page of
The Oregonian’s
Sunday edition. The class stood grinning on the courthouse steps, and the article said, “More pictures and story inside.” There was a close-up of Rhonda with her clipboard and someone signing it. Trish was quoted several times. An accompanying article by Curt Donovan detailed the situation at The Meadows.
“At least my picture isn’t in it.” Trish broke the uncomfortable silence as she and her mother drove to church.
“Oh, no? Second from the right, first row. You and all your classmates.” Marge clenched her hands on the steering wheel. “Couldn’t you at least have stood behind somebody?”
At school the next day, the fourth-period American government class rated hero status. Copies of the articles wore out from being passed hand to hand.
“Cool. Awesome. Good picture. Bad picture.” The raves depended on who was speaking.
“I’m really proud of all of you,” their teacher said. “So far we have collected five thousand signatures. And we have a week to go.”
Different kids shared their experiences as signature gatherers. Most of the comments from the people they’d talked to had been favorable.
Trish came out of weight-training class feeling high both physically and mentally. What a day this had been!
She waved good-bye to Doug on his way to football practice and crossed the parking lot to her car. A crowd of students surrounded it.
They parted like the Red Sea, all voices silent as Trish approached.
Big block letters scratched in the sides of her car read, “Stay out of PM or ELSE!”
Trish thought she would throw up.
G
o tell Mr. Adams.”
Trish heard the voice as if from a long tube. Her car, her beautiful car. She knelt beside the door and traced the hateful words with a shaking finger. Why would anyone do such a thing?
“Trish.” Rhonda knelt beside her. “Maybe you shouldn’t touch it—there might be evidence, you know.”
Trish snatched her hand back. “What have I done to make someone do this?” She could feel the tears running down her face but did nothing to stop them.
“Okay, let’s move back. Come on, kids. Let me through.” Mr. Adams’ voice preceded his arrival.
Trish rose to her feet, feeling as if she were pushing the entire county up with her. She read the words again and walked around the car, seeing the entire damage for the first time. The same words were scrawled on the passenger side and a tic-tac-toe game covered the trunk.
“Are you all right, Trish?” the principal asked when he joined her.
Trish shook her head. “Umm, my car.” She wiped her cheeks with her fingertips.
“But you weren’t hurt?”
“It was like that when we got here. We saw it first. Trish didn’t get here till a minute ago.” One of the guys who answered was parked right next to the red convertible.
“I had Mrs. Olson call the police. They’ll be here soon.” Mr. Adams raised his voice from talking with Trish. “The rest of you go on home now, unless any of you saw strangers in the parking lot.”
The crowd broke up. Trish could hear their conversations, but she didn’t respond. She clamped her arms across her chest to still the shaking. Inside, the old rage sputtered and sparked.
The police cut their siren when they reached the drive to Prairie High School. Their flashing light-bar helped clear the way for them to park next to Trish’s damaged car.
The two male officers introduced themselves before one began questioning those still around, while the other studied the damage. But no one had seen anything. No one had heard anything unusual.
“Do you patrol the parking lot?” one officer asked Mr. Adams.
“Not really, but there are always people coming and going. Surely someone would have seen strangers out here.”
“Could this be the prank of a student? Anyone have any grudges?” He asked this last question of Trish, who shook her head.
“It’s like that letter she got,” Rhonda said. “Tell them, Trish.”
After she told her story, she looked up to see the officer studying her. “You sure have ticked someone off. Any idea who?”
“The only one I know might be involved is Smithson, the assistant manager at the track. The Portland police are investigating him for problems at Portland Meadows.”
“Do you know who’s in charge of that investigation?”
Trish dug in her purse for the officer’s business card and gave it to the sheriff deputy. He copied the information into his notebook and handed back the card.
“If there’s no more, can I go home now?”
“Do you have a ride?” The Officer snapped his notebook shut and stuck it back in the khaki shirt pocket.
“My car…”
“We’ll need to tow it in and go over it for fingerprints. Though I’m not sure what good it will do, not if all those kids touched it.”
“When can I have it back?”
“Depends.”
“I’ll go call my mom.” Rhonda turned and headed back inside.
Trish swallowed hard to trap the screams she felt in her throat. She sucked in a deep breath and looked across the parking lot to the fir trees on the other side of the road. “Depends on what?”
“Look, miss, if this car is involved in a felony of any kind, we have to impound it for evidence. From what you say, a felony may have been committed at the track. And it’s under investigation, so we would be remiss in not impounding evidence.”
The guy talked like he’d just memorized the textbook. Trish recrossed her arms over her chest and gritted her teeth.
They were going to take her car.
“Look, it’s still locked.” She pointed in the window. “And they didn’t touch anything in there. Can I please open the door and get my stuff out?” If she spoke precisely enough, maybe she could keep the tears at bay. Why, oh why, did she have to cry when she was so furious she could have chewed the man up and spit him out?
“Give me your keys and I’ll open it for you. Then just touch your jacket and bag. They may have forced the lock, put something inside, and locked it up again.”
Trish looked to the side and down to the ground. If he didn’t start talking like a human being she might flip out.
“Easy, Trish, he’s just doing his job.” Mr. Adams laid a firm hand on her shoulder.
Trish wasn’t sure if it was to help her control herself or to offer comfort. But whichever, it helped. She took in another deep breath and handed the deputy the keys.
“My mom’s coming right away,” Rhonda panted after dashing across the parking lot.
Trish could feel the anger bubbling and snorting down in her midsection. All the way home, she answered questions in monosyllables while she tried to figure it out. Why her? Why her car?
“Well, at least it’s better damaging the car than you, Trish,” Mrs. Seabolt said, her voice calming and so very reasonable.
“Yeah.” Trish agreed in voice, but her insides would have no part of it.
Of course it is. But why damage anything? What’s going on over there that’s so important—maybe someone is running drugs like Rhonda said.
Marge was working on the farm books at the rolltop desk in the living room when Trish slammed in the door. “What happened, Tee? You’re so late.” She finished her entry before raising her head.
At the look on her daughter’s face, she shoved the rolling chair back and leaped to her feet, catching Trish in her arms.