Plunking Reggie Jackson (7 page)

“I guess I could be,” Bree answered.

Coley couldn't be sure what she meant by that, but it was a lot better listening to her compliments than to his father's criticism. Bree's fingers were hooked on to the fence. Her well-shaped fingernails were covered with a pale, frosted polish the color of cultured pearl. “Did you drive?” he asked her.

“You mean here? To the game?”

“Yeah, how'd you get here? Did you, like, drive or walk or what?”

“I don't have a license yet,” she told him. “I'm only fifteen. I just stayed after school, until the game started.” By extending her fingers, she was able to secure the hem of Coley's letter jacket in a tentative pincer grip. When she tugged, he let himself move flush against the fence.

“You want a ride home?”

“With you?” she asked. “You'd do that for me?” It was somewhat awkward through the fence, but she was in the process of fastening the bottom three snaps of his jacket. Deft as it was, it didn't happen quickly, because she had only the use of her fingers. No way to use her arms for leverage. She giggled as she went. It was a bold act of familiarity somehow, as intoxicating to Coley as it was unexpected. An unlikely combination of the maternal and the flirtatious.

He covered her fingers with his larger ones before he said, “I'll give you a ride. I have to get showered, but it won't take me long.” He tried to look into her eyes, but he saw instead his own image reflected in her sunglasses.

“Where should I meet you?” Bree asked him. She took off the shades to push some of the blowing hair from her face. At the corner of her left eye was a pale, greenish yellow blemish that looked like the final visible trace of a bruise. It wasn't eye shadow, though, that was plain. She wasn't wearing much makeup at all, except for the red lipstick, which was expertly applied.

Coley still covered her free hand with his own. “Just wait by my car in the parking lot. I'll be right out.”

“It won't take you long, though, huh?”

“Not long at all. Ten minutes, tops.”

“Okay, but promise it won't be more.” She started to giggle.

“Okay, I promise.” He turned to go, heading in the direction of the locker room, but after twenty feet or so he remembered to turn back. “My car's the purple Beretta.”

“I know,” he heard her say.

It took him eight minutes. His hair was still wet when he found her leaning against the passenger's side of the car, holding her books to her chest. As soon as she got in, Bree said, “This car is so cool.”

Coley started the engine. “It's a good car except for the color.”

“But I like the color.”

“Who wants a purple car? My dad bought it out at Hennesy's because he got a great price on it. It was a program car.”

“What's a program car?”

“It's like a demonstrator. Salesmen use them so people can make test drives.”

Bree was twisting her torso in order to put her books in the backseat by way of the gap between the seats. Her short, silky skirt was one of those that buttoned down the front; it was high on her thighs. “But Coley, this is a
lavender
car, not a purple one. A purple car would be gross.”

“Purple, lavender. Anyway, it's better than the last car I had.”

“You had another car before this?”

“I've had two other cars. This is the third car I've had.” Coley couldn't help wearing a sheepish grin while he delivered this information. They were idling by the stop sign at the entry to the street. “So you'll have to give me directions,” he reminded her. “I don't know where your house is.”

“Yale Boulevard. You know where it is?”

“I know.” He pulled swiftly into the street and headed east on South Grand. Bree asked him if she could turn the rearview mirror in her direction, and he said, “No problem. I've got the side mirrors.”

She began combing her hair. “Your dad buys you cars? You must be rich.”

“We're rich enough,” Coley had to admit. “I don't know who makes more money, though, my mom or my dad. She sells real estate.”

Bree was still combing, leaning forward in her seat to get a better look in the mirror. “What car did you have before this?”

“It was a Honda Accord. It was okay, but it didn't have much guts. I talked my old man into getting this one.”

“I think a lavender car is super cool.” She was speaking to him, but by way of the mirror. Her legs weren't together and her skirt wasn't pulled down. She was arousing him, even if her suggestive body language wasn't premeditated. Maybe even
because
it wasn't.

“Lavender, purple.”

Bree giggled before she said, “I'll take your old Honda when I turn sixteen, since you don't need it now.”

“Sorry.” He smiled. “It got traded in on this one.” The left side of her face was less than a foot from his head. She was still combing the fine, straight hair with regular strokes, but it looked to him like everything was in place and there wasn't much more to accomplish. “How'd you get the bruise?” he asked casually. They were stopped at the Eleventh Street traffic light.

Before she answered, she put the sunglasses back on. “I hit it on the car door.” She was putting the comb away in her purse.

“How did that happen?”

Something was different all of a sudden. Bree located herself squarely in her own seat. She crossed her legs and pulled the hem of her skirt down. “It just happened. It was clumsy. Don't ask so many questions.”

“That was one question. If you don't want to talk about it, that's cool.”

They were headed south on Eleventh Street. Bree was quiet. Content, it seemed, to stare out the passenger's window. Coley asked her about her family. She told him she lived with her mother and stepfather.

“Where does your real dad live?”

“He used to live in Texas. He still might, as far as I know. We practically never hear from him.”

“What does your stepfather do?”

“He's a retired air force officer.”

Coley didn't know much about her, but he decided she was a puzzle. The same girl who buttoned up his coat through the fence and gushed about his lavender car was now the one giving terse and reluctant answers to questions that didn't seem all that personal. He decided to change the subject. “So what do you say? You wanna go out? Let's go out to Knight's Action.”

“I haven't been there. Is it nice?”

“Yeah. How about Friday?”

“I'm free on Friday,” she said, “but what about Gloria?”

“I already told you. That's over.”

She removed the sunglasses before turning to face him. “She's so popular, though.”

Coley nodded. “That's good for her, then. She'll land on her feet.”

“But I have to be sure,” said Bree.

“You can be sure. Just trust what I'm tellin' you.”

Bree's house was a modest Cape Cod on the east side of Yale Boulevard. She stood on the porch waving good-bye to him as he pulled away from the curb. The wind blew her hair and her skirt. Not too far from where she stood, a curtain was pulling back along the edge of the large picture window, but Coley couldn't see whose hand might be moving it.

Chapter Six

The next time Ruthie Roth brought him a notice in the library, Coley was set to be annoyed. He was reading the sports section of the
Tribune
. “What is it now?”

“You mean we have to stop meeting like this? Is that what you're saying?”

“Very funny. What do you want?”

Ruthie took the liberty of sitting in the closest chair, but she had to duck to avoid the wooden spindle on the spine of Coley's newspaper.

“Mrs. Alvarez wants to see you in her office,” Ruthie informed him.

The box next to
immediately
had a check mark. Underneath, Mrs. Alvarez's signature was stamped in place. “I can see that,” Coley said. “What the hell does she want?”

“How would I know? That would have to be between you and her.”

Coley couldn't think what he might be in trouble for. His English midterm had come through; he wasn't flunking anything. At least he didn't
think
he was. Before he went to the office, he decided to ask Ruthie a favor. He asked her if she would help him with his values survey for human dynamics.

“You want me to help you with your homework.”

She must have meant it as a question, even if it didn't sound like one. So he said, “Yeah, if you don't mind.”

“Why should I mind? You're always there for me, aren't you?”

“If you're going to be sarcastic, then I take it back. Don't help me.”

“Every time you need a favor, usually one that has to do with some class that's a problem for you, it's time for us to be friends.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Am I wrong, Coley?”

“You're exaggerating.”

“Am I really? It seems the last time you wanted to associate with me was sophomore year, when I spent two weeks as your tutor for geometry. You were flunking, remember?”

He remembered. The fact he'd scraped by with a D was in no small part thanks to Ruthie. He probably would've flunked the final without the help. But he had to believe she was exaggerating. “Okay, forget I even asked.”

“Just like that? I should forget?”

Coley regretted he'd even brought it up. “You've got leftover makeup around your eyes. A little glitter, too, it looks like.”

“It's theater makeup,” she replied.

“Why do you need makeup for rehearsals?”

“I don't. But I like to experiment. Is that okay with you?”

Coley shrugged his shoulders. “If you want to look like a raccoon, it's okay with me.” He took the newspaper back to the rack. When he returned, Ruthie stated, “Okay, I'll help you. But on one condition: You have to come to my house.”

If this was meant as a challenge, Coley couldn't see it as one. “Fine.”

“I may look like a raccoon, you never know.”

“That's your call, Ruthie.”

“I mean, I want you to be up front and visible about the fact that you're not afraid to spend time with me.”

Now she was pissing him off. He picked up his books. “That's bullshit, Ruthie, and you know it. Who am I supposed to be afraid of?”

“Oh. Did I forget I'm talking to Coley Burke? I should remember that you're one of the lucky few who go beyond the need for peer approval.”

“Why don't you get going? You must have other people to annoy.”

When he got to the office, Coley was relieved to find he wasn't in trouble. Mrs. Alvarez wanted help moving some boxes from the trunk of her car. “How did you know where to find me?” he asked her.

“I'm real smart that way, Coley. I know this is your study hall, and I know there aren't any magazines or sports pages in the auditorium.”

“How long will this take?”

“Maybe ten minutes, fifteen at the most.”

Coley shrugged. He didn't know why Mrs. Alvarez wanted him to be the box mover, but he said, “Okay, let's go.”

Her car was in aisle H, so it was nearly a hundred yards from the front door of the school. A sharp wind was blowing. There were two boxes, about the same size, taped shut. Mrs. Alvarez told him one was light, full of tissue-paper balls that might be used at the prom. The other box, the one she wanted him to carry, was full of books.

“The prom is a long way off,” Coley observed. “Why are you bringing decorations?”

“I needed the books, so why not bring the other things too? Makes one trip out of it.”

The books were heavy, but he didn't complain. Before they got to the front door, he asked her if she'd spoken to Grissom about his book reports.

“Do you mean
Mrs
. Grissom?”

“That would be the one. Mrs. Grissom.”

“Yes, I spoke to her. She said she has both of your reports but hasn't graded them yet.”

Damn
, he thought.
I need those grades
.

“And by the way, Coley, that other book you reported on? The one whose title you couldn't remember?”

“Yeah?”

“It was
The Old Man and the Sea
, by Ernest Hemingway.”

“That sounds right.” When they reached the front foyer door, Coley had to shift the heavy box onto a hip in order to toss the door open and hold it against the wind.

They were walking in the hallway, side by side. He noticed how, carrying a large box, Mrs. Alvarez seemed so small. “That's not a title many people forget,” she went on. “That book's a classic.”

“Why is this, like, an issue with you? I forgot the name of a book I read.”

“Because I know a lot more about your academic history than I used to. I've been doing some investigating.”

Oh, shit
, Coley thought. As soon as they reached her office, he put his box on the floor next to the desk.

Mrs. Alvarez took her seat in the chair behind her desk. She told him, “You were a good student until the ninth grade.”

Coley sat down in the chair across from her. It appeared they were going to have a conversation. “So?”

“So, then your grades started slipping. They still are.”

“I'm probably not the first person that ever happened to.”

“Probably not. Your brother, Patrick, on the other hand, was never a good student.”

“How do you know all of this stuff?”

“I told you,” said Mrs. Alvarez. “I've been doing some investigating. Student records are kept on the computer. They're not hard to find.”

Coley didn't like the way this visit was developing. He sat up straighter in his chair. “Are there any more boxes to move, or are we done now?”

“We're done with boxes, but I'd really like to visit with you for a little while.”

He was anxious to know what grades he might be getting on the two book reports. If he was good with those, he wouldn't have to worry about his baseball eligibility. He leaned back in his chair. “Okay,” he finally said.