Come on Panthers, leeeeettt's win!
The girls end their overly energetic cheer on a jump/kick combination.
Drew stands up and claps. "That was in-credible! Can you do that end part again where you bounce up and down and talk about riding them?"
"Shut up, Drew," Kendra says.
He holds up his hands and shrugs. "What? I was just admiring the cheer."
"Please," Danielle says as she sits down next to Brian and gives Drew a disgusted look. "You were admiring something, all right. Our chests."
"That, too," Drew admits. "I'm a teenage guy with raging hormones, what do you expect? I bet Caleb admired them, too, 'cause he hasn't seen any in almost a year. Isn't that right, CB?"
I should have known it was just a matter of time before my jail time got thrown in my face. Great, now everyone is looking at me, waiting to hear the ex-con's response. Including Kendra. I stand up and walk out of the cafeteria. I don't want to deal with this crap right now.
"I was just kidding, Caleb. Come back here!" Drew yells.
Every week in the DOC we had rage-intervention classes. They stressed avoiding confrontation, teaching us instead to release anger in other, non-violent ways. Since punching Drew in his mouth that runs like diarrhea isn't an option, I head to the school workout room.
I walk right up to the punching bag and whack it until there's a permanent dent in the side. I don't even care that my knuckles are bleeding.
"Caleb, take it easy on that thing."
It's Coach Wenner, standing near the free weights with a cup of coffee in his hand. He's wearing a golf shirt with Panther Wrestling embroidered on the front.
I stop punching the bag and stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my bleeding knuckles. "They tell me this is your last year coaching."
"Yep. I'll be teaching drivers' ed as well as gym classes come next fall."
I shake my head in disbelief. "Drivers' ed?" The guy lives and breathes wrestling.
"The wife doesn't want me to be away on the weekends after the baby is born. Above all else, you got to do what you think is best for your family. Right?"
"I guess."
Wenner takes a sip of the drink and leans against the wall. "You know, what happened last year shocked the hell out of me. I would have bet my right arm a kid like you wouldn't leave the scene of an accident."
"Lucky for you, you didn't make that bet," I counter.
"Uh huh," Wenner says, then adds, "go to the nurse and get those knuckles wrapped," and casually walks out of the room.
SIXTEEN
Maggie
It took Caleb a week to slide right back into his life without a hitch. I left the cafeteria this afternoon when the popular girls did a cheer right in front of him. I could have sworn he thought the cheer was just for him.
As if that wasn't bad enough, I heard Tristan Norris say in earth science that Caleb is going out for wrestling this year.
Not only did I lose Leah as a friend and everyone else thinks I'm a walking freak, I have no hope of joining the tennis team or playing sports ever again.
I'm chastising myself for comparing myself to Caleb as I ride the bus to Hampton for my first day working for Mrs. Reynolds. I just wish it was easier for me ... or less easy for him. I realize I'm bitter, but I can't help it. I've been through such pain and agony the past year, and going back to school has only emphasized what an outcast I've become.
I reach Mrs. Reynolds' house and ring the doorbell. She doesn't answer. I keep ringing, hoping nothing bad has happened to her. Just my luck she decided to fire me before I even started the job.
Placing my book bag on the ground, I head to the back of the house.
Mrs. Reynolds is sitting on the porch swing. Her head is slumped over, but her chest is rising and falling with each breath. Okay, the woman is sleeping. Phew. Balancing in her hand is a glass of lemonade.
This job is going to be a piece of cake. I feel ashamed for taking so much money from Mrs. Reynolds for doing nothing.
I tiptoe toward the swing. I have to take the glass out of Mrs. Reynolds' hand before it spills all over or, worse yet, shatters when her grip loosens and the glass hits the ground.
Slowly, silently, I reach out and slip the glass out of her hand.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The old lady's voice startles me and I jump back. Mrs. Reynolds has one eye open like that guy from the cartoon monster movie. "I, uh, thought you were napping."
"Do I look like I'm napping?"
"Right now you don't."
Mrs. Reynolds sits up straight, her grey hair perfectly styled on top of her head. "Enough chatter. We have lots of work to do today."
"Do you want me to refill your lemonade? Make you a snack?" Fluff your pillows?
"Nope. You see those bags over there?" Mrs. Reynolds says, her crooked finger pointing to the side of the yard.
About ten huge paper bags are lined up in the grass. They're all labeled with strange names: Apricot Whirl, Chromacolor, Decoy, Drift, Yellow Trumpet, Lemon Drops, Rosy Cloud. "What are they for?"
"We're going to plant them. They're daffodils. Well, they don't exactly look like daffodils right now. They're only bulbs."
Plant? I peer inside the bag marked "Drift." There must be more than thirty bulbs in it. I limp over to the next bag, "Lemon Drops," and there's more in this one than the first.