The Perfect Secret Read online

  “Yes, sir,” I said, using my best manners. “But I’m the stats man, not the water boy. That’s the perfect job for me because of my brain. Coach Woods said so.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I don’t know any Coach Woods. Now get outta here!” he barked.

  Even though filling water bottles wasn’t in the stats man job description, I didn’t complain, because something told me I didn’t want to get Coach Holmes mad. I hustled, and I was doing pretty good until I got the bottles filled and had to lift them. Water is heavy! One gallon weighs eight pounds. I don’t know how many gallons I had, but it took me three trips to get all of the bottles out to the field. My sneakers and socks were soaking wet by the time I got done, but the good news was that I didn’t miss much of practice. I was finishing my last trip when Coach Holmes blew his whistle. “Give me two lines behind Nicky and Adam!” he shouted.

  Nicky and Adam were two of the eighth graders. Coach Holmes blew his whistle again, and the team started jogging down the field. When they reached the end, they turned the corner and came back down the opposite sideline. Coach Holmes was waiting for them. He showed the guys how to break off into lines every five yards so that everyone was spread out and we looked like a team.

  Nicky and Adam were at the front and led the calisthenics and stretching, and then Coach Holmes took over with his whistle again. He put the team through something he called “dynamic warm-up.” That included high knees and shuffling and bear crawls and more. I was loving it. After the dynamic warm-up the guys were sweating and breathing heavy, so Coach Holmes gave them a quick water break.

  I was ready. I passed out the bottles. “Nice job out there, boys. Keep it up,” I said. It was important for coaches and managers and the stats man to encourage the team. I gave a few high fives and pats on the backs. I ran a good water break, until only two players remained.

  “This water is warm,” Nicky growled. “You suck, water boy.”

  “You’re screwing up on day one,” Adam sneered. He grabbed my cap and tossed it on the wet ground.

  Nicky stomped on it and spit water in my face. Then they chucked the bottles over my head and ran back to Coach Holmes, laughing.

  That wasn’t funny, but the worst part was when I saw that all the water was gone, so I had to trudge back to the locker room and refill the bottles, which took time. I was more upset about that than I was about Nicky and Adam.

  But I’ve always been fast. So even though it sounded like I had a swamp in my sneakers, when I got back to the field, I saw that Coach Frazier had just started working with the linemen—that was where Trevor was—and Coach Holmes had the skill players in two lines. One line was paired with Nicky and one with Adam. The guys were told to run different passing routes so those two could practice throwing the ball. Coach Holmes had already picked his quarterbacks. I watched, and after a few minutes I knew the first piece of advice I had for Coach Holmes was to put Gavin in there. He was definitely better than these eighth graders, and I wasn’t saying that just because he was my friend.

  * * *

  —

  “Dude, where’ve you been?” Mark asked when I finally joined them after practice. We were outside waiting for our rides.

  “Coach Holmes and Coach Frazier had me giving them a hand with the cones and balls and stuff.”

  “Giving them a hand, or doing it for them?” Trevor said.

  “It’s okay. It’s only day one,” I said. Things would change once I got the chance to show the coaches my skills.

  Mark’s dad pulled into the parking lot, and he and Trevor left, so it was just Gavin and me waiting when Coach Holmes and Coach Frazier came walking out of the school.

  “Hey, Coaches. Great practice today,” I said.

  Coach Holmes chuckled. “What’s your name again, kid?”

  “Scott Mason.”

  “He’s the one who wants to be our stats man,” Coach Frazier reminded him.

  “Oh yeah. The water boy,” Coach Holmes said. “Okay, Stats Man. Tell me what you saw out there at practice today.”

  He asked for it. “Nicky completed thirty-five percent of his passes when the receivers were on his right and twenty-five percent to his left. Adam was about the same. They need to get much better throwing to their left before I’d call one of those plays.”

  Coach Holmes and Coach Frazier looked like Dumb and Dumber standing there with their mouths open. I almost laughed. Coach Frazier even scratched his head.

  I smiled. “I told you I’m good with numbers and analyzing information. That’s why I want to be the team’s stats man. I can help you.”

  “Help me?” Coach Holmes scoffed.

  “Yes. I can give you the data to help you make decisions. We’ve got a good group, and I know it’s only day one, but the data suggests that Nicky and Adam need lots of work. They’ll make fine backups, but you should put Gavin in at quarterback. He’s better.”

  “Is that right?” Coach Holmes sneered. He stepped closer. Then he leaned forward, his eyes narrowed on Gavin. “You’re Gavin?”

  Gavin nodded.

  “Gavin what?” Coach Holmes growled.

  “Gavin Davids.”

  “Davids,” Coach Holmes repeated. “Your mother is that woman from Mexico. She used to bartend at Coleman’s.” Coach Holmes wasn’t asking a question, so Gavin didn’t say a word. “I was hoping she got smart and went back to where she came from.” Coach Holmes got even closer, so his face was only inches from Gavin’s. He growled something else, but his voice was too low for me to hear it.

  “Dad, you ready? Let’s go.” It was Nicky. Adam was with him.

  Coach Holmes straightened. “I’m coming,” he said. He glared at Gavin and me, and then he turned and left with his kid, and Coach Frazier left with Adam.

  My ride and Gavin’s ride showed up right after that, so we left without talking about what had just happened.

  It was only day one. Things would get better.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #5

  September: Baby on Board

  It was official, the start of school—in my case, the beginning of seventh grade. Same as always, I made certain that Mother drove me there early. This day was all about first impressions; I had several of them to make—four, as a matter of fact. That was because seventh grade meant we had a different teacher for each major academic class: English language arts (ELA), math, science, and social studies.

  To be frank, there was no eccentric teacher like Mrs. Magenta, and no one even remotely close to Mrs. Woods. My teachers were normal, which on the one hand was fine, but on the other was boring. The only exception was Mrs. Yazmire. To be clear, Mrs. Yazmire was normal, but her present condition wasn’t anything I had prior experience with in the classroom. It was hard to believe she was still four weeks away from her due date. Either she was going early or she was going to pop. While the uncertainty of her situation provided some excitement, I did not like the thought of her water breaking and labor commencing in our classroom; I was interested in law, not medical school.

  Aside from meeting the people responsible for my education this year, the only other thing we accomplished was an overview of each course syllabus. I realize I risk sounding like Scott when I say this, but it was a day of boring teachers with super-boring agendas. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anyone to commiserate with until lunch, because my friends all had different schedules. Not surprisingly, the administration had decided to place the CSA cheaters in as many different classes as possible to avert any potential problems this year. None of us Recruits were together. I wasn’t happy about this, but I couldn’t argue that it wasn’t fair.

  Needless to say, day one of seventh grade was utterly underwhelming. A letdown of this magnitude would’ve had me in the dumps had I not had my personal g
oals to keep me challenged. The day’s most important first impression was scheduled to occur after school. We had chosen that time to meet because that was when Gavin would be preoccupied with practice.

  I had two objectives going into the meeting: (1) meet and greet, and (2) share my vision and plan with Mrs. Davids. Unlike with Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta, I needed Mrs. Davids on board to accomplish this goal. No keeping secrets from her, though I did anticipate keeping this secret from everyone else.

  GOALS

  Resolve the strained relationship between Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta.

  Keep our plan secret, which requires keeping Scott and the rest of the Recruits quiet—but mainly Scott.

  Teach Mrs. Davids how to read English.

  Sixth grade was not an ordinary year, and that’s putting it mildly. Mrs. Woods and Mrs. Magenta were special; there was no other way of saying it. I wasn’t stupid enough to expect the same thing out of seventh grade, but I also wasn’t going back to my old ways. I’d tolerate school, if only because Mrs. Woods had taught me that I could do better. And “tolerate” was the right word, because believe me, by the end of that first day, I’d had enough and was more than ready to get away from my teachers.

  Every single one of them had to ask me, “Oh, are you Brian’s younger brother?”

  “Yes,” I answered truthfully.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine,” I lied through my teeth.

  What else was I supposed to say? As far as all these teachers knew, my brother was a college graduate. And why shouldn’t they think that? My brother hadn’t been the best student when he was in school, but he had held his own. It wasn’t until college that Brian had gotten in with the wrong crowd and blown his opportunity—and Dad’s money. He came home a different person—sad and angry—and it only got worse after he met Chris at his gas station job.

  Now my parents were sad and angry and fought. All. The. Time. The first day of school might have sucked, but the morning at home on my first day sucked more. Mom and Dad’s screaming match was a big one. One of their worst. And it started with me.

  “Trevor!” Dad yelled from his bedroom.

  Huh? What? I rolled over.

  “Trevor, get in here!”

  Huh?

  “Trevor!”

  I threw my covers off and swung my feet to the ground. “Coming.” What is his problem? I got up and stumbled into his bedroom, still rubbing my eyes. “Yeah?” I mumbled.

  “Don’t ‘yeah’ me. Can you explain this?” He pointed to the small wooden box sitting on his dresser.

  “Explain what?”

  “Do you see what’s missing?”

  “No,” I said. I’d never looked in the box before. How was I supposed to know what was missing?

  “Three hundred dollars! Three hundred dollars has disappeared!” my father yelled.

  “And you want me to explain that?” I said. I glanced at Mom, looking for help. I saw the hurt in her eyes.

  “Well, it’s gone somewhere,” he said.

  “You think I took it?”

  “I’ve already had one son turn out bad. Maybe you’re getting an early start,” Dad said.

  “Steve!” Mom snapped. “That’s enough. He didn’t take it.”

  “Here we go again,” Dad said, “always babying your sons. Look where that’s gotten us.”

  “Don’t blame your stupid money on us!” Mom shouted. “You’ve been married to your job, chasing the almighty dollar and missing out on your kids for the last twenty years. Look where that’s gotten us!”

  “And you should talk! It’s not like you’ve been around for these boys, either!”

  That was my cue. I wasn’t sticking around. I walked into my bedroom and put my headphones on and cranked the volume. I tried not to think about my brother or my parents’ constant fighting, or what a jerk my father was, but that was impossible. Blasting music into my brain didn’t keep the word “divorce” out of my head, and there was no way to forget about Brian, especially when my teachers kept asking about him. I had hoped to find my escape on the football field that afternoon, but Coach Frazier’s constant yelling only reminded me of home.

  “Trevor!” Coach Frazier hollered. “Trevor!”

  What I heard was my father, yelling my name that morning. Blaming me for his missing money. I still couldn’t believe he’d done that.

  “Trevor! Over here!” Coach Frazier barked.

  I came to, remembering where I was.

  “A lineman has to be able to focus,” Coach Frazier yelled. “Otherwise you’ll be forgetting the snap count and jumping offside, or worse—forgetting the play and getting our guys killed.”

  “Sorry, Coach.”

  “I don’t have time for ‘sorry.’ Pay attention!”

  I tried, but my mind wandered to Mom and Dad and Brian. I stared off into the distance and saw Gavin running laps on the track. He wasn’t the sort of kid to talk back or smart-mouth, so what was he doing out there? What had happened?

  “Trevor!” Coach Frazier hollered. “If I have to yell your name one more time, you’ll be on the track with him!”

  I got down and fired out of my stance on Coach Frazier’s count, and then I went back to the end of the line. “Go!” Again and again we drilled it. “Go!” Coach Frazier never stopped barking. “Go! Butt down! Eyes up! Stay low! Go!”

  The yelling. The shouting. It was too much. Stop! I needed to get away. Stop! I looked the other way and spotted Scott struggling with the practice bags, dragging them across the ground from the equipment shed to the sideline.

  “What was that?” Coach Frazier screamed at the kid doing the drill.

  I took two steps away from the back of the line and broke into a run.

  “Trevor!” Coach Frazier yelled after me. “Trevor!”

  I didn’t stop. I never even slowed down. I ran until I had ahold of a bag.

  “Trevor, what’re you doing?” Scott asked.

  “Helping,” I said. Getting away, I thought. I gripped the handle on the bag and pulled it to the sideline. Then I jogged to the shed and grabbed the next one. By then Gavin was right behind me. We got the bags out to the field for Scott, and then we returned to our groups.

  “You done being a Good Samaritan?” Coach Frazier asked.

  “Just being a team player, Coach.”

  “How about being a team player with the rest of the linemen? You’re the ones who need to work together to get us into the end zone. That stupid water boy isn’t getting us there.”

  There was plenty I wanted to say to Coach Frazier, but I kept my mouth shut. He didn’t know Scott like I did. Stats Man would prove him wrong all on his own before our season was over.

  NATALIE KURTSMAN

  ASPIRING LAWYER

  Kurtsman Law Offices

  BRIEF #6

  September: A Meeting with Mrs. Davids

  By the time I made it to my parents’ office, I had only a few minutes to get things organized before Mrs. Davids arrived. I didn’t want to leave her waiting, because I got the feeling she was already uneasy about our meeting. Why? I didn’t know. But time would tell; it always does.

  “Hello, Mrs. Davids,” I said, greeting her at the entrance.

  “Hi, Natalie.”

  “Please, come inside.” I held the door for her. “I’ve got us set up in the conference room. It’s a quiet space.”

  “Are your parents here?” Mrs. Davids asked.

  “Yes, but they’re both on the phone with clients. Did you want to see them?”

  “Oh no. Don’t bother them. I was just wondering.”

  I smiled and led the way down the hall. I noticed Mrs. Davids shooting glances all around the office as we walked. I stopped outside our room. “Here we are,” I said. “After
you.” I followed her inside and closed the door behind us, sensing that Mrs. Davids would want that. “Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to a chair at the table. Mrs. Davids was clearly showing signs of anxiety, but I didn’t mention it. A lawyer needs patience; the client needs to feel relaxed in order for anything meaningful to transpire. “Here’s some water,” I said, placing a cup in front of her. This was something Mother always did.

  “Thank you,” she said, grasping the cup and taking a sip. Nervous people always go for the water as soon as it’s offered. Besides that, I could see the cup shaking in her hands. I attributed that to Mrs. Davids being out of her comfort zone, nothing more. But a good lawyer knows enough to follow up on all observations. All leads. Not simply shrug them off, which I did—and that was a mistake. What can I say? I was more concerned with getting started.

  Teachers often begin the school year with pre-assessments, so that they have an idea about where their students are in their learning. It’s important to know what your student doesn’t know. With this in mind I decided to administer my own version of a reading pre-assessment, but not before asking one key question: “Mrs. Davids, just out of curiosity, are you able to read Spanish?”

  She shifted in her seat. “Yes, and I can write, but not that well,” she admitted. “It’s been years since I’ve done much reading.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay,” I said. “If you can read another language, then you should be able to pick up on English in no time. You’ll see.” I slid a paper across the table. “Let’s get started. Please read these letters for me. I’m just trying to get a sense of what you already know so that I can determine how best to proceed.”

  Mrs. Davids studied the paper. Then she swallowed and slid it back to me. “Thank you, Natalie, but I don’t think this is a good idea. I should go.” She pushed back in her chair.