The Homecoming Queen was led out in sobs of crushed school spirit, consoled by her King. Which caused another girl to be led out in sobs, as the king was technically her date. She was being consoled by a passel of scowling girls who all talked loudly about just skipping the dance if that’s the way he’s going to be, because you’re worth more than that and you’re way better than her and everybody knows it, Martha. And the football team slunk in and out of the field house locker rooms in record time, their cheeks rosy from what they would all claim was a very hot and rigorous shower scrubbing and not, absolutely not, tears.
I sat on the top bleacher, eating the surprisingly delicious hot dog Evangeline had given me and idly writing my story while watching the stadium clear out. Eventually, I saw a slumped figure down in the bottom corner of the bleachers. I sighed, gobbled the rest of the frank, and clunked my way down.
“Hey, Ernie,” I said. I jostled his shoulder and he woke with a snort.
“What? Huh?” He blinked at the scoreboard. “Aw, rats. I’ll have to change all the wons to losts again.” He shook his head. “Inconsistent team.”
“I’m sure they would rather you didn’t have to change anything. So what did you make of the big halftime show?”
Yes, this was a test. Yes, he failed it. He cleared his throat, thumbed through a timeworn reporter’s notebook, and said, “I would say the girls have a good chance at the state competition this year. That, uh, number in the middle, that, uh, was something else.”
Something else. Like nonexistent. “You’re talking about the…” I trailed off to let him finish.
“The cheerleaders, of course.”
“I thought it was the dance team that did the halftime shows,” I said.
He rubbed one eye with his finger and yawned. “That’s what I meant. They look like cheerleaders.” This, of course, I couldn’t argue. It was true.
“Ernie,” I said. “You mean to tell me you missed the fight?”
He looked confused. “The girls had a fight?”
“The girls never got to come out. The teams had a fight. Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. I got the story. With quotes.” I opened my own notebook and flipped through the pages, even though I didn’t really need to. “The boys fighting were—”
A screech of tires, a revving engine, and a long, loud scream from the lower parking lot interrupted me.
Ernie and I glanced at each other and then took off toward it.
Well, I took off toward it. Ernie was staggering around behind me, cursing about his leg being asleep after sitting in one position for all that time and why didn’t they spring for cushioned seats for the press already. I raced down the rest of the bleachers and out the stadium gate toward the scream, which died off and then started up again.
By the time I reached the source of the shriek, there was a crowd. They seemed to be circled around something—reminding me of the field brawl.
“It just came out of nowhere and…thump-thump…and was gone,” a woman’s voice said. She hiccupped twice and burst into loud tears. “And I can’t feel a heartbe-e-eat.”
“Excuse me,” I said, pushing and prodding my way through the crowd, my Chicago reporter instincts kicking in. “Excuse me, I—oh.”
In the center of the crowd, at the feet of the crying woman, was an unmoving, crumpled body, facedown, his head turned to the side, his eyes open.
The back of his T-shirt read COACH.
The body was definitely Coach Farley’s.
And he was definitely dead.
Chapter 4
Chief Henderson, wearing Parkwood High School spirit wear, was first on the scene, his entire face a tanned wrinkle of concentration. He immediately began waving everyone away.
“Move back, folks,” he said, flailing his arms around. “Give me some space to work. Get out—now, Stella Jensen, I heard that and I am not having a power trip, this is police business, and you’re standing in the way. Get back, get back. We’ve got to make room for the ambulance. Get on, now.”
We all shuffled backward, making a wide semi-circle around the coach, which only served to make him look even deader somehow. It had been a while since I’d reported on something like this, and I’d forgotten how the sight of a deceased person brought about so many conflicting feelings. Excitement, because I was about to get a story. But also sadness that made me wonder who out there loved the victim, maybe called them son or husband or wife or daughter. Or mom. Or dad. Was Coach Farley someone’s dad? Was a wife’s life about to be turned upside down forever? I couldn’t help thinking those things. Yet, at the same time, I knew what this meant. I was the first reporter on the scene of an accident, and someone had died. I had a job to do. A job I loved and believed in.
I felt my heartbeat quicken with anticipation. I pulled out my notebook and pencil, ready to take notes.
We were standing in what was called the lower lot, which was a hastily-paved and largely ignored parking lot that had been added on when the new stadium crowds strained the capacity of the upper lot. Those who arrived last-minute were forced to park there, and most chose to park on the lawn surrounding the upper lot—much to the principal’s chagrin—rather than walk up the hill to their seats.
The lower lot was small and shadowy, blocked from view of the stadium by a row of evergreen trees. Two of the three lamps had burnt out and nobody had bothered to fix
