Wait. That one I was sure was an Aunt Ruta Life Rule.
Daisy’s phone rang and we both winced. She answered in a whisper. “Hello? What? Uh…we’re in the library. Doing research. Yes, tell Grandma she can give Willow a cheese sandwich. No, I don’t know where cactuses get their prickles from. No, cactuses are not dead witches. Well, tell Lucas he’s wrong. I’ve gotta go, honey!” She hung up and bit her lip, her eyes rolling upward as if she could see out the windows. Mine did the same. All I saw was field house ceiling, which, of course, featured three stuck dodge balls, just like every other school gym ceiling in all of America.
We held our breath and listened as the assistant coach’s voice got louder, and louder still, and then let our breath out as the voice got softer until it was gone.
“The blinds,” I mouthed.
“Won’t it look suspicious if they suddenly close with nobody in here?” Daisy whispered.
“I don’t care, just close them!”
She inched over toward one window, reached up, and twisted the blinds closed while I closed the blinds on another. Then she inched over to the third window and did the same. Finally protected from view, we stood, brushing off our clothes.
“That was really close,” she said.
“Too close. Let’s just get this done and get out of here.”
“Okay.” She paused. “What is it we’re trying to get done?”
We both stood in the center of the office and gazed around for a long minute. There was so much junk and paperwork and equipment and old food cartons, and I hadn’t really had a plan beyond get into the office. I had no idea what we were looking for. Or where to even start. In retrospect, it might have been a better move to just ask the assistant if I could have a moment of his time.
Daisy picked up a Taco Bell bag between two fingers and dropped it into the trash. Then moved on to an empty milkshake cup and did the same.
“What are you doing?”
“They’re going to get bugs if they leave this stuff out.”
“We’re here to get evidence!”
“Well, just in case that evidence is hiding under the garbage, I’ll deposit this Diet Coke can into the recycling.”
I turned a slow circle. Two desks, two bookshelves, two file drawers. One great, big disaster-style mess. I eenie-meanied and chose the desk that looked most official. And by official, I meant the one with the coiled whistle-on-a-string sitting on it.
I sifted through take-out menus and used napkins and newspaper clippings and memos and printed emails—from students, from parents, from local media, from the principal. The River Fork Tribune wanted a photo of RFHS’s new phenom freshman quarterback. They were hoping for an interview about the upcoming season. The phenom freshman quarterback’s mom wanted to make sure Farley knew where the best lighting was for said photo, since the clipping was going to be pasted into the phenom freshman’s baby book. Another mom wondered if her kid’s seasonal allergy list was on file, and did the school own an EpiPen by chance? There were multiple copies of the article about River Fork’s state win last year, with various congratulatory Post-its stuck on them. A few students’ health class tests over bones and muscles—nobody scored above a C, by the way. I kept sifting. Farley loved pizza, but didn’t care for coupons, apparently. And of course, there was…whoa. Wait a minute.
I pulled out a printed email. The signature line indicated it had come from River Fork’s principal. It was brief.
Gerry,
We should discuss before I reach out to the parents of this student. Give me a list of your available times and we’ll devise a statement.
Phil
Below that was a forwarded email from none other than Paulie Henderson. Dated last year.
Sheesh, the man couldn’t even clean off his desk once a year? Gross.
Principal Yost,
Your coach stole my playbook. We all know it. It was here and then you guys came and now it’s gone so either he took it himself or one of his players took it for him. We deserved that win but because he cheats we didn’t get it. But you know what? I don’t need that old playbook, because I’ve got my brain and my brain’s got millions maybe thousands of plays in it. But next year is my senior year and I swear he better not try to steal my plays again. I will come out there if I have to. It’s good to know my plays are winning plays tho.
Signed,
Unanimous
Someone had handwritten across the bottom:
Henderson Mon 3:30 (816) 555-9292
“Daisy, look at this,” I said.
She came over and peered at the note. “Unanimous?”
“I think he meant Anonymous, but we both know that was Paulie Henderson.”
“He threatened him. In writing. From his school email account. Not very smart.” She picked up an empty box of crackers and tucked it under one arm. “Not that it was super smart to threaten him over a live mic at a football game, either.”
“And look at the date. This was last year. The feud between Paulie and the coach has been going on for a long time. No wonder he jumped him at the homecoming game.”
“What do you think happened during that 3:30 phone call?” she asked.
“I know what didn’t happen,” I said. “They didn’t patch up their differences and become friends.” Especially considering that Coach Farley is in a morgue right now.
“Should we look for the playbook?” she asked, dropping the box into the trash.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She picked up a can. “To see if he was guilty?”
Even if we found the playbook and proved that Coach Farley was, in fact, guilty of stealing the Parkwood team’s plays, it would be circumstantial evidence at best, and I doubt anyone would be wowed by it. But when working an investigative report, any information is good information, because you never know where it might lead.
“Do you really think he would still be hanging onto last year’s playbook?”
She held up the box
