“No, that’s not my plan.” It was kind of my plan.
I heard the water shut off. “You’re totally going to do some sort of reporter ambush on him, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t have put it into those words, but yes.”
“You need backup. Wait for me.”
“What? No, I don’t need backup.” The door squeaked open and two girls in marching band uniforms came in. I lowered my voice. “I can’t wait for you. The timing has to be perfect for this.”
“I live four minutes away.” I heard the jangle of car keys.
“What about the kids?”
“At the pizza arcade with Mike.”
Another girl came in, her polyester uniform unzipped down to her navel, a crumpled and sweaty PHS Hornets T-shirt beneath. Her face was beet red and she had rings of sweat around her temples and forehead. She went straight for the sink and plunged her head under the running water. You’d think she’d just run ninety yards for a touchdown, from the looks of her.
“I’m running out of time,” I said.
“Four minutes!” Daisy cried. I heard her car door shut and the phone went dead.
I took my stack of books and hid in a stall, secretly very glad that Daisy was coming to back me up, and trying not to think about what Trace—or anyone at my old paper—would say about me needing backup in the first place. Maybe I wasn’t the reporter I thought I was. Maybe I’d gone soft. Maybe hot dog roller was my speed now.
I heard whispering, and peeked through the stall crack. The girls who had come in together were murmuring and pointing toward my stall. Great. I was creeping people out—Step one in a Quick and Easy Plan to Get Yourself Arrested at a High School. Hurry up, Daisy.
I sat there for what seemed like forty days and forty nights, and was most assuredly longer than four minutes, and was just about to abort the whole mission when my phone buzzed again. I picked it up.
“Where are you?” she asked before I could even say anything.
“I’m in the restroom. Meet me by the band room. Follow the noise.”
“I hear it. See you there.”
I left my books in the bathroom stall and took off, scaring the heck out of the marching band girls who were still whispering, only outside of the restroom now.
“Excuse me,” I said as I pushed past them.
“There she is,” one band girl said to another, who had not been in the restroom with us. “She does that podcast Mrs. Bunch had us listen to.”
I stopped so quickly, my shoes squeaked on the floor. I turned back, my winning smile in place. “Did you say something?” I asked.
She shrank back, suddenly shy. “I recognized your voice in there. You do that podcast.”
“Yes, I do. Wow, you have great auditory recall.”
She nodded excitedly. “Our culinary arts teacher makes us listen to it.” She turned to her friend. “She’s amazing. She bakes all these cakes and stuff. We used her tip for a flaky tart crust last weekend for the bake sale and it was perfect.”
My smile fell. Figured.
I ran into Daisy just outside the band room. “Found it,” she said, then put her hand on my shoulder. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” I grouched. “Because of your podcast baking tips, you have fans in marching band.”
She beamed, her hand going to her heart. “I do? Well, how cool is that? I’m popular in high school. Finally!”
“So very, very cool,” I said, and even though I meant it, I couldn’t make my voice sound that way.
“Don’t worry,” she said, patting my back. “You have fans, too. They’re just less vocal.”
“Because they don’t have vocal cords. Because they don’t exist. Let’s go.”
“Where to?” she asked.
“Wherever Paulie is sure to go,” I said.
“Maybe we wait in the hallway outside the gym? I mean, they have to go back into the locker room after practice, right?”
“Right.”
We sought out a bench outside the gym, on the side where the men’s locker room was. It felt very public, and like maybe we should have waited by his Jeep after all. Every time someone walked by, I wanted to re-route. But the parking lots were big, and wrapped around the school, and I had no idea where he was parked, which would give Brooks—who I just knew had to be out there somewhere—ample time to intercept me. And if I kept changing my mind, Paulie would be home and I would once again be without an interview.
“Try to look like a mom,” Daisy whispered.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Why not? Just look…tired. Check your watch a lot.”
“I don’t wear a watch.”
“Well, how do you know what time it is?”
“My cell phone, Fred Flintstone.”
“You should get a watch,” she said, studying hers. Mike had given it to her for their anniversary and she wore it always. It had a rose-gold colored band and little sparkly gems around the face.
“Why?”
“So you can check it!” she said.
“I’ll tell you what. You be a mom. I’ll be an older sister.” I adopted a too-cool-for-this slouch, while fiddling with my cell phone. “A not-that-much-older sister. I could get mistaken for a student here, you know.” We caught each other’s eyes, then both cracked up.
She abruptly stopped giggling. “Shhh! Do I hear people talking?”
I listened. Voices. Male voices. And several of them. They were coming our way.
“The team,” I said, jumping to my feet and instantly losing every ounce of cool I might have had.
A handful of boys loudly plowed through the doors, not even noticing we were there, and headed for the locker room, their heads sweaty.
And then Paulie Henderson loped inside.
“Hey, Paulie,” I said, my heart pounding in my throat. Daisy had jumped up beside me. I could feel her shoulder so close to mine they were almost touching. Feeling her there, literally backing me up, bolstered me.
“Yeah?” He looked wary.
