Payback Time Page 8

  I worked my way down to the field, where I hooked up with Kimi. "We've got to get a story and a photo to Chet by midnight," I said. "There's a byline for us, and money."

  "I know. He e-mailed me."

  "Should we go to Peet's?"

  She frowned. "Couldn't you just transfer my photos to your laptop right now? Then you could pick whichever one fits your story."

  "Sure," I said, hiding my disappointment, "that makes sense."

  After I downloaded her photos, she hurried off to join Rachel and Marianne. I drove home and forced myself to work. One hundred words aren't very many. I tapped away on my laptop, giving the who, what, where, when, why, and how of the game. At the tail end I stuck in a sentence about Angel Marichal's fumble recovery. Kimi had a photo of Horst crossing the goal line that fit perfectly. A couple of clicks and I'd e-mailed both the photo and my story to Chet the Jet. I'd have to write a longer version for Alyssa, but that could wait. There wouldn't be another Lincoln Light until October.

  I woke up early the next morning to look at the Seattle Times. Sure enough, there were my one hundred words with Kimi's picture next to them. The article was tucked away in the bottom left-hand corner of the last page of the sports section, but it was there. I read it through, excited and proud to see my name in print. This wasn't the Lincoln Light; the Seattle Times was a real newspaper with a circulation close to a million. When I reached the end of my story, I stared at the page. Chet the Jet had cut the sentence that mentioned Angel Marichal.

  4

  DURING THOSE NEXT WEEKS, I spent almost no time with Kimi. We were both covering the football games and the home volleyball games, but she was on the court or on the field, and I was up in the stands. When the games ended, I'd download her photos, go home, write up the game, pick a photo, and e-mail Chet the Jet. I missed the time at Peet's and the excitement of chasing Angel, but mostly I missed being with her.

  Lincoln's next four games were against weak teams—Lake Washington, Newport, Juanita, and Franklin. In each game, McNulty gave Angel a couple of series at middle linebacker, and he was on all the special teams. For the Lake Washington and Newport games he wore a new number, sixty-seven, but against Juanita and Franklin he was back to wearing forty-four. He was the only player whose number changed from game to game. No doubt about it—McNulty was trying to hide him.

  Trying, but not entirely succeeding. Angel was just too good. On kickoff and punt coverage, he'd break through the opposing wedge as if it were made of sand. The Franklin game was typical. In the fourth quarter, Kenstowicz punted from deep in Lincoln's territory. The Franklin returner, hoping to break a long runback, didn't signal for a fair catch. He hauled the ball in, took one step, and then Angel jolted him with a teeth-rattling tackle that made everyone watching sit up. The ball popped free, and another Lincoln player recovered the fumble. The Franklin kid didn't get up for three minutes, and he never returned to the game. Angel forced fumbles in a couple of the other games, too, and had a couple of interceptions. Lincoln won all four games, pushing their record to 6–0 and moving them into the top ten in the state rankings.

  I wrote up every game for the Seattle Times. My stories featured Horst, naturally. But when Angel did something great—like jarring the football loose in the Franklin game—I'd include a sentence about him. And every single time, Chet the Jet cut that sentence. The second time it happened, I called and asked him why. "I've been doing this for thirty years," he snapped. "You've been doing it for thirty days. Write your little story, take your fifty bucks, but leave the editing to me." After that I didn't have the guts to complain.

  October is when the rain gets serious in Seattle. I knew it would be harder to run after school, but I didn't know how much harder. And not spending much time with Kimi sucked away part of my motivation. I skipped running one Friday, and then both Tuesday and Friday the next week. One day I had a hamburger and fries for lunch; a couple of days later I ate a Snickers. I was losing momentum, and I knew how dangerous that was. Roll a snowball down a steep hill, and it gets fat fast.

  5

  ON THE MONDAY AFTER THE FRANKLIN GAME, Jessica Lathrop stopped me in the hall. Jessica's the best tennis player in the school, and she's the world's most out-front person—no beating around the bush with her, ever. "So you want to go to Columbia?" she said. "I didn't know that."

  I looked at her, amazed. I'd told Kimi about Columbia, and I'd told my parents, but no one else. "How do you know about Columbia?"

  "I'm a TA in the office. I file stuff for Mrs. Cressy. You had a meeting with your counselor last week. He wrote down your college choices and I filed his notes away. I can't help having eyes. You're not mad, are you?"

  "No, I'm just surprised that something that small goes into my file."

  "Your whole history goes in there, from preschool on. Some files are an inch thick. But why Columbia, Mitch? I'd be scared to live in New York. Crime and all that."

  "Parts of Seattle are pretty tough, too," I said, thinking about the mini-mart. We talked about subways and gangs until the bell rang. I went to English, and as the other kids discussed a short story by Poe, a plan took shape in my mind.

  I wasn't cut out for anything dangerous. I'd learned that lesson twice. But you don't have to walk down dark alleys at night or follow troops into battle to be a top-notch reporter. There are war experts who have never heard a single gunshot, who have never even left Washington, D.C. They study history, they pour over statistics, and they end up understanding more than people who are in the war zone. I could be like them. I could investigate Angel Marichal—from a safe distance.

  The first thing would be to get a look at his school file. If I could somehow make a copy, I'd get some new facts about him. And those new facts might lead to more new facts. If I found a trail and followed it, I might learn the truth.

  In the hall after class, I cornered Jessica Lathrop again, pumping her with questions about the office. Mrs. Cressy was sharp; there'd be no getting files while she was around, but she couldn't be there all the time. "Friday afternoon Cressy leaves early," Jessica told me. Once I'd heard that, my plan came into sharper focus.

  That night I called Kimi. We talked about nothing for a few minutes. "I've figured out how we can investigate Angel but not run any risks," I said after a pause.

  "How?" she asked, her voice interested yet doubtful.

  "If we can get his school records from the office," I said, my words tumbling out fast, "we can find out where he went to school last year, what sports he played, that sort of stuff. Then we can call his old school and talk to people who knew him. If his story matches his records, we stop. If it doesn't, we dig deeper."

  "But how can we get his school records?" Kimi said.

  "I'm working on a plan. I just want to know if you'd be interested in doing it this way, where we'd do it all on the phone or on the computer."

  There was a pause. "It sounds okay, Mitch. Only..."

  "Only what?"

  "If we were caught stealing files, we'd be suspended for sure. My dad would die of shame, and something like that would kill my chances for a top school."

  "There'll be no risk for you," I said, thinking fast. "I'm not going to steal his file; I'm just going to make a copy. And I swear to you, Kimi, if I get caught, I'll never tell anyone you were involved."

  A long pause followed, and then she spoke. "Before we resort to stealing things, there's something we have to try first."

  6

  TUESDAY I MET KIMI outside the commons at the beginning of lunch.

  "You ready?" I said.

  "I'm ready." She had on a brave face, but she was scared, too.

  I pushed the double doors open and we strolled over to where Angel, head down, was eating. "Hey," I said, sticking out my hand and trying to sound breezy. "You're Angel Marichal, right? Special teams star and middle linebacker. I'm Mitch True. This is Kimi Yon. I write sports for the Lincoln Light, and Kimi's the photographer. I've got some questions for you, and Kimi wants
to take some photos."

  I was smiling like a used-car salesman, but Angel stared at my hand as if it were covered in warts. "Leave me alone," he muttered, barely lifting his head.

  I sat next to him. "Come on, everybody wants his picture in the paper. There will be another Lincoln Light coming out soon. Just a few questions and a few photos and we'll leave you alone." I flipped open my notebook as Kimi took the lens cap off her camera. "Where are you from, anyway?"

  Angel put his hand over the camera lens. "No questions, no pictures," he said, and then he picked up his tray and walked over to a table on the other side of the commons, where he sat down, his back to us.

  I looked at Kimi.

  "We had to try," she said. She paused, and then continued. "Every time I see him, he looks older. No way he's eighteen."

  "His file would tell us exactly how old he is, where he went to school last year—all the things we want to know that he won't tell us."

  Kimi leaned toward me. "Okay, so explain to me exactly how you think we can get his records."

  For the next few minutes, I laid out my plan, step by step. "It sounds like something out of an old movie," Kimi said after I'd finished.

  "Maybe," I admitted. "But that doesn't mean it won't work."

  She looked down, closed her eyes for a moment, and then looked up. "All right, I'm in." She reached her hand toward me, and we shook. "But there's one more thing. You get caught; I get caught. If this turns out to be a big story, my photos are going to be part of it. I won't take the glory and skip the risk."

  7

  CHASING ANGEL WAS THE MAIN THING that interested me. I wanted Friday to come as fast as those photons I'd read about in science, but the hours and days plodded on. I had my schoolwork, and Thursday night there was a volleyball game.

  I wouldn't have admitted it to Alyssa, but the more sports writing I did, the more I liked it. A sports season has a rhythm to it, and every game is like a new chapter in a book. But unlike a book, there's no flipping ahead to see how it will turn out.

  I'd written recaps of all the games, and they were piling up on Alyssa's desk in the newspaper room. However, Danni Shea hadn't finished her interview with our new principal, and the sophomore in charge of Arts and Entertainment hadn't written a word on either the new video competition or the fall play. The newspaper couldn't come out until those articles were completed. Every time I saw Alyssa she'd complain to me: "You're the only one I can count on."

  The girls had lost to Inglemoor on Saturday to drop their league record to 8–3. Inglemoor was the defending league champion, so it wasn't a bad loss, but they would have to beat North Shore to get back on track. Contenders or pretenders—Thursday's game would provide the answer.

  I found a seat at the top of the gym. Kimi was courtside, camera in hand. As I watched the warm-ups, it all looked familiar. Terri Calvo, Loaloa Toloto, and Chelsea Braker were huddled together. The same was true of Erica Stricker, Rachel Black, and Marianne Flagler. If they hadn't been wearing the same uniforms, you'd have thought they were opponents.

  North Shore jumped ahead early in the first game, scoring six straight on a series of spike serves that had the back line totally flustered. The streak of aces started the Lincoln girls sniping at one another, and they kept sniping the rest of the match. The one good thing was that it ended quickly—the trouncing took just over an hour.

  I stood and looked over the court for Kimi, thinking she might want to go to Peet's to talk over our plan one last time. I spotted her huddled by the door with Marianne and Rachel, both of whom were near tears. No doubt the three of them would be going off together. I started down out of the bleachers, my eyes on my feet to keep myself from tumbling like Humpty Dumpty.

  When I reached the court, I caught Kimi's eye. She gave me a small wave. I waved back and then walked alone into the parking lot. It had been cold and cloudy when the game started; now rain was pouring down. I ran across the parking lot, opened the door, and plopped down in the driver's seat. Before I started the car, my cell phone rang.

  "Kimi?" I said, hopeful. "Is that you?"

  "Mitch True?" a male voice answered.

  "Who is this?"

  "Who I am is not important. Just please listen to me. Leave Angel Marichal alone. Don't come to his house. Don't ask questions about him."

  My heart raced. "Who is this?" I repeated.

  "Angel is one of the good guys. What you're doing can only help the bad guys."

  The line went dead. I stared at the phone, hands shaking. Around me, cars inched their way out of the lot.

  Finally I started for home, my thoughts churning. The Times hadn't mentioned Angel at all, and there'd been only one article in the Lincoln Light, but somebody was already warning me off. Angel had a secret, and whatever it was, it was big. The stuff about him being one of the good guys—that didn't fly with me. Good people don't keep things dark. I'd heard that from my dad more than once.

  Back in my room, I opened up my American Government book. For thirty minutes I flipped pages, but nothing was processing. Finally I shut the book and flicked off the light.

  Who was it that had called? The friend Angel lived with? Had he seen me that night and somehow tracked me down? I didn't like the idea that somebody was out there watching me.

  I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I couldn't.

  Kimi.

  Should I tell her about the phone call? The guy hadn't threatened me. All he'd said was to stay away from Angel. Well, that's what we were going to do. We weren't going to talk to him; we weren't going to go to his house. Investigate from a safe distance—that was the plan, and we'd stick to it. The phone call didn't change anything, so Kimi didn't need to know about it.

  8

  AFTER SCHOOL ON FRIDAY, I met Kimi by the office as planned. We milled around in the hallway for a few minutes. Sure enough, at three o'clock, Mrs. Cressy flung open the main door and strode out, headed toward the parking lot, just as Jessica had predicted. We watched her until she disappeared behind an SUV. Then I opened the office door for Kimi and followed her inside.

  I did the talking at the counter. I told Mrs. Scott, the attendance secretary, that I wanted to interview her for the school newspaper. It was ridiculous, since I was the sportswriter, but she didn't know that.

  She agreed, so I started asking questions. What's the hardest part of your day? What do you find most rewarding? I wanted everything to go fast, but Mrs. Scott talked on and on, telling jokes, and somehow bringing Australia into every other sentence.

  Kimi cut her off. "I'd like your picture for the paper."

  Mrs. Scott beamed. "Oh, how nice."

  This was it.

  Kimi snapped a couple of photos, then screwed up her nose. "The light isn't good in here. Let's go out by the flagpole."

  Mrs. Scott shook her head. "I can't leave the office unattended. Mrs. Cressy would never allow that."

  Kimi smiled. "Mitch can answer the phone."

  Mrs. Scott looked me over. I felt as if I had the word thief tattooed across my forehead. "Okay," she said, and then she held up a couple of fingers. "Two minutes."

  As soon as she and Kimi left, I hurried to the file cabinet marked M-N-O and pulled it open. Quickly I flipped through the Ms. Madison ... Maguire ... Marino ... Martin. Where was Marichal? It had to be there.

  I flipped back. I'd been so nervous, I'd flown right past it the first time. I pulled the file out, closed the cabinet, and hurried to the copy machine.

  On the way I peeked out the window. Kimi was snapping photos of Mrs. Scott standing by the flagpole—but they'd be back soon. When I reached the copy machine, I slid the pages into the tray and hit Start. A minute later I was shoving the copies into a manila envelope I'd brought along. Two minutes later I had the originals back in the file cabinet. When Kimi and Mrs. Scott returned, I was sitting in a plastic chair across from Mrs. Cressy's desk, paging through an ancient People magazine.

  Once Kimi and I were clear of the office, I want
ed to find some place to look at Angel's records, but Kimi shook her head. "My aunt's visiting," she said as we walked toward the parking lot. "I have to go home."

  "You'd rather talk to your aunt than find out about Angel?"

  "You don't understand, Mitch. She's not an ordinary relative."

  What was that supposed to mean?

  I shrugged. "Okay, if your aunt is that important. But when will we look at his records?"

  "After tonight's game. You'll write your article and I'll pick out a photo, and then we'll see what we've got. Okay?"

  I nodded.

  She reached out for the manila envelope. "Let me keep that."

  Instinctively, I pulled it away. "Why?"

  "Because you'll look, and I want us to go through the file together. We're partners, right?"

  She was right—I would go through the papers. I handed the envelope over.

  9

  I WENT HOME AND READ UP ON INGLEMOOR. They were 4–2 and had a running back who'd been all-league the year before. Their weakness was at quarterback: a freshman who'd thrown a bunch of interceptions and had fumbled the ball away at least once a game.

  As I drove to Memorial Stadium, I wondered if McNulty would stop hiding Angel and finally turn him loose. This was the game to do it. Stop the running game and you stopped Inglemoor, because they weren't going to beat you in the air.

  Lincoln got the ball first, but went three-and-out because of a personal foul call on a late hit. After Kenstowicz punted the ball away, our defense ran onto the field. I watched closely, wondering if I'd see Angel at middle linebacker right out of the blocks, but McNulty trotted Clarke out for the first drive. It was a total mismatch—J.D. Dieter, the Inglemoor running back, dominated Clarke. In tight quarters, he ran right over him; in the open field, he had moves that left Clarke tied up. If you never have to throw the ball, what does it matter if your quarterback is shaky?