If you were a burglar in Parkwood, Missouri, the absolute best time to get away with ripping off every house in the entire town would be during the Parkwood High School homecoming game. Because nobody was at home that evening. Instead, we were all crammed into the PHS football stadium.
There were worse places. Most high school football stadiums—at least my high school football stadium—consisted of a browning, pocked field surrounded by a few wooden bleachers. PHS’s football stadium was a high-dollar behemoth of lights and sounds. The grass was manicured so evenly, there was a halfway-serious running joke that the groundsperson did it with scissors and a ruler. The aluminum bleachers were enormous, spanning the entire length of the field, and curling around partially into the end zones, and the crowd would still overflow into standing room only areas along the fence line. Even the away team’s bleachers were bigger and nicer than most schools’ main bleachers. There was a concession stand and indoor restrooms, VIP cushioned seats and a special fenced-off pit for the marching band. There was a “runaround” section of grass for the middle schoolers to be middle schoolers, and for the middle school principal to be threatening and get migraines. And it all surrounded a state-of-the-art digitized scoreboard with a huge screen for displaying players’ most menacing game faces mixed with distressing replays of bad calls.
PHS had two cheerleading squads, a nine-time state champion dance squad, a peppy drum line, a pack of shirtless, staff-toting spirit leaders, and a googly-eyed hornet mascot with a stuffed stinger poking out of its dancing bum.
Parkwood, Missouri, took its high school football seriously. And so did every surrounding town, who brought their equally-serious teams from their equally-serious stadiums to play on our turf.
I got to the game way too late to scope out a seat, so I wandered around, waiting for the action to start, checking out the sights and the people, letting my mind wander to the Knock ’em Dead podcast. I wondered if Daisy would mind if I called myself the lead investigator.
For a short period in college, I’d dreamed of being an investigative reporter on television. I’d imagined myself digging deep into stories and filling in a rapt audience as my ratings soared. I was good at research. I had a nice voice. I was a journalism major with a minor in criminal justice.
But I was also 5’3”, which, according to my professors and my advisor, was just entirely displeasing to watch on a television. To listen to them, my height basically made watching me on TV something akin to watching a really educated troll climb up out from under a bridge to deliver a murder report on goats. Didn’t make sense to me—I was cute with dark, shoulder length hair and brown eyes that weren’t troll-like at all—but in a cutthroat industry in a big city, you could just assume there was going to be something to take you out of the game. I didn’t have a gargoyle second head or a honking voice or a disproportionate amount of lumps in weird places, and I wasn’t dumb, but I also wasn’t my perfect classmate, Kirsten Mendoza. And if you don’t know who she is—trust me, you will.
So I gave up my dream of digging deep into stories on camera and regaling rapt audiences with their details. If I had to write stories about hot dogs to pay the bills, fine. That didn’t mean I had to give up my passion.
Oh. Right. The hot dogs.
As soon as the ball was in the air, I went in search of a certain new hot dog roller.
The concession stand looked like it had been hit with a bomb. Nacho cheese splatters dotted the serving counter, the floor, the metal prep table, the shoes of the trio of teens who were working. Boxes of candy were toppled and scattered, some open and spilling their Hot Tamale guts onto the tables and tile. Melted chocolate had been stepped on and tracked throughout the kitchen. The soles of the kids’ shoes stuck to dried, spilled soda splots and made sucking sounds when they walked.
But right in the center of the room, like a monarch atop his kingdom, sat a glistening, pristine hot dog roller, rolling its little heart out. Buns scattered the prep table next to it in various states of strewn, torn, and wadded. A serious-faced girl with mustard-smeared glasses carefully, almost reverently, laid new dogs across the back rollers, getting them going for the halftime rush.
“Hello, may I help you?” The most enthusiastic high school boy I’d ever seen grinned up at me, all dimples and energy, from the other side of the counter. His curly hair half-sprang from beneath the paper cap that was supposed to protect our food. His name tag said:
Tyler
PASSIONATE ABOUT: RPGs
Specifically Dragon Age: Inquisition but
Dragon Age: Origins is pretty good too for
when I’m like sick of playing Inquisition
which doesn’t happen very much.
I held up my work badge. “I’m from the Parkwood Chronicle Weekly,” I said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute about your new machine there.”
His hand twitched near the cash register for a second and he looked disappointed, like maybe good old dragon-killing Tyler had been stuck in the back with the nacho cheese catastrophe during the pre-game rush and had been waiting for just this slow moment to shine mathematically by taking my money and making change.
“Oh. The dog roller? That’s Ari’s job.”
The girl with nacho cheese glasses (Arielle, Passionate about: mermaid fiction) looked up. The other lens had relish stuck to it. She held one wiener in the air between two fingers. “Huh? What did I do?”
“You messed up somebody’s hot dog,” a boy listlessly sweeping the back said. “Way to go, brainiac.”
“What? I did?” Ari looked absolutely panicked. “I messed up your hot dog?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t even order one yet.”
“I’m sorry. I’m new.” She flicked the glob of relish from her glasses. It landed on top of a mangled bun. A fly immediately dove for it.
“No, you’re not. She’s not,” the boy in the back said. “She’s done this, like, a hundred times or something.”
“I have not, Dennis,” Ari shot back.
“Well, at least thirty,” the boy, whose name I now knew was Dennis, said.
“You’re not going to write about it in the newspaper, are you?” Tyler asked. “Because she can just make you a new one. I don’t want to get in trouble. This job is going on my college résumé.”
I opened my mouth to reassure them all that I was definitely not there to get anyone in trouble, but Dennis interrupted me.
“Wow, uncool, Arielle,” he said. “Get everyone in trouble, why don’t you? Now Tyler won’t get to go to college.”
“Oh! No, no,” I said, patting the air. “Tyler, I’m sure you’re going to go to a great coll—”
“It’ll be free,” Ari offered desperately. “The hot dog, I mean. I think? Yeah. I’m pretty sure Evangeline wouldn’t make me charge you. Since it was my fault. I’ll pay for it.”
“No, you don’t need to pay for anything. You didn’t mess up—”
Dennis made a pssh noise and shook his head. “It’s pretty pathetic if you ask me, to put the squeeze on somebody over a buck hot dog. They pay you at the newspaper or what?”
“I’m not putting the squeeze on—”
“Can you describe me as strong-chinned?” Tyler asked, elongating his neck. He slapped at his Adam’s apple with the back of his hand. “It would be nice to have something like that in writing.”
“I’m here to write a story!” I said, holding up both hands, so they could see my blank reporter’s notebook in one hand and my pencil in the other. “About the hot dog roller. A good story. A nice one. No complaints. Everyone’s going to college. If they want.”
All three paused, blinking at me.
“What? The roller? Why?” Arielle asked.
“It’s new?” I said, and then realizing I sounded as uncertain as she, repeated the words with far more enthusiasm than I felt. “It’s new! And…exciting!”
“Let me get Evangeline,” she said.
Dennis had already dropped the broom and disappeared through a door in the back of the concession stand. Arielle went to the same door and stood timidly by, one leg bent like a deer ready to bolt. She had nacho cheese smudged across the back of her jeans. Soon, she backed away, and Dennis came out, followed by a tall, robust redhead dressed head-to-toe in Parkwood High School spirit wear. She was carrying a giant box of plastic nacho trays. She passed it off to Dennis, who instantly dropped it, sending empty nacho trays scattering everywhere. The woman pretended not to notice, but I could see her wince as all three kids descended upon the mess, Tyler stepping in one accidentally, slipping, and crashing into the boxes of soda syrup.
“May I help you?” she asked, but her smile was posed enough for me to know that Dennis had already filled her in. That was something you learned quickly as a reporter—people get nervous when you’re around and wear wooden smiles.
I stuck out a hand. “Hollis Bisbee, Parkwood Chronicle Weekly.”
“Evangeline Crane, that’s an I-N-E and Crane like the bird,” she said, taking my hand and shaking it. So she’d definitely been filled in. Also, she had a crazy strong grip. Instinctively, I pulled back and wrote her name in my notebook, just so I could save myself from permanent nerve damage. “I understand you’re here about the new baby.” She gazed lovingly at the refilled dog roller.
I smiled through a cringe. New baby? “Yeah, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
There was the muffled sound of a football announcer, followed by a crowd roar of disapproval. Evangeline lost her smile for half a second, but quickly recovered. People around here took bad calls personally, even when they couldn’t see them directly. “Certainly. We’ve got plenty of time before the half. Here, let me get you a dog.” She hurried to the roller and expertly bunned and wrapped a hot dog.
“Great. Has it made things easier for you here in the concession stand?”
“Snack shop,” she corrected, pushing the dog across the counter toward me.
“Sorry,” I said, making a note and underlining it. “Snack shop. Of course.”
“Common mistake,” she said. “It just sounds more fun that way. More professional. And, oh goodness, yes. It is so nice not to have those pans of boiling water back here. Safer for the kids, too.”
There was another—this time louder—angry roar from the crowd. We both glanced. Things were getting serious out there. I hoped Ernie was having a rare moment of consciousness, because there might actually be a story going on right under his nose. One that didn’t already have a template.
“And the customers?”
She crinkled her eyebrows. “They never really had contact with the water pans.”
“No, I mean—” Another roar, including the clear sound of someone yelling, Come on, man, it’s obvious! I wondered what was so obvious.. “Have you had any feedback from the customers?”
When the roar sounded again, it rumbled like actual thunder. Angry, ready-to-mob thunder. We all stared at the concrete wall of the concession stand—snack shop—as if we could see through it and out onto the field.
“What is going on out there?” I wondered aloud.
She scowled. “Well, we are playing the River Fork Otters, you know,” she said. “Known nasty players. That coach—Farkle or whatever his name is—”
“Farley,” Arielle corrected.
Evangeline pointed at her with a hot dog that she seemed to produce out of nowhere. “Yeah, that’s it. River Fork’s notorious Coach Farley is just the worst. I don’t even like him near my snack shop. River Fork doesn’t have a roller like this one, though,” she said, patting the new machine. “So I can see why he’d want to eat here. All they’ve got is his wife Wilma Louise’s rickety old crock pot. She doesn’t cook at all, you know. She could donate every appliance in her kitchen and it wouldn’t make a difference.” She pointed at my notebook. “Could you maybe not say the thing about him eating here? I don’t want potential customers getting scared off by the possibility of having to eat with our rival.”
A whistle blew, then was followed by another, longer whistle. I almost felt like refs were calling a time out on Evangeline’s story. Too much information. All I wanted to know about was the even cook on the franks, the donors who bought the machine, and what it’s done for sales. No—what it’s done for school spirit. No—what it’s done for the spirit of the entire town of Parkwood. A couple snappy quotes from Evangeline and the kids and I would be done.
Dennis, who’d disappeared through the snack shop back door, burst back in. “Yo! Dudes! Field fight!”
Tyler and Arielle were out the door so fast they were practically laying cheese skidmarks on the floor, leaving Evangeline and I standing there, staring at each other and the rolling hot dogs. The machine had a squeak already.
“Shouldn’t you be out there with your pen and paper?” she asked.
I glanced at the small spiral pad in my hand. True, covering a fight sounded so much more interesting than what I was doing. But that was Ernie’s story to get.
If he was awake.
Which he was probably not.
It was entirely possible that nobody would get the story if I wasn’t out there to get it. I felt twitchy. Never let a potential scoop pass you by was seared into my soul. “Maybe I should—”
“Well, I’ve got to see,” Evangeline said, and scurried out the back door behind the kids.
“Can I quote you about the crock pot?” I hollered at her back, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t even slow down. I grabbed the hot dog and navigated my way toward the commotion as well.
Dennis wasn’t kidding about the field fight. There was an all-out brawl going on right in the center of the football field. Fullbacks were punching halfbacks. Tight ends were kicking kickers. Coaches were swinging at coaches. The refs were blowing their whistles wildly and trying to pry guys apart without getting their own blocks knocked off. Most of the crowd was on its feet, jeering and pumping their fists.
I found a man sitting on the edge of a close bleacher, craning to see the happenings on the field between the standing bodies of the people in front of him. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“Fight,” he said.
“I can see that. I mean, what happened to start it?”
“Oh. Well, that boy there accused that man over there of stealing our plays right out from under us.” He pointed at the knot of people on the field—I had no idea which boy or which man he was talking about.
“Stolen plays?” I stood on my tiptoes. “Have you seen my coworker Ernie, by chance?”
The man shook his head without even glancing at me. “Get him, Paulie!” he shouted. “Give him what-for!”
I maneuvered my way toward the fence that separated the bleachers from the field. The fight was starting to wear down as the boys and men involved began to get winded. One of the ref’s field mics had gotten switched on, and the sounds of grunts and a lot of heavy breathing began to fill the stadium. Eventually, the refs were able to break it up, and one by one, fighters backed away, leaving only two people right in the center of the field, still grappling with each other. I recognized one of them right away.
Paulie Henderson, star Parkwood High School quarterback with amazing pass accuracy and notorious anger and impulse control issues—Parkwood police department’s most coddled delinquent.
The police chief was also a Henderson. Coincidence? Not even a little bit.
Chief Henderson was a friend of Mary Jean’s, so on Joyce’s advice my first week, I’d never even tried to write a story about one of Paulie’s hijinks, which seemed to range from fighting in parking lots to vandalizing his math teacher’s house to spray painting his initials on an overpass bridge. Paulie was protected from bad press. Paulie was protected from a lot of things.
Paulie was also a hothead and was currently wrapped in what would have otherwise looked like a hug with a man I didn’t recognize. Short and squat with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a River Fork High School T-shirt—on the back, the word COACH. The infamously nasty Coach Farley, I presumed.
I’d seen him before. I just couldn’t remember where.
Finally, the refs were able to pull the two apart. “You’re lucky, man! You’re lucky!” Paulie was yelling, jabbing his finger at the coach, as two teammates dragged him away. “You hear me? You’re lucky!”
Everyone heard him—the ref’s field mic was still on.
“Lucky or not, I’m still winning,” the coach said. He stomped on the field and twisted the toe of his shoe in the dirt, right on the nose of the painted-on Parkwood hornet. The actual mascot, standing with the cheerleaders, clapped one hand over his nose, affronted, and started towards him, but the entire cheerleading squad stepped in between, holding him back. His stuffed stinger shivered with anger and anticipation.
“Yeah? Well, if you keep stealing my plays, I will hunt you down and I will kill you. You hear me? You’re a dead man!”
I gasped. I expected everyone around me to gasp, too. But they were too busy cheering and high-fiving. Hunt you down and kill you? Seemed Evangeline wasn’t the only one with strong feelings about Coach Farley. Not by a long shot. But I could also see why she worried that allowing him to dine at her concession stand would keep PHS fans away—he seemed to have a full stadium of disgusted Parkwoodians.
“You’re still losing, little man,” Coach Farley sneered. “Talk all you want, but River Fork is going to win this game.”
And they did. By a lot.
The crowd was much less energetic as they filed out of the stadium. There was still plenty of grumbling, some soda cans thrown at the River Fork players as they left the field. But nobody had the heart to put any muscle behind their throw, and the River Fork players caught the cans and flung them back. They clattered around on the emptying bleachers, nobody even giving them so much as a glance.
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.