What are you doing?" Jodi asked. "Stalking me?"
Snowflakes landed on her hair, melted on her face.
"I want to know why you were so snotty to me yesterday." I pulled at her elbow. "Let's get in the car. You look cold."
"You are incredibly pushy, you know that?"
"Get in the car. Give me your backpack."
"Absolutely not."
Chapter Eight
The more I thought about it the more pissed I got.
If Jodi Jackson was going to show up at Grandview High, claim that I was the father of her baby, then dump on me, she at least owed me an explanation.
At home after practice that night, I sat hunched at the bar in the family room and whipped through the telephone book, searching for the name Jackson. Twenty-three of them. I didn't know where Jodi's grandparents lived. None of the addresses was close to school. I'd hoped her grandpa was named Travis, too, but the phone book didn't list a Travis Jackson. I wasn't going to call all twenty-three Jacksons, asking for Jodi.
Mom strolled through the family room and heard me slam the telephone book closed. "What's wrong?"
"Jodi was in school today, I'm looking for her telephone number. Do you know where her grandparents live?"
"No, I don't. Did you talk to her?"
"She...was in a hurry."
Mom offered me a sympathetic look, as if she knew I'd be going through some difficult times with Jodi. "She's probably upset."
"Worse than that, she's bitchy."
"Michael, have you thought what she's had to go through lately? The hormonal and physical changes in her body?"
"I tried to be nice to her."
"Besides, she's had to enter a new school to finish her senior year. She won't graduate with her old classmates. Enjoy any of their end-of-the-year activities."
"All she did was snap at me."
"Everything's different for her, Michael. Worse, suddenly nothing's easy anymore. She's pregnant."
"Well," I said, "it's not easy for me, either. I don't like this hanging over my head."
Mom crossed her arms and said with forced patience, "Did I hear Travis brag a couple of times that Jodi's a cross-country star? She was going to earn a scholarship?"
"I think so," I mumbled.
"How did that turn out for her?"
I rolled my eyes. Suddenly I wondered whose side Mom was on.
"How, Michael?"
"She had to quit." I shoved the telephone book across the bar and stood. "I've got studying to do.
At the doorway, Mom stepped in front of me. "But you're still playing football, Michael. You're going to the same high school you've always gone to. Same friends. And you've still got a chance for a scholarship."
"Because I'm working hard."
"Because you're not carrying a baby in your belly."
I tried to hide a scowl. Mom was pissing me off. I had no idea that women could stick together like this. No idea that a guy's mom could turn against him.
"Even if she is a little cranky," Mom said, standing aside so I could escape, "I'd give her a break. Give her time to adjust. She deserves it."
I nodded and then sidled by Mom.
Right, Mom. And how much time do you think I've had to adjust? Like one minute all I'm thinking about is football, grades, and a scholarship, and the next thing bang! I'm wondering if a girl I hooked up with only once this summer—well, twice—is trying to scam me.
The next morning, first thing before school started, I caught Coach Flynn in his office and told him I'd be late for practice. "Personal reasons," I said.
"Something wrong?" He sat at his littered desk in an alcove in the boys' locker room, sipping his before-school coffee.
I shrugged.
He was, like, six-four, wide-shouldered and muscular, maybe forty years old. At the beginning of every season he shaved his head of curly brown hair bald and kept shaving his head until the end of the season. He did that to prove his dedication to his football team. He didn't ask us players to shave our heads, but he expected the same dedication. "Can I help?" he asked.
"It's no big deal. I've got to talk to someone right after school. It might take, like, fifteen, twenty minutes."
"All right."
"Maybe a little longer."
"You sure I can't help?"
I shook my head.
"Don't start making a habit of being late. We need everyone on this team focused. We can finish 9-0, conference champs with a sure spot in the playoffs."
"I know."
I thanked him and left.
During lunch hour, I stopped in the office. Mrs. Costello looked up from her computer at her desk behind the counter, and I asked her if she could tell me the number of the bus Jodi Jackson rode. "She's new here," I said. "She got here yesterday, I think."
I don't want to say Mrs. Costello was fat. Plump is a better word. She was, like, fifty, I think. Her pouty lips were always painted redder than any schoolgirl's. Scarlet. "Can't give out information like that," she said. "Got too many students bullying other students. Bus numbers, telephone numbers, addresses—we don't give out any information."
"That's crazy. Just this once?"
She pursed her pouty red lips. "Sorry. I can't help you."
That stumped me. I'd planned to follow Jodi's bus home and corner her when she got off. I could probably find Jodi in the cafeteria again, but I wanted to talk to her alone. I couldn't imagine she was driving her grandparents' car to school. She had to be taking the bus. According to the addresses in the phone book, no Jackson lived within four or five miles of school, so I didn't think she'd be walking.
My plan still might work.
After school, I parked in a strategic spot in the school's parking lot where I could watch the kids boarding buses. The November sky was dark gray, the air cold and damp, promising winter's initial snow. Not unusual for this time of year.
Instead of watching for a bus number I watched the kids who boarded the buses. There was room enough in the parking lot for only one bus to load at a time, so I figured I stood a good chance of spotting Jodi, even if she was short. Sure enough, when bus 72 rumbled to a stop, a tiny girl with bouncy blonde hair trooped aboard. She shouldered a backpack.
I followed 72 on its tangled course toward Jodi's grandparents' house. Remaining a block behind, I pulled my red Mustang over and stopped alongside the curb whenever the bus crunched to a halt. Its yellow and red lights flashed, and its stop sign swung out from its side as kids jumped off.
The sky began spitting snow when the bus stopped at Zenith Street in the west end of town. Jodi hopped off alone. Good. As she hurried along the sidewalk, bending forward in the wind and powdery snow, I eased the Mustang up the street. Her backpack seemed crammed full. In the middle of the block, I shut the Mustang off and jumped out. I bounded across a lawn, stopped Jodi on the sidewalk, and blocked her path.
She halted and gave an angry snort.
She wore no gloves. She cupped her hands and blew into them. Her fingers were turning red, like her nose and cheeks. "What are you doing?" Jodi asked. "Stalking me?"
Snowflakes landed on her hair, melted on her face.
"I want to know why you were so snotty to me yesterday." I pulled at her elbow. "Let's get in the car. You look cold."
"You are incredibly pushy, you know that?"
"Get in the car. Give me your backpack."
"Absolutely not."
"Jodi, please."
"No."
"I'll follow you home. I'll park in front of your grandparents' house."
"I don't give a damn."
"I'll stand on the front porch. I'll create a scene. Your grandparents will have to call the cops. The neighbors will be standing on their porches, gawking."
She glared at me. "Where are we going?"
I thought a moment. "We'll drive around. Park somewhere. I just want to talk. Whenever you want, I'll take you home. Okay?"
She finally agreed.
Coming Friday—Chapter Nine: Another quarrel between Jodi and Michael.
