Defiant Heart (20 page)

Something brushed by his shoulder, and a small object landed on the pages of the book in front of him. Startled, he looked at it for a moment. It was a folded piece of paper. Without taking his chin off his hands, he raised his eyes just in time to see Mary’s back as she passed through the door. As quickly as he’d noticed her, she was gone. His eyes dropped down again to the open book.

He sat up straight and looked around. He was alone. He looked back at the paper, lying where it had come to rest in the crook formed by the two open pages. Tentatively, he reached out and picked it up. He started to unfold it, then reflexively looked around again. Still alone.

The paper was a small white square, its sides no more than two inches in length. It had been folded twice. When he opened it, he found that, in small neat handwriting on the inside face, it read “Meet me at the bluff on the road to Middleburg. M.”

Jon knew the spot. He’d discovered it early in his rides through the countryside. It was about two miles south of town, a few hundred yards past the point where the road to Middleburg split off from Ridley Road. It was not a heavily traveled route, and the spot was fairly isolated. It afforded a nice view of the river.

Heart suddenly beating fast, Jon closed the book on his desk, stood and hurried out of the room.

#

Ed Spitzman had a problem.

It had nothing to do with how the team was playing. On that front, all was going exceptionally well. Jackson was undefeated, having now won its first eight games. Spitzman’s problem was that he was about to lose two of his best players. He’d received word that morning that Vernon King and Jeff Fletcher were flunking English. That bitch, Agnes Tremaine, was going to give the two of them failing grades for their first semester work. Pursuant to the district rules, they would both have to be placed on academic suspension.

He knew the boys were ignoring their schoolwork. They were barely passing their other courses, and Spitzman guessed some of the other teachers might also have failed them were it not for subtle pressure that had been brought to bear to keep the team from suffering. Unfortunately, not every teacher could be persuaded to look the other way. He’d anticipated problems with Bob Hanson, and, to make sure they didn’t fail trigonometry, he had, at the beginning of the year, given two of his other seniors the responsibility for doing the homework for King and Fletcher. He realized now he should have done likewise for English.

He was going to have to find a way to convince Agnes to alter their grades.

He’d instructed the boys to scrimmage and left them alone in the gym. As he walked down the empty corridor, he racked his brain for a solution. He’d come up with nothing by the time he reached her classroom.

The door was open, and the woman was sitting at her desk, writing. “Agnes?”

“Yes?” she said, looking up with a smile on her face. The smile froze when she saw who it was. “Oh, hello, Ed.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, as he walked into the classroom, knowing, of course, full well that he was. She did not reply, which, under the circumstances was probably best. He pretended to look around, feigning interest in a couple of study aids she’d hung above the blackboard. When he reached her desk, he planted his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. He gave her what he hoped was a winning smile.

“Is there something that you need from me?” she asked.

Having no better plan, he decided to take a direct approach. “Yes, I need you to give Vernon King and Jeff Fletcher passing grades for the first semester.”

She set her pen down, folded her hands and asked, “Why would I do that? Considering,” she continued, conversationally, “that neither of those two has turned in a single assignment, they’ve each failed every quiz I’ve given, and their performances on the final exam were, in a word, pathetic. Or maybe,” she added, “you think I should give them passing grades just because they’re such nice guys.”

Spitzman shrugged. “Well, you have to admit they are that.”

“They are what?” she asked, acidly.

“Nice guys.”

“Oh, really,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “So tell me, which one of them gave Jon Meyer the black eye?”

“Black eye?” Again he shrugged. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

She snorted. “He
is
one of your students, Ed. Are you blind?”

It wasn’t, he had to admit, the smartest response he could have made. “Look, I don’t care about Meyer.”

“Obviously.”

Something in the way she said it gave him the germ of an idea. “I don’t mean it that way, Agnes. I care about all of my students, of course. Right now, I’m worried about King and Fletcher passing English. Just as I’m sure you’re worried about Meyer passing health and physical fitness.”

It seemed to take her a moment to process what he’d just said. Then she narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “You cannot be serious,” she said, a slight quiver coming to her voice. “Are you that unprincipled?”

“I’m very serious,” he replied, innocently. “As for principle, don’t you think it’s wrong to fail students just because you don’t like them?”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“That’s right,” he said, taking a guess, “you don’t like King and Fletcher because you think they’re picking on Meyer.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

He had guessed right.

“Oh, really,” he said, warming to the challenge. “Do you deny that you’re angry about Meyer being picked on?”

She didn’t answer, but he could see he’d scored a hit.

“Do you deny that you think King and Fletcher have something to do with it?” he continued, beginning to enjoy himself.

Again, she was silent. He could see she was fuming.

“In fact, you blame King and Fletcher for what’s happened to Meyer, right?”

“No,” she spat, angrily, and it caught him by surprise. In a voice practically dripping with venom, she said, “I blame you. You and your nauseating double standard. Not only do you let those boys get away with murder, you encourage it. You have no business being in education. You have no business being around young people. You, sir, disgust me.”

It took him a moment to get over the shock. Then he stepped toward her and put his hands on her desk, resting on his knuckles. She instinctively leaned back. In a quiet voice, he said, “That’s your opinion, and you’re entitled to it. Just like I’m entitled to think your opinion is worthless. Now,” he said, leaning in, “if you don’t want Meyer to flunk my class, you’ll pass King and Fletcher. And, if you think for one moment I can’t flunk Meyer‌—‌or worse‌—‌guess again. Those are my terms. And they’re not negotiable.”

She stared at him. Gone was all pretense of civility. She was breathing hard. He thought for an uncomfortable moment she might actually try to strike him, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle that. But then she blinked and looked away. A long moment passed. Finally, still contemplating something outside the window, she said, “Not for you, and certainly not for those boys, I’ll let them pass this once.” She returned her attention to him and, to his surprise, leaned forward. He had to fight the sudden instinct to pull back. Her face inches from his, eyes blazing, she added, “You will give Jon Meyer an A, because we both know he deserves it. And you will keep your boys away from him. Those are
my
terms. And they’re not negotiable.”

They remained in that position for several seconds. Then Spitzman stood up straight and took a step back. He’d gotten what he needed. He couldn’t care less what grade Meyer got. The important thing was that he’d just saved the season.

“Done,” he said, and, without another word, he turned and walked out of the classroom.

#

As Jon approached the point where the road to Middleburg veered off from Ridley Road, he slowed. He’d been pedaling furiously from the moment he’d left the school, but he was suddenly beset by doubt. In a moment, he would be able to see the spot where Mary had told him to meet her. Would she be there? Or would this have simply been a joke, something that she could laugh about with her friends?

A small rise hid from view the bend in the road where he was headed. As he crested it, he saw an automobile parked on the side of the road, facing in his direction. It was a blue Packard. When he was about thirty yards from the car, he could make out the silhouette of a single occupant. His breath caught. It was Mary.

Mary had rolled down the window as he’d approached. He detected what seemed to be a look of worry on her face.

Uncertain what to say, he asked, “Did I make you wait long?”

She shook her head. She pointed toward the rear of the car. “Why don’t you park your bike behind the car? I’ll slide over, because I think the other door is blocked by the snow.”

He did as she’d suggested, dismounting and wheeling the bike behind the car, where he set it against the mound of snow piled on the side of the road. He walked back, opened the driver’s side door and slid into the front seat, thinking absently as he did that it was the first time he’d ever sat behind a steering wheel.

Mary had rolled the window back up and had moved across the bench to the passenger side, where she sat with her left knee up on the seat, turned toward him, her hands folded in her lap. Jon could smell a faint scent of soap. It occurred to him that it was one of the most incredible things he’d ever smelled.

He looked at her and realized he had no idea where to begin. She seemed to have the same problem, and they stared at one another for a long moment. Finally, he swallowed, took a deep breath, and, hoping his voice wouldn’t betray his nervousness, he said, “Thank you for helping me in the storm.”

As he’d started to speak, she had leaned forward slightly in anticipation. His words, however, seemed to deflate her, and she slumped back. She gave a slight nod and shrug of her shoulders.

He continued, quickly, afraid of what she might say. “I know I’m different from everyone else. I don’t know why it’s important, but I get that it is.” He paused, then decided to take the plunge. “It’s just that I was hoping there was a chance we could…”

“I’m so sorry, Jon.”

He felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach, but he said, immediately, “Oh, I… I understand.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes, so he focused on her tightly clasped hands. There was a long silence. Then he heard her say, “What?”

He looked up. She was leaning forward again, staring at him intently. Confused, he asked, “What?”

“What did you say?” she asked, a tinge of excitement in her voice.

He thought for a moment. “I said I understand.”

“No,” she replied, with a quick, firm shake of her head, and Jon could swear her eyes were sparkling. “What you said before that. Something about how you were hoping there was a chance. Right?”

Her excitement was palpable.

“Say that part again,” she told him. “And finish it this time, please.”

Heart pounding, Jon said, haltingly, “I was just hoping that, maybe, there was a chance we could be,” he shrugged, awkwardly, “friends.”

Her eyes bore into him, and he felt as though he were on a precipice. Slowly, she reached her hands out, placing them on the seat between them, palms up.

He looked at them, then at her face. Hesitantly, he reached out with his own hands, and their fingers brushed. As soon as they touched, she clasped one of his hands in both of hers, squeezing tightly. He instinctively folded his other hand around them. Her hands were warm. They felt small in his.

And they felt wonderful.

9

When Jon finally returned to Ben’s place on Saturday, almost two weeks had passed since he’d last been there. A week of that was attributable to his recuperation. The past week, however, had been all about Mary.

Jon and Mary had been together every afternoon following school, and Jon had never been so happy in his life.

They’d settled on a meeting place more proximate to the school, down a long private lane that branched off the highway about a mile east of the school. The lane led to a farm occupied by an elderly widower whom Mary knew to be extremely reclusive. The likelihood of their running into anyone coming up or down that lane was remote.

They spent quite a bit of time just sitting and talking. Mary explained to Jon in detail the whole situation with her father and his campaign and apologized so many times that he finally had to put a finger to her lips. It didn’t matter. He did not blame her at all.

Jon told her about his trips to Ben’s and learning to fly. Mary asked if she could come out to watch. They took drives, and Jon got a glimpse of places that had been too far for him to travel on his bike. The first time they ventured out, Mary offered to let him take the wheel and was flabbergasted when he told her he didn’t know how to drive.

“Really?” she asked, laughing. “You know how to fly an airplane, but you can’t drive a car?”

She resolved to teach him, and he learned quickly, the only real challenge being the timing required for the release of the clutch. It occurred to Jon that, if Mr. Dahlgren had any idea Jon was learning how to drive in his car, he’d have a fit. But, then again, how much worse would it be than if Mr. Dahlgren learned that he and Mary were spending all their free time together?

When they parted on Friday, they made plans to meet at their regular rendezvous on Saturday afternoon, Jon explaining that he needed to see Ben Saturday morning and let him know all was well. Neither was anxious to part, and they lingered until Jon finally said, “I really have to go, or I’ll be late for dinner.” He turned to open the door, and, before he realized what was happening, Mary leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, quickly sitting back, an impish expression on her face. He was so surprised, he didn’t know what to do or say. The sensation stayed with him the entire ride home. When he arrived at his grandmother’s, he honestly couldn’t recall even turning the pedals.

When Ben saw Jon on Saturday morning, he put on a show. Tapping his forehead and gazing up, he said, “Your face is very familiar. I’m sure it’s going to come to me.”

A little embarrassed and not sure how to respond, Jon simply smiled.