The Penalty Box (2 page)

She was on a yearlong paid sabbatical, working on a book about sports and male identity. She could have stayed in Fallowfield to write the book; most of her research and interviews were done. But there was her nephew.

“Where's Tuck?” she asked her mother, who was now humming to herself as she set the table for dinner.

Her mother frowned. “Upstairs on that computer you bought him.”

“Mom, he needs the computer for school. Believe me.”

“His eyes are going to go bad, playing all those crazy games. He sits up there for
hours
.” Her mother shot her a look of mild disapproval. “It's not good, Katie.”

Katie knew that look. Tuck was behaving the way Katie once had, hiding away in his room. Though Tuck was only nine, Katie knew he viewed his bedroom as his refuge, the one place where he could escape and not have to face the fact that his mother preferred a drink to him, and that no one knew who his father
was
, his mother included. Katie knew firsthand how painful being fatherless could be. She'd filled the void by turning to food, while her sister, Mina, had embraced booze and bad behavior instead. Katie wanted to make sure Tuck didn't follow in her sister's footsteps.

She almost said something to her mother about Mina screwing up Tuck but held her tongue, knowing it would only upset her. Plus, she had to give credit where it was due. Mina
was
trying to get her act together. She had entered a residential rehab facility six weeks before. And Mina did have the presence of mind to ask their mother to take in Tuck while she was away. Tuck loved his grandmother, and she loved him. But that didn't mean she had the energy or the means to care for a moody little boy who had seen and heard things he shouldn't have. Katie decided to spend her sabbatical year in Didsbury to help her mother take care of Tuck. She wanted Tuck to know there was another adult in his life, apart from his grandmother, upon whom he could always count.

Taking the last plate from her mother, Katie set it down on the table. “I'll talk to Tuck if you want. Tell him to get out more, maybe join the Knights of Columbus or start playing golf.”

Her mother shot her another look, albeit an affectionate one. “Thank you, Miss Wiseacre. He loves you, you know. Thinks you're the bee's knees.”

“I think the same of him. And please don't use expressions like ‘Bee's knees'. It makes you sound like you're ancient, which you're
not
.”

“Tell that to my joints.” She gave Katie's arm a quick squeeze before hustling back to the stove to check on the broccoli. “So, you're going, then?”

“To talk to Tuck? I just said I was.”

“No, to the reunion.”

“Mom—”

“Promise me you'll at least think about it, Katie.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“It's not. I just think it'll be good for you, that's all.”

“Mom, I
hated
high school. You
know
that. I would rather watch C-Span than deal with any of those people again.”

“But you're different now, and I bet they are, too. Or some of them. Go.”

“I'll think about it. But I'm not promising anything.”

“You'll go,” her mother trilled confidently.

Katie just rolled her eyes.

 

 

“
I hate when
she's right,” Katie muttered to herself as she slumped behind the steering wheel of her Neon at the far end of the parking lot, the better to spy on former classmates entering Tivoli Gardens. The Tiv was a faux Bavarian catering house that served overcooked Wiener schnitzel and soggy tortes. Management made the male waitstaff dress in lederhosen and occasionally yodel, while Tiv waitresses sported the “lusty serving wench clutching a beer stein” look. It was the only space in town large enough to accommodate an event like a reunion.

Katie had pretty much made up her mind not to go. But then she started thinking about what her mother had said. She
was
different. She had changed a lot in ten years. Didn't it stand to reason that some of her former classmates had changed, too? The more she thought about it, the more curious she became. Who was different and who was the same? Who was divorced, married, successful, single, gay, unemployed, a parent, incommunicado, dead? Who'd stayed in town and who'd left?

Besides, she was a
sociologist
. It was her job to analyze the collective behavior of organized groups of human beings. Going to the reunion would be like doing research.

That wasn't why she was going, though.

To be honest, she was there because she had something to prove. She wanted to see everyone's eyes bug out when they realized who she was. She knew it was petty to turn up with a not-so-hidden agenda that screamed, “Ha! You all thought I was a big fat loser, and look at me now!” but she couldn't help it. She was human and wanted, if not revenge, then satisfaction. She wanted to see the “Wow, that's Katie Fisher!” in their eyes.

So here she was, dressed to the teeth and wearing more makeup than a drag queen at Mardi Gras. At least, that's how it felt. Normally, Katie dressed casual but conservative: tweed blazers, turtlenecks, chinos, and practical shoes for running across campus. Rarely did she wear her long blond hair up, or even loose; she usually pulled it back in a ponytail. But not tonight. Tonight it was up, soft golden tendrils falling around her oval face. She'd poured herself into the tightest little black dress she could find, showing off every firm curve of the body she killed herself to maintain. When Tuck had said, “Wow, Aunt Katie, you look
hot
!” she'd blushed furiously because it was true: She
did
look hot.

Eyeing the dashboard, Katie checked the time. Eight thirty. A few people were still arriving, but most had to be inside by now. She could picture them standing in small clusters laughing, the ice in their drinks tinkling as their lips moved nonstop:
Remember this, remember that?
Panic seized her. Maybe she shouldn't have come. She popped an Altoid in her mouth and took a deep breath.
The cruelties of the past can't hurt me now. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can lead to years of therapy. No! Think positive! You can do this. You're attractive and successful. Remember: you're here as a sociologist observing group behavior.

Head held high, Katie slid out of the car and headed for Tivoli Gardens.

 

 

The minute Katie
spotted the pert hostess in the red peasant skirt and green velvet bodice standing outside the banquet room, she wanted to bolt. But Katie wasn't a quitter: She made herself put one foot in front of the other until she and Heidi were face-to-face.

“Guten Tag!” the woman said brightly. “Here for the reunion?”

Katie nodded.

“And you are—?”

Katie cleared her throat. “Katie Fisher.”

The woman skimmed her list of attendees. “Ja, here you are.” She handed Katie a name tag. “Would you like to fill out the ‘All About Me!' form?”

“Form?”

“Just to tell people a little about yourself and what you're up to now. At the end of the night, awards are given out. You know: ‘Least Changed,' ‘Most Children,' things like that.”

Katie discreetly backed away from the woman. “No, thank you.”

Heidi pointed to the door behind her. “The reunion is being held right here in the Rhineland Banquet Room.” She flashed Katie a retina-burning smile. “Have a
great
time!”

“I'll try,” Katie mumbled, affixing the name tag to her dress. She toyed with the idea of not wearing it just to be rebellious, but that seemed kind of dumb. Besides, how rebellious could you be in a place named the Rhineland Banquet Room?

The pounding undercurrent of a bass guitar coming from within made the ground beneath her feet shake as her hand lingered on the door.
Do I really want to do this?

Steeling herself, Katie slipped inside. Her eardrums were immediately assaulted by a DJ blasting Toni Braxton's “Un-break My Heart,” a song that had been popular the year she graduated. The evening would be filled with all the songs of 1996, good and bad. A banner hung from the far end of the banquet room proclaiming, “Welcome Back Didsbury High School Class of '96! I Believe I Can Fly!”, the latter line a reference to the R. Kelly song that had been her graduating class's anthem. Katie had always thought the Beatles's “Free As a Bird,” also a hit that year, would have been more apropos. At least, that was how
she'd
felt on graduation day.

She had to hand it to the reunion committee: The tables ringing the room looked great. Each had burning crimson tapers and a centerpiece of red roses and white carnations—their school colors. She could have done without the tacky napkins and glasses with “I Believe I Can Fly!” printed on them, though. A small dance floor had been set up in front of the DJ. Cocktail hour was in full swing. Just as she'd imagined, her former classmates stood in small groups, talking and laughing. Her stomach wobbled as she realized she would have to
join
one of these groups if she wanted to talk to anyone. She needed a drink.

She walked carefully to the bar, teetering in her too-high heels. It was stupid to have bought them, considering she'd probably never wear them again. But she had to admit they did make her feel sexy. Maybe there was life beyond Easy Spirit.

“A sea breeze, please,” she told the bartender, who winked in response and began mixing her drink. Katie watched him work, finding it easier to face the bar. A tap on her shoulder made her turn. Behind her stood a large, smiling woman wearing so much perfume Katie's eyes started to burn.

“Hi, I'm Denise Coogan! And you are”—she squinted at Katie's bosom—“Katie Fisher! hmigodyoulookfantasticgoodforyou!”

“Thank you.” Katie wracked her brain. Denise Coogan. Denise Coogan. She was drawing a blank. She smiled apologetically at the heavily made up woman. “I'm so sorry, but I don't remember you. I remember your brother, though. Dennis?”

The woman chortled. “Honey, I
am
Dennis! Or I was. Now I'm Denise. Grab that sissy drink of yours and I'll tell you all about it.”

For the next ten minutes, Katie listened to Denise/Dennis outline the horrors of being a woman trapped in a man's body. “I can empathize,” said Katie. “For years I was Jennifer Aniston trapped in the body of Marlon Brando.” Denise howled her appreciation.

Hovering on the periphery, Katie noticed Alexis van Pelt motioning to Katie to join her. Katie hesitated; although Alexis was one of the few people ever to be nice to her in high school, she was standing among a small group of former cheerleaders. The mere sight of these women filled Katie with apprehension; still, she made herself approach them. The increasingly baffled expression on Alexis's face as Katie came closer told Katie that Alexis thought she was someone else. She gasped audibly when she read Katie's name tag.

“Oh my God! Is that really you, Katie?”

“It's really me.”

“Wow!”

The other women in the group—Tanya Donnelly, Marsha Debenham, and Hannah Beck, all of whom had worked hard to make Katie miserable in high school—also looked shocked. Marsha, once suspected of having an eating disorder, had put on some weight, and Hannah had obviously spent the last ten years out in the sun: there were the beginnings of crow's feet around her small green eyes. Tanya still looked like a brunette stork.

“You really look great, Katie,” said Marsha in a voice quivering with admiration.

Katie blushed. It felt odd, receiving praise from these women. But it also felt good. Maybe her mother was right; perhaps she wasn't the only one who had changed.

“How did you do it?” Marsha wanted to know.

“Had my jaw wired shut.”

The women chuckled appreciatively.

Tanya Donnelly, who had once thrown Hershey bars at Katie in the cafeteria, touched her arm. “We were just talking about what stuck-up bitches we were in high school.”

Katie felt the nervous flutter return to the pit of her stomach. “Oh?”

“I'm really sorry about the way I treated you,” Hanna Beck murmured, looking uncomfortable. “I have a baby daughter, and the thought of anyone being as awful to her in school as we were to you . . .” She shuddered.

Heat flashed up Katie's face. “Thank you. It means a lot to hear that.”

“Let's face it: Being a teenager sucks!” Alexis declared, gulping her drink.

“I'll raise my glass to that!” Marsha echoed.

Katie was in a daze as she listened to the friendly cross chatter of female voices. The last thing she'd expected from these women was an apology or being treated warmly. Yet here they all were, gabbing away about their lives, asking about hers and seeming genuinely interested in what she had to say. Maybe the past was just where it belonged: in the past.

Then Liz Flaherty showed up.

Of all the rich, perfectly dressed rah-rah girls who'd given Katie a hard time in high school, Liz topped the list. Once, over a long period of weeks, she pretended to be Katie's friend, eventually inviting her to a party at the house of Jesse Steadwell, one of the most popular guys in school. Katie was so excited she could barely contain herself. Invited to a party! Finally! But when she rang the Steadwells' doorbell, no one was home. It was only when she was walking back down the driveway that Liz and her friends popped out of the bushes, laughing at her and calling her a loser. By the time Katie arrived at school the following Monday, the story had made the rounds. Complete strangers were coming up to her jeering, “How was Jesse's party?”