A Stitch in Time Pt. 03

"You don't speak to me now," I whispered back to her.

She glared at me, and then her face softened, just a little.

"Look," she said, deciding on another tack, "I need a good grade in this course to get into this college, okay?"

"Which one?" I asked.

"Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute," she whispered. "I've been wait-listed."

She saw my frown.

"What?" she asked.

"I dunno," I shrugged. "Jeanne said you were really smart. How come you couldn't get into an American school?"

"You ass," her eyes flashed at me. "It's in Troy, near Albany."

"So do you have to learn Rensselearish or Trojan?"

She gave me a hard stare and returned her attention to the experiment. After a bit, though, I could see her shoulders start shaking.

"Or Albanian," I couldn't resist adding. "Do they speak Albanian 'cause it's near Albany?"

She kept her head down so I couldn't see the corners of her mouth turn up, and after a while she just whacked me on the arm and we got down to work. We finished the experiment in the spirit of pure scientific collaboration.

At lunch that day, I finally remembered Sammy Houghtaling. As I walked to my table I gave Rabbit Parker a subtle nod, and looked briefly at Sammy, on one side of him, and my sister Jeanne, who was sitting across the table. He smiled and nodded back; he'd take care of it. It Looked like Jeanne was going to be going on a date.

That evening after school I bought a tape recorder.

I had a ton of homework, though, so it wasn't until Thursday night that I finished all of my taping. At lunchtime on Friday, I told Tanya that I had some work to do to help Mrs. Torianni get ready for my hearing on Monday, and went instead to see Ms. Carter in the office. As I'd hoped, "Pete" was out to lunch, literally this time. Ms. Carter was all alone, and gave me a big smile when she saw me.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Sterling?"

"I need some advice," I said in a confidential tone.

"Come on back," she motioned me around the counter. "What can I do for you?"

"It's about the hearing."

"Patrick, you should really talk to Liz Torianni about this," she stopped me. "I work for Mr. Peterson, you know."

"I know," I said. "But I don't wanna tell her, and you're the only one I know who's, well, smart enough to do it."

"To do what?"

"To help me track down Stephie's father."

"What?" she sat back.

"He's the one who got my scholarships cancelled," I explained, "and my tryouts cancelled. And I know he's the one who's been supplying Mr. Peterson and Superintendent Frostman with information. And probably pressuring them to throw me out, too. I just want to talk to him."

"Do you really think that's a good idea, Trick?" she said.

I smiled at her. It was the first time she'd called me Trick.

"I really do," I said.

She punched at her keyboard and then picked up the phone.

"Is Dutch there?" she asked, in a low, sultry voice she'd certainly never used around me before, a voice, I realized, that had suddenly had a Southern accent attached to it. "No, aah don't need to talk to him. Just tell him that aah'll be at his office at five this evenin' to go over the test results. No, aah think he knows who this is; we don't need any names. Thanks ever so much, honey."

She put down the phone and laughed.

"How do you know he has a Southern girlfriend?" I asked.

"I don't," she grinned. "But I figured, what are the chances he doesn't? Here's the address. Be careful, Trick. He's a powerful man."

"Yeah," I grinned back. "But so am I."

I left with a swagger that made her laugh, and at 4:50, I was in the anteroom of Dutch van Carlen's office in the nicest building in the downtown area.

"Can I help you?" the secretary asked.

"Patrick Sterling," I said. "Here to see Mr. van Carlen."

She looked shocked.

"Is he expecting you, Mr. Sterling?" she finally said.

"I kinda doubt it, ma'am," I said. "Is he busy?"

"He's with his attorney at the moment," she said. "I'll just let him know that you're out here."

She scurried into the office, glancing nervously back at me one more time as she knocked and entered. She emerged with a man that I assumed wasn't Dutch; he didn't look like a "Dutch" for one thing, he was kind of young, for another, maybe in his early thirties, and he was dressed like a lawyer.

"Patrick, I'm Bob Hastings, Mr. van Carlen's attorney," he offered me his hand and took a seat beside me. "Mr. van Carlen tells me that he doesn't have anything to discuss with you."

"That's fine," I smiled. "I can just discuss it with you. I brought some tapes for him. Shall I play them for you?"

"Tapes?" he asked. The secretary was also looking at me.

"Well, one tape," I said.

There were two tapes, actually; I'd left the other copy at home. I pulled out the recorder and pushed the button.

We listened to the first message together, and when it looked like he wanted to say something, I pushed the "pause" button.

"What's the point of this, Patrick?" Mr. Hastings said.

"I think the point will become obvious, sir," I answered, "as we listen to more tapes.

I pressed the "play" button.

BEEP!

"Hi, Trick, it's Christmas morning now. You were a naughty boy last night, not calling me back. I got some great stuff this morning, probably to make up for being dragged to nowheresville. Or maybe just general guilt. Last night, Daddy started fucking Mom's little sister Rhonda again. Mom told me after a few eggnogs that if Rhonda gets knocked up, she'll be happy to give Daddy and his little dick to her. Call me, baby, I need to talk to you."

Mr. Hastings held up his hand again and we soon found an empty conference room out of the secretary's earshot.

"Hi, Trick, late on Christmas. Where are you, baby? This is like a fucking soap opera here. Dad was off watching some sports shit — sorry, baby — and Mom and Rhonda practically got into a catfight. Mom finally ended up crying when Rhonda told her that Daddy wouldn't run around on her so much if she'd gotten a boob job like Rhonda. I just feel so dirty, and you know what that means! Whoops, gotta go."

BEEP!

"Sorry, it was just Mom. Anyway, baby, little Stephie is horny, baby! She wants your tricky dick in her hot little pussy. She wants you to spank her like you did last month, baby, 'cause she feels dirty. She's your cock-sucking whore, baby. Damn it!"

BEEP!

"Mom, again. I know you think I'm too kinky, baby, but I never came as much in my life as I did after that. God, when you spat in my face I almost came right there. Oh, God, Trick, you've gotta do that again. I'll do anything for you, baby, anything. Maybe a little threesome with Paula Owens, how 'bout that? She's a slut, baby, she'll spread her legs in a minute. And I'll get between 'em for you. Please, Trick, huh?"

The messages got dirtier, then angrier, then dirtier and angrier, and finally settled on angrier again for the last few messages, including the most recent, which she'd left on New Year's Eve.

I looked over to see Mr. Hastings with his head buried in his hands.

"So how much do you want?" he asked, a newly hard edge to his voice.

"How much what?" I asked.

"I assume this is blackmail, son," he said. "How much do you want?"

"And I assume, sir, that you're unaware of what's been happening to me recently," I said as I tried to quell the nervousness in my voice. "What I want is, first, to have my scholarships reinstated. Second, to have my professional baseball tryouts reinstated. Third, to have my expulsion hearing cancelled. And fourth, to have a written letter from Stephie van Carlen apologizing for lying to people about my being abusive toward her."

He just stared at me.

"Apparently my assumption was right?" I asked calmly.

"You believe that Mr. van Carlen did all of this to you?" he asked.

"I do, sir," I said. "And if I'm wrong, and he can't fix all of these things, I assume that I'll be sued after everyone finds out that I've played these tapes next week in school at my expulsion hearings."

He sighed.

"Come on," he said as he got to his feet.

I followed him back to the anteroom, where he ushered me back to my seat and knocked on the door to van Carlen's office.

"Is that little shit gone yet?" came the roar from the office.

"No," was the last thing I heard before the door closed.

Mr. Hastings emerged about fifteen minutes later, a legal pad in his hand.

"I want to make sure I have this straight," he said, a little more rattled than when I first met him. "Scholarships reinstated, hearing cancelled, and a letter of apology."

"And my professional baseball tryouts, too, sir," I said.

"You really good enough to play pro ball?" he asked.

"That's what I want to find out, sir," I grinned. "That's why I need the tryouts."

"All right," he said. He stood to go.

"Oh, sir?" I piped up.

He looked back and raised his eyebrows.

"That other woman, the one with the test results? She won't be coming."

He was still laughing when I left the room and headed for the staircase.

I raced home, excited at the prospect of telling Jeanne what I'd done. I didn't want to blab to the whole family, though, thinking that it might jinx whatever luck I'd managed to accumulate. I'd tell her tonight. Then, during dinner, Jeanne asked me if I needed a ride to the test tomorrow.

"What test?" Dad asked suspiciously.

"What test?" I echoed, a small knot already growing in the pit of my stomach.

"The SAT," Jeanne said with no little astonishment. "You said you were gonna take it again."

"What the hell for?" Dad asked.

"I'm sorry?" I looked at him wildly when I realized he was speaking to me. My mind had been elsewhere. Shit, January 27. Damn it. I'd even bought a study book. I just hadn't looked at it.

"What the hell you takin' that test for again?" Dad repeated.

"College," I said.

"How the hell you goin' to college, boy, when you get your ass kicked out of school?" he asked.

"Yeah, that will make it harder," I agreed. "May I be excused? Oh, Jeanne, yeah, a ride would be great."

By the time I'd finished with the test early on Saturday afternoon, I was wiped. I'd spent the previous night trying to cram in all the stuff I should have been doing for the last few weeks. And a few nagging doubts had started to slide back in by morning. After all, I was dealing with a rich, powerful man, his vindictive daughter, and their lawyer. A lot could happen between now and Monday afternoon.

I staggered out into the parking lot, blinking in the bright sunlight, and walked right past our car. Jeanne had initially parked it in the far corner of the parking lot, and it was now in one of the spaces closest to the school. Absorbed as I was in my test-induced panic, I hadn't given much thought to what Jeanne would be doing while I took the SAT; it's not like she brought a book or anything, or that she would have spent three hours sitting in a car in January even if she had. She had apparently gone somewhere else, though. I learned that when she laid on the horn as I was passing the car.

"You're not supposed to drive by yourself," I grumbled as I slumped in the passenger's seat.

"I didn't," she said gaily. "How did it go?"

"Couldn't have been worse than last time," I said.

"Yeah, you stayed for the whole thing," she said.

"What are you so frickin' happy about?" I finally asked her as she pulled out of the parking lot. She'd been practically bouncing up and down ever since I got in the car.

She reached up and pulled down a piece of plastic from the visor: a freshly-minted driver's license, hot off the DMV laminating machine. I studied it for a minute, and handed it back.

"That's the first good picture I've ever seen on one of those," I said.

"You jerk," she laughed.

I smiled back at her.

"Congrats, Jeanne," I said. "Third time's the charm, huh? So how did you get there?"

"Cammie took me," she smiled. "First appointment of the day."

"So whatcha been doin' ever since?" I asked.

"I took Cammie to breakfast," she said. "To say thanks. And now I'm taking you to lunch for the same reason. Thanks, big brother."

"Sure, kid."

After that, it was a great weekend. I slept for most of it, but it was still a great weekend.

Chapter 9

The car wouldn't start on Monday morning, so Jeanne and I had to race to catch the bus. It seemed like a bad omen to me, but once I got to school, I decided that maybe I had just gotten my bad luck out of the way really early. Because there, on the steps of the school, handing out a piece of paper to every student who walked by him, was Mr. Bob Hastings, who gave me a grin as I approached.

"I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Mr. Sterling," he said as he gave me a copy of his handout. "Your scholarship offers will be back in place today, your tryouts start again next week. We can't actually control the expulsion hearing, but I don't think it'll be a problem. And here's your letter."

"Thank you, sir," I smiled. "I hope you're getting overtime for being here so early."

"Damn right," he smiled back at me.

I don't know what kind of letter I'd expected. The chances of Stephie just saying "I'm sorry, I lied" were probably pretty slim to begin with. But this letter was odd, and I was just going to have to wait to find out whether it did what I wanted it to, namely, restore me to the good graces of the Marshall High student body.

I didn't have to wait long. Mrs. Palmer altered her usual schedule at the beginning of our third period seminar.

"We're going to take a little break today, people," she began in a stern voice, "and temporarily suspend the fascinating discussion we began last week on Mr. Melville. I always believe in calling attention to excellent writing, and I found an example of it this morning in my mailbox."

She handed me the papers for my row. After I'd passed the stack back to Missy, I realized it was a copy of the letter I'd been given this morning.

"You'll note that I have redacted the name of its author as well as another name in the letter," Mrs. Palmer said. "Do you know what 'redacted' means, Mister..."

She looked down at her class list.

"Sterling?"

I looked up to see her smiling at me.

"Crossed out with a big ol' magic marker, ma'am?" I asked.

The class tittered.

"Exactly," she nodded. "Now let's all take a minute to read the letter first."

My fellow students, I was thrilled this weekend to learn that I have been accepted into Richmond Arms, the prestigious private academy from which both my mother and my grandmother graduated, for this final semester. As a result, I will not be returning to school this spring. Before I leave, though, I feel responsible for correcting a mistaken impression that a number of you may have received during the past two weeks. As many of you know, I am a very creative person, and have often regaled you with fantastic tales and scenarios. Of course, my previous boyfriend, XXXXXXX, would have played a large part in some of those tales and scenarios. Recently, however, it occurred to me that some of you may have misinterpreted those stories in a way that would lead you to reflect poorly on XXXXXXX. Accordingly, I feel compelled to tell you that to the extent that you may have inferred that he ever actually engaged in any of the activities I may have included in my tales, you may wish to apologize to him for those thoughts. I will certainly only ever have the best memories of my time at John Marshall High School, and wish all of you well in the years to come. Sincerely, XXXXXXX

"It almost reads like it was written by a lawyer, doesn't it, Mr. Sterling?" Mrs. Palmer asked.

"The guy who was handing these out kinda looked like a lawyer, too, ma'am," I agreed.

"Very good," she said. "Is everyone done? Okay, let's begin. We'll leave aside for the moment this business about Richmond Arms. There are two ways of getting into Richmond Arms — grades and money. The better the grades, the lower the tuition, and vice versa. In this case, I suspect the young lady's parents —Richmond is a girls' school, so we know the author, or let's say the signer, is a young lady — her parents finally decided to fork over enough money to meet the magic figure."

The class giggled at that.

"I also want to note that I personally was unaware of this creativity this young lady claims to possess," she continued. "That surprises me, of course, because I personally edit the school's creative writing journal. But be that as it may, let's turn to the fifth sentence, where it turns out that some of us here at Marshall may have misinterpreted this young lady's fantasies. I'm sure that by now you're all familiar with those apologies that start out, 'I'm sorry if you took offense at what I said.' I'm not sorry I called you a dingbat; I'm sorry that you, for whatever reason —"

The class burst into laughter as she threw out her arms and rolled her eyes.

"—considered that to be offensive. To you personally.

"This letter, people, is even better than that. It's not her fault, it's not the fault of the person whose reputation she's been trashing all over school. No, it's the fault of all of us for inferring the wrong thing. What's the difference between inferring and implying, Miss... Kennedy?"

"You imply something in your own speech," Sheila Kennedy said, "but it's your listener who infers something from it."

"Exactly," Mrs. Palmer said. "And apparently I've been guilty of this as well. So I would like to take advantage of this opportunity to issue a general apology, here in front of all of you, for ever even thinking that this nonsense might be true. And I commend this letter to you if any of you, God forbid, ever want to become lawyers. Now, let's get back to Mr. Bartleby."

I sat next to Cammie in Astronomy the following period, because Aaron was still out, and she gave me a punch in the arm. Which was probably as good as I was going to get from Cammie. I sat next to a very pleased Tanya in Religion and at lunch, surrounded by tables filled with other kids who were no longer convinced that I had typhoid.

Finally, after school had ended, I walked into the principal's office with a half-suppressed grin, joining "Pete," Superintendent Frostman, and Liz Torianni. Pete shuffled a few papers on his desk, and then called the hearing to order.

"Due to some, uh, new information that I have received," he started officiously, "it has been determined that the recommendation that Patrick Sterling be expelled from Marshall High School cannot proceed, and that it should be withdrawn."

He droned on for a bit, but I was too busy grinning at Liz Torianni to pay much attention. Fifteen minutes later, I opened the door to the outer office and saw Rachel Carter looking at me hopefully. The bench that took up the entire length of the wall opposite the counter was filled with my friends, also all looking hopeful: Tanya, Jeanne, Rabbit, and Cammie. And Sammy Houghtaling, who was apparently going to be one of my new friends.

"Well?" Tanya asked after I paraded out in silence

I curved my fingers and blew on my fingernails before rubbing them on my chest.

"It's going to be sponged from my record," I announced proudly.

"Expunged," Liz corrected me as she followed me out and shut the door behind her.

"Ex-sponged," I agreed.

Liz just shook her head and laughed.

"And I owe it all to the support of my friends," I said, smiling at Rachel Carter before I turned back to Tanya. "Looks like you'll have to go to the dance with me after all."

She smiled back.

"How about you guys?" I asked the others. "You all goin' discoin' next weekend?"

Cammie and Rabbit were nodding; Jeanne was looking intently at Sammy, who was staring at his shoes.

"Oh, fer cryin' out loud, Sammy Houghtaling," I said. "What are you waitin' for, an engraved invitation? Come on, buddy, ya snooze, ya lose. The tide waits for no man. Wait not, want not. Help me out here, Ms. Torianni."