Deadly Design - Emarsan Page 0,5
show off your . . .” I lift the hot dogs.
Teddy’s hair-framed face reddens. His biceps flex.
“Is there a problem?”
Officer Prater, our school’s resource officer, is standing right behind Teddy. He’s not wearing his uniform or his Taser, but at six and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds, he doesn’t really need them to be intimidating.
Teddy walks away, but not before giving me that “I’ll find you later” look.
“I really hate that this is Connor’s last meet,” Prater says, running a hand over his shaven head. “I’ve been watching him since middle school.”
I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking that even though Connor is graduating next week, he should be able to come watch me compete in football and basketball and track. But I’m too much of a slacker. I’m too lazy to be all that I can be.
“He’s got a good chance of breaking his record, and I bet it stands a long time too.” Prater looks off at the cloudless May sky like he’s savoring this moment—the moment before Connor McAdams cements his place in the history of high school pole-vaulting. He smiles to himself, and when his eyes fall back on me, it’s like he’s about to reprimand me for hanging out in the hallway instead of being in class. “You better get up there. There’s only one more competitor before Connor. You don’t want to miss this.”
“Oh”—I shake my head—“you have no idea how much I don’t want miss this.”
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Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
I push my way through the crowd, and the hot dogs I was craving a second ago have lost some of their appeal.
I don’t want to be here!
But over breakfast this morning, Mom kept opening her mouth as if to say something, then closing it again and starting to rinse dishes or wipe counters. Dad, on the other hand, came into the kitchen, fixed a bowl of cereal, and said what he wanted to say.
“Don’t come if you don’t want to.” His mouth was full of cornflakes, and there was a tiny dot of milk on his chin. “Your mom and I understand that watching your brother compete may not be . . .” He couldn’t quite find the words, so he shov-eled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth to buy some time. “It’s just that this is his last meet. He wants us there, all of us. You mean a lot to him. I know you two haven’t been that close, not for a long time, but you used to be. It’s probably my fault. Maybe if I’d have tried harder to get you involved in sports, or maybe a little less hard with him, then . . .”
That’s when I agreed to come to the meet. I hate it when my parents start analyzing the ways they may or may not have screwed up their kids. Right or wrong, Dad loves sports, and he loves watching Connor. I don’t want him to feel guilty for that. And I definitely don’t want him to feel like he’s a bad father. He’s not.
Besides, the truth is, what Connor does is pretty cool. I’ve watched pole-vaulting on YouTube. It’s pretty amazing. These guys, they actually fly—not for long, but they do fly. And that part where the pole is bending, and it looks like it might snap 1 8
Copyright © 2015 by Debra Dockter.
FOR REVIEWING PURPOSES ONLY--NOT FOR SALE
in half and stab them, that’s scary as hell. And Connor’s not just good at it. He’s the best.
I go up the four steps leading to the bleachers and notice a guy standing next to the chain-link fence. He’s young, probably in his midtwenties. He’s got broad shoulders, definitely the athletic type, and he’s taking pictures of . . . Connor. Of course he’s taking pictures of Connor. Connor isn’t even jumping yet.
He’s just bending over touching his toes, but even that’s impressive if you’re a scout for some big university and you want Connor on your team. The photographer pauses to look at the shots he’s just taken. He glances up for a second, and when he sees me, he looks . . . uneasy. Then it’s like he remembers that somebody told him Connor had a twin, and he nods at me and looks away.
Don’t worry, buddy, I want to tell him. You won’t have to come back to take pictures of me in a couple of years. Not unless you’re recruiting for your