Hooked. Liz Fichera

I lied.

      “Good,” he said. “’Cause I expect you to tell me if they don’t. Okay?”

      I nodded without looking at him.

      When we reached his office, I scooted around the coach and dropped my bag in its usual spot while he plopped into the seat behind his desk. I stood back and frowned at it. My bag stood out like a laser light among all the stylish navy blue, black and gray bags with their trendy logos and shiny clubs that barely looked used. I tried to stuff my bag into the corner, but there was only so much you could do to make a thirty-year-old plaid golf bag look inconspicuous.

      “Listen, Fred,” Coach Lannon said as he opened a yellow folder on his desk. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Privately. You want to have a seat for a minute?”

      My stomach dropped.

      He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. I sat down.

      Had I done something wrong? Had he seen me muff the two short shots yesterday on the putting green? Was he angry already with my performance? Was he kicking me off the team?

      My breathing quickened exponentially.

      “I notice you wear tennis shoes instead of golf shoes.” He made a tent with his fingers.

      I sat higher in my chair. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yes,” I said with an equally careful tone. It was like tiptoeing around Mom.

      “Well, I just wondered if your play wouldn’t benefit from a pair of decent golf shoes—”

      I interrupted him, surprising myself. “I haven’t had a chance yet to buy a pair.” I paused as my cheeks began to burn. “With school and practice and all. Maybe I’ll get to the mall this weekend.” Not a huge lie. It could happen.

      Coach Lannon sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I see.”

      I inhaled once, deeply, through my nose. The office walls began to shrink.

      His palms lifted. “If it’s a question of money, let me help—”

      “I don’t need any help with the shoes, Coach, really, I don’t. I just need time to get to the mall,” I said quickly.

      The coach lowered his voice. “Okay,” he said, leaning forward again. “Didn’t mean to upset you. But if you should change your mind—”

      “Maybe this weekend,” I said again, mentally calculating the tip money I’d already saved minus the money I’d just paid for two new pairs of shorts. And Mom had even promised to talk to the chef at the restaurant again. I’ll ask him when he’s desperate for extra hands, she’d promised the night before. Then he’ll have to take you back. Besides, Mom had said, you’ll need the job when you graduate. Her words had ingrained themselves in my brain like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

      Coach Lannon lowered his chin. His tone was kind, and I felt a tiny lump grow in my throat. “You know, Fred, there’s no harm in asking for help. When you need it.”

      I pulled away from his desk, swallowing back the lump. Then I popped up out of my chair like there was a spring in the cushion. Dad would be mortified if I ever accepted charity. “Thank you, Coach. I appreciate it, but I don’t need any help.”

      “Would it help if I talked to your parents?”

      I felt my face go ashen. That would be a thousand times worse. “No. Please, don’t,” I said. “They’re busy enough as it is.”

      “You’re sure?”

      “Positive. Please, don’t. Please, don’t do anything.” I wanted to tell him to just leave me alone and let me play golf. I’d never needed golf shoes before. I could survive without them for a little while longer.

      The crease in the middle of the coach’s forehead softened. I think he finally understood, but just as he was about to say something else, the first warning bell rang.

      “I better get to class,” I said, eager to be anywhere but trapped with Coach Lannon and more questions.

      The coach sighed and followed me reluctantly to the door. He leaned against it. “One other thing, Oday,” he said in his coach voice as I stepped into the hallway.

      I was still breathing heavily through my nostrils, anxious to sprint. I turned.

      “I’m pairing you with Berenger at the tournament today.”

      “Ryan?”

      “Yeah.” He squinted at me like he was surprised that I wouldn’t know. “You two are our best players. You’re in the top spot, and he’s in the second.”

      “Oh.” My voice squeaked. “Right.” More unexpected news.

      “Anyway, don’t forget the bus leaves here at two sharp.”

      I nodded and then finally turned and charged down the long hallway. When I got to the end, I nearly knocked over Ryan and his stocky blond friend, another white boy at Lone Butte High School with a permanent snarl that contradicted his angelic face.

      

1 A traditional Navajo house.

      Chapter 12

      Ryan

      “IS IT JUST ME, OR IS that girl whacked?” Seth muttered after Fred passed between us in the hallway, forcing us to part abruptly. She barely glanced at us.