Superstition, p.2
Superstition, page 2
“Again, louder. Do you want this?”
“Yes!” The answer echoed throughout the gym.
“Better! And if necessary, I’ll put myself in there. And you know I will.”
That elicited a round of nervous laughter from the squad. Within a pound or two of her cheer weight, Nightlinger would insert herself into the practices when the squad floundered. In moments of desperation, she would concoct schemes where she assumed the identity of one of the girls, placing herself on the squad when they competed at Nationals.
“Circle up.” The coach made a clockwise motion with her arm.
The squad formed a ring, their right hands touching in the center. “One, two, three! Statesmen!”
“Let’s do this.” Nightlinger pointed at her squad. “Arms straight and no boring faces.”
The cheerleaders struck poses and displayed a series of winks, open mouths, and dropped jaws.
Nightlinger pressed play on the ancient boombox, and static crackled at maximum volume. Cheerleaders covered their ears. She fiddled with the device for a few moments before giving up. “Who’s got a phone with the playlist that I can borrow?”
A brunette tossed her iPhone to the coach. Nightlinger hooked up the phone to the sound system and pressed play. High-energy techno-jazz boomed from the sound system, echoing throughout the gym.
Girls leapt, spun, and bounced into back flips. Marcus and another boy locked their wrists to form a basket. Cassie hopped into the basket, steadying herself on their shoulders. Two spotters placed their hands under the others. With a mighty effort, the four propelled her twenty feet into the air.
At the apex, Cassie split her legs, touching her toes. She descended toward waiting arms. A deafening roar of thunder filled the gymnasium, and the lights flickered. In the momentary darkness, her foot collided with someone’s head, redirecting her fall. Marcus scrambled to catch her, but Cassie slammed to the floor, eating mat.
The rest of the team continued performing basket catches, rewinds, and liberties. The routine slowly came to a standstill as the squad realized something was amiss. Cassie lay motionless on the mat.
“Why is everybody stopping?” Nightlinger threw up her hands. “McGlaughlin, you go down like that in Dallas, you better not lie there. You get hurt, you roll off.”
The squad made a half-hearted attempt to pick up the performance while Cassie remained unmoving. Nightlinger blew her whistle and killed the music. She walked over and knelt by Cassie, who had managed to sit up. The girl moved her jaw, wheezing, but no words were forthcoming.
Nightlinger placed a hand on the cheerleader’s shoulder. “Take it easy. You got the wind knocked out of you.” She shouted at her team, “Everyone, you have two minutes. Grab a drink!”
A variety of water bottles, electrolyte replacements, and energy drinks were retrieved from gym bags and guzzled.
Cassie gasped until her breathing returned to normal. A blank look crossed her face. “What happened, did I fall?”
Nightlinger looked around at the squad. “Anyone see? Did she hit her head?” The question was met by shrugs and stares. She pointed an accusing finger at Marcus. “You should have caught her. You’re better than that.”
Marcus shrugged. “But Coach, the lights went out.”
“But Coach, the lights went out,” Nightlinger mocked. “We’ve been rehearsing this routine for weeks. You should be able to do it blindfolded.” She dismissed Marcus with a wave of her hand. “Rokozny.” The coach pointed at a strawberry-blonde stunter. “Go find a trainer.”
The girl scampered off through a side entrance.
Ridiculous, thought Nightlinger. The basketball team gets three trainers and God knows how many assistants, for half as many athletes, while I get less than nothing for the most dangerous sport on campus. Someday, we’re going to get sued. And I’ll be there to say ‘I told you so.’ If I’m not fired first.
“I’ll watch her, Coach.” Marcus offered Cassie a hand and lifted her to her feet. “Lean on me.” Even using Marcus for support, Cassie wobbled. “I have an idea.” He reached behind her knees and hefted her up.
Secure in his arms, Cassie locked her hands around Marcus’s neck, pulled their faces closer, and gazed into his sky-blue eyes. “My hero.”
Nightlinger observed the goofy grins on both their faces. Last thing her team needed was romantic complications sparking jealousy among the rest of the squad, then the harsh feelings between Cassie and Marcus after the inevitable break-up. The coach would stop this budding flirtation before it destroyed her team. She followed Marcus across the court to the bleachers.
He gently placed Cassie in the first row, then sat next to her and held her hand. “Okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Cassie squeezed his hand. Music again filled the gym, and the cheerleaders resumed their routine. “You should probably join the squad.”
“Nah, I’ve got to keep an eye on our number one flyer.”
“Uh, uh.” Nightlinger pointed at Marcus. “You need to get in there. And no more mistakes.”
“Okay.” Marcus squeezed Cassie’s hand once more, then jogged over to the other cheerleaders and resumed his place in the routine.
“You’re going to be okay.” Nightlinger sat next to Cassie. “Here comes help.”
Skip Stetter, one of the basketball team trainers, jogged across the court. He wore a green VBU polo and khakis. In his right hand, he carried a med kit. He knelt next to Cassie and pulled a laminated 8.5” x 11” sheet from his bag.
“What happened, did I fall?” Cassie said again.
Skip searched for the concussion protocols on the sheet.
“Don’t you know what to do?” Nightlinger stared at Skip.
Skip stared at the instructions. “This is very technical. I don’t want to get it wrong.”
“What happened, did I fall?”
“She keeps asking the same thing,” Nightlinger slumped her shoulders. “She got the wind knocked out of her. No one’s sure if she hit her head or what.”
“Just let me do this.” Skip grabbed Cassie’s wrist, felt for a pulse, and checked his watch. “Fifty-two beats per minute. An athlete’s heart.” He released her wrist. “I’m going to ask you a few questions. Can you tell me your name?”
“Cassie.” Her tone implied everyone should know it.
“Very good, Cassie. And do you know what day of the week it is?”
“It’s Wednesday.” She squinted at him. “Why?”
“These are the questions on the sheet. And where are you?”
She sighed. “Van Buren U. In the gym.”
“Very good. Three for three.”
“Is she going to be all right?” Nightlinger leaned forward trying to read the sheet in Skip’s hands.
“Have to check a few more things.” Skip reached into his bag for a penlight and aimed the beam into Cassie’s brown eyes. Her pupils shrank to the size of pinheads. “Cassie, I want you to follow the light with your eyes while keeping your head still.” He motioned the pen to the left, then back to the right.
Cassie’s eyes didn’t move. She stared straight ahead.
He leaned closer. “Cassie, can you hear me?”
“What happened, did I fall?”
Skip waved the pen in front of her face. “I want you to follow the light with your eyes.”
“What light? Everything just went black.” Her body shuddered. “I can’t see!”
He clicked off the penlight. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! How could I not be?” she screamed, then broke into tears.
Nightlinger wrapped her arms around Cassie in a tight hug. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she whispered.
Skip pulled out his phone. “I better call 9-1-1.”
CHAPTER 2
THURSDAY 11:35AM
Jerry Williams, sophomore and general assignment reporter, stared at his article on the monitor, struggling to come up with the proper adverb. His phone buzzed.
Busby: Where you at?
Jerry: Newsroom
Busby: Lunch at sc?
Jerry: Sure. See you at 12
“Hey Jer, can you look at this story for me? I’m struggling to come up with a hook.”
Jerry powered off his phone, shoved it in his pocket, and spun in his roller chair. Noah Chen, his bleached blond undercut styled into a towering quiff, sat at his desk behind a box of donuts. Powdered sugar clung to his lips and covered the shield of his blue Captain America T-shirt.
“Sure thing, Noah. What are you working on?” Jerry leaned back, lifted his feet, and propped them on the corner of Noah’s desk.
“Thanks.” The skinny freshman handed Jerry a sheet of paper and grabbed another donut. “I’m doing a story on the women’s lacrosse team.”
“You’re in luck. I covered boy’s lacrosse in high school.” Jerry scanned the article. “Yeah, this is a pretty dry read. You need to drop the reader into the action or set the stakes.” He lowered his voice, impersonating a radio announcer. “This Sunday, the Van Buren University Lady Statesmen lacrosse team faces a do-or-die confrontation when they battle their cross-state archrivals, the Grover Cl—”
“The two sports are entirely different,” Fallon Ahern interrupted, her Boston accent slicing through the room. The tah spahts ah uttely differan. The tiny junior’s eyes were almost obscured behind wire-rimmed glasses and dirty-blonde bangs. She wore an unbuttoned red-and-black checkered flannel shirt over a white tee and black jeans. There wasn’t a subject that Fallon didn’t have an opinion on, and she perpetually inserted herself into every possible conversation.
Fallon rose from her desk, snatching the paper from Jerry’s hand. “The first thing you need to know about the men’s game is the focus is on speed and power.” Powa. She made a swooping motion with an imaginary lacrosse stick. “But women’s is strategic.” With her index finger, she tapped the side of her head. “It’s all about finesse and control.”
“Interesting.” Noah scribbled a note.
“So it’s like sex?” Jerry snickered.
Fallon groaned. Noah rolled his eyes.
“Hey, you wanted a hook.” Jerry reached across Noah’s desk and stole a jelly donut from the box.
“On second thought, I should figure it out myself.” Noah grabbed the article from Fallon.
Jerry lifted his shoulders in indifference. “Suit yourself.”
“Whatever.” Fallon cocked her head, listening to a conversation between Laurie and Brandon about campus transportation, and headed toward them. “Actually, the reason the circulator bus is always late is because...”
“Uh, oh.” Noah’s eyes widened. “Vanessa’s heading this way, and she doesn’t look h—”
“Jerry, get your dirty high-top sneakers off that desk!” Vanessa Howley’s Texas accent boomed throughout the office like a small-town sheriff lecturing an out-of-state speeder. “This is my newsroom, not your living room.” Notch yur livin ruum.
Jerry swung his black Chuck Taylors to the floor. He adjusted his six-foot, two-inch frame in the too small chair, and his blue eyes met the gaze of the angry editor.
Unlike the rest of the staff of The Chronicle, Vanessa always dressed professionally: this morning a blue blazer over a white blouse paired with a tan skirt and sensible heels. A junior from the upper-class suburbs of Fort Worth, she was the first Black woman to lead the college paper in its one hundred-and-twenty-six-year history. Under her leadership, The Chronicle won a slew of honors, including an award for investigative reporting from the Upstate New York Press Association.
“Hey, Chief.” Jerry flashed his best attempt at a disarming smile. “Are you done editing my story on the fast-running parking meters?”
“No, I have to let the university’s lawyers look at it.”
“Lawyers? What for? It’s thoroughly researched. Did you talk to my source?”
Vanessa nodded. “I did. I’m not entirely convinced by her story. Plus, she isn’t willing to go on the record.”
“Of course she isn’t. Her job is at risk.”
Vanessa sighed. “We’re talking parking meters, not Watergate.”
Jerry set down his donut, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved his notes. “I’ve got aggrieved students with tickets, and a bunch of ‘No comments’ from the Parking Administration.” He tapped his watch. “I timed some of the meters myself. They do run fast. This is an enormous scandal.”
“The administration claims that there may be a bug affecting a few of the meters and they’re looking into it.”
“Which is noted in my story.” Jerry held up his notes and research.
“But you wrote it in such a manner as to suggest that they are lying.”
“Because they are lying, Vanessa. I don’t understand why you have to run this by anyone!”
Chatter and typing stopped. All eyes locked on the confrontation.
Vanessa gave Jerry a hard stare. “You don’t need to know because I’m the editor, and you’re the reporter.”
Jerry was wide-eyed and incredulous. “Do you know how much time I spent researching this? Pleading with my source in the Parking Department? You want the paper to win another award? This story is a lock.”
“This isn’t about awards; this is about responsible journalism.” Vanessa crossed her arms. “I won’t accuse the administration unless I have evidence to my satisfaction. If I want to land a job at the New York Times after I graduate, I can’t afford any scandals.”
“That’s what this is all about? Playing it safe instead of breaking stories? Is the Times even going to be in business by the time you graduate?”
Throughout the newsroom, reporters audibly gasped at the remark.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Jerry knew he had gone too far and softened his tone. “Sorry. So I’m clear, that was a comment on the Times’s business prospects, not your academic progress.”
“That’s it.” Vanessa drew a finger across her neck. “I’m killing your story.”
How could she do this to him? Unable to control his temper, Jerry blurted out, “I bet The Underground would run it.”
Vanessa laughed. “I thought you wanted to be a respected reporter. You want to work for that rag? Be my guest. It’s little better than a collegiate InfoWars.”
Jerry clenched his jaw. “No, I don’t want to work for them. I enjoy working here. I want to uncover lies, expose corruption, tell stories that matter.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I have a new assignment for you.” Vanessa held up the paper in her hand. “One of the cheerleaders injured herself at practice. Hit her head so hard she’s in the hospital.”
“Cheerleaders?” A pained look crossed Jerry’s face. “You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t think of anything that matters less.”
“They’re as much a part of the campus as you or me.” Vanessa sat on the corner of Jerry’s desk. “You’ve got talent, Jerry. But you’re undisciplined. You want to be the ace reporter, you want to tell stories that matter? Here’s your opportunity. Do a little digging. See if any other cheerleaders have been hurt. Check into the injury rate. I’ve heard it’s worse than any other program on campus. This could be huge.”
“Why don’t you give the story to Noah?” Jerry glanced behind him. “He covers sports.”
Noah dropped his donut and raised his hands in defense. “Hey, hey. Don’t get me involved.”
“Noah.” Vanessa glared at him. “Stay out of this.”
“But, I—”
“Out! I said.” Vanessa pointed an accusing finger.
The sports reporter slumped in his chair and stared at his computer screen.
Vanessa returned her gaze to Jerry. She held up three fingers and counted. “One: Noah’s going to be busy reporting on the groundbreaking for the new football stadium. Two: Cheerleading’s not a sport. No reason to send a sports reporter to cover it. Three: I’m the editor. I give out the assignments.”
“Four: This is lame. You kill a story I’ve spent weeks on and send me to cover Sis-Boom-Rah? C’mon, Vanessa.”
She let out a weary breath. “I’m serious Jerry. You take this assignment, or you’re done. I’m running a newspaper here, not herding armadillos.” Above his head, she dangled the assignment sheet like tempting a kitten with a strand of yarn.
Jerry wondered how things had spiraled out of control so quickly. Okay, he didn’t wonder. He shouldn’t have argued with Vanessa in front of the entire newsroom. He needed to back down. No way he could explain to his dad that he was fired from the school newspaper. And his parking meter story might still have a chance. Vanessa’s lawyers could give it their approval.
Vanessa won, and Jerry would suck it up. He lowered his chin to his chest and grabbed the sheet from her hand. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
Vanessa stood and looked around at the reporters staring at her and Jerry. “Get back to work. We have a newspaper to put out.” She walked back to her office and slammed the door.
CHAPTER 3
THURSDAY 11:35AM
While Professor Johnson droned on, Busby Tilden slipped her phone out of her purse and texted.
Busby: Where you at?
Jerry: Newsroom
Busby: Lunch at sc?
Jerry: Sure. See you at 12
Miranda Sanchez elbowed Busby in the ribs.
“What?” Busby looked up from her phone to see Professor Johnson in his tweed jacket, smirk on his face, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently, glaring at her.
“Please answer the question, Ms. Tilden.”
The lecture hall was dead silent. All eyes on Busby.
“Interglacial,” Miranda whispered without moving her lips.
Busby sat up straighter, mustering fake confidence. “Winter glaciers.”
A smattering of laughter rippled from the class.
