Piper Two Weeks Before She Fell

Piper

Two Weeks Before She Fell

"It's out of the question," Mr. James hisses, baring yellowed teeth. "I told you last year. It's not an appropriate topic for a school paper. A man's livelihood and reputation are on the line."

"That's why I want to do this," I argue. The stinging scent of chemicals wafts into the room from the classroom being cleaned next door, and I blink to keep from tearing up. I've been asking since last soccer season to cover this story, and Mr. James keeps shutting me down. "Mr. Davis is obviously innocent. But people are spreading these lies, and eventually, it could end him. Let me prove his innocence to everyone and blast all these rumors to hell."

Mr. James inhales slowly, his thin frame rising and falling in his cushioned rolling chair. "It is a no , Piper. The firmest possible no . I appreciate your loyalty to Mr. Davis, but the best thing you can do for him is to let this go." He is saying one thing, but I know he means another by the way the word "loyalty" drags on his tongue. "And if you ask me again, I will remove you from journalism altogether."

"You can't do that," I protest, pressing my fingertips into the desk like if I hold on tight enough, he'll give in.

"Watch me." His neck pulses, the skin sunburn red. "This isn't a debate tournament, Piper. You can't win this one. Now, if you would please see yourself out, I have grading to do, and I'd rather not be here all night." He flicks two fingers toward the door and then lowers his head, gaze fastened on the pile of papers in front of him.

I resist the urge to knock over one of the miniature potted plants adorning his desk. The things I used to find invigorating about this room now feel suffocating. "Fine," I spit, grabbing my notebook and spinning around. "But if he goes down for this, you're just as guilty as everyone spreading the rumors."

Flying out into the hall, I weave through the clumps of straggling students, passing Mr. Davis's chemistry classroom, the door now shut. It's also locked; I know this from the numerous times I've tried to get in there and dig around while he's been in the athletics office.

I'm not buying this looking out for Mr. Davis's welfare crap. Mr. James is jealous. Everyone loves Mr. Davis, and everyone is perfectly indifferent to Mr. James.

By the time I reach Mr. Davis's office, my jaw hurts from grinding my molars. The door is open, Mr. Davis at the desk, and I head straight to the table along the left side of the room. I smack my notebook down, the chair screeching as I drag it along the linoleum before plopping down into it.

In front of me, the computer screen is black, but I don't try to revive it. Instead, I stare at the wood veneer of the desk until my eyes fall shut in an attempt to block out thoughts of Mr. James.

"Everything okay?"

I startle, turning to see Mr. Davis peering over at me from the desk, brows slanted.

"Oh, yeah. Hi, Mr. Davis." I try to think up a reason for storming in here without greeting him, but an image fills my head: Mr. James's fingers waving me toward the door, nails as discolored as his teeth. "Just a rough class. But I'm here now. What do you need me to do?" A ripple of impatience runs through my chest. I should be trying to prove Mr. Davis's innocence, not spending an hour grading his papers. "Teacher's aide" will look great on college applications, but the main reason I agreed to it was to get closer to him so I could find some way to vindicate him. I owe him that. Being the only freshmen in his AP chemistry class full of seniors wasn't exactly easy. The older kids started calling me Dr. Piper and asking if I was lost. Mr. Davis turned everything around, though. Instead of making a huge show of my age, he treated me just like everyone else. And pretty soon, I felt like everyone else.

But I haven't found a thing to exonerate him, and whenever I try to question the guys on the team, they just joke about how they've been eating their Wheaties or how when you're on fire, you're on fire .

I had hoped any speculation regarding boys' soccer would fade away after time, like the scent of dryer sheets on your clothes. But this morning I overheard the athletics director asking Principal Winters if they could look for a new coach before soccer season starts. The administration had practically pinned a scarlet c for cheater on Mr. Davis's shirt without giving him a chance to prove he wasn't involved in any illegal activities. They're willing to sacrifice him to save their own skins. Like cowards.

The only person who cares about the truth is me. And plan A is failing me. There's nothing in this athletics office that will clear Mr. Davis's name. I had pictured working in his classroom at least some of the time, but so far, he's brought all of my TA assignments down here.

"If you could make copies of these pages, that'd be great," he says, pointing to a small stack at the edge of the desk.

"No problem." I stand and pick up the papers, forcing a smile.

After finishing the copies in the teachers' lounge, I meander back, taking my time. When I approach the office again, whispers trickle out into the hall. I halt, taking two steps back. I should turn around and give my teacher some privacy. But something pulls me forward like a magnet. I press my back against the wall beside the door frame and listen.

"You just need to keep quiet." Mr. Davis's voice is low and sharper than I've ever heard it. Numbness spreads down my spine. "My job is at stake here. You'll get into whatever college you want and live your charmed life, but you have to stop running your mouth."

"I didn't—"

"I'm going to have to redo everything," Mr. Davis cuts in, "because of you idiots. You knew this would be the new protocol after last season. And now my ass is on the line."

"Coach, it was only a couple of guys. Can't you just—"

"Get out," he says.

Before I can decide what to do, I hear footsteps coming toward me. I speed walk away as fast as my stiff legs will carry me, my heart thumping over the steps fading down the hall in the opposite direction.

My breathing is so ragged, I can barely see straight. I peek over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of goalkeeper Jaime Sanderson's enormous frame.

Shame heats my cheeks. I'm known around here as the smart kid. The only sophomore to have won the Peterson Award. The girl who can't be accommodated by her own school, so she has to travel to Foothill for science classes.

But I'm a complete moron when it comes to some things.

Like who to trust.

I take a deep breath, letting the oxygen fill my lungs until clarity floods my mind.

It's time to take this investigation up a level. Since plan A was an utter failure, it's time for plan B. Something that'll get me closer to dear Mr. Davis. Something that'll get me access to his classroom, the one I haven't been inside since freshman year.

I return to the athletics office, fresh photocopies in hand. "Here you go," I say to Mr. Davis, making my voice light as I set them down on the desk. Still clearly frazzled by his conversation with Jaime, he mumbles his thanks.

"Hey, Mr. Davis?"

He looks up, irritation in his pursed lips.

"I was thinking of joining Survival Club."