The Saint

That, however, was about as likely as snow in July. The Heyday High School Fighting Zebras were one win away from the state championship, and Coach McClintock would never risk losing his star quarterback now. Steve could probably show up late, doze off during push-ups and make paper airplanes out of the playbook without causing his coach to bat an eye.

And the little rascal knew it, too. She watched him pull a grungy T-shirt over his head, his curly brown hair emerging from the neckline even more tousled than before, if that was possible. Aware of her disapproving scrutiny, he grinned and ran his fingers through it.

“Sorry, officer,” he said. “I didn’t know the hair police would be here. I left my comb upstairs.”

He was waking up, she saw. And, as usual, waking up sassy. He was so damn cute, that was his problem. She reached out and yanked the curl that dangled farthest down his broad forehead.

“Ouch,” he said. But he didn’t mean it.

Standing close to him like this, she realized he was wearing a ton of cologne. He smelled as if he’d bathed in the stuff. It seemed odd, given that he was headed out to run around in the mud, until she remembered that Michelle sometimes stopped by the football field to sneak in a few quick kisses before practice.

“The pancakes,” she repeated slowly, as if he didn’t speak good English, “are getting cold.”

“Yum.” Steve grabbed the top one off the stack and, holding it in his big fist, munched on it as if it were a piece of dry toast. “I love cold pancakes.”

She turned back to the stove, hiding her smile. He probably did. He loved everything. He’d probably eat the box the pancake mix had come in, which was a good thing, because she hadn’t ever learned to cook very well.

“So did you finish your English paper?”

The silence that followed her question was ominous. She could hear Steve chewing earnestly, and when she looked, he was studying the front page of the newspaper as if he held a doctorate in foreign affairs.

“Oh, Steve, no. No. Don’t tell me you didn’t write your paper. You promised that if I let you stay out—”

“I wrote it.” He gave her a look. “I did. I wrote it.” He grabbed another pancake. “I just didn’t print it. I’m out of ink.”

She managed, once again, to hold back her exasperated response. She had to be careful. She didn’t want to become the enemy here. The two of them had always been close, even before their mother died. After the accident, they’d become even closer, a tight team, as if they understood it was just the two of them now, two of them against the whole world.

Lately, though, Steve had seemed to be pulling back. Rebelling, even—just a little. He spent more time at football practice than he did at home. Coach Kieran McClintock seemed to have become his new hero, the one he confided in. Which was fine with Claire, really it was.

Except that she wished football didn’t take so much of his time. He was going to need a scholarship to get into college. Coach McClintock seemed to think he could get one for football, but was that realistic? Coming from a tiny nowhere-town like Heyday?

“Claire? Don’t give me that look. It’s okay about the English paper. Mrs. Keene said all the football players could turn it in on Monday. Full credit.”

“She gave an extension to the football players? Just the football players?” Claire knew how unpopular that would be with the other teachers…and perhaps the other students, as well. If the principal heard about it…

“Well, yeah. She knows we’ve been practicing every minute.” He gaped at his watch in open-mouthed horror. “Oh my God, look how late it is!”

Too bad he hadn’t joined the drama club instead, she thought. He could have used some pointers about overacting.

“Steve. I’m serious. You can’t let her give special deals to the players. If you can’t get your work done on time, you shouldn’t be playing football in the first place.”

He groaned as he hoisted his backpack over his broad shoulder. “God, don’t start. We do this every morning. It’s like Chinese water torture. I told Coach you’re on me about this every friggin’ day, like grass on dirt.”

“Oh, you did, did you?”

That stung, and she couldn’t help reacting. She wondered what other domestic complaints he shared with Kieran McClintock. The stingy allowance, which was all she could afford. The crummy dinners, which were all she could manage. The nagging, the criticizing, the clinging. “And what did he say?”

Steve paused. “Well,” he said slowly. “He said he felt really sorry for me. He said it must be tough to have such a nasty old shrew in the house.”

Like a fool, she fell for it. “What? That takes a lot of—”

She was so tense she hardly noticed the sparkle in Steve’s hazel eyes.

“Yeah,” he went on, gathering steam. “He said, boy, your sister sure is an ugly old bag, isn’t she? I don’t know how you stand it. He said the night he took you out on a date he almost couldn’t eat, just looking at your ugly mug across the table.”

“Steve.” She sighed. He was joking, of course. He had been ribbing her about that dinner for days. “He didn’t take me out on a date. We just went to dinner and—”

“Yeah, right. And I guess you haven’t had a huge crush on him since you were about fifteen years old, either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But it was pointless to deny it. When she’d been fifteen, and Steve was ten, he’d found her diary. Kieran’s name had been on every page, surrounded by hearts and exclamation points. And always the same plaintive question, Why won’t he notice me?

Steve had made himself insufferable for weeks, swanning around, his hand to his forehead like Sarah Bernhardt, wailing, “Why won’t he notice me?” It hadn’t stopped until Claire had found an F on a math test under his bed and threatened to tell their mother.

“That was ages ago,” she explained calmly. “Besides, all the girls in Heyday have crushes on Kieran McClintock when they’re fifteen. It’s in the bylaws, I think.”

Steve arched one eyebrow, but, because he had matured a tiny bit since he was ten, he let it go. Claire was relieved. She didn’t quite know yet herself what was going on between her and Kieran. She wasn’t ready to discuss it with anyone else, even Steve.

“So what about the astronomy test? Are you ready for that at least? Did you study?”

“Yeah.” He wolfed down one last pancake. “Sorta.”

“Stevie.” She folded her arms and blocked the doorway. The astronomy test wasn’t until Monday, but… She suddenly dreaded being alone. When Steve was here, she didn’t have time to brood, but when he left, the house always seemed dark and lonely.

“I’m late, Claire.”

“Can you still name the seven important moons of Saturn?”

He cocked his head and grinned. “No, but I can still name the Seven Psycho Dwarfs of the Eerie Alternate Universe. Mopey, Sleazy, Frumpy, Weepy, Queazy and Dork.”

“Great.” That list was from seventh grade. “Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone is going to be asking you those on a test. And besides, that’s only six.”

He put his hands under her arms and lifted her up, moving her away from the door. “Oh, yeah?” He kissed her on the cheek and yanked open the door before she could stop him. “I guess I forgot to mention Bitchy.”

She laughed as she watched him go. “Stevie,” she said one more time.

He paused by the door of his ratty old Mustang, which he’d bought and restored with money from mowing lawns. God knew she couldn’t have afforded to buy him one.

He looked like the Cheshire cat in the darkness. All she could see was his smile. But it was a very cute smile. It made her smile just to see it.

“What?”

She hesitated. They never told each other to drive carefully. It was a strange but deeply entrenched superstition between them. They’d never known their father very well—he left the family before Steve was even born. Then, three years ago their mother had been struck by a drunk driver who drove his car up onto the sidewalk. So now it was the just two of them. And they never said “drive carefully.” It was simply understood.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just love you, dork.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, she should have been on her way to work, but she was making a detour to the high-school football field. She had found a new ink cartridge and printed Steve’s term paper out. She wanted him to have it when he got to English.

Half a mile from the field, traffic ground to a halt—something that almost never happened in the little town of Heyday, which had a population of somewhere between five and six thousand, depending on whether the local college was in session.