Keep Quiet(38)

“Okay, hurry back.” Pam patted his leg, but Jake was already walking down the row, returning the smiles that everyone flashed at him and waving back to the other Concord Chase parents.

“Excuse me, sorry,” he said, moving down the row, stepping over sneakers and handbags, and finally reaching the aisle, where the tiara moms sat in a rowdy row. “Ladies, can I ask you a question about the Cardinals?”

“Sure,” answered the first tiara mom.

“Do you know Number 16, that player with the glasses?” Jake gestured to their half-court, where the team had finished its warm-up and were stripping off their jerseys and sweatpants and handing them to their manager, who stowed them in a red laundry bag.

“Sure, that’s Mikey.”

“Mikey.” Jake’s heart began to thump in his chest. Deaner had said his son’s name was Steve. “What’s Mikey’s last name?”

“Murcio, why?” shouted a stocky man from the row behind them, in a Cardinals T-shirt and glasses so thick that Jake took a calculated guess.

“Are you Mikey’s father?”

“Yeah. Mike Sr.” The man rose, extending a beefy hand. “Why?”

Jake shook his hand, introduced himself. “I think your son came to the job fair last year and talked to me. I wanted to know if he followed up with the financial planning firm I told him about.”

“I don’t think so.” Mike Sr. looked at the woman sitting next to him, a short redhead. “Babe, did Mike go to some job fair last year and see a financial planner?”

The wife shrugged, with a smile. “Who remembers? I don’t even remember yesterday. Don’t ask me where I put my car keys.”

Mike Sr. chuckled, facing Jake. “Sorry.”

“No worries, he’s a nice kid.” Jake had gotten the answer he needed, which only worried him more. He didn’t know who Deaner really was. He kicked himself for giving him a business card.

“Good luck, bro.” Mike Sr. lowered himself onto the bleachers, and the tiara moms started to cheer.

“Go, Cardinals, go! Go, Cardinals, go!”

Jake hurried down the bleacher steps, reached the gym floor, and threaded his way through the crowds hurrying to get to their seats before the game. He looked for Deaner on the floor and in the stands, but didn’t see him. He followed the signs to the men’s room and hurried inside.

The room was empty, and he hustled to the sink, stuck his hands under the automatic faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. His heart raced, his head pounded. He felt like he was having a panic attack.

I bet you drive a nice car, like an Audi.

Jake leaned over, bracing himself on the sink. He had to get it together. Pam would begin to wonder if he was gone too long. He could hear the crowd outside surging again, and the announcer’s over-amplified voice welcoming everyone to the game.

He reached for a paper towel and dried his face, barely recognizing the expression on his face, one he’d never seen on himself. It was a mixture of bewilderment and dread, as if he were permanently aghast.

The crowd started cheering wildly, and it brought Jake back. He hurried to the door and pushed it open, only to find Dr. Dave in the hallway. “Oh, hi, excuse me.”

“Jake, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Dave Tolliver, Ryan’s shooting coach? We met last year at the championship dinner?” Dr. Dave smiled quickly, showing even teeth. He was of average height, much thinner than Jake, and his jet-black hair was cut close to his head, with sideburns too long for anyone not in a rock band.

“Right. Yes. Of course. I knew that. Dr. Dave.” Jake extended a hand, which Dr. Dave shook.

“Right.” Dr. Dave grinned, looking ready for GQ in a charcoal suit jacket of some sleek Italian cut, which somehow coordinated with his hip, graphite glasses.

“Thanks for your help with Ryan.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Dr. Dave’s eyes were dark brown, and for some reason, oddly serious. “I was looking for you, and Pam said I might find you here.”

“Oh?” Jake said, taken aback.

“Got a minute? It’s about Ryan.”





Chapter Eighteen


“Sure, but the game’s about to start.” Jake gestured to the gym, where the announcer was introducing the Cardinals cheerleaders. The crowd responded with cheering that echoed harshly in the corridor, painted white cinderblock with a wide red stripe.

“This won’t take long.” Dr. Dave slipped his hands inside his pants pockets. “I’m concerned that Ryan seems off tonight. He’s going to have a rough game.”

Oh no. “He’s been sick.” Jake felt his chest tighten. “But he wanted to play, and don’t sell him short. He’ll have a good game.”

“He didn’t warm up well. I’m concerned that something’s wrong with him, and it’s not physical.”

“Of course it is.” Jake tried to shrug it off. “He was throwing up all day Saturday. He had some bad nachos. He’s only playing today because he’d never let the team down.”

“Jake.” Dr. Dave paused, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “I’m a practicing child and adolescent psychologist, for twenty-five years. I know the difference between a teenager who’s got food poisoning and one who’s got something on his mind.”