Lock and Key(14)

I jumped, suddenly jerked back to the present and Jamie, who’d pulled his keys from the ignition and was now just sitting there expectantly, hand on the door handle.

“Oops. Bad choice of words,” he said. “Sorry.”

He pushed his door open and, feeling my stomach twist again, I forced myself to do the same. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I heard another bell sound.

“Office is this way,” Jamie said as we started walking along the line of cars. He pointed to a covered walkway to our right, beyond which was a big green space, more buildings visible on the other side. “That’s the quad,” he said. “Classrooms are all around it. Auditorium and gym are those two big buildings you see over there. And the caf is here, closest to us. Or at least it used to be. It’s been a while since I had a sloppy joe here.”

We stepped up on a curb, heading toward a long, flat building with a bunch of windows. I’d just followed him, ducking under an overhang, when I heard a familiar rat-a-tat -tat sound. At first, I couldn’t place it, but then I turned and saw an old model Toyota bumping into the parking lot, engine backfiring. My mom’s car did the same thing, usually at stoplights or when I was trying to quietly drop a bag off at someone’s house late at night.

The Toyota, which was white with a sagging bumper, zoomed past us, brake lights flashing as it entered the student parking lot and whipped into a space. I heard a door slam and then footsteps slapping across the pavement. A moment later, a black girl with long braids emerged, running, a backpack over one shoulder. She had a cell phone pressed to one ear and seemed to be carrying on a spirited conversation, even as she jumped the curb, went under the covered walkway, and began to sprint across the green.

“Ah, tardiness. Brings back memories,” Jamie said.

“I thought you could get here in ten minutes.”

“I could. But there were usually only five until the bell.”

As we reached the front entrance and he pulled the glass door open for me, I was aware not of the stale mix of mildew and disinfectant Jackson was famous for but a clean, fresh-paint smell. It was actually very similar to Cora’s house, which was a little unsettling.

“Mr. Hunter!” A man in a suit was standing just inside. As soon as he saw us, he strode right over, extending his hand. “The prodigal student returns home. How’s life in the big leagues?”

“Big,” Jamie said, smiling. They shook hands. “Mr. Thackray, this is my sister-in-law, Ruby Cooper. Ruby, this is Principal Thackray.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mr. Thackray said. His hand was large and cool, totally enveloping mine. “Welcome to Perkins Day.”

I nodded, noting that my mouth had gone bone-dry. My experience with principals—and teachers and landlords and policemen—being as it was, this wasn’t surprising. Even without a transgression, that same fight-or-flight instinct set in.

“Let’s go ahead and get you settled in, shall we?” Mr. Thackray said, leading the way down the hallway and around the corner to a large office. Inside, he took a seat behind a big wooden desk, while Jamie and I sat in the two chairs opposite. Through the window behind him, I could see a huge expanse of soccer fields lined with bleachers. There was a guy on a riding mower driving slowly down one side, his breath visible in the cold air.

Mr. Thackray turned around, looking out the window, as well. “Looks good, doesn’t it? All we’re missing is a plaque honoring our generous benefactor.”

“No need for that,” Jamie said, running a hand through his hair. He sat back, crossing one leg over the other. In his sneakers, jeans, and zip-up hoodie, he didn’t look ten years out of high school. Two or three, sure. But not ten.

“Can you believe this guy?” Mr. Thackray said to me, shaking his head. “Donates an entirely new soccer complex and won’t even let us give him credit.”

I looked at Jamie. “You did that?”

“It’s not that big a deal,” he said, looking embarrassed.

“Yes, it is,” Mr. Thackray said. “Which is why I wish you’d reconsider and let us make your involvement public. Plus, it’s a great story. Our students waste more time on UMe.com than any other site, and its owner donates some of the proceeds from that procrastination back into education. It’s priceless!”

“Soccer,” Jamie said, “isn’t exactly education.”

“Sports are crucial to student development,” Mr. Thackray said. “It counts.”

I turned my head, looking at my brother-in-law, suddenly remembering all those pings in his UMe inbox. You could say that, he’d said, when I’d asked if he had a page. Clearly, this was an understatement.

“. . . grab a few forms, and we’ll get a schedule set up for you,” Mr. Thackray was saying. “Sound good?”

I realized, a beat too late, he’d been talking to me. “Yeah,” I said. Then I swallowed. “I mean, yes.”

He nodded, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. As he left the room, Jamie sat back, examining the tread of one sneaker. Outside, the guy on the mower had finished one side of the field and was now moving slowly up the other.

“Do you . . . ?” I said to Jamie. He glanced up at me. "You own UMe?”

He let his foot drop. “Well . . . not exactly. It’s me and a few other guys.”