Free 2 Death Makes the Cut by Janice Hamrick Page A

“I think this is in everyone’s best interest. Of course, we can pursue it with Larry if you prefer.”
    She thought about this. I could almost see the way her mind was working, wondering just how far I was willing to go, considering whether she could bully me into backing down, weighing whether she could win. I gave her credit. She read me correctly.
    “I suppose I’d be willing to let McKenzie come in a few minutes late,” she said at last.
    I was impressed that she could get out that many words without unclenching her teeth.
    “You mean, not as early as the others,” I corrected, to make sure we were clear. “She won’t be late.”
    “Yes.” She bit off the word.
    I rose, giving her a tight-lipped smile. “Excellent. Perhaps you can let McKenzie know so she isn’t worried. Oh, and Nancy,” I paused to give my words weight. “I’ll be checking with McKenzie to make sure that tennis isn’t interfering with drama.”
    She shot me a cold look but didn’t answer. I left, feeling uneasy.
    I’d heard rumors. Heard about kids driven out of the drama department when they fell out of favor, about kids losing parts even after they’d made it in auditions. It was such a subjective area: the teacher claiming the kid wasn’t practicing hard enough, the kid claiming bias and retribution. All but impossible to tell from outside who was in the right. In disputes between teachers and students or teachers and parents, I usually found myself on the side of the teacher, but in this case, our two-minute conversation had been enough to make me afraid for McKenzie’s continuing theater aspirations. I doubted whether the girl would ever get another part, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about that. The only thing I could do was make sure she didn’t lose the one she had.
    I returned to my locked classroom to pick up my purse. Hesitating a moment, I considered my options, then made a decision. Kyla would not be happy, but I simply could not face a loud, happy group of strangers. Not tonight. I pulled out my cell phone to tell her I wasn’t going to be coming. Maybe I’d never intended to go. The only thing I wanted now was a Sonic cheeseburger, cheese tots, and limeade. Beer would have been better, but I needed to learn the official rules of high school tennis and maybe something about form and strategy. It was the last and only thing I could do for Coach Fred.

 
     
    Chapter 4
    EPITAPHS AND EPISTLES
     
    Coach Fred’s funeral took place three days later. Bowing to public pressure, our fearless principal dismissed school for the afternoon, which admittedly was more complicated than it sounded because he had to put classes on a shortened schedule and arrange for the school buses to arrive three hours early. However, to hear Larry moan about it, you’d think he was orchestrating an international peace convention single-handedly, instead of simply telling Maria, his secretary, to make the arrangements. Which was basically all he had to do.
    I arrived early at the tiny church and chose a seat at the rear. It was an old building, simple and elegant. The pews were long wooden benches with very upright backs, recalling a simpler, slower time when women came to church wearing flowered dresses and tiny hats, plump legs squeezed tight under the shimmering grip of support hose. Despite the abundance of flower arrangements, the air smelled mostly of old wood and furniture polish. The worn carpet was a mint green color, which I supposed was supposed to be restful, and the only adornment on the walls was a large mahogany cross hanging on the wall behind the altar. In front of the altar, a wooden casket rested solidly on trestles covered with golden cloth; it was flanked by two candelabras, tiny flames shivering as though cold from the air-conditioning. I looked down at my hands.
    Other people began arriving, and a couple of young men in suits escorted them singly or in pairs down the aisle. Some were members of the