Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire

CHAPTER NINE

KNOX

Fucking security cameras.

Apparently, ever since my selfie stunt with the sleeping lions last year, the zoo upped nighttime security monitoring considerably. Since there was never really any blowback from posting that picture, other than Coach chewing me out over it, I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

But, apparently it spooked zoo staff because, if anything had happened to me, the insurance situation would have been a total disaster, so they put up more security cameras and hired an extra guard to monitor them every night.

So, within a couple minutes of Gavin and I sneaking over the walls, the police were already on their way.

We had to call Gavin’s parents to get bailed out. Gavin’s been pissed at me ever since. I guess I can’t blame him. It was one hundred percent my idea, and the only reason he went along is because he was worried about me. And, of course, he was protesting and trying to talk me out of it the entire time.

When Coach got wind of it and summoned us to explain ourselves the next day, there was a vein on his head bulging so vividly that I thought it was going to explode.

He went easy on Gavin, telling him he’ll be benched for the first game: my previous penalty.

Myself, on the other hand … Coach just told me to get ready to be good, good friends with the bench this season. He told me I was lucky to not be cut and thrown out of school – which I would be if I got kicked off the team and lost my scholarship, which is the only way I have any chance of attending this, or any other, university.

And, right now, that’s actually the least of my worries.

Because the zoo decided to press charges.

Not against Gavin. Which I’m fucking relieved by. If he were to face legal repercussions because of some shit he was against from the beginning and tried to talk me out of, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.

But the zoo is pissed at me for pulling this shit, after me being the whole reason they had to install the cameras that caught me in the first place.

They hit me with a misdemeanor trespassing charge. On the advice of my free public lawyer (who looked like he wanted to spend as much time worrying about my case as he wanted to spend in the McDonald’s drive through) I just pled guilty.

Today I see the judge for sentencing.

In fact, I’m on my way right now. Probably will get some bullshit community service sentence that will take up my after-school time.

Wouldn’t be surprised if Coach makes me ride the bench until I’m finished up with however many community service hours the judge gives me, too.

Oh, well. I’ll survive.

As I’m stopped at a red light, I feel my phone vibrate. I notice that Clare’s number sent me a text. My internal alarm bells start going off.

Despite the fact that I’ve urged her countless times to call or text me if she needed anything, she never has, and the only way I’ve ever found out that something around her house needed to be fixed or moved or something was by noticing it while helping carry in her groceries.

Something could be really wrong if she’s actually, finally, reaching out to call me.

The light turns green. I pull into the parking lot of a grocery store across the intersection and open her message. Can you come over to help with something?

I immediately fire back my response, Be right there.

The casualness of her normal request does nothing to sooth my worrying. Clare’s the exact type of woman who would send a message in those exact words even if she were lying on the floor with a dislocated hip, or God forbid, anything worse.

I turn the car around and head for Clare’s house. I’m going to risk being late to my sentencing – which probably won’t tug at the heartstrings of the judge, and probably won’t incline him to take it easy on me – but there’s no way I’m not checking in on Clare right now after that message.

Parking in Clare’s driveway, I hurry to her front door. I knock on it hard, to make sure she’ll be able to hear me if she’s stuck somewhere in the house far from the door. “Mrs. Davis, hello?” I say loudly, my hands cupped against the door, hoping they help my voice to carry inside.

To my surprise, considering all the disaster scenarios wreaking havoc on my imagination, I immediately hear her unlock the door.

She swings it open, and I see her standing upright, not only her normal picture of health, but a look on her face that basically says what are you making so much of a racket over?

“What are you making so much of a racket over, young man?” she asks. Well, it’s good to know that apparently I can read her thoughts now.

“Are you okay?”

“’Course I’m okay! Come in.”

I walk inside at her invitation, feeling relieved that she seems to be alright. “Wow, look at you! You on your way to a hot date?”

She’s obviously referring to my clothes. I’m dressed up for court, of course. Just a simple pair of slacks, a light blue button-down dress shirt, and a darker blue tie. I don’t own a suit jacket, so I’m hoping this get-up will do. These are pretty much the only “dress clothes” I have: I’ve worn them a handful of times for media events for the team where they ask us to get dressed up.

“No, it’s for …” I stop myself from telling the truth, not wanting to worry her. “Some stupid media event for the football team. They want us looking all cleaned up for the cameras.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure you can get as many hot dates as you want, anyway,” she laughs, and I blush like she’s my grandma calling me handsome. Which, in a way, she kind of is. It’s a heart-warming feeling – and I don’t have too many of those.

“So what’s up? You had me worried for a minute.”

“Worried? About me? Pffft.” She waves her hand dismissively at the idea. “I’m just fine. I’ll probably outlive you, young man!” She erupts in another round of laughter that has me rolling my eyes and fighting a smile. “But, there is a very serious crisis that I can’t resolve.”

“Crisis, huh? What’s up?” I’m wondering if a major appliance like her refrigerator or stove might have broken.

“I can’t get the clicker to work for my TV!”

I have to take a moment to chuckle to myself. Mrs. Davis has gone a week without an air conditioner in heatwave conditions, she’s had the lock on her front door break, she’s tried to haul in bulky items herself that put her back and joints at risk, all without asking for my help despite me urging her to over and over again.

But it’s her television’s remote control that finally drives her to the brink and has her contacting me.

“Don’t you laugh, young man! Nights of Our Time is going to be on any minute!”

“Nights of Our Time, huh? Some soap opera?”

She looks taken aback and swipes at my chest. “Some soap opera? It’s the soap opera. Don’t they teach you kids culture in that sorry excuse for a university anymore?”

“I guess not,” I laugh, shaking my head.

“Well, come on into the living room, there’s hardly a minute to spare!”

It only takes about a minute for me to figure out what went wrong. She must have pressed the button on the top of the remote that changes its control from the cable box to the television itself. It only takes a couple clicks of a button for me to have everything back in working order.

“You’re a genius,” she marvels.

“That’s what they keep telling me,” I joke.

“Well, I’ll let you get to your media event – or the hot date you’re too embarrassed to admit,” she winks at me.

“See you later, Mrs. Davis,” I say. But by the time I do, the opening theme song of her program has already started, and she has her eyes turned to the TV in too rapt attention to even tell me not to call her Ms. Davis.

I check the time on my phone while jogging back out to my car. Shit, I’m already technically a minute late. I’ll probably end up a good fifteen minutes late for the hearing by the time I get there.

I risk more unpleasant run-ins with the law while trying to double-time it to the courthouse, going above the speed limit. I finally make it and rush through the halls of justice, arriving only eleven minutes exactly past when I was schedule to appear.

Being eleven rather than fifteen minutes late, however, does nothing to mellow the judge’s reaction to my tardiness, which is clear from the disapproving and stern look he levels me with from the bench.

“Mr. Delton,” the judge pronounces my name with gravity. “Glad you could finally join us.”

“Glad to be here, Your Honor!” I try to turn on the faucet of charm that’s served me so well in my encounters with the law – at least until recently. The stern frown on the judge’s face does not encourage me. Turning my head to my public defender, the solemn shake of his head indicates that the Knox Delton charm isn’t something likely to find much purchase here.

“So, Mr. Delton, you’ve already pled guilty. Do you want to change that plea?”

I turn to my lawyer, who again shakes his head, this time more urgently. “Uh, no, you’re honor. Guilty. I admit it.”

“Alright, then. On to sentencing. I’m aware that you have a clean criminal record, but I’m also aware that your antics around this town make that something of a fluke.”

The judge leans back in his chair and his thoughtful gaze falls heavily on me. “I’ve given a lot of thought as to your sentence, Mr. Delton. I’m well aware of your promising future. I’m also well aware of the danger your own antics are constantly putting it in, and I’m well aware of the havoc you’ve been known to wreak in this community, with little or no pushback up until now.”

He leans forward, ready to deliver his judgment. “Myself, I’m very involved in this community. I’m a member of the board of directors of a local charity that helps to fund the athletic programs of our local elementary, middle, and high schools. We have some disadvantaged youths in this area, and those programs are real lifelines for some of them who would have no direction otherwise.”

I nod my head. That’s a fact I’m more familiar with than most.

“And one of our local middle schools is in quite a predicament. The football coach of Marshall Middle School, a good friend of mine, has had some medical issues lately and had to take a leave of absence. And it’s been hard to find anyone with suitable athletic experience to take his place. We’ve got one of the teachers to volunteer, but he doesn’t know football from foosball. The season is threatening to turn into a debacle.”

I’m lost. What’s he getting at with this? Surely his idea can’t be …

“I’m sentencing you to two months of community service. Mr. Delton. You’ll be the assistant coach for the Marshall Middle School football team for the next two months, until the regular coach is ready to return.”

I’m taken aback by the sentence. “Me … coach a … middle school team? I wouldn’t have any idea …” The prospect of having to manage a bunch of rambunctious middle school football players almost has me wishing he’d just throw me in jail.

“Well, Mr. Delton, if you don’t think you’re up to the task, I’m sure I can find a jail cell for you for a three week stint.”

Suddenly I realize I don’t almost wish he’d throw me in jail. “No, no, Your Honor, assistant coaching sounds fantastic,” I hurry to take him up on his offer.

“Very well, then. Oh, and another thing. In order that this not be too easy on you, your driver’s license is suspended for the duration of your community service sentence.” And he pounds his gravel, making it official.

Shit.

Okay, so this is going to be a hassle. And awkward. And totally out of my comfort zone. And will probably monopolize a big chunk of my time outside of classes.

But, hey. At least I’ll be forced out of my house and won’t have to brave the psychological onslaught of knowing I’m right next to Emma.

Gotta find those silver linings.

“When do I start?” I ask.

“Tomorrow,” the judge replies.