The Penalty Box Read online

  Head held high, Katie slid out of the car and headed for Tivoli Gardens.

  The minute Katie spotted the pert hostess in the red peasant skirt and green velvet bodice standing outside the banquet room, she wanted to bolt. But Katie wasn’t a quitter: She made herself put one foot in front of the other until she and Heidi were face-to-face.

  “Guten Tag!” the woman said brightly. “Here for the reunion?”

  Katie nodded.

  “And you are—?”

  Katie cleared her throat. “Katie Fisher.”

  The woman skimmed her list of attendees. “Ja, here you are.” She handed Katie a name tag. “Would you like to fill out the ‘All About Me!’ form?”

  “Form?”

  “Just to tell people a little about yourself and what you’re up to now. At the end of the night, awards are given out. You know: ‘Least Changed,’ ‘Most Children,’ things like that.”

  Katie discreetly backed away from the woman. “No, thank you.”

  Heidi pointed to the door behind her. “The reunion is being held right here in the Rhineland Banquet Room.” She flashed Katie a retina-burning smile. “Have a great time!”

  “I’ll try,” Katie mumbled, affixing the name tag to her dress. She toyed with the idea of not wearing it just to be rebellious, but that seemed kind of dumb. Besides, how rebellious could you be in a place named the Rhineland Banquet Room?

  The pounding undercurrent of a bass guitar coming from within made the ground beneath her feet shake as her hand lingered on the door. Do I really want to do this?

  Steeling herself, Katie slipped inside. Her eardrums were immediately assaulted by a DJ blasting Toni Braxton’s “Un-break My Heart,” a song that had been popular the year she graduated. The evening would be filled with all the songs of 1996, good and bad. A banner hung from the far end of the banquet room proclaiming, “Welcome Back Didsbury High School Class of ’96! I Believe I Can Fly!”, the latter line a reference to the R. Kelly song that had been her graduating class’s anthem. Katie had always thought the Beatles’s “Free As a Bird,” also a hit that year, would have been more apropos. At least, that was how she’d felt on graduation day.

  She had to hand it to the reunion committee: The tables ringing the room looked great. Each had burning crimson tapers and a centerpiece of red roses and white carnations—their school colors. She could have done without the tacky napkins and glasses with “I Believe I Can Fly!” printed on them, though. A small dance floor had been set up in front of the DJ. Cocktail hour was in full swing. Just as she’d imagined, her former classmates stood in small groups, talking and laughing. Her stomach wobbled as she realized she would have to join one of these groups if she wanted to talk to anyone. She needed a drink.

  She walked carefully to the bar, teetering in her too-high heels. It was stupid to have bought them, considering she’d probably never wear them again. But she had to admit they did make her feel sexy. Maybe there was life beyond Easy Spirit.

  “A sea breeze, please,” she told the bartender, who winked in response and began mixing her drink. Katie watched him work, finding it easier to face the bar. A tap on her shoulder made her turn. Behind her stood a large, smiling woman wearing so much perfume Katie’s eyes started to burn.

  “Hi, I’m Denise Coogan! And you are”—she squinted at Katie’s bosom—“Katie Fisher! hmigodyoulookfantasticgoodforyou!”

  “Thank you.” Katie wracked her brain. Denise Coogan. Denise Coogan. She was drawing a blank. She smiled apologetically at the heavily made up woman. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t remember you. I remember your brother, though. Dennis?”

  The woman chortled. “Honey, I am Dennis! Or I was. Now I’m Denise. Grab that sissy drink of yours and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  For the next ten minutes, Katie listened to Denise/Dennis outline the horrors of being a woman trapped in a man’s body. “I can empathize,” said Katie. “For years I was Jennifer Aniston trapped in the body of Marlon Brando.” Denise howled her appreciation.

  Hovering on the periphery, Katie noticed Alexis van Pelt motioning to Katie to join her. Katie hesitated; although Alexis was one of the few people ever to be nice to her in high school, she was standing among a small group of former cheerleaders. The mere sight of these women filled Katie with apprehension; still, she made herself approach them. The increasingly baffled expression on Alexis’s face as Katie came closer told Katie that Alexis thought she was someone else. She gasped audibly when she read Katie’s name tag.

  “Oh my God! Is that really you, Katie?”

  “It’s really me.”

  “Wow!”

  The other women in the group—Tanya Donnelly, Marsha Debenham, and Hannah Beck, all of whom had worked hard to make Katie miserable in high school—also looked shocked. Marsha, once suspected of having an eating disorder, had put on some weight, and Hannah had obviously spent the last ten years out in the sun: there were the beginnings of crow’s feet around her small green eyes. Tanya still looked like a brunette stork.

  “You really look great, Katie,” said Marsha in a voice quivering with admiration.

  Katie blushed. It felt odd, receiving praise from these women. But it also felt good. Maybe her mother was right; perhaps she wasn’t the only one who had changed.

  “How did you do it?” Marsha wanted to know.

  “Had my jaw wired shut.”

  The women chuckled appreciatively.

  Tanya Donnelly, who had once thrown Hershey bars at Katie in the cafeteria, touched her arm. “We were just talking about what stuck-up bitches we were in high school.”

  Katie felt the nervous flutter return to the pit of her stomach. “Oh?”

  “I’m really sorry about the way I treated you,” Hanna Beck murmured, looking uncomfortable. “I have a baby daughter, and the thought of anyone being as awful to her in school as we were to you . . .” She shuddered.

  Heat flashed up Katie’s face. “Thank you. It means a lot to hear that.”

  “Let’s face it: Being a teenager sucks!” Alexis declared, gulping her drink.

  “I’ll raise my glass to that!” Marsha echoed.

  Katie was in a daze as she listened to the friendly cross chatter of female voices. The last thing she’d expected from these women was an apology or being treated warmly. Yet here they all were, gabbing away about their lives, asking about hers and seeming genuinely interested in what she had to say. Maybe the past was just where it belonged: in the past.

  Then Liz Flaherty showed up.

  Of all the rich, perfectly dressed rah-rah girls who’d given Katie a hard time in high school, Liz topped the list. Once, over a long period of weeks, she pretended to be Katie’s friend, eventually inviting her to a party at the house of Jesse Steadwell, one of the most popular guys in school. Katie was so excited she could barely contain herself. Invited to a party! Finally! But when she rang the Steadwells’ doorbell, no one was home. It was only when she was walking back down the driveway that Liz and her friends popped out of the bushes, laughing at her and calling her a loser. By the time Katie arrived at school the following Monday, the story had made the rounds. Complete strangers were coming up to her jeering, “How was Jesse’s party?”

  “Hi, everyone!” Liz squealed. She looked almost the same as she had in high school: thin, tan, with long, caramel colored hair and big green eyes. Her makeup was impeccable. She wore a killer red sheath dress. She continued her girlish squealing as she hugged each woman in turn. But when she came to Katie, she froze.

  “It can’t be.” Her face contorted in disbelief.

  Katie made herself smile warmly. “How have you been, Liz?”

  “Fine.” Her laugh was mirthless. “Well, I guess miracles really can happen.”

  “No miracle,” said Katie. “Just years of hard work.”

  The atmosphere, so congenial mere seconds before, began crackling with tension. Liz looked Katie up and down with a coolly appraising eye.

  “I’m surpris
ed to see you here, Katie.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well”—Liz glanced at the other women for confirmation—“because you were such a fat loser in high school.”

  The other women glanced away.

  Katie met the challenge head-on. “People change. Or, at least, some people do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re exactly the same as you were in high school.”

  Liz smiled as she sipped daintily from her champagne flute. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Katie was telling us about the book she’s writing,” Hannah Beck said tentatively.

  Liz sucked in her cheeks, bored. “That’s nice. Katie, remember that time Paul van Dorn pasted a sign on your back that said ‘Built like a mac truck’?” She laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

  Katie said nothing. Paul van Dorn . . . there was a name she hadn’t heard in a while. Paul had been the boy every girl in school had a crush on, Katie included. He’d been Liz’s boyfriend, of course. They were the golden couple: captain of the hockey team and head cheerleader. When he was apart from his friends and Liz, Paul had always been nice to Katie. But the minute he hooked up with his crew, he teased her mercilessly like everyone else.

  To Katie’s chagrin, Liz Flaherty continued goose stepping down memory lane. “Remember in gym class, when Mr. Nelson made us do the five hundred yard dash, and Katie collapsed because she was so fat and out of shape?” No one answered as all eyes dropped to the ground. “Oh, come on, I know you guys remember!”

  “Can it, Liz,” Alexis said under her breath.

  “What?” Liz batted her eyes. “All I’m doing is reminiscing! That’s why we’re all here, right? To remember?” Another sip of champagne slid down her throat. “I was thinking about the prom on the way over here. I went with Paul.” Her gaze glittered with malice. “But I can’t seem to recall who you went with, Katie.”

  Katie smiled brightly. “Actually, I had two dates to the prom: Ben and Jerry. Can you excuse me a moment?”

  She said her good-byes to the other women and quickly extricated herself from the group, quivering so hard inside she thought she might break. She’d always used humor and self-deprecation to deflect criticism and pain. It sprang from a determination never to let her tormentors see they’d gotten to her. That she’d just been forced to use two of the old weapons in her arsenal made her sad.

  It had been a mistake to come.

  No, that wasn’t true. The mistake had been thinking Liz Flaherty could ever be anything but a bitch. Katie had meant what she said, though Liz had failed to see the irony: Liz was the same person she’d been in high school. Clearly the woman was insecure as hell. Katie knew she could have called her on it, but it seemed pointless. Draining the remains of her glass, she returned it to the bartender, hustling as fast as she could toward the banquet room door and the promise of blessed release. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her mind was a kaleidoscope of painful memories she’d been foolish to think she could avoid. She was walking so fast in her heels that when she hit a wet spot, she went flying. Were it not for the lightning fast reflexes of the man who reached out to grab her, she would have wound up spread eagle on the floor. Mortified, Katie slowly looked up into her savior’s face to thank him.

  It was Paul van Dorn.

  CHAPTER 02

  “Katie? Katie Fisher?”

  “The one and only,” Katie replied, smoothing the front of her dress. She couldn’t believe how close she’d come to complete humiliation. Nor could she believe how little the man before her, who still had a protective grip on her forearm, had changed. Same killer body, same ice-blue laser beam eyes piercing her soul. His hair was different: buzzed as opposed to the stick-straight blond she remembered. But everything else was pure Paul van Dorn, right down to the brash confidence he exuded.

  His eyes were wide as saucers as he continued staring at Katie. “Holy sh—” He caught himself, releasing her from his grasp. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, thanks to you.” Her gaze shot back to Liz Flaherty, who thankfully seemed oblivious to Katie’s near tumble.

  “I . . .” Paul was at a total loss for words. Slack-jawed.

  Katie laughed. “Yes?”

  “I . . .” His eyes remained riveted to her body. “I cannot believe how great you look!”

  “Thank you,” Katie murmured. “So do you.”

  “Me?” Her statement seemed to catch him by surprise. “Nah, I’m just the same.”

  I hope not, Katie thought.

  He put his hands on his hips, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “This is unreal. Never in a million years would I have guessed it was you. If it wasn’t for the name tag . . . damn! You’re leaving already?”

  “Yes. I’m not feeling well.”

  Paul’s eyes made another slow tour of her body. “You look pretty healthy to me.” His blatant appreciation made Katie feel like a specimen under the microscope. Uncomfortable, she turned away.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul apologized. “I can’t help it. You just look so . . .”

  “Hot?” Katie supplied hopefully, turning back around.

  Paul laughed. “Yeah, hot. How long you in town for?”

  “For the year. I’m on sabbatical, writing a book.”

  “You’re a writer?”

  “I’m a sociologist. Mainly. I teach at Fallowfield College. In Vermont?”

  Paul nodded. “Soc 101 with Professor Katie Fisher. Maybe I’ll take your class sometime.”

  “I thought you went to Cornell, Paul.”

  “Yeah, but I never graduated. Most of my time was spent at Lynah Rink.”

  “Ah.”

  “What’s your book about?” he asked.

  The desire to extricate herself from this conversation was strong. She was sure it was only a matter of time before he, like Liz Flaherty, reminded her of his past superiority to her. Yet Paul was easy on the eyes; part of her wanted to keep chatting. And, insane as it sounded, she sensed he was interested. “Sports and male identity.”

  “Really.” Paul raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Want to fill me in?”

  “Like I said, I’m a sociologist. I mainly study athletes, and I thought it would be interesting to explore the role sports plays in defining the masculinity of American men.”

  “I see.”

  “Society today lacks the initiation rituals that were part and parcel of tribal societies. The result has been that men are confused about being men.”

  Paul’s gaze turned unexpectedly seductive. “I’m not.”

  Flustered. Katie continued, “My book is about how sports offers young men a way to experience masculine relationships, rituals, and values—things they would have received in a tribal setting. I also want to show that there’s a relationship between the construct of male identity and sports as a social institution, that is, one which is regulated by—”

  Paul held up a hand. “Gotcha.”

  “I’m sorry.” Katie clasped her now clammy hands together. “I have a tendency to get carried away when I’m enthusiastic about something.”

  Paul looked amused. “I can see that.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Maybe I can help you out.”

  “Really? Would you be willing to be interviewed?”

  “Sure.”

  “That would be great, especially since I’m trying to understand not only boys and men who are currently involved in sports and how it affects them, but ex-athletes as well.”

  Annoyance flickered across the handsome face. “Just because my career is over doesn’t mean I’m an ‘ex-athlete.’ ”

  Katie blinked. “Right. Of course. Well, let’s think about setting up an interview sometime. How long are you in town for?”

  “The rest of my life, Katie.”

  Knowing her mother would squawk if she came home too early, Katie left Tivoli Gardens and drove directly to the Barnes and Noble two towns over. Didsbury had yet to join the twenty-first century
: There were no big box bookstores, no Starbucks, no multiplexes. Katie appreciated the quaintness, but she’d grown used to life in a vibrant college town where music, dance, lectures, indie films, ethnic restaurants, and, most important of all, skim-milk lattes, were readily available. Coming back to Didsbury was like stepping back in time.

  She ordered a skim-milk latte and sat browsing through a big stack of magazines until enough time had passed for her mother to believe she’d been whooping it up at the reunion. Now, walking through the front door of her mother’s house, she was greeted by the familiar sight of her mother sitting on the couch, absorbed in her needlepoint, occasionally lifting her head at the sound of something blowing up on the TV.

  “Katie!” Her mother looked up. “How was the reunion? Tell me all about it!”

  “It was nice,” Katie said, joining her mother on the couch.

  Her mother frowned. “Specifics, I want specifies.”

  “Well, there was someone there who used to be a man but is now a woman.”

  Her mother coughed nervously. “What else?”

  “A couple of the guys I graduated with died in Iraq a few years ago.”

  “I’d heard that,” her mother murmured. She put aside her needlework and looked at Katie hopefully. “Were your old friends there?”

  Yup, Katie longed to say, Mickey D was there, and so was Little Debbie and the Frito Bandito. Who were these mythical “old friends” her mother kept referring to? Her refusal to deal with the reality of Katie’s life in high school was incredible. But it had always been that way. Katie would come home from school, her mother would ask how her day was, Katie would tell her some girls had started calling her Miss Piggy, and her mother would dismiss it with, “Oh, they didn’t mean it.” Or “Oh, you must be exaggerating.” Her mother simply couldn’t deal with the fact that her oldest child was a misfit. Her penchant for denial had been even stronger when it came to Mina, who started sneaking out at night to meet her druggy friends right after their father died. “Mina would never do that,” her mother insisted. It wasn’t until Mina dropped out of high school and then got pregnant with Tuck that her mother reluctantly admitted that her younger daughter was troubled.