Page 40 of Rock Bottom Girl

“Good.” She patted me on the back. “Look at this as a fresh start.”

“Really? Because this feels like more of the same. Another place that I don’t belong. Another job I’m not good at.”

“Uh, I realize this is contrary to the example set by your robot sister of perfection, but most people have to work really hard to get good at something. There’s a lot of work that goes on behind-the-scenes before anyone gets any good at anything.”

I tightened my ponytail, scrubbed a hand over my nose. “By the time I get even marginally better at this, the semester will be over, and it’ll be time to move on again.”

“There’s a lot of time between now and December. Don’t you think it would be good for you to leave a job on good terms? Maybe with a few glowing references? What if you find out you like education or coaching? What if this is the start of something instead of the end?”

I eyed her over the glow of my cell phone. “When did you get so good at pep talks?”

“When I had a thirteen-year-old daughter who looks at me like I’m the dumbest human being on the face of the planet. I had to step up my advice-giving game. Even if most of it is ignored.”

“Coach!” A group of girls rushed up, giggling. “We finished that side of the field.”

“Good work, ladies.” I rose. “Finish this side off, and I’ll go reprogram the timer.”

Thanks to a lengthy article in last year’sCulpepper Courier, I knew exactly where the controller was. I patted the pocket of my cargo shorts, making sure my toolkit was still there.

I jogged around the bleachers, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. The field house was a big, blue brick tower built into the back of the home team bleachers. At the top was the announcer’s booth. On the ground level was a maintenance room. A locked maintenance room.

And beneath those bleachers was the spot that Jake Weston kissed me until my knees gave out.

“How’s she going to get in?”

I whirled around on the whisper to see the team gathered behind me.

Sigh.“Forget you sawanyof this,” I cautioned, pulling the toolkit out of my pocket. It was bad enough that I’d involved them in vandalism. Now they were accessories to breaking and entering.

“What’s that?”

“What’s she doing?”

Vicky cracked her gum and smirked. “Shh.”

I pulled the tiny tension wrench and pick out of their holders and inserted them both into the lock. “Can I get a little light over here?”

A flood of cell phone flashlights lit my way. So much for covert ops. We could land a plane here.

“What is she doing?”

“She’s picking the lock.”

“No way. Only people in movies do that.”

“Let her concentrate.”

“Five bucks says she can’t open it.”

I felt the last pin give and turned the knob. “Ha. In.”

Their jubilation was hushed but enthusiastic.

I ducked inside. It was a large room with block walls and a dirt floor. There was a collection of groundskeepery implements and industrial-sized trash cans on the far wall. And there, wired into the block next to the light switch, was our pretty little irrigation system controller.

The boys’ practice started at 3:30 p.m. tomorrow. We’d already be on the bus to our first away game, far away from the accusing fingers. It was diabolical, if I said so myself. I keyed in the required changes, double and then triple checked it, and then locked the door and stepped outside before pulling it closed behind me.

“Well?” one of the girls whispered.