“I’m wondering whether we’ve assembled the right pieces for the team. You’re good as an administrative point person. You know, signing us up, getting us the schedule, passing out the materials, but you really don’t have the killer instinct a lawyer needs.” Ouch. But her ability to accurately hit at all of our insecurities after just a short time means she’ll be really good in competition, I remind myself. Heather keeps going, “I’m going to ask my father to come and evaluate the talent. He can coordinate with Ms. Jensen. They belong to the same club.”
“We’ve already set the roster. Why would we change it now?”
“So that we can win.” She states the words as if the answer is obvious.
I grit my teeth, but Randall’s had enough. “Lucy is the best attorney on our team.”
She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “If Lucinda is so amazing, why isn’t she doing either the opening or closing? Why am I, someone you say has no experience and no skill, delivering the closing? Isn’t that the most important role of the whole team? We can hide the weak link between the two of us.” She drags her eyes down Randall’s perfectly fine outfit once again. “But if you don’t dress better, no one is taking us seriously.”
With that last arrow, she spins on her heel and walks away.
“I can buy a suit, but you can’t buy class,” Randall yells after her.
“Might want to brush up on your insults,” Heather calls casually over her shoulder. “That one’s older than your shoes.”
“I got these shoes last year.”
“From Goodwill?”
I step in front of Randall as he lunges toward the doorway Heather just exited.
“It’s not worth it,” I tell him.
“We can’t have her on the team. She’s a cancer,” Randall rages, pulling away from me and straightening his sweater in a huff. “Don’t you care that she basically called you incompetent?”
I shift uncomfortably because, while Heather’s words stung, I don’t know if she was entirely wrong. I mean, I’m not incompetent, but isn’t part of competence knowing your limits? “I thought you were sitting right beside me when I crashed and burned our freshman year?”
Randall clicks his tongue in sympathy. “It was a mistake. You froze. We’ve all had a similar experience once in our lives. When I was in eighth grade speech class, I couldn’t get more than two words out in rebuttal.”
“Randall?”
“Yeah?” He smiles brightly.
“You’re not helping.” I squeeze his shoulder. “I don’t like the way she says it, but we both know where my skill set lies and it isn’t with on-the-fly exposition needed for a good closing argument. And you hate doing rebuttals, so we needed a closer. We all agreed she was the best of everyone who tried out.”
He makes a face. “You could do it if you wanted to.”
“Then I guess my answer is I don’t want to.” I’d rather suffer a hundred insults than have to stand up and speak for ten minutes straight while everyone sitting in the audience picks apart every single word I’ve said wrong. Been there, done that, failed epically.
“You need to keep that bitch in check,” Randall says. He pulls on his winter coat in sharp, exaggerated movements. He doesn’t want me to miss that he’s pissed off. As if it wasn’t obvious. But, I suppose his dramatics are partly why he’s so engaging.
“It’ll be fine,” I soothe. “Once she gets the hang of things, you’ll be thrilled.”
“She better,” he says ominously.
“Or what?” I ask, losing my patience. “You’ll quit?”
“Maybe.” He sticks his nose in the air, looking every inch like Heather as he waltzes out the door. I should videotape him next time so he sees exactly how similar the two are. I want to throw a pencil at his head.
Between the stress of mock trial and the conundrum of Matt Iverson, I’m going to worry myself into an early grave. Could one thing go my way? Just one?
* * *
I’M STILL WORRYING about both topics when I show up to my shift at the Brew House the next day. At least with mock trial, we have weeks of practice to work out the kinks. With Matt, I fear the only way to exorcise him is to move across the country and enter a nunnery. He’s popping up in my dirty fantasies far too often. This morning I got up early because I feared if I stayed one more minute in bed, I’d call him and beg him to come over to help me work off some of my tension.
Which is why I’m thirty minutes early for work. I quickly discover this is a good thing, because a familiar figure is waiting for me when I walk in.
JR “Ace” Anderson rises from his table and greets me with his trademark ladies’ man grin.
“Hey, Lucy.”
I bustle over and give him a big hug. “When did you get back?”
“Just this morning.”
Ace doesn’t get the holidays off, so after the Championship game, he flew to his dad’s place in Massachusetts for a week. His parents have been divorced since he was ten. I still remember when he found out. He showed up at my front door after school and wouldn’t leave until my dad let him in. I’d been at band practice. When I got home, Ace was lying on my bed and his face was wet from crying.
I didn’t say a word, just picked up my bike helmet. He followed me out and we biked for two hours around the city. I’ve never seen him cry again.