Page 13 of Resisting the Fall

“Let’s park our bikes here,” Maven said when we got to the dirt lot at the edge of town. We did what she said, then made our way toward the nearest house. “Just follow my lead.” She gave a quick rap on the first door.

Mrs. Batchelder opened the door, her curious expression scanning the lot of us. “What can I do for you kids?”

Maven thrust the slip of paper toward her, releasing a puff of air like she was out of breath. “We are on a scavenger hunt, and we just need a few more items. Do you have anything on the list that isn’t crossed out?”

Realizing the assignment, Mrs. Batchelder glanced at the paper, quickly scanning the remaining items. “One second.” She disappeared briefly, then hurried back, garnishing a dollar bill. “Will this work?”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Mrs. Batchelder.” Maven smiled sweetly at her and shoved it in the bag before bounding off the porch like she was actually in a hurry. The rest of us boys followed suit.

On the porch of the next house, while we waited for someone to come to the door, Tate glanced at the list. “Aren’t you supposed to cross that item off now?”

Maven shook her head. “This is a different kind of scavenger hunt.”

At that house, Mrs. Holtz gave us another dollar. At the next, we got a pack of gum, which Maven said should count as a candy bar. Then another dollar. And the following house gave us a roll of toilet paper.

“Let me see that list,” I said as we headed to the next street. I read through the items, then glanced over at her. “The only things not crossed off are a roll of toilet paper, a dollar bill, a candy bar, and a…” I sent her a confused look. “A 1963 penny?”

She gave a proud smile. “No one wants to take the time to search through their pennies, but having it on there legitimizes the scavenger hunt.”

I couldn’t help but be impressed. Handing her back the list, I gave a nod of approval. “You’re alright.”

Her cheeks pinked in a way that made no sense, but she quickly grabbed the list and looked away.

“What are we going to do with all the money we collect?” Carson asked.

Maven shrugged. “We can get ice cream after?”

Her suggestion was met with excited nods of approval.

“And the toilet paper?” I asked.

Her smile broadened, and I was confident she’d already thought of another thing for us to do.

There was nothing like a Friday night football game. The lights. The cheers of the crowd. The band playing. The clash of helmets during a hard tackle. And it was even better from the sidelines. Being a sophomore on varsity, I knew I wouldn’t play much this season, but it hardly mattered. I was pumped to be a part of it all.

Early in the first quarter, Levi lobbed a pass to Keith, who ran it into the end zone for a touchdown. Carson and I jumped in excitement, hooting and cheering with the rest of the team. As the band started playing a lively song, the loud crashing of an instrument, repetitively out of sync, sent several of us glancing toward the stands.

There, at the back of the band, was Maven, two large cymbals in her hands.

As the song ended, I forced my attention to the field, watching with nervous anticipation as our kicker went for the extra point. Carson and I cheered when he made it with ease, and the band started playing again. And once again, the cymbals were noticeably off beat.

I took another peek at the stands. Why did Maven look entirely unaware of how terribly she was playing? I knew almost nothing about music, but even I could tell it sounded wrong.

“When did Maven start playing the cymbals?” I asked Carson.

“Only recently.” His gaze followed mine to his sister. “She signed up for orchestra, but they cut the program and shoved all the orchestra kids into band. The cutoff to drop the class had passed, and since Mr. Rost was unwilling to make any sort of accommodation, she was forced to choose an instrument. She chose the cymbals.”

The song ended and Maven sat down, gathering looks from nearby audience members. She didn’t seem like she noticed or cared.

“Cymbals seem like they’d be easier to play than the violin,” I said.

Carson smiled. “Oh, she knows how to play the cymbals. But pretending she can’t is a lot more satisfying. It drives Mr. Rost absolutely crazy.”

Unable to help myself, I glanced back to the stands. Maven’s gaze met mine, and she lifted her cymbals and banged them together, causing more people to look toward her. I couldn’t fight my smile. That girl had more guts than anyone else I knew.

Maven

Judge Rost was even more intimidating than I remembered. It could have been her black judicial robes biasing me or the large wooden desk she sat behind in a chair that rose like her personal throne of judgment, but whatever it was, I wanted to look anywhere but at her.