A Parthan Summer - Julie Steimle (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

on the counter, holding his head, clenching his hair in his fingers.

“Streigle, I’m not just a coach. I am also a counselor. I can help you,” the coach said.

As Jeff shot him a skeptical glance when they connected eyes again, he muttered, “Help me? With what? Are you going to keep Damon Pikes off my back? ‘Cause that’s the only help I need.”

Coach Brown sighed then read Jeff’s record aloud. “You transferred from Eastboro High for fighting. Transferred from Harpsburg High for fighting. Transferred from Carson High for fighting…. Do I really need to go on?”

“Why not? Let the whole world know,” Jeff replied with a snort. Cupping his hands, with a loud voice, Jeff called as if to those in the room who were putting away the tables, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Jeff Streigle is a troublemaker and must be quickly dealt with.”

“Streigle, you have a problem with fighting,” said the coach.

“I don’t do it well?” Jeff replied. A smirk formed on his mouth as he lifted of his eyebrows.

Coach Brown shook his head. “Jeff. I understand you have trouble at home—”

“Jeff has trouble at home! He fights with his father. News at eleven!” Jeff called out again, making his announcement with a roll of his eyes. “Like anyone cares.”

“Enough, Streigle!” the coach raised his voice, annoyance at Jeff’s intentional flippancy, increasing. “I realize it bothers you that I’m bringing this up, but you can’t keep bumping around from school to school like this.”

Jeff leaned back with a smile, folding his arms with confidence. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ll be graduating from Pennington this year.”

“Unless you get into another fight.” Coach Brown warned.

Shifting in his seat, Jeff’s eyes narrowed into the beginning of a glare. “My grades are good. Who cares about the rest? If those jerks leave me alone, I won’t get into a fight. I don’t seek fights, you know. They come after me.”

The coach shook his head with a tired sigh, shuffling through the papers in his hands. 

“But you sure end them real good,” Coach Brown said. “I read about that boy from Monroe. You broke his leg.”

Jeff narrowed his eyes more, near slits. “I busted his knee—much worse than just his leg bone.”

“Intentionally?” Coach Brown asked, lifting his eyes to Jeff’s face.

Sighing, Jeff leaned away. “I just came from a rough neighborhood, ok? It was survival. I thought he was going to kill me.”

Coach Brown exhaled then pursed his lips as if he was thinking hard. He pulled out a different paper from the stack, glanced at it. Then he handed it to Jeff. “Which rough neighborhood are you talking about? The one where your parents live or this one?”

He pointed to a filled-out, typed application with Jeff’s forged signature on it. It said Erie Military Academy in bold Celtic type print. Classic Celtic knots decorated the corners of the letterhead. It was also a photocopy. It looked like it had been taken from someone’s file. It had an early photo of Jeff—one he had recognized from his old school record back Home on Arras before his nose had been broken. Privately, he marveled at how well his social worker Mrs. Guise had drawn up his and Zormna’s alibi. This form was real.

“Does it matter?” Jeff replied, handing the paper back. 

“Two weeks at a private Irish school?” Coach Brown asked, leaning forward in his seat as his brow crinkled with real interest. “That is completely out there. Why bother?”

Jeff smiled with a shrug. “That’s classified.”

Coach Brown frowned at him. “Streigle, I am here to help you.”

With a snort, Jeff chuckled with another roll of his eyes. “Boy, I haven’t heard that before.”

The kitchen was nearly clean. The boys from the Pennington track team filed slowly out of the hall. Some made goofy faces at Jeff, and he waved back.

“I’m telling you the truth,” his coach said, trying to keep Jeff’ attention as he leaned in even closer.

But Jeff averted his eyes to the ceiling, gnawing on the inside of his cheek while tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. “Whatever.”

“What happened there? What kind of place was it?” the coach asked him.

Jeff lowered his eye as his heart jumped a beat, and he blinked. This was not a usual question. It was a nosy question. That dark inkling he had solidified into a thought. He had no doubts that coach was an FBI agent from the day the coach had arrived. But since nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he just played as usual, figuring they would keep focus to Zormna. But then that was before he and Mark had discovered the bug. Obviously someone got that form from Ireland. It would not have been in his social worker’s file cabinet, which meant the FBI were out and about still investigating him.

“Irish,” Jeff said. “But then you already know that.”

“Anything in particular that you remember about that school? The reason why you were sent there?” the coach asked.

Jeff shot him a dry look. “Like I have been telling everybody. My folks went on a trip to Europe, but they did not want to bring me and my brother Al along. So they dumped us at that school. Honestly, I didn’t even know the name of it—until now.”

“Why didn’t you know the name of it?” Coach Brown asked, looking honestly confused.

“Because, I didn’t want to be there,” Jeff snapped. “I was there a two weeks. I tried sneak away, but wasn’t able to. And I’m glad I’m not there anymore. And honestly I want to forget about it.”

The coach nodded. It was the same story Jeff had told everyone—including the first FBI agents Jeff had met. Nothing new.

“All the same, I need to know about that school.” Coach Brown settled in his seat to get comfortable. He rested his feet on the bottom rung of his stool and his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together for the perfect intent listening pose. Just watching it almost made Jeff laugh, wondering if this man really thought he was naïve enough to believe that he would just spill his guts about something that so utterly irrelevant to their current situation.

Playing along, Jeff smiled suddenly as if something just dawned on him. “This has to do with Zormna, doesn’t it?”

The coach’s foot nearly slipped from the chair rung. He lifted his head, his eyes widening before he closed them and sighed with a nod. Jeff could tell the man understood now that he was not so slow.

“Hah!” Smiling, Jeff perched on the edge of his chair and declared, “I knew it when I first saw you.”

That made the man’s eyes go wide again. “You did?”

Nodding, Jeff said with a wicked twinkle in his fathomless eyes, “So what do you want to know? I have the gory details.” Smirking as he thought aloud, “You’re with the FBI, aren’t you?”

The coach was taken back again and blinked at him this time, opening his mouth with real shock.

Smiling more as if having lots of fun, Jeff leaned on the counter. “It’s ok. You didn’t seem like much of a coach when you taught us.”

Coach Brown frowned at him. In fact, he stiffened as if resuming an FBI agent posture.

“Is your name even Brown?” Jeff asked, peering him up and down. “That’s a pretty schmoe name to me, especially for a guy like you. I’m surprised you put up with it—”

“Jeff.” Catching the boy’s animate attention, the coach spoke with bite, “I really need your cooperation.”

Grinning, Jeff continued as if he didn’t hear him. “Is this because Mark and I found your bugs this morning?”

“How did you know they were bugs?” Coach Brown’s voice was getting quieter, more serious.

“We tested them,” Jeff replied with a shrug, glancing once at the kitchen opening. He could barely see the cook’s helper listening in, leaning against a wall.

The coach gave him a dark look.

“Come on. We’ve all watched enough movies and TV.” Jeff shook his head with that same smirk, dropping most of the playful act. “Besides, everybody in Pennington knows about the FBI following Zormna. Old news.”

“No,” said the coach. “How did you know I was an agent?”

Jeff picked at the peeling paint on the edge of the counter. “Don’t think you guys are so sneaky. Mark guessed about the bug first. I merely put two and two together. The FBI comes first day. The FBI leaves. Three strange people come late to camp….” Adding with a chuckle, “I have to admit—if your wife had come alone, I might have believed she was the real intern. She’s pretty good. Is she even your wife?”

The coach closed his eyes, turning away with a disgusted huff—at what Jeff could not tell. Perhaps it was at both Jeff’s uncooperativeness and the agency’s ineptitude.

“I bet Agents Palmer and Powell sent you to spy on Zormna and me,” Jeff continued with a snort. “Ok. Shoot.” 

Then Jeff leaned back in his chair. He watched as this undercover agent who was pretending to be his coach rub his forehead, thinking while probably forming a headache.

“Who are you?” the agent asked Jeff in a tired voice.

“Dumb question.” Jeff laughed to himself, folding his arms. “You have my papers. It is written there in black and white.” Pointing to the words, Jeff read them aloud. “Jafarr Leonard Streigle—son of Leonard Patrick Streigle and May Ellen Hill. I was born on January fifth, the year—”

“Enough with the games, Jafarr. One of the Monroe boys claimed you spoke Zormna’s language during the fight with Damon Pikes,” Agent Brown said as direct as his stare into Jeff’s face.

Jeff’s smile froze for a second. He had forgotten that slip. Recovery might be impossible.

“Are you so sure?” Jeff said. “They were a little punch-drunk after Zormna knocked them about.”

“She spoke. You answered—they said.”

Too late. Jeff felt so stupid. Why did Zormna make him slip up so much? Shaking his head, he replied, “Fine. I learned a little of it at that military school—since you are so keen on the subject.”

The agent leaned nearer. “You also have uncommonly dark eyes.”

Fluttering his lashes and speaking in a lisp, Jeff smirked. “Oh, thank you. Do you think it matches my hair color or should I go for the lighter effect?”

Scowling, the coach sat back. He shuffled the documents back into the folder.  “I see we won’t be getting very far in this conversation—Jafarr.”

He had said the name with a great amount of emphasis. Clearly he doubted Jeff’s identity. This sent a sharp stab of panic into Jeff’s chest, one that he had not had since he had made his first peace with Zormna. He was seriously in trouble.

“Sir,” Jeff said, stopping him with a word. “What exactly are you implying?”

Agent Brown looked up at him and waited. “I want the truth.”

Jeff sighed and shook his head. “About what?”

“Who you really are?” Agent Brown said. “Why you are here? Because we know you were avoiding Zormna Clendar when she first arrived.”

Jeff chuckled, looking around himself.

“What is your relationship with Zormna Clendar?”

Shaking his head, Jeff said in a low voice, “I met Zormna at her military school in Ireland. It was a small, out of the way place.”

“Where?” the man asked again, as if he did not hear Jeff right.

“It is in the north. There are some rocky cliffs…ruined castles. It is legendary only to the locals. And I was unceremoniously dumped there—” Jeff said. He had succeeded in peeling off a good layer of paint off the counter in his nervousness—which was his only sign that he was nervous at being so confronted—and he started to dig his nails on another edge.

“Legendary?” Coach Brown repeated with mild curiosity. Jeff could not read his expression. The man looked pensive, and that was it.

Jeff nodded and took a breath, saying, “I don’t know. I’m not Irish.”

Agent Brown peered at Jeff thoughtfully. He shifted in his seat as he thought for a moment. “How much of Ireland did you see?”

Jeff lied. “Jus…just the airports and the trip to the school.”

“Uh huh,” the man replied