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  He dropped his hands lightly onto my shoulders as he spoke, and I realized the thrill running through me had nothing to do with football and everything to do with Jimbo’s nearness, his sure, capable hands resting on my shoulders, and his warm breath ruffling my hair.

  “I think—I think we need to start studying,” I stammered in confusion, and hurried into the house.

  Chapter Eight

  I spent a restless night that evening, my sleep disturbed by dreams of footballs and physics tests. Jimbo, on the other hand, strolled into class on test day as calmly as if he laid his football career on the line every day of his life. An hour later, it was all over but the waiting. I felt pretty good about my own test. Some of the problems were pretty tricky, but I was pretty sure I had a solid “B.”

  “How did you do?” I asked Jimbo as we left the room at the end of the period.

  “I’m pretty sure I passed,” he answered.

  “Do you think you got a ‘C’?”

  Jimbo shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

  When Mr. Donovan passed out the graded papers the next morning, I was so eager to find out what Jimbo had made that I hardly even noticed the eighty-eight penciled in red on the top margin of my own paper. I turned around in my desk just in time to see Jimbo tuck his test paper into his notebook.

  “What did you make?” I asked.

  “Well, I passed,” he answered cautiously.

  My heart leaped up into my throat. “How bad is it?” I asked, not mincing words.

  “Sixty-nine.”

  Sixty-nine. One lousy point away from the “C” he needed. I had lost my bet with Anthony, but somehow that didn’t seem quite so important anymore.

  “It’s okay, Jimbo,” I said, trying for his sake to sound positive. “We’ve still got three weeks before report cards come out. We’ll bring it up, you’ll see.”

  For the rest of the hour, I listened with only half an ear to Mr. Donovan’s lecture while the rest of my mind was occupied with the problem of Jimbo’s grades. He was right on the borderline, so it wouldn’t take much to bring his grade up. Mr. Donovan had a reputation for being tough but fair. I made up my mind to talk to him about Jimbo as soon as class was over.

  When the bell rang, I approached the physics teacher as he sat behind his desk at the front of the room.

  “Mr. Donovan,” I began, “if a student needed to pull his grade up before report cards came out, would you be willing to give him an assignment for extra credit?”

  Mr. Donovan frowned, then opened one of his desk drawers and took out his grade book. He flipped a few pages, then looked up at me.

  “If I thought the student deserved a second chance, then yes, I would be willing to give additional work for extra credit. But I can’t see that you need it, Tracy. Getting a ‘B’ in physics is nothing to be ashamed of, you know. It’s a difficult subject.”

  “Oh, the extra credit isn’t for me. It’s for Jimbo Maxwell. He has to keep up a ‘C’ average in all his classes to be eligible to play football,” I explained.

  Mr. Donovan consulted his grade book once again. “James Maxwell made a ninety-six on yesterday’s test, the highest grade in the class.” He looked up at me with a wry smile. “I think his football eligibility is safe.”

  I grabbed the edge of the teacher’s desk to keep from falling over in a dead faint. “A ninety-six? Mr. Donovan, are we—are we talking about the same person?”

  His eyebrows rose. “How many James Maxwells are there?”

  “I’m sorry. I—I guess there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  I thanked Mr. Donovan for his time and headed for the door, my mind still reeling from the shock. A ninety-six? How had Jimbo made such a score? And why had he told me he’d made a sixty-nine?

  I left the room and found Anthony waiting for me in the hall. “Well, Tracy, how did you do on the test?”

  “Pretty good. I made an eighty-eight.”

  “Same here. How about the brainless wonder?”

  “Ninety-six.”

  “What?”

  “Ninety-six.” I didn’t understand it, but I enjoyed it just the same. “By the way, Anthony, that’s a lovely shade of green you’re wearing.”

  “He told you he made a ninety-six?”

  “No, Mr. Donovan did. And I think it’s wonderful!”

  “Oh, sure it is,” Anthony said dryly. “In fact, you might even say it’s too good to be true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Tracy, don’t be naïve! He cheated, of course.”

  “Anthony, I’ll never understand why you guys feel so threatened the minute a—”

  “Me? Threatened by him? That’s a laugh! In a battle of wits with me, that poor chump would be unarmed. Of course he cheated! How else could he have scored a grade that high?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I know he didn’t cheat!”

  But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered. If Jimbo had cheated, that would explain why he had lied to me about his grade on the test. He would have known that I would be suspicious if he scored too high. It all made perfect sense—or it would have, if it had been anyone but Jimbo.

  * * * *

  After spending the next twenty-four hours agonizing over the how’s and why’s of Jimbo’s physics test, I was afraid the long-awaited snipe hunt might be a bit awkward, but five minutes in Jimbo’s company were enough to convince me that I had worried about nothing. Wearing faded jeans and a worn sweatshirt, Jimbo didn’t look like anybody’s idea of a nuclear physicist, but he didn’t look like a cheater, either. In fact, he looked so honest and so normal and so nice that I was sure there must be a reasonable explanation for everything.

  “You’re not goin’ snipe hunt’n’ lookin’ like that, are you?” Jimbo asked, looking me over critically.

  I glanced quickly down at my clothes to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to zip my pants, or anything else really embarrassing. All my clothes were there and decent, although I would never make anyone’s Best Dressed list. I had been sorely tempted to wear a soft blue angora sweater that matched my eyes, but I’d decided it would be a little out of place in the woods among the snipes. I had reluctantly exchanged it for a serviceable flannel shirt and an old pair of jeans, reminding myself that I had no reason to want to dress up for Jimbo anyway.

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?” I asked him.

  “You need a hat.” He whipped off his yellow CAT hat and plunked it down on my head. “You can’t go snipe hunt’n’ without a hat.”

  While we waited for Richie, Jimbo briefly outlined my role in the snipe hunt.

  “Jimbo, Richie will be okay out there in the woods, won’t he?” I asked when he had finished.

  He nodded reassuringly. “He’ll be fine. He doesn’t suspect anything?”

  “Innocent as a lamb,” I assured him.

  At that moment the innocent lamb came bounding down the stairs, and we followed Jimbo out the door to his ancient pickup truck. As I climbed into the cab, I was relieved to find that the truck’s interior was in better shape than its dilapidated exterior had led me to expect. Jimbo climbed into the driver’s seat and soon we were on our way, leaving the lights of town behind us.

  At last Jimbo parked the truck in a wooded area somewhere on the outskirts of town. He reached behind the seat and dug out three flashlights and a large burlap bag, which he handed to Richie. Soon we were on our way. We tramped through the woods, each armed with a flashlight, while Richie carried the sack slung over his shoulder. Jimbo had assured me that he wouldn’t take Richie very far into the woods, but it seemed to me that we walked forever. At last he announced that we had come far enough. He took the bag from Richie and made a big show of demonstrating the proper technique for snipe-catching.

  “You just hold the bag open like this, see, and when you see a snipe comin’, you scoop it up in the bag and close the top,” he explained.

  “How will I recognize them?�
�� Richie asked, hanging on every word. “What do they look like?”

  “They’re long-legged brown birds that run along the ground. They’re pretty fast, but not too bright. As long as you hold the bag open, they ought to run right into it. Now, if you think you’ve got it, me and Tracy’ll go and scare up some snipes for you.”

  “Got it. I’ve got one question, though,” Richie added as we turned to walk away.

  “What’s that?”

  “What are we going to do with the snipes after we catch them?”

  As usual, Jimbo was never at a loss for an answer. “Depends on how many we catch,” he said with a shrug, and turned and made his way deeper into the woods.

  Richie might have been suspicious if Jimbo and I had gone back together, so we had agreed to take separate paths. I was to turn and go straight back to the truck the way we had come, while Jimbo would take a different direction, then loop back and meet me there. Jimbo had warned me to look for landmarks as we entered the woods, and as I retraced my steps, I located them one by one: a crooked tree here, an aluminum can lying on the ground there. This snipe-hunting business was a piece of cake.

  Suddenly, my foot struck something hard and I pitched forward, waving my arms wildly in an effort to regain my balance. I lost my grip on the flashlight, and as I hit the ground the beam of light was snuffed out, leaving me alone and lost in the dark.

  Chapter Nine

  The darkness seemed to close in around me, and it took every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from screaming. I sat up gingerly, wincing at the stab of pain that shot through my right hand, and ran my hands along the ground in front of me. Where was that flashlight? I got up on my hands and knees and slowly crept forward, groping for the flashlight as I went. At last my fingers touched a cold metal cylinder, and I snatched it up eagerly. I felt for the switch, and discovered that my “flashlight” was nothing but an empty can. I forced myself to crawl farther, and when I reached out to the left, my fingers brushed metal once more. Almost afraid to hope, I closed my hand around it, and this time I knew I had found my flashlight.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and flipped the switch on and off. Or was that off and on? Either way, the flashlight refused to respond. I rapped it hard against the palm of my right hand, which made it sting all the more, and tried the switch again. Still no luck.

  “All right, Tracy,” I said aloud, “just stay calm.”

  My voice sounded eerie and loud in the black silence. I had never felt so alone in my life. Leaves rustled overhead, and occasionally something stirred in the underbrush. What kind of animals lived in these woods, anyway? I was probably better off not knowing. At last I heard the sound of human footsteps tramping through the undergrowth, and saw a thin beam of light penetrating the foliage.

  “Jimbo?” I called in a voice that shook slightly. “Is that you?”

  “Shoot, no!” a disembodied voice drawled. “I’m a psychotic killer combin’ the woods in search of my next victim.”

  I had always deplored Jimbo’s countrified Southern accent, but at that moment it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

  “Oh, Jimbo,” I began, but my voice broke on a sob.

  “Tracy? What’s wrong?”

  “I tripped and fell, and—”

  “Hang on! I’m comin’!”

  The crunch of dead leaves underfoot grew louder and the beam of light bobbed crazily up and down as Jimbo made his way through the woods. At last he emerged from between the trees and dropped to his knees beside me. The mounting hysteria I had fought back for so long broke free at last, and I flung myself into his arms.

  “I was so scared,” I sobbed into his shoulder. “The flashlight broke, and it was so dark, and—oh, Jimbo, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “It’s okay, honey,” he murmured as he held me close and stroked my hair. “You’re okay now.”

  In the midst of the whirlwind of emotions that filled my head, one fact stood alone: Jimbo had called me honey. Of course, it was probably nothing; Southern guys probably called everyone honey. He’d probably even called Tiffany honey. For some reason, my tears fell even harder at the thought.

  Gradually I was able to regain control of myself, but even after the tears had stopped, I was reluctant to leave the shelter of Jimbo’s arms. No wonder. I was probably ashamed to look him in the face after behaving like such a complete idiot.

  “How long had you been here?” Jimbo asked.

  “About thirty minutes, I guess,” I sniffed, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “Maybe forty-five.”

  Jimbo grinned and checked his watch. “That’s pretty impressive, considerin’ that we only left Richie fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Is that all?” I asked, feeling extremely foolish. “It seemed like a lot longer.”

  “I’ll bet it did! How did you fall, anyway?”

  “I tripped on something back there,” I said, indicating the direction from which I had come.

  Jimbo released me and stood up, then directed the beam of his flashlight onto the ground, moving it slowly until it came to rest on a long root snaking its way across the ground. It seemed to me that the darned thing was grinning at me.

  “Looks like that’s the culprit,” Jimbo said, extending an arm to help me to my feet. I reached up to take his hand, but he grabbed my wrist instead. “Hey, it looks like you messed up your hand pretty good.”

  “I tried to catch myself when I fell,” I explained. “I must have skinned my hand when I hit the ground.”

  “We’ll get you back to the truck and take a look at it,” he said, not releasing his hold on my wrist.

  “It’s just a scratch. I can walk on my own,” I said, trying to draw my arm away. There had been far too much physical contact between us already.

  “You think I’m gonna let you fall again? Come on!”

  In my fear, I had forgotten about the pain in my hand, but now that the danger was past, it was starting to throb. My emotional outburst had left me feeling drained, and it felt good to leave everything in Jimbo’s hands. I followed him out of the woods without further protest, my wrist still held firmly in his grasp.

  “I thought you said we’d be okay in the woods,” I reminded him as we walked along.

  “I said Richie would be okay; I never made any promises about you.”

  “I hope Richie is doing all right. There’s a psychotic killer on the loose in these woods, you know.”

  Jimbo had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry. Sick joke. I never would’ve said that if I’d known you were alone in the dark.”

  “I didn’t mind. I was just glad to hear your voice.”

  He gave my wrist a quick squeeze. It wasn’t long before we reached the truck, and Jimbo had me sit down and hold the flashlight while he inspected my injured hand. I held my left hand up and aimed the beam down at my right. The palm was smeared with dirt and blood, and Jimbo cleaned it up as well as he could without any water. After he had finished, it was still oozing slightly, so he made a bandage by wrapping his handkerchief around my hand and tying it in a knot between my thumb and forefinger. Then he took my hand between both of his own and squeezed it gently but firmly.

  I remembered from the first aid class I’d taken last year that direct pressure to an injury would stop bleeding, and I felt a little foolish for not thinking of it earlier. If I had, we wouldn’t have been in this awkward position now. Certainly no one seeing us hand-in-hand like this would guess that we were actually waiting for a ten-year-old boy who was somewhere in the woods holding a bag for nonexistent snipes.

  I looked down at my hand clasped in Jimbo’s, and a strange thing happened. Maybe it was because I had lost so much blood, but a warm feeling of contentment flooded through me, and I thought I could stay right here forever. It was a good thing I still held the flashlight in my free hand, because it kept me from doing anything really stupid, like reaching out and running my fingers through Jimbo’s hair.

  At that point, I knew something had
to be done before this situation got totally out of hand. And Jimbo’s physics grade was the best subject I knew for putting matters in their proper perspective.

  “Jimbo, I talked to Mr. Donovan about your test grade yesterday. I asked him if you could do some extra work to bring your grade up.” I hoped my voice didn’t reflect my mixed-up state of mind.

  “Yeah? What did he say?” Jimbo asked without looking up.

  I took a deep breath. “He said you didn’t need any extra work, because you made a ninety-six and had the highest grade in the class.”

  “Well, how about that? I guess I must have looked at it upside down.”

  “Jimbo, how on earth did you make a grade that high?”

  Jimbo merely grinned. “You don’t think I’m gonna give away my trade secrets, do you?”

  “I think you may have to! There’s some—some speculation going around that you—that you cheated on that test.”

  At that, Jimbo looked up. His face was only inches from mine, and as I gazed into his blue eyes, it occurred to me that this topic of conversation wasn’t accomplishing its purpose at all.

  “And what do you think?” he asked softly.

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammered in confusion. “I—”

  “Hey, Jimbo! Tracy!”

  Deep in our own conversation, we hadn’t noticed the beam of light emerging from the edge of the woods until Richie appeared, still carrying the empty bag.

  “Hey, Rich! How many snipes did you catch?” Jimbo spoke as calmly as if we’d been discussing nothing more significant than the weather.

  “Not a single one,” Richie said, throwing the empty sack into the cab of the truck. “That’s why I came back. I don’t think there are any snipes out there. And then I figured out why.”

  “Oh yeah?” Jimbo asked, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Yeah! They’ve all gone south for the winter. That explains why you used to catch them in Alabama, but there aren’t any here.”

  Richie seemed so pleased with his knowledge of the migratory habits of the snipe that it seemed almost as shame to disillusion him. Almost, but not quite. When I explained the joke, he was understandably insulted, and it was left to Jimbo to coax him into a happier frame of mind.