CHAPTER 1

Where's Graeber?"

I freeze. Guess it was only a matter of time before CoachWarren came gunning for me. I toss my coffee in the sink, listeningwhile Bill Miller, the pudgy biology teacher who alwayssmells of formaldehyde, rats me out. "Barrie? I just saw herheading for the teachers' lounge."

"Graeber," the coach barks as he storms through the doorway."What's the deal with you pulling Dennis Cutler off theteam right before our big game?"

Okay, here goes. I muster everything I've been taught abouteffective communication and look Coach Warren directly inthose deep blue eyes. No way is he going to bully me. "I did notpull the Cutler boy. I simply asked Sharon to enforce what weall agreed upon last spring. His academic improvement planrequires him to attend the special tutoring sessions I put inplace. As it stands now, he's not going to pass his core subjectsand graduate. I already went to bat for him once, based on apromise he'd work hard this year."

Coach Warren shakes his head. "But—"

"But nothing. Sleeping through his classes and skippingtutoring sessions is not acceptable. I'm sorry, I really am. Butwe both know if Dennis is not on target to graduate, he's ineligibleto play. Simple as that."

When I tell people I'm a school guidance counselor, theythink it means I spend hours helping students fill out collegeapplication and FAFSA forms. And that's true. But my job is somuch more. I'm here to advocate for my students, to look outfor their best interests. Sometimes that means protecting themfrom a coach who has yet to understand that the one with themost trophies can still wind up a loser.

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against a good footballgame. But why must education always take a backseatto sports? Truth is, in this town football reigns. Academicsare often abandoned and left to drift to shore while the athleticprogram leans back, clipping along like a Kennedy on asailboat.

Warren pulls his arms tighter across the chest of a jacketthat reads Sawtooth High Cougars. "So, let me get this straight.You're going to let down a whole team, the entire town ofFalcon, Idaho, for that matter ... what, so you can make apoint?"

I huff. "That is the point. When Dennis failed to do hispart and study, he's the one who let his team down." I feelmyself gaining emotional steam. "And what does it say if welet Dennis flunk out? Will that prepare him for his future?"Satisfied I'd made my point, I smugly climb down from myimaginary soapbox.

Coach Warren unfolds his arms and leans forward. Witha lowered voice he speaks, pausing between each word foremphasis. "I don't give a rat's tail about how nice little Dennis'sfuture is. That's your job. Mine is to win football games."

Before I can respond, several teachers enter the lounge.Coach Warren instantly plants a smile on his face and worksthe room like a politician, assuring everyone that, yes, indeed,the Cougars will put the Vikings back on the bus after thegame this afternoon with their heads hanging low. He glancesback at me. Those striking blue eyes narrow to drive his pointhome.

Count on it, he says.

* * *

Nobody wants to admit this, but often adults don't understandhow hard life is for teenagers these days. In thispressure-cooker life, young people need someone they cantrust, someone who will encourage them to work hard so theycan accomplish their dreams.

That's where I come in.

I head for my counseling office, a tight little room linedwith bookshelves filled with college catalogs and FAFSApublications. Sliding into the chair behind my badly marredwalnut desk, I pull a scheduling book from the drawer andassess what the rest of my morning holds.

A knock at the door alerts me to my first appointment—CadeWalton, a kid whose single mom is working two jobs sohe can attend college next fall. I motion him in and have himtake a seat. Then, lifting his file from the stack on my desk, Ibegin my work for the day.

By four o'clock, I've finished my student interviews andmove to grab my coat and gloves. Today is the only afternoonfootball game of the season, and I'm anxious to join the cheeringcrowd I hear outside my window.

Moving quickly, I juggle my purse and coat while trying tolock my office door.

"Mrs. Graeber?"

I turn to find Emily Jorgensen, a rather high-strung girlwho comes from a family of known achievers.

"Hey, Emily. What can I do for you?"

Emily bursts into tears.

I muffle a sigh, unlock my door, and invite her into myoffice. I hand the distraught girl a tissue, and she plops downin the chair at the side of my desk, apparently oblivious to thefact nearly every other student from Sawtooth High School iscurrently out at the football field.

My eyes glance at the wall clock. Pearl's dance team is performingduring halftime, and I don't want to miss seeing mydaughter execute the moves she's been practicing all week.

"Okay, sweetie, why the tears?"

"It's just that Mr. Baxter won't relent on my grade in Englishcomp, and if I don't score at least a ninety-seven, my chance toget accepted to Harvard will be ruined."

I lean closer, slightly amused at her melodrama but silentlywishing all students I counsel cared this much about their academiccareers. "Emily, I know you worry." I look her directlyin the eye to make sure she feels validated. "But, you are anexcellent student. A single grade on one paper this early inyour senior year won't affect your university plans. I promise.Besides, a ninety-five is still impressive."

The plain-looking girl, who has yet to come out of her shelland even wear makeup, looks unconvinced.

After sneaking another look at the clock, I opt for a differentapproach. "But tell you what, I'll talk to Mr. Baxter and seewhat extra credit opportunities he'll be offering this semester."Mindful of the no-touching rule imposed on educators thesedays, I still stand and give her a brief hug, "In the meantime,focus on doing your best. That's really all you can do."

The teary-eyed girl nods and moves for the door. "Thanks,Mrs. Graeber. I really appreciate it." She gives me a little waveas she leaves.

After cramming her file in my drawer, I gather my thingsfor a second time and head out to the big game.

Stepping into crisp fall air, I hurry past lines of parked carstoward the sound of band drums and referee whistles. Slowing,I flash my staff badge at the tired-looking security guard at thegate before continuing toward the stands. My eyes pan thecrowd until I finally locate Joe and Connie Anderson and myson, Aaron. I wave and make my way up the bleachers.

"Where've you been?" Connie scoots over, making roomfor me.

I roll my eyes. "Don't ask."

Connie's expression turns sympathetic. "Well, we're aboutto finish second quarter."

My son greets me without pulling his gaze from the field."Hey, Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart." Glancing around to see if I can spot Pearl,I move to give my son a hug before I remember my eleven-year-oldhates any public display of affection.

I turn to Connie's husband. "Hey there, Joe."

Joe Anderson is one of Steve's closest buddies. They go wayback, football teammates from when they attended Sawtoothyears ago.

No one loves football more than Joe. Despite his respectedposition on the school board, he's been known to yell like abanshee when the Cougars' score falls behind. I dip my handin his container of popcorn, painfully aware I should neverhave skipped lunch...