Dreamspell Revenge II

Excerpt from the story “Dreams Come True” by Sally Love.

Abbott Shifflett adjusts his backpack. Hurries to the spot. Back of the football stands. Eyes the steel under-structure. Finds the weak spot. Calculates drop rate and angle.
“What are you doing here, Shiftless?” the jock’s smirk widens. Checks his watch. “Where’s coach?”
Abbott plants his feet. Concentrates. Steel brace fifteen feet overhead. Focuses on the crack. Stands creak. Converges his efforts. Braces give way. Metal benches and handrail piping splinter to the ground.
Jock shields eyes. Steel breaks into brittle toothpicks. Hurls popped rivets. Metal brace dangles.
Abbott guides its fall. Hears the chest puncture. Jock spews foamy red. A final grunt.
“Shiff-lett, not Shift-less,” Abbott screams. Glances around. No one. Jock motionless under steel rubble. Spit in the lifeless face? Knows better. DNA.
They’ll find him. Hands around brace. Pinned to the ground.
Smiles.
Perfect plan. Fake email. Walks away. No backward glance.
* * * *

“Abbott, wake up. You’ll be late.” His mother’s voice grated into his consciousness.
He slapped the alarm silent, ran a hand through his sparse dirty-blond hair. Twelve minutes to catch the bus. He threw on yesterday’s jeans and shirt, stuffed feet into muddy gym shoes and hooked his backpack. Loped through the kitchen, snatched a Pop-Tart from the toaster, shrugged a “Bye” at his mother and slouched out the door.
“Don’t slam the—” his mother shouted.
The door slammed behind him.
Abbot slid into the first seat of the packed bus—the nerd pew nearest the driver. If he sat in back, he’d be asking for a beating.
He approached the classroom with hyper-caution, eyes downcast. He dodged the outstretched feet, ignored the hoots, until he reached his seat. Thirty-nine more minutes to survive. Abbott pulled his knees and elbows in and tensed—ready to react to the daily assault. Would it be a quick kick, a fist into a shoulder, a head slap? He kept his eyes on the desk, relying on peripheral vision. Homeroom was the worst. This was reality—every day. Every single stinking day.
The tardy bell rang. Abbott risked a glance. The jock’s chair was vacant. Abbott blew out a long breath, stretched out his legs. He pulled a dull pencil from his jeans pocket, opened the calculus book and played with a formula.
* * * *

Sergeant Stanford Grimes caught the call, grabbed his coat and ran for the car. He stopped the vehicle just long enough to pick up his new partner. Merrie Carole O’Connor, former elementary school teacher, former guidance counselor, and now the newest member of the city’s homicide team.
Can you spell brown-nosing? Who hires a twenty-seven-year-old former Miss Tractor Pull, or whatever, to work murders? The city was desperate to add officers, but this was crazy. If only Grimes had been half a step faster through the door the previous November. Ziggman would be rushing to another crime scene with him instead of the City Councilman’s baby girl. Ziggy took medical retirement three months earlier.
Merrie Carole flashed him a practiced pageant smile through the car window. She opened the door, set her shoulder bag on the floor, hiked her skin-tight skirt several inches and stepped in with a three-inch spike heel.
“Get a move on, O’Connor.” He eyed her shoes. “You plan to chase a suspect in those?”
Still smiling, she reached into her bag as she slipped her feet out of the heels. “I had a meeting with the Chief of D’s—”
“No such title in this force.” Grimes took the corner on two wheels, sending Merrie Carole into the door with a thud. “You’re confusing the real world with TV.”
Her smile disappeared.
Grimes took the next corner even faster.
Merrie Carole lurched into the console as she slid on loafers.
Grimes screeched to a stop, then jumped out. With long strides, he covered the thirty feet from the parking lot in a few seconds. Merrie Carole’s short quick steps followed six feet behind. He spotted the uniformed officer. “Whadda we have?”
“Groundskeeper called it in,” said the officer. “Crime techs and Coroner are en route.”
Grimes looked over the scene with an experienced eye. “Never seen anything like this.” The kid looked to be seventeen-eighteen, crushed under collapsed football stadium bleachers. He pointed to the steel brace protruding from the chest. “Look at his hands. Reflex to grab it. The last piece that fell skewered him.”
Merrie Carole clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away.
After a scan of the area, Grimes knelt over the body, studying each wound. They’d need a fingerprint identification. The heavy steel supports had obliterated the face—definitely a closed casket. Grimes stood, nodded toward the high school. “Any idea who?”
The uniform shook his head. “Waiting for you guys.”
Merrie Carole remained frozen.
Grimes about-faced, then took off for the vehicle. “You workin’ today, or will it muss your tiara?”
By the time they reached the principal’s office, Merrie Carole’s complexion had improved to gray. At least she kept her mouth shut while he reviewed the day’s absentee list. The office staff had begun verifying absences, crossing off students home sick, on school trips, or working. An hour later they had a name and an ID.
* * * *

Abbott Shifflett made his way from Homeroom to first period chemistry. Classmates clustered at the doorway. “Is it true?” They asked.
“Everyone be seated quickly,” the teacher said.
Abbott opened his text, began the next chapter.
The public address system crackled. “Attention students,” droned an assistant principal. “We have received information that Chase Howard, our beloved quarterback, has died.”
Abbott jerked his gaze to the speaker box high in the corner.
“Chase was involved in a freak accident,” the announcement continued. “Teachers will distribute parent notification letters before the end of the day. Grief counselors are available for students who may wish to speak with them.”
“I heard they found him under the bleachers,” the girl behind Abbott said.
“On the football field?” Someone in the next aisle asked.
The girl nodded. “I was like in the office getting a tardy slip. Mr. Sullivan goes, ‘Part of the stands fell on him.’”
“Gross,” another student said.
Abbott studied his classmates as the buzz filtered through the room.
“I just saw him at the party Saturday.”
“Kiss the championship good-bye.”
“How can you think of football now? He’s dead!”
Abbott felt only relief.