Welcome to Fleet Grove - Chapter 1
Do you make a habit of thievery, my dear Mr. Giddey?
“Do you make a habit of thievery, my dear Mr. Giddey?”
I blinked back at… Mrs. Darley, according to her name tag. The old librarian had her hair tied up into an elaborate coiffure, only outdone by her sparkling necklace and earrings.
“No, ma’am. This is a recent development.”
I was of the opinion that arriving one day overdue with my books at the library wasn’t quite theft, but as it was, my elder had spoken.
“I like to see the best in people, Brice,” the lady whispered. She tilted her head to the side and all her jewelry clinked like a cabinet of glass dish ware. “And people don’t deserve to be cut off from their books.”
She discreetly pushed across a little scanner machine on her counter. I swiped my card across the blinking interface. A two-dollar late fee.
If Mrs. Darley was attempting to make me feel guilty for my crimes, she was doing a better job than she knew. Those two dollars felt more precious than any lecturing.
“I appreciate your help, ma’am. I’ll do my best not to let it happen again.”
“There’s no reason not to help a lost soul, as I always say. Do you have any lady in your life? Someone to help you straighten up?”
“No, ma’am.” I stepped away from the counter. At least my family never badgered me about that.
“Come on down to the old church on Barnaby Street this weekend. There are a few girls I’m sure would be lovely happy to go on a date with you.”
I stopped my hasty exit and turned with a sly smile. “Oh? I thought I would be too much a thieving rascal for your girls.”
Something flashed in Mrs. Darley’s eyes, only briefly. Humor? Maybe even an understanding. “Oh, pooh! Can you blame me for getting caught up in my matchmaker instincts?”
I gave her a fond smile, and I left the small library. It was nothing grand, but it was a quaint new addition to the community of Fleet Grove. It was thriving under Mrs. Darley’s obsessive care, but I wouldn’t have known that. I’d barely been in town for more than a week.
I hated making poor first impressions. Yet it seemed to be an acquired habit of mine, who knows from where. My prior incident got a peanut vendor arrested at a baseball stadium in Ridgestone.
But my editor says I’m a talented journalist. Doesn’t want the “competition to scoop me up.” So, I’m kept on the payroll, tucked away somewhere to break this curse of mine. That’s how I ended up in Fleet Grove. It seemed so barren of anything interesting that I wouldn’t be surprised if my first story was on my own looting of the local library.
I figured to give it a try, though. Being bitter wouldn’t help much, especially if I got on the locals’ bad side. The locals… The term felt disconnected, as if I was “other.” Maybe even better than. But that’s how I felt.
The concrete sidewalk curved and twisted from street to street, the summer sun beating down on me. I tugged the strap of my laptop bag higher on my shoulder.
My phone rang.
“I swear, if Trevor thinks…” I dreaded another call with my editor.
It was my sister, Rowan.
The static voice flickered in my phone.
“Hey, Brice!” Her cheerful greeting had just the right tincture of tones to irritate me at that moment. “You’re in Fleet Grove for a while, right?”
I could hear the wind flitting through her car windows as she hurried down a highway somewhere.
“Yeah. Yeah, quite a while, actually.”
“Fantastic!” she said. “I’ll be in town tonight!”
“What? You mean, here? Fleet Grove?”
“Yep! I connected with a new lead. There’s an old veteran there who agreed to do an interview.”
This alone would be very interesting, but it meant nearly nothing coming from my sister. An interview? For what? Another biography? Or her research position at the university back home? Maybe another television special? In short, she was blogger, documentarian, reporter, biographer, professor, and… I guess that’s not “in short” after all. Basically, everything I wanted.
I sighed, hopefully inaudibly. “Hey, that’s great! I can’t wait to see you. Do you need a ride from the airport?”
“Nope! All settled. I already booked a taxi to the hotel.”
“Perfect. Let’s meet up then in the morning for breakfast. I found a café you’d like.”
“Really, now? You’re already becoming a local.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“It will be good to see you, regardless.”
I couldn’t speak, trying to keep down the lump in my throat. It’d been a long time since I last saw her, since dad’s funeral. This meeting seemed like an opportunity for a conflagration of all my feelings around that, and Rowan’s career, and my lowly station as a newly inaugurated book thief. She knew how I felt, too.
“Love ya, Brice. Gotta go!”
“Love you,” I squeaked, but she had already hung up. I stuffed my phone back into my pockets, frustrated with myself.
I tried to concentrate on taking in the scenes around me. It was a beautiful day, so why not acquaint myself with the feeling of the town? Each town had its own soul, its own charm. Every small business and vendor and home played a crucial part in the community’s harmony. Well, that’s what my mom’s Christmas movies always said.
I eventually found my way to Fleet Grove Academy for this week’s feature piece. My first piece covering the town. Everybody loved schools, right? Maybe if I got off on the right foot here, it would carry some good will to the rest of town.
I signed in at the secretary’s desk and proceeded on to the principal’s office.
I tapped softly on the beige door a few times, waiting for a response.
Half a minute later, the door popped open to reveal Principal Hudson.
“Ah! Good morning! It looks like we have a visitor!” The sturdy man looked like he was about to laugh at his own joke.
“Good morning, Mr. Hudson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Brice Giddey, here for the Fleet Grove Observer.”
“Yes, of course you are, of course! Come in, take a seat. Do you like coffee?”
I hated coffee, but I accepted the offer. I slunk into the confined office, pressed in on all sides by filing cabinets, a stuffed bookshelf, a dusty fake plant, an American flag, and a Titanic sized printer.
“I’m sure you’ve heard plenty about the school,” Hudson began.
“Actually, not much. I’m new to the town. In fact, I didn’t even know Fleet Grove existed before last week.”
“Oh, is that so?” Hudson adjusted the fit of his tie. “I think you’ll be rather charmed. I know I was. Now, you’re here for the gymnasium, correct?”
I nodded. I unpacked my laptop bag, setting out my interview supplies. I put a voice recorder going for the transcript. I brought a notepad and pen as backup.
“Yes, well, this has been years in the making. The poor children here, they’ve never had a proper gym. We had a very,” he paused, lowering his look at me, “very generous, anonymous donation last spring. He says he envisions us becoming one of the ‘premier, elite athletic ventures this side of the state.’” Hudson spread out his hands as if the vision was unfolding before him.
I arched an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting way to phrase it. Is Fleet Grove Academy the only school in the area?”
He weighed his head back and forth. “There’s a private school about thirty minutes west of here, but that doesn’t really draw away from the talent pool.”
I tried to hide any reaction. Talent pool? What was this, a professional sports draft?
“Will it be open to the public to use?”
Hudson planted his hands on the table. “Yes, of course. Well, in moderation. I’m certain we’ll set up particular events, now and then. Of course, the school’s always open for public donations.”
He stared at me until he knew I wrote that last part down.
“Will it be used for anything else? For your students?”
“A cafeteria, recreational space. Gym classes.” His nose popped into the air as if he was solely responsible for the noble act.
I continued scribbling. “What makes the Academy special to Fleet Grove? Why is this investment worth it?”
“Oh!” He seemed to stumble for the first time in our interview. “It’s quite an ambitious project, wouldn’t you say?” He threw his hands out in that performative gesture again. “One of the ‘premier, elite athletic ventures’ has quite the ring to it, don’t you think?”
I nodded along. Scribbling away. Our interview continued along those lines. I asked him the gym’s dimensions, the construction timeline, and so on. The piece wouldn’t get me a job in a New York newsroom, but hey, I had to start somewhere.
Hudson bid me farewell from his office with a fervent handshake. I passed a few classrooms on the way out, each filled with desultory students and uninspired teachers. The checkered tiles and grimy lockers gave the distinct impression that this generous donation could have been used elsewhere.
I had another meeting to attend to, this one for personal reasons. My editor, Trevor, connected me with a real estate agent in the area. He had said I’d be on duty out here in Fleet Grove with “an indeterminate deployment period.” It sounded like I was being shipped off in some sci-fi video game.
So, here I was attempting to find an apartment before my cramped hotel room drove me mad. This spot seemed good enough as any. A single-story structure parked itself on the corner of Ivy Lane and 4th Street. Gray stone and gray shingles were accentuated by white paint like a fine embroidery.
A yard sign was planted in the grass, the giant “FOR SALE” text displayed by the name “Chloe Campbell.” The professional headshot showed a brunette woman smiling in a teal jacket. It looked a lot like a high school yearbook photo, I thought.
I saw a black and silver SUV parked nearby. Chloe said she would be here by now, so I figured she might be inside. Just as I reached to press the doorbell, the door swung open inwardly.
“Hi! Sorry, I was just running a little late getting some things organized.” Chloe smiled half-heartedly, rubbing her hands along her jacket, the same as in the sign, as if she was straightening out some unseen wrinkles.
We shook hands, and hers felt clammy and cold.
She welcomed me inside to showcase some of the features of my potential apartment. The floor was a brown wood laminate that looked authentic enough. The white walls were contrasted by one with a brick wallpaper behind the living room couch. I rather liked that. Pictures of stock photos were placed sparingly around the house.
“So, you’re new to Fleet Grove, right?” she said.
“Yeah, I’ve been here about a week, actually. I’m working for the Observer.”
She smiled emphatically at me. “You’re going to love it!”
I offered a placating smile in return. “Yes, so everybody says. What do you like about it here?”
She seemed to hesitate, her hand pausing in midair when she went to gesture. “Ah, well, you know, this isn’t about me, is it? What do you want? Is there anything about the apartment that you’d like different? Something you’re looking for, or anything you really like about this one?”
I shrugged. “I’m indifferent about the apartment. I want to know what it’s like living here.”
She softly cleared her throat. “Oh, the people are wonderful, really. Very, uh, helpful and supportive.”
She looked at me, feebly attempting to keep the conversation going, but my look stopped her cold. I’d practiced that look a lot in my days as a journalist, interviewing people, snuffing out the liars.
Her shoulders slumped.
“You’re new here too, aren’t you?” I said with a wry smile.
Noticing my humor, she laughed, all the tension leaving her body. “Yes! Ugh, I’m so sorry. I’ve been so nervous all day! My manager, he said to keep it professional. I mean, I know that! I went to school and everything. And I have-”
I put up a hand to console her. “Hey, it’s alright, I get it.” I paused again. “It’s your first sale, isn’t it?”
She blushed.
“We’re both new, then. We’re both figuring it out. There’s no pressure, right?” I gave a full smile for one of the few times that week. “I’d love to take another look at the kitchen.”
