Authors: Beth Fantaskey
Buzz Kill
Sample Chapter from JESSICA'S GUIDE TO DATING ON THE DARK SIDE
Copyright © 2014 by Beth Fantaskey
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All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Fantaskey, Beth.
Buzz kill / by Beth Fantaskey.
p. cm.
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Millie joins forces with her classmate, gorgeous but mysterious Chase Albright, to try to uncover who murdered head football coach “Hollerin' Hank” Killdareâand why.
ISBN 978-0-547-39310-0
[1. MurderâFiction. 2. High schoolsâFiction. 3. SchoolsâFiction. 4. Coaches (Athletics)âFiction. 5. Dating (Social customs)âFiction. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] Â I. Title.
PZ7.F222285Buz 2014
[Fic]âdc23
2013011423
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eISBN 978-0-544-30185-6
v1.0514
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To my parents, Donald and Marjorie Fantaskeyâ
and “my” librarian, Mrs. Elizabeth Maule
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“Nancy, every place you go, it seems as if mysteries just pile up one after another.”
PrologueâThe Message in the Hollow Oak,
Nancy Drew Book 12, by Carolyn Keene
Fall, Junior Year
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Head football coach “Hollerin' Hank” Killdare was having such a massive meltdown that even from where I was standing at the Booster Club's concession stand, I could see his trademark blue vein popping in his neck and the usual flecks of spittle flying out of his mouth.
Well, maybe I couldn't see the spit, but from the way demoted, one-time quarterback Mike Priceâthe object of the coach's rantâkept flinching as Mr. Killdare tore into him, their noses inches apart, I was pretty sure Mike was getting a shower
during
the game.
Apparently, according to the beefy, balding coach, Mike, now a lowly running back, had done something “boneheaded” and “dim-witted” that was going to cost the Honeywell Stingers “the whole
bleepin'
season.”
As the student reporter assigned to cover that particular “bleepin'” gameâand daughter of Assistant Coach Jack OstermeyerâI probably should've known what had just happened on the field. But the truth was, I didn't really like sports and hadn't been paying attention to the action, preferring to focus mainly on the book I'd brought with meâ
Understanding Kant: Concepts and Intuitions
âand my pack of Twizzlers.
However, even I couldn't overlook it when Mr. Killdare abruptly wheeled around and, completely unprovoked, drew back his big foot and booted our school's costumed mascot, Buzz the Bee, right in the stinger, launching him across the sidelines. Which wasâanybody would have to admitâpretty funny. Especially when Buzz, stumbling and flailing wildly, careened toward the cheerleaders and smashed directly into my archenemy, Vivienne Fitch, sending her sprawling on her butt, so
everybody
got a view up her flippy little “cheer” skirt.
That really should've made me laugh, but I actually kind of winced.
If this ends up on YouTube, Viv is going to murder Mr. Killdare AND stomp a poor, innocent bee.
As Viv jumped up and tried to act like she hadn't just been publicly steamrolled by a guy in a bug suit, I tucked my book in my backpack and took out my reporter's notebook, thinking I should at least find out what was causing Hollerin' Hank to go nuclearâwhich also happened way too often in the gym classes he taught.
This guy is nuts,
I thought, echoing stuff my dad said all the time.
A total whack job!
In fact, I was pretty sure my father was thinking something along those lines right then as he approached Mr. Killdare, obviously trying to get him to cool down. My dad was rabid about football, too, but at least he didn't literally foam at the mouth, unlike Hollerin' Hank.
“Come on, Hank,” I heard Dad coaxing while I edged past Principal Bertram B. Woolsey, who I thought should've done something more than bite his neatly manicured nails. And, pushing farther through the crowd, I heard a lot of parents and other fans muttering about why a foul-mouthed blowhard continued to be allowed to work with kids. Sentiments I knew they'd forget when the Stingers won yet another state championship trophy for our school's already full case. “I think that's enough, now!” Dad added. “Enough!”
But Hollerin' Hank wasn't done yet. In fact, he spun around and confronted my father, actually drawing back his fist.
I knew my dad could fight his own battlesâhis conflicts with Mr. Killdare were pretty much the stuff of legends. And more to the point, I was only five foot two and weighed about one hundred pounds, despite a steady diet of cheeseburgers and Little Debbie products. But without even thinking, I dropped everything and started to run to my father's aid.
Before I could get there, though, the new quarterback, Chase Albright, stepped in.
Wrapping his hand around Coach Killdare's big forearm, he stopped what had seemed like an inevitable punch.
The two guys stood there for a long time, Chase's obscenely perfect, thick, dirty-blond hair riffling in the breeze, while everybody else seemed to suck in a collective nervous breath. Even the cheerleaders stopped chattering for once.
I glanced at the sidelines and saw that Viv was clutching her shivering pompoms to her locally legendary cleavageâand glaring at Mr. Killdare like she hoped for a fight. One that would result in the coach getting
his
butt kicked to the grass. I also caught a glimpse of my French teacher, Mademoiselle Lois Beamish, who was pressing her hands to her also large, but somehow not as attractive, chest, as though she was terrified for Chase, her prize student. And I once again thought,
Ugh. She has a crush on him!
Then I returned my attention to Chase, who was saying something to Coach Killdareâalthough so quietly that I couldn't hear a word. But whatever he uttered . . . It made Mr. Killdare's face fade from crimson to pink, and his hands fall to his sides.
I stared at Chaseâa mysterious, reportedly uber-rich kid who'd transferred from some pricey “academy” that nobody seemed
quite
able to pinpointâwondering,
What are you? A crazy-coach whisperer?
Honestly, it seemed possible, because the next thing I knew, Hollerin' Hank pulled free of Chase and addressed Mike in a brusque, but civilized, tone. “Priceâyou're benched.” Then, as Mike sat down to sulk, Mr. Killdare and my dad exchanged some gruff coaching-type words and the game got underway again, as if nothing had happened.
Retrieving my stuff from the groundâand brushing a footprint off my notebookâI climbed into the bleachers, trying to pay more attention, so I'd at least have
something
for the
Honeywell High Gazette.
But my mind kept wandering, and as the fourth quarter drew to a close, I found myself doodling a picture of the heavyset, universally despised coach with a knife in his chest and
x
's for eyes, next to the word “Inevitable?” And just to pass the time, I inked a list of suspects, if the murder ever really did happen.
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Dad (It's true!! Wants that head coach glory!)
Mike Priceâdisgraced football hero, probably losing chance for scholarship
Mike's parentsâsoon paying $$$ for college for meathead son!
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I glanced again at the sidelines, where Viv had resumed hopping around with a scary-false smile on her plastic face, and added her, too.
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V.F.âhumiliated in bee incident + natural born killer
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Then I tapped my pen against my chin, recalling a kid who'd recently been taken away in an ambulance during one of Mr. Killdare's controversial “two-a-day” football practices, and who still wasn't back in school. Rumor was, Roy Boyles had shriveled in the hot afternoon sun and might be a vegetableâor worse. I set pen to paper, writing “Roy's family?” along with
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Principal Woolseyâstuck with nutcase on staff (â¹ tenure!)
Anyone who's ever met Coach, exc. his mother (maybe)
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Okay, maybe it wasn't the most narrow, practical list.
Then I also sketched a tall guy in a football uniform, with a question mark on his jersey, along with the query
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SERIOUSLYâWHO IS CHASE?
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I was a decent reporter when I put my mind to it, and I'd read about fifteen classic Nancy Drew books with my mom, back when I was nine, so I considered myself pretty well equipped to solve mysteries. But as I watched the enigmatic guy who was rumored to be either in the witness protection program, a teen CIA agent, or royalty slumming it to learn the ways of commonersâ
seriously, folks?
âI had a feeling I'd never get
that
question answered.
Bending my head again, I retraced the question mark on Chase's jersey, darkening it, because he might not have beenâas I guessedâanything more than a phenomenally snobby kid who thought he was way too good for our school, but Chase Albright definitely seemed to know how to keep his secrets.
There were probably a million things we seniors could'veâor should'veâdone on the rainy day in early September when nobody showed up to teach our first-period gym class. Such as, say, choose somebody to lead calisthenics while we waited for a real teacher. Or organize some kind of game, with a ball.
But as the minutes ticked on with no sign of Coach Hollerin' Hank Killdare or a substitute, most of us wandered back to the locker rooms, got our stuff, then sat down on the mats usually used for crunches and proceeded to text, study, orâin my caseâread Montaigne's
Collected Essays.