A Parthan Summer by Julie Steimle (intellectual books to read TXT) 📕

“She’s probably imagining it…” muttered one of the agents.

“Jeff…Streigle,” Zormna moaned out, hearing them. “His friends call him Jeff.”

More memories rushed at her like sharp glass, gouging at her temples. If she could in cry blood, she would have done it then. It hurt that much.

Miss Betiford looked to the head camp director. “Wait. I…I know about him! The girls were talking about him. He’s a wrestler, for Pennington, I think.”

Mr. Hardt nodded then headed to the door. But when he reached the door, his mind blanked. He stopped, forgetting where to go.

“In the lodge! The wrestlers are in the eating hall!” Miss Betiford called after him.

He rushed out. 

The two agents stepped back, watching Zormna and wondering.

*

An unheralded headache had formed in the temples of Jeff’s skull, and he stroked them, wondering what had brought it on. So far, things had gone well. The wrestlers had been skillfully separated into their sections, leaving the Monroe team on one end of the hall, and the Pennington team on the other. It was the wisest thing to do considering the fierce rivalry between the schools.

At least, it had started that way.

During the first hour, their coach and his assistants had directed the boys on techniques and gave instructions for the matches they would have within the camp during the month. Then they opened the floor for each group to hold their own in-team wrestling matches just for the fun of it.  It worked, mostly. As long as Jeff had kept his distance from Monroe, and those from Monroe stayed away from him, the hour went well—despite the jeers and obscene gestures directed towards him and his team. He had maintained his cool, and he was sure he would survive the month if he kept it up.

During this practice time, Jeff had won hands down. In fact, he had improved his top wrestling time by two seconds. Damon watched him from across the room, intense hate swelling within. Fact was, Damon had never settled with losing State Champ status. He had always been plotting his chance to get even. But, of course, being so separated, it was not possible.

But then the head coach got the bright idea to finally arrange a big wrestle at the end of their meeting—though the boys suspected he did this not to help them but to predict the future real matches and make bets on them without anyone knowing.

Coach Murphy rallied the boys around the center mat, grinning with savoring pleasure. “Ok, this is just for fun. I want best wrestlers against best wrestlers.”

Jeff remained where he was, stroking one throbbing temple with the wish that he meant best wrestlers from Harvest and Billsburg. And though he knew he would have to wrestle Damon sooner or later, he had hoped that it would be much later than the first day of camp—like the next school year during the actual match. Camp was way too early.

The coached noticed Jeff’s apprehension and smirked. “Streigle! You’re state champ. And Pikes, you’re the former champ. Let’s have at it.”

Rubbing his palms and placing them on his knees, the coach squatted down at the edge of the mat, waiting for the boys to move.

Of course Damon stepped boldly forward, getting ready to deliver payback.

But Jeff took a deep breath and said, “Coach, I don’t know if anyone told you this, but there is this court order that says—”

“Shut up, Streigle, and wrestle.” Damon called at him. His chest puffed up, and he was smirking. 

Yet Jeff took another breath to keep calm, the headache bothering him. Something was also nagging in the back of his mind, though he wasn’t sure what. “This court order forbids Damon and me to be within five feet of each other, unless at an official match with security.”

The coach straightened up. With a side-glance at Jeff, he eyed him. “So you’re scared to fight him because of this court order?”

“I’m not scared,” Jeff said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m more concerned about—”

“Well, if you’re not scared, then wrestle,” snapped the coach. He squatted down again, waiting. 

Jeff could see that this coach didn’t care. Either that or he did not read locals newspapers. “Coach, I’m not supposed to. I’ll be suspended from the game.”

Damon straightened to his full height and rested his hands on his hips, calling to his teammates. “You hear that? He’s chicken!” 

Clucking noises immediately came from the Monroe side of the room.

The Pennington team watched Jeff with waiting eyes. Truthfully, they really didn’t know Jeff’s true temperament. He was always so unpredictable. But they assumed that a boy with that many scars and well-known for fighting in former schools was not what anyone would call ‘chicken’. Besides, when he had first arrived in Pennington, he was kind of twitchy, as if constantly on guard for a fight—like Zormna. 

“Sure, I’m chicken,” Jeff finally bit back, his dark eyes narrowing. “And maybe you should check with Jared and find out how his knee is doing.”

Damon lurched forward to pound the Pennington wrestler into the mat. And Jeff moved in for the attack.

Their friends jumped between them, grabbing both boys.

The coach blew his whistle when he recognized that this would not be a wrestle but a brawl. However, it was only their teammates that actually kept the two boys apart—if even that.

“Enough!” the coach called out.

As if they cared.

Damon broke through his friends and attacked Jeff with fists. Jeff fought back with more than his fists. And though their friends tried to stop the fight, Jeff finally forced himself to the top, shoving Damon’s hard jaw into the ground. It took everyone to rip the dirty fighting apart.

Jeff’s nose dripped blood.

Damon got away with a few dark and well-aimed bruises. Still straining against his friends’ arms, his curses echoed in the lodge while his teammates held him back.

“Stop this!” The camp director shouted into the ruckus. His face was nearly purple as he stared from the doorway at the crowd of roughed-up, angry boys.

Everyone froze.

As the director’s eyes rested on Jeff, Damon, and the frazzled coach, he stormed into the room. However, the man only shook his head at them and went directly to the coach.

“I don’t have time to deal with you kids right now,” Mr. Hardt said. His eyes scanned the faces of the Pennington students. All of them looked like thugs to him. Sweaty thugs. “I need Jeff Streigle. Who is Jeff Streigle? Or Jafarr.” 

Jeff slowly raised his arm, wiping the blood from his nose with his other wrist.

“You?” The director cursed under his breath. Then he reached out, beckoning to him. “I’ll deal with this fiasco later. Come with me. Your friend needs your help and has been asking for you.”

“Friend?” Jeff wondered out loud. He glanced to his buddies who were all there. Brian shrugged. Mark and Jonathan both shared looks of wonder. But Jeff stepped out from the crowd of wrestlers as all eyes fixed on him. Damon looked likely to kill him.

“What’s-her-name…Zelda or something,” Mr. Hardt said, rushing back to and out the door.

“Zormna!” Jeff hurried to the man’s side. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”

The boys watched Jeff head out the door. The Pennington boys—especially Brian, Jonathan, and Mark—whispered and nudged each other with a few hidden remarks. But Damon growled in frustration. Fate can only be delayed, not stopped.

The director ran back into the office where Zormna was crouched on the ground. The two agents turned when Jeff came in after the director. Jeff stopped abruptly when he saw them.

“What are they doing here?” he thumbed over to the agents.

Mr. Hardt shook his head and pointed to Zormna. “Never mind that. She needs your help. She would not let anyone touch her.”

Jeff stepped further into the room. He found Zormna in fetal position, something he had never envisioned. He ran to her.

“Hey! Zormna! What’s wrong?” He crouched down. The moment he touched her head, her headache surged through him, then left. The headache in his own skull had cleared entirely. It had been her headache had been feeling, he realized. And it gave him chills. He whispered to her, “I am here.”

Zormna’s breathing had already eased. She was still trembling though.

Jeff closed his eyes and struggled to figure out, to feel out, what it was that was causing her pain. It was something his mother used to do for him before she had been executed. It was a seer gift, a trait of his mother’s family. And he could almost see it—the cause of Zormna’s pain. It was faint in the back of his mind, but there. Images crammed with pain. A fenced lot. A shot from a gun. Cut hands. Bleeding feet. An ill stomach. And desperation. A nasty memory. And recent.

Rising to his feet, Jeff glared at the FBI agents. But then he turned to the camp director. “Get them out of here. It is PTSD.”

“What?” The camp director balked, looking from Jeff to the agents.

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” Jeff said. He then pointed to the agents. “They kidnapped her for three days—”

“You have no proof,” the agent retorted.

“A bullet wound in her leg. Cuts in her feet and hands. And,” Jeff glared hard at them, “She was missing for three days right after the school Olympics. There are plenty of witnesses to that. Besides, everybody knows the FBI killed her great aunt.”

“That’s a lie,” the agent said.

“Prove me wrong,” Jeff snapped. He then turned back to Zormna, going next to her. “Come on. I’ll walk with you. You can lean on me. We’ll go to the infirmary and find some medicine for your migraine.”

Zormna nodded, struggling to stand.

With that, Jeff slid his arm around her waist to lift her. Miss Betiford joined him in the effort.

Zormna stood, leaning against him. With her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “They didn’t have any agents set up before we got here.”

Jeff clenched his mouth tight. He had expected something with the FBI. But he had expected them to have entered the camp more subtly. He wondered what had blocked them from a more covert operation.

“I’m sorry,” Zormna whispered. “I messed things up.”

He almost tripped.

But then she said, “Miss Betiford, I’m sorry.”

The camp counselor chuckled. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

But Jeff wondered still if Zormna had not meant to say that to him. What had she messed up?

He looked back. He could tell the FBI agents were following them. And their eyes watched him with interest. Certainly his alibi was solid, right?

They carried her to the infirmary, which was about twenty yards from the lodge. Miss Betiford immediately gave Zormna an aspirin and a glass of water then laid Zormna on the cot. They put a damp rag on her forehead. Zormna closed her eyes, hoping to shut out the world. And since the lights were off in the cabin, it was easy to drift towards sleep.

The FBI agents remained outside the building, but did not go far. They stood near the doorway, listening in as Jeff kept vigil next to Zormna. They seemed keen on any conversation between them. Perhaps it was the familiarity between Zormna and Jeff that held their curiosity. Or maybe it was the scar that ran across the ridge of Jeff’s nose and the connecting scar scraped across his cheek that made him look dangerous. But they had also noticed the other scars he had, including the long burns and lacerations on the back of his neck and down his upper arms, the periphery to worse damage. Also, they were not the only ones who had noticed. Miss Betiford had tried not to stare. The boy whom the other girls teased Zormna about was no stranger to pain.

But then Jeff glanced at his watch, and then at Zormna.

“Are you feeling any better?” Jeff asked impatiently, as if to break the silence—though there really wasn’t anything else for him to do.

Zormna lay there for a second then spoke. “If you’re all that eager to return to your fight, then