Falling for Wonder Boy: The Vernon High Chonicles

By Kristine Carlson Asselin

When sixteen-year-old Kate Anderson signs up for the New Hampshire Junior State Golf Championship, she has no idea how important it is for her to win. But when she finds out her family's beloved golf course is on the verge of going broke, the pressure is on to bring home the top prize. Because this year, if she can become the first girl to ever win the tournament, she'll earn more than bragging rights and a college scholarship – she'll become famous. And with fame comes a gigantic media blitz, and that type of hype is exactly the prize her family needs to bring back the crowds and chase away the threats of bank foreclosure. Unfortunately, golf is a game of focus and Kate's distractions are mounting by the day: her growing crush on her best friend Scott and dealing with the local bully seem tough enough without the extra distraction of the cute British exchange kid her dad hires for the summer. But when vandals damage the golf course and Scott is accused of the crime, the stakes suddenly become bigger than any tournament. To clear Scott's name, Kate takes on the responsibility of finding the culprit before the course is vandalized again. Otherwise, winning the tournament won't even be on the table  . . . and neither will a future with Scott. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wicked Whale Publishing
• Release date: Feb 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780999420539

Book preview

1

First

The roar of the engine breaks the early morning silence and I lose my grip on the golf club in the middle of my back swing. My ears pound as I scramble to pick it up and position myself so it looks like I’m casually hitting practice balls off the first tee and not about to have a heart attack and die.

He’s been like a brother to me for years. Why does he make me so nervous now?

I tug the bottom of my work shirt and smooth the wrinkles in the front. Dad insists we all wear logo shirts that only look good on old men and my brother. And even that’s a stretch. It’s too bad I can’t count on a fashion miracle in the ten seconds before Scott drives the golf cart around the corner. Like he needs something else besides my no-style haircut and makeup free nose to treat me like his little sister.

Shielding my eyes with one hand, I gaze out over the fairway like I’ve hit a perfect shot over the hill. Just before he skids to a stop, I realize he’s driving a different cart. Earlier this morning he had the new one; now he’s driving the old beater. The one with the missing bumper you can hear halfway across the course. The only reason it still runs is because Ed Douglas, the greenskeeper, is a genius with engines.

Scott hits the brake and gravel sprays the driveway behind the cart.

What’d you lose now, your sense of direction? Looking over my shoulder, I expect him to laugh. I’ve already spent ten minutes with him this morning scouring the office for a tape measure he swore was on Dad’s desk. Not that I care about spending time with Scott, it just takes forever for my heart rate to get back to normal after he leaves.

Only when he jumps off the cart and leaps the three rotten steps to where I stand do I notice the panic on his face. Sweat beads on his forehead and his legs and shorts are splattered with mud. You need to help me.

His turquoise eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. And he’s gasping for breath like he’s run all the way from the other side of the course. This isn’t the same Scott Turner who gave me crap about my burnt coffee forty-five minutes ago. He leans over and puts his hands on his knees.

You’re scaring me. I reach out to touch him but can’t find a clean spot on his shoulder. And he smells like a dead body. Which, believe me, is not his normal Neutrogena-and-fabric-softener scent.

He takes a deep shuddering breath. I changed the cup placement on the seventh green. Instead of going the long way around, I decided to make a beeline to eight, to save time. He holds his palms up, like I’m supposed to fill in the gaps of his story. I don’t have a clue—we always take that shortcut.

He rolls his eyes like he’s losing patience. The seventh fairway is still wet from the rain last week.

And then it hits me. The brand new Cushman maintenance cart. The one in the supply catalog Ed spent weeks contemplating. The one Dad just shelled out ten grand we can’t afford to buy. The one Scott was expressly forbidden to drive through the muddy shortcut on the eighth fairway.

You’re so dead. If we don’t get that cart out of the mud and hosed off, Ed will make Scott work twice as hard all summer. And Dad will dock his pay until it’s paid off.

Ed ran to Agway ’cause we ran out of grub killer. You’ve got to help me get that cart unstuck before he gets back. He’s sliding back into the seat of the beater before I can even blink. Please, Kate.

I can’t say no. Not when he’s pleading. But if Dad comes back and I’m not in or near the shop, I will be dead. So I hesitate.

I’ll seriously owe you. Big time.

The promise of Scott owing me tips the balance. I grab the basket of balls and club and run the twenty feet to the shop. The blast of cold air takes my breath away the second I pull open the heavy door. Dad likes the AC on high, but you practically need a parka in the middle of summer. I scrawl a note on a piece of scrap paper promising the nonexistent customers I’ll be back in fifteen minutes and snatch the key from the drawer behind the counter. I send a quick text to Olivia. She’s due to take over from me at ten o’clock anyway; maybe she can get here early.

Scott pulls the cart right in front of the building and revs the accelerator while I fumble to tape the note to the door.

Hurry, Kate. He’s pleading again.

I hop into the passenger seat and he guns the motor. Gravel kicks up behind us and rocks hit the side of the building. Fortunately, the siding is already so pockmarked; a few more dents won’t make much of a difference.

As he takes the turn to head up the fairway, we hit a root in the path. The cart lurches to the side and I’m thrown into him. My heart rate speeds up as if we’re escaping a zombie invasion—though that could be my fight-or-flight reaction to the ride of death.

You okay? He reaches out to steady me, but he doesn’t slow down.

How come Will isn’t helping you? I shout over the sound of the engine, wishing we were in one of the quiet electric carts and rubbing the point of contact on my arm.

Will went with Ed. He grimaces at the pink Chuck Taylors on my feet. The cute ones with the hearts doodled on the toes. You might want to take those off if you don’t want them wrecked.

You really are gonna owe me big time for this, you know. I stare at the side of his face. His eyelashes are so long that when he blinks, they practically hit his cheekbone.

Why do boys get the good eyelashes?

He catches me staring and smiles. I have to strain to hear him over the engine roaring because he whispers, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.

A shiver runs through me. Lately when I think about Scott, my arms get all shaky and tingly, like I’ve sucked down a large turbo iced coffee. On the last day of school, he said, Hey, Kate! to me in the cafeteria on his way to the taco bar. Not that he hasn’t done that every single day for as long as I can remember—but that time it turned my knees to jelly. It surprised me so much I almost crashed head first into vice principal Conrad. Good thing it was the last day—Mr. C. was in a surprisingly good mood.

We come to a screeching halt, ending whatever moment we’ve just shared. He stops about twenty feet away from the deep mud, but the ground is still soft here. It’s been a wet spring. I hope for Dad’s sake this mud dries up before the big tournament Willow Bend is set to host next month. That tournament needs to happen.

The front end of the new cart is sticking up about a foot higher than the back in the mud. I have a brief flash of the sinking Titanic. The rear wheels are half buried in the muck. It looks like Scott rocked it hard before he came for help—the ruts in the back are deep and I can see where his feet were sunk. He must have run to the work shed to get this old clunker—that’s why he was so out of breath.

I unlace my shoes and toss them in the basket in the back of the cart on top of a spade, a few sprinkler heads, and an electric hedge clipper. What do you want me to do?

Just get in the cart and give it some gas when I tell you. He cracks his neck, and slides off the seat where a bit of foam peaks out from a tear in the cushion.

Okaaay. I slide off my seat and step, barefoot, onto the soft ground. I tiptoe at first, but it only takes a few steps before I’m squelching. The mud is cold. And it feels like something I don’t even want to contemplate between my toes. You do realize you’re the only person on Earth I’d do this for, don’t you?

What? A hint of a smile plays on his face. Yeah, of course I do, why do you think I asked you? He goes back to staring at the back end of the stuck cart with his chin in his palm, as if divine intervention might be on its way. I think he’s trying to figure out how to get the best grip. But who knows, he might be thinking about what’s for lunch. Or how many other ways he can give me goose bumps or heart palpitations.

Let me know when you’re ready, I say, gripping the steering wheel to pull myself up into the sloping seat.

He anchors his feet firmly in the mud and grips the metal rail on the back end of the vehicle. Now! The cart rocks as he throws his full weight against the bumper.

I jam my bare foot on the gas and floor it. The motor revs and the wheels spin. The cart shimmies a little, but no real forward motion.

Scott’s swearing up a storm as mud sprays up from the back tires. Stop! he yells. He moves his arm and shoulder, changes the position of his feet, and yells again. Go!

I push down on the pedal and lean forward as though sheer will power can propel us out of the mire. The cart rocks as Scott smashes his body against the back panel. It’s slow, and tedious, and we’re only inching a little at a time but finally we hit drier grass and the cart lurches forward, leaving Scott lying in the muck.

Yes! he yells, dragging himself to dryer grass. He plods over and leans toward me as though he’s going to give me a bear hug, but at the last minute, he pulls back and rests his hand on the back of the seat. Great job, Kate. I couldn’t have done that without your help. The thick mud partially obscures his T-shirt, which isn’t such a big loss. I’m sure it belonged to his dad. In high school. I don’t even know the band scrawled across the front. Cheap Trick. At least I think it’s a band.

I try to look serious, but it’s hard because Scott looks even hotter covered in mud, if that’s possible. Maybe it’s because his smile extends all the way to his eyes. And it feels like I’m in the direct path of the sun. If the smell wasn’t so bad, I’d say you’re a trend setter. Mud is in this season. I realize, a moment too late, it’s the wrong time to joke.

Thanks. I appreciate that. He slides his hand off the seat and grips my shoulder.

Jerk! I jump forward, but it’s too late. My pale yellow work shirt now has the imprint of Scott’s muddy hand. Actually, it would be an improvement, if only the mud didn’t smell so bad.

Smirking, he reaches to touch my cheek, but I jerk away and slide off the passenger side. I start running toward the other cart, which is stupid because it only takes a few steps before my feet slide out from under me and I land face first in the muck.

You all right? he says, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. C’mon. He reaches out his hand. We’ve got to get this cart to the shed and hosed down. I can tell them I washed and waxed it just for fun.

Every time I try to extract my hand from the mud, it comes up with a sound like a plunger. He leans down to pull me out, still chuckling. But he’s not going to get away with laughing at me. I stick out my wet, grubby hand and let him grab it. And then I give a swift tug and pull him into the mud next to me.

Agh! He lands on his knees, but loses his balance and, at first, I’m not sure if he’s playing it up or really falling. He’s chest deep in mud before he rolls over…and drags me down next to him. Before I know it, I’m lying like a turtle on its back struggling to flip over.

The mud is about six inches deep and it smells like dead fish. Or someone’s stinky septic tank. It’s oozing between my toes. My shirt rides up a little in the back and I know mud is going to be in places mud should never go.

Scott reaches toward my face and I wrestle his arm away, but not before he smears mud on my nose.

And then we’re in a full-blown wrestling match. I push his arm down and fling mud at his chest. He grabs a handful and wipes it in my hair. I’m laughing so hard, my ribs ache. He’s stronger than I am, so it doesn’t take long before he’s on top of me, pinning my legs underneath him.

We’re both laughing and breathing heavy. Then, suddenly, we’re not wrestling anymore. He’s just sitting there, straddling my legs, staring at me. And I can’t breathe because it’s Scott. And he’s on top of me. We’re both covered with mud, and he’s gazing at me with his amazing turquoise eyes and an expression I’ve never seen. This is not exactly how I imagined getting close to him.

The only non-muddy part of Scott is one white spot on his shirt. Which I can fix. I reach up and press a fingerprint on the spot. I shiver in the cold mud, even though it’s gotten ten degrees warmer than first thing this morning. I’m not sure where we’re going with this, but I can’t stand the silence. I hold out my hand. Truce?

As if he’s just realized where he’s sitting, he jumps off me. I can’t really tell because of the mud, but I think he’s blushing. Sorry. I, um. Oh, geez, Kate. You’re a mess.

Thank you, Captain Obvious. I sit up, with my hand still outstretched.

He grasps it tightly, and pulls me out of the mud, nodding. Truce.

A Mack truck could drive into the abyss of awkward silence, as we both look anywhere but at each other. What the heck just happened?

Someone nearby clears his throat.

At the exact same time, almost in slow motion, we look toward the old cart we left parked on the edge of the mud pit.

Dad.

His mouth hangs open, and he’s standing with his hands on his hips. I have no idea how long he’s been there or how much he’s seen. A boy I’ve never seen is standing next to him.

The kid’s hair is a deep auburn and hangs long in his eyes. While I’m staring, he sweeps it to the side in a move that looks practiced. He’s wearing knee length low-rider shorts and an oversized t- shirt with the words Stay Calm and Carry On emblazoned across the front. He’s barely containing his laughter. But his smile almost takes my breath away. He’s got the deepest dimple I’ve ever seen. I’m sure we’ve just given him the comic relief of the day.

Katherine Grace Anderson. You have some explaining to do, Dad calls.

Thirty minutes ago, I knew exactly what my summer was going to be like. Now I feel like I’m cresting the highest drop of the tallest roller coaster, suspended in mid-air, just before the free-fall.

2

Bunker

Dad’s scowling like the warden at the local insane asylum. I can just imagine what’s going on in his brain. I glance at Scott. His hands are clenched at his side and he’s grinding his teeth so hard I can practically hear the enamel wearing away.

It was my fault, Daddy, I say quickly, trying for the most innocent voice possible, hoping he’ll go easy on me. I wanted a ride in the new cart, and I made Scott go this way. I point feebly behind me toward the eighth green.

Scott gives me a terse grin and takes a sharp breath. No, Mr. Anderson. It’s my fault. I was trying to get things done fast this morning. I got the cart stuck. I asked Kate to help me get it out of the mud. I should have waited for Ed, but… He loses his train of thought in Dad’s steely glare.

Dad covers his nose and mouth with his hand, which confirms my fear that Scott and I both stink. Take the Cushman to the shed and hose it off. After I give him the tour, you’re going to be training Stuart… he gestures to the boy who’s barely containing his mirth.

Who is this kid?

I turn to follow Scott, but Dad says, Not you, young lady.

He can’t be serious. I have no doubt that you had some responsibility in this matter. And you’ve been told time and again not to leave the shop unattended.

No matter how much trouble I’m in, I can’t spend the day covered in mud. But Dad, I… I gesture at my mud-covered everything as Scott zooms away.

Oh. Right. He looks at me and winces. Go home and get cleaned up; you’ll need to show Stuart around the shop this afternoon.

Brilliant. Looking forward to it, Stuart says in a clipped British accent, giving me a neat salute. Seriously, he looks like a movie star who doesn’t seem to know exactly what his reaction should be. It’s a cross between enthusiastic deference to my dad and incredulity to the mud girl standing in front of him.

Why on Earth did Dad come back from Boston with a kid who could stunt double for the dude who played Ron Weasley?

Walking across the mud barefoot is fine, but the gravel is going to kill my feet. I almost go back for my shoes, but Dad and Stuart take off in the other direction in the clunker.

So I try to stay on the grassy fairway as long as possible. My brain buzzes like a hive of bees. I remember the weight of Scott’s body as we wrestled in the mud and his eyes staring down at me in the seconds before Dad arrived. I imagine the same scenario with no mud, and my face burns.

Instead of heading right home, I take a detour past the work shed.

At the gate, I stop for a second and stare at the shed. It’s tucked in a copse of birch trees and honestly, I’m always amazed it’s still standing. The walls are made of discarded plywood from some DIY project Ed never finished, and the siding is scraps of metal sheathing. The hose is wrapped on a hook on the other side of the building. I tiptoe over a broken golf club, but it’s impossible to avoid the parts of old carts, rusted tools, and piles of unrecognizable mechanical things littering the dirt path that snakes toward the rusty doorway. It wouldn’t even surprise me if a psychopath with a golf club attacks me some day when I’m back here. It’s like the gingerbread house from hell.

I cover my nose and try not to choke on the smell of earth and gasoline and grass seed as I sidestep the remains of a dead mower.

Coming around the side of the building, I catch Scott pulling a clean T-shirt over his head. If only I had my camera, I say, staring at the sight of his tan stomach and feeling my face get hot all over again.

Hardy, har, har. He shakes his wet hair in my direction. His new T-shirt is threadbare and quickly soaks up the water still on his body. What’s up with the new kid?

I step to the side of the building and pull the makeshift showerhead off the wall. Ed installed it a few years ago so the boys wouldn’t clog the drains in the bathroom at the clubhouse. Steeling myself for the ice-cold water, I close my eyes and turn the spigot. I try not to squeal when the water hits my face, but it’s hard.

Scott picks up a rag and starts soaping up the cart.

Hanging the showerhead back on the hook, I pull my shirt away from my chest so it won’t stick. Having a new kid around couldn’t hurt, could it?

He’s wiping down the leather seats on the cart and looks up with raised eyebrows.

What? I raise my hands. You and Will like to think you can do everything, but you could probably use the help.

Scott winces and swabs soapy water across the side of the cart. Yeah, but if you haven’t noticed, customers don’t seem to be knocking down the door to play lately. Business can’t hold up like that forever. New kid’s gonna cost your dad money.

Yeah, well, speaking of business, I’ve got to get home and change before getting back to work. I start toward the path; my bare feet feel dirty again before I take three steps.

Hey, Kate! He’s right behind me when I turn around. Thanks for helping me this morning. I couldn’t have done it without you.

I shrug, hoping my voice sounds casual. It’s what friends do.

Don’t forget about the tournament on Monday. We should practice this weekend. He whips the wet towel against my leg.

"Is that this Monday? Can’t wait." I wave behind me and jog toward the shop, pulling at the wet shorts stuck to my butt.

Crap. I should be ecstatic, but somehow my enthusiasm fails. I am not good under pressure. Choking in front of Scott and a hundred other boys does not sound like a great Monday. He and Will had talked me into signing up weeks ago. I’d regretted it ever since. Playing Willow Bend all summer long is the stuff my dreams are made of, and I’ve always been just fine not branching out and playing other courses. Looks like I’m not going to be able to avoid it this year.

It’s so hot that by the time I crest the hill of the first fairway, my shorts are mostly dried. The sky is hazy and I can barely see the sun. So I don’t have to squint to know that Olivia is waiting at the shop. And she’s mad—the crossed arms and football stance are dead giveaways.

Before I’m close enough for her to see the mud, she’s yelling. "You need to tell your dad to give me a frickin’ key! I rushed over