Galileo - l.s

eleven

Louis was coming down the hallway, toward the athletic lockers, when he saw Julie waiting at the end. She was checking her phone, her thumb scrolling through and occasionally clicking on the screen. When Louis came closer, she looked up at him.

“Hi, Jules,” Louis said. “’Sup?”

“Louis,” Julie said. She clicked her phone off and put it away. “Going to practice?”

Louis raised his hand to gesture toward the lockers. “Yeah, just about.”

“Oh,” Julie paused. “Hey, Louis, is it okay if I talk to you?”

“Sure,” Louis said. He tilted his head. “What's going on?”

“Can we, um,” Julie looked down the hall, “go somewhere else? Where it's more private?”

“Yeah, sure,” Louis said, curious. “Let’s go in Coach’s office. He won't be there now.”

He led the way down the corridor between the girls’ and boys’ locker rooms, toward the warren of tiny offices used by the athletic coaches. Plaques lined the hallway from years of athletic competitions. A trophy case held a variety of athletic trophies from small to large, engraved with the school’s name, the sport, and the year of the competition. The state championship trophies for soccer, however, weren't in these back hallways. They were displayed in a large glass case near the front office, visible to everyone who came in to the school.

Louis opened a door on the left. They went in.

The office had a small desk and a few chairs pushed to the walls. Papers and notebooks lay scattered across the desk. On the shelf were a few team photos, and some framed photos of the Coach’s family.

“So, what's the big secret, Jules?” Louis asked lightheartedly.

Julie put her backpack on the ground. Her hands came up to her chest, and she intertwined her fingers.

“Louis,” she said, “I know you're sort of friends with Harry now.”

Louis cleared his throat, and shuffled his feet. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“I'm not sure how to say this in a way that doesn't sound weird,” she said.

Louis raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, there's something you should know, about Harry,” she said. “Not about Harry himself, but, like, about his circumstances.”

“God,” Louis said, “he’s a British spy, isn't he? He's actually twenty-three years old, infiltrating our school system to get soccer secrets. I knew it! That would explain the creepy stare of his.”

“No,” Julie smiled. “Good one, though.”

“Then what?”

“Well, Harry lives by himself. Did you know that?”

“Oh,” Louis exhaled. “I thought it was something bad. Yeah, I knew about that ages ago.” He chuckled. “His parents are artists, right?”

“Well, yes,” Julie said slowly, “and no. I mean, yes, they're artists, but it's not that simple.” She pulled up a chair with its back facing forward, and straddled the seat to sit down. “His dad is Des Styles. You know, the famous sculptor?”