Get Even Read Online Free Page A
Author: Gretchen McNeil
one,” Coach Creed said, gesturing to the library on either side of him. “I’m not just a fitness guru, I’m an academic.” He leaned back in Father Uberti’s leather chair and propped a sneaker-clad foot up on the desk next to a framed photograph of the Pope. “Which makes me smarter than the average model, without sacrificing beauty for brains.”
“Douche!” someone yelled.
The next scene showed a full-body image of Coach Creed dangling from a pull-up bar. In addition to the skintight tank top, he also sported a pair of circa-1975 blue running shorts trimmed in gold, so inappropriately short that Kitty was terrified his man parts might peek out through the leg hole as he pulled his chin up over the bar. “Forty-nine,” he counted, his voice grunting with fatigue.
The audience erupted into laughter.
“Turn it off!” Coach Creed screamed. He tore across the basketball court and ripped the remote from Father Uberti’s hand. He marched toward the booth, pointing the useless device at the window. “Work, you dumbass. Work!”
On the video, Creed strained into another chin-up. “Fifty.”
He let his body fall to the floor. “Reason number two: fifty pull-ups,” he panted. “One for each year of me. Dick Creed only gets better with age.” Coach Creed struck a bodybuilder’s pose. “Yeah, you like that?”
Peals of laughter threatened total chaos. Father Uberti grabbed the microphone. “Mr. Phillips,” he said. “Get the AV room open. Now!”
The facilities manager was at the door already, searching his ring frantically for the correct key. Kitty smiled to herself. It wasn’t there. Olivia had stolen the AV room key, and Bree had disposed of it after installing the video player. After several seconds, Mr. Phillips ran from the gym, probably to fetch the duplicate set.
Coach Creed threw the remote to the ground and sprinted to the locked door, wringing the handle with his meaty hands. “Someone open this fucking door!”
The screen changed again, and the gym quieted as every student and half the teachers sat on the edges of their seats in anticipation. The new setting was a backyard pool. It was an overcast day, but the gray haze didn’t stop reality-show auditionee Dick Creed. He lounged on a beach towel by the water’s edge, his blue tank and track shorts discarded for a pair of swim briefs. His aging, overly tanned skin hung limply from his body, and his stomach resembled a deflated balloon, a combination of taut and flabby that reminded Kitty of Captain Kirk in the old Star Trek episodes her dad so dearly loved.
“Reason number three.” He cocked his left eyebrow. “Let’s face it, Dick Creed is a sexy piece of man meat. The ladies love it, can’t get enough of it, and will tune in every week for more, I guarantee.” He picked up a glass of sparkling wine and toasted the camera. “Smart, strong, and sexy. Dick Creed is all three and more. Don’t you think that’s worth an audition?” He winked and the screen went dark.
No one moved. The gymnasium held its collective breath. Father Uberti stopped screaming for Mr. Phillips, his jaw frozen midword, and even Coach Creed stopped pounding his fists against the AV room door as one final image faded onto the screen.
Black type against a white background, in an unmistakable custom font that looked like it came from an old-fashioned typewriter.
Compliments of DGM
FOUR
IT HAD TAKEN MARGOT MOST OF THE DAY TO GET HER NERVES IN check after the assembly. Her hands shook all through the rest of first period, and her heart was still racing when the bell rang at the end of sixth-period PE.
Normally, DGM missions weren’t so much about public humiliation as they were about evening the playing field between the powerful and the powerless, but Coach Creed had been a special case. She’d been half-afraid that he would pop a blood vessel in his head and stroke out right there on the basketball court, making her an accessory to murder, but
“Douche!” someone yelled.
The next scene showed a full-body image of Coach Creed dangling from a pull-up bar. In addition to the skintight tank top, he also sported a pair of circa-1975 blue running shorts trimmed in gold, so inappropriately short that Kitty was terrified his man parts might peek out through the leg hole as he pulled his chin up over the bar. “Forty-nine,” he counted, his voice grunting with fatigue.
The audience erupted into laughter.
“Turn it off!” Coach Creed screamed. He tore across the basketball court and ripped the remote from Father Uberti’s hand. He marched toward the booth, pointing the useless device at the window. “Work, you dumbass. Work!”
On the video, Creed strained into another chin-up. “Fifty.”
He let his body fall to the floor. “Reason number two: fifty pull-ups,” he panted. “One for each year of me. Dick Creed only gets better with age.” Coach Creed struck a bodybuilder’s pose. “Yeah, you like that?”
Peals of laughter threatened total chaos. Father Uberti grabbed the microphone. “Mr. Phillips,” he said. “Get the AV room open. Now!”
The facilities manager was at the door already, searching his ring frantically for the correct key. Kitty smiled to herself. It wasn’t there. Olivia had stolen the AV room key, and Bree had disposed of it after installing the video player. After several seconds, Mr. Phillips ran from the gym, probably to fetch the duplicate set.
Coach Creed threw the remote to the ground and sprinted to the locked door, wringing the handle with his meaty hands. “Someone open this fucking door!”
The screen changed again, and the gym quieted as every student and half the teachers sat on the edges of their seats in anticipation. The new setting was a backyard pool. It was an overcast day, but the gray haze didn’t stop reality-show auditionee Dick Creed. He lounged on a beach towel by the water’s edge, his blue tank and track shorts discarded for a pair of swim briefs. His aging, overly tanned skin hung limply from his body, and his stomach resembled a deflated balloon, a combination of taut and flabby that reminded Kitty of Captain Kirk in the old Star Trek episodes her dad so dearly loved.
“Reason number three.” He cocked his left eyebrow. “Let’s face it, Dick Creed is a sexy piece of man meat. The ladies love it, can’t get enough of it, and will tune in every week for more, I guarantee.” He picked up a glass of sparkling wine and toasted the camera. “Smart, strong, and sexy. Dick Creed is all three and more. Don’t you think that’s worth an audition?” He winked and the screen went dark.
No one moved. The gymnasium held its collective breath. Father Uberti stopped screaming for Mr. Phillips, his jaw frozen midword, and even Coach Creed stopped pounding his fists against the AV room door as one final image faded onto the screen.
Black type against a white background, in an unmistakable custom font that looked like it came from an old-fashioned typewriter.
Compliments of DGM
FOUR
IT HAD TAKEN MARGOT MOST OF THE DAY TO GET HER NERVES IN check after the assembly. Her hands shook all through the rest of first period, and her heart was still racing when the bell rang at the end of sixth-period PE.
Normally, DGM missions weren’t so much about public humiliation as they were about evening the playing field between the powerful and the powerless, but Coach Creed had been a special case. She’d been half-afraid that he would pop a blood vessel in his head and stroke out right there on the basketball court, making her an accessory to murder, but
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