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chance to go out with him.
    I slipped inside my car and left him leaning forward. The desire to laugh hit me again. Brandon Harvest looked as if he’d never dreamed I’d refuse his offer to pay good money for him.
    ****
    What was I doing?
    With my car parked in front of the high school, I asked again, “Girl, what are you doing?” Saying the words out loud didn’t bring any answers.
    I shouldn’t be here.
    Yet, I was.
    If the number of automobiles in the parking lot was any indication, this auction would be bringing in lots of money. I wondered what the funds would go toward. A young man held the door open for me as I entered the building.
    High Schools have a smell about them that only mothers and gym teachers can appreciate. I followed the signs that read “auction this way,” until I came to a large room filled with all sorts of people but no chairs. A crude platform stood at the front of the room with a microphone stand.
    “Hi, Mrs. Parker. Are you here for the auction?” A young voice promptly asked after I found a spot against the back wall.
    I looked up at the teenager. What did she think I was here for? She stood several inches taller than me, her blonde hair had been confined into a ponytail, and she wore a blue and gold colored cheerleading outfit. A smile touched my lips as I recognized her as one of the teens from my church.
    It
    ’
    s amazing how quickly you forgave her silly question of earlier. I ignored that still small voice and answered the grinning cheerleader. “Yes. I thought I’d check it out.”
    “Then you are going to need these.” She handed me a half sheet of paper and a ping-pong paddle with the number seventy-two on it.
    “Thanks.” My eyes scanned the paper.
    “You’re welcome. Would you mind filling out this so we’ll know who you are when you pick up your items?” She asked handing me another small slip of paper and a tiny pencil.
    I stuffed the first piece of paper under my arm, used the paddle as a makeshift table, and quickly scribbled in my name and phone number. Then I returned the paper to her.
    She studied it for a second, gave me a dazzling smile and announced. “Well, gotta run. I see more people coming in. Have fun and thanks for coming!” Then she was gone.
    I pulled the paper from under my arm. “Annual Cheerleaders Auction” graced the top of the agenda in all caps and bold type. The list of items was long. Right in the center of all the household goods, gift certificates and other things were the words “win a date with your choice of Professor Brandon Harvest, Bank Manager Mark Ringer, and several others.” I guessed the “others” didn’t hold titles.
    The room continued to fill. A moment of panic threatened to overwhelm me. If they allowed many more bodies in this space that was quickly becoming smaller, I’d have to leave.
    I’m not afraid of small spaces, but I am worried about being crushed in a sea of people. What if the fire alarm goes off? These people could squeeze the life out of a delicate woman like me.
    Thankfully, someone shut the door and a woman’s voice came through the microphone loud and clear. “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming. This year our girls have gone above and beyond my expectations in finding things for your bidding pleasure. Let me first tell you that all items are new and have never been used.”
    “What about the Banker?” A voice called from the crowd.
    Laughter erupted.
    When the laughter turned to snickers, the cheerleading coach continued. “Well, let me rephrase that statement, all store bought items are new.” She cleared her throat and gave a group of teenage boys in the front row a stern glance.
    I remembered being on the receiving end of those quick stares. This woman had ‘the look’ down pat and the kids quieted down.
    “Second, I’d like to thank Mr. Miller for volunteering to be our auctioneer.”
    The cheerleaders stood off to one side and began applauding. Noise filled the small