by Bob Purssell
“Unfortunately, yes. I know her conduct is the talk of the high school, probably the whole town for that matter.” That revelation brought me up short, and I said nothing. Mrs. W added with a knowing look, “Remember, girl, a woman’s reputation precedes her.”
Mrs. W stopped talking and I thought about her words. Finally, I said, “On the TV, in the media, at school even, the word seems to be that having sex is okay, in fact more than okay.”
“And that makes things difficult for you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, it does.”
“Here’s a thought: one of the differences between being a child and being an adult is the realization that following the crowd and being your own person are usually not compatible.”
Not wanting to leave Mrs. W with the impression that I obsessed about sex, I changed the subject. “Mrs. W, what do you do for a living?”
“My partners and I run a private equity firm. It’s interesting work.”
Letting my eyes roam about the room, I replied, “Profitable, too.”
Grinning Mrs. W concurred. “We’re very good at what we do. The clients aren’t complaining.”
“What’s it like to be rich?”
“For me, it’s the freedom to do what I want, to accept the responsibilities that I want to accept.”
Looking around her richly appointed bedroom, I said, “And you get to have a lot of stuff.”
Mrs. W smiled and then observed, “Material possessions are great … as long as you own them and it’s not the other way around.”
I grinned at Mrs. W’s observation and she said, “Always remember, it’s the freedom, not the stuff, that’s important.”
* * *
That night in bed, I thought of how fabulous it would be to have an older sister, like Mrs. W, who would talk to me and perhaps even buy me risqué lingerie that would make me feel more grown up and feminine.
Sunday morning, Mrs. W and I had breakfast alone since Elizabeth Sue’s stomach was still upset from the plane trip. Screwing up my courage, I asked, “I don’t have an older sister; I was just wondering …?”
“Just wondering what?” prompted Mrs. W.
“If you would be my older sister?”
“Aren’t I a little old?”
“You’re not old, Mrs. W; you’re cool.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, and I’m a sucker for flattery.” Mrs. W then added, “You’ll always be welcome in my home, and if you need an ear to listen, I’ll be here for you. If that makes me a big sister, then big sister I am.”
In an atypical expression of emotion, I jumped up and gave Mrs. W a hug.
* * *
About a week later, at dinner, my mother said, “Mrs. Wingdale told us you and she had a good conversation.”
Thinking of our tête-à-tête on my having sex, I probably blushed bright red. Trying to be noncommittal, I replied, “Yes, we did. I like her a lot.”
“The feeling is obviously mutual,” observed my mother. “She told us she wants to write a college recommendation for you. She told us you made a very positive impression.”
My father added, “She said she encouraged you to apply to better colleges.”
Relieved that Mrs. W had not told my parents about our intimate conversation, I replied, “Yes, she said I was what colleges are looking for.”
My mother answered, “That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you.”
That started a discussion about colleges and my future. That night as I lay in bed, I reflected on how events were pushing me out of my secure and comfortable home. The thought filled me with both excitement and trepidation.
* * *
In June of my junior year, I received a summons to go to the principal’s office. Usually such requests were not harbingers of good news, and as I walked, I wondered what transgression I had made. “Oh well,” I mumbled, “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Looking through the open door of his office, the principal saw me arrive and motioned for me to enter. When I did, he closed the door behind me. There were two other men in the office, one I did not recognize and the other was the superintendent of the school system. God, I thought, what have I done?
The principal began, “Okay, let me start with the bad news, Barbara.” My heartbeat raced, something had happened to my parents. Before I could utter a sound or faint, he continued, “You’re fired.”
Confused, relieved, I blurted out, “Fired?”
“As of today,” continued the principal, “you are no longer the coach of the boys’ hockey team.”
Caught completely off guard I muttered, “But-but I’m the team manager.”
“We understand the subterfuge,” interjected the superintendent. “We also understand that you ran the practices and gave direction to the coach during the games. In all but name, you were the coach.”
I tried to speak but found myself at a loss for words.
The principal said, “The superintendent and I would like to thank you. As a token of our gratitude we are enclosing a copy of this letter of commendation into your school record.”
“Thank you,” I replied. Recovering, I told them, “This is really neat.”
The superintendent shook my hand and told me, “Now for the good news. In addition to coaching the team, you shamed the school board into hiring a real coach. I’d like to introduce you to Mister Grégori Koniev, our new coach of the boys’ ice hockey team.”
Extending his hand, Coach Koniev said, “Is pleasure to meet you. I hear much of your good work.”
“Thank you,” I replied to the elderly man with a brush cut and not an ounce of fat on his body. His powerful grip told me his muscles were still strong in spite of his age.
“We’re lucky to have Coach Koniev,” continued the principal. “He learned to play hockey in the old Soviet Union, eventually playing for the Dynamo Moscow team.”
Enthusiastically, I said, “The guys will be excited to have a real coach,” but then realizing my faux pas, I placed my hand over my mouth.
Giving me a knowing look, the superintendent said, “Indeed they will.”
As I prepared to leave the Principal’s office, Coach Koniev said, “Young lady, I need talk with you.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, not knowing what to expect.
“We sit on bench outside; is nice day.”
After we sat down, he said, “You are leader. I need leaders. Is important that you stay and help me with team.”
Surprised, I replied, “Sure, if that’s what you want.”
“Is what I want, how you say … big time.”
I smiled, and he returned my smile with a toothy grin that showed a gold filling. Then he added, “Is for you important also.”
Not having a clue as to why my being the team manager was important to me, curious, I asked, “Why?”
“I see your film of game. You are smart. Is obvious. You play well for young girl, but you must change.”
“Change?”
“To play game well you must have new way. That I offer. Grégori teach you real game of ice hockey.”
I blurted out one of my dreams, “Can I play on the boys’ team?”
“If, how you say, up to me, I say yes … but apparatchik they not agree. Is not possible.”
Coach Koniev must have sensed my disappointment because he then said, “I make offer. If stay team manager, then Barbara O’Leary practice with boys.”
Beaming, I replied, “Deal!”
* * *
To get a head start on my senior year, I actually began my advanced placement classes in French and calculus during the summer between my junior and senior years. Both were online courses, but the formats were dissimilar. The AP calculus course was a series of Internet lectures, homework assignments and periodic exams. My tutor, Professor Prasad
, and I worked out a system. He would grade my homework and help me if I could not solve a problem. He would also explain those parts of the lecture that I could not understand.
Bridgette de Rouen taught my AP French course, which consisted of students from across the United States meeting via the Internet. Using a camera and a microphone mounted on my computer, I could see and hear my fellow students, and they, likewise, could see and hear me. It took a little getting used to, but after a couple of sessions, I became comfortable with my virtual classroom.
Along with learning French, that summer, I, for the first time, met fellow students who had both the drive and intellect to give me real scholastic competition. In fact, two of my fellow students were particularly smart, and they both vied for best in class honors.
Yours truly, no longer top dog, had her nose out of joint. When my father asked me what was the matter, I explained. Far from sharing my concern, he just chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“I was just reflecting on how all the big fish in small ponds become little fish in life’s ocean.”
My feelings not assuaged, I harrumphed and walked off. Later that day, I calmed down and began to accept the idea that I was a little fish in life’s ocean.
* * *
That summer, along with taking AP courses, I also joined the workforce. In May, I told Mrs. W that I was hoping to find summer employment. She asked, “Would you like to work for my company?”
The idea seemed so novel and cool, without a thought as to what my duties would be or what compensation I might receive, I answered, “Yes.”
That summer I did administrative work. Mrs. W, who often traveled to Europe and Asia, maintained an office in her home. My job was to answer the phone, read her mail to her, type up letters, find material in her files, and do whatever Mrs. W needed done. Often I had time on my hands, so, to keep from being bored, I studied.
My mother, for reasons I did not understand at the time, insisted that I be properly dressed whenever I went to work. I explained to her that no one could see what I was wearing, and it was highly unlikely that the people whom Mrs. W dealt with in New York, London, and Singapore would unexpectedly show up at the Wingdale residence. Ignoring my reasoned objections, my mother insisted I buy two business suits.
While I felt very grown up wearing my new clothes, I still felt dorky that first Monday when I appeared at the Wingdale residence wearing a suit and heels instead of jeans. When Elizabeth Sue saw me, she asked, “Why are you all dressed up?”
“It’s my mother’s idea.”
That was all the explanation Elizabeth Sue needed and she declared, “Your mother’s so smart; I’d do what she says.”
Perhaps my clothes, in some way I did not recognize, had an impact on my behavior. The people who worked with Mrs. W, having never seen me, thought I was her personal secretary. Over the phone, I became Ms. O’Leary. Little by little, I began to realize the people I was conversing with neither knew, nor seemed to care, that they were talking to a sixteen-year-old. Happy with my new status, I played the role of adult to the hilt.
On a Saturday in August, Mrs. W had her communications system upgraded and now a camera phone sat on my desk. Monday, before work, I told Elizabeth Sue, “This is the end.”
“The end of what?” she asked.
“Of my being Ms. O’Leary. It’s back to kid status for me.”
“You dress the part; you look professional. Nobody will think you’re a kid.”
Somewhat buoyed, prim and proper, I sat behind my large antique wooden desk and began typing up a letter. Two minutes into the business day, the new phone rang. I picked up the receiver and the “camera in use” light glowed. Trying to sound mature, I said, “Mrs. Wingdale’s office, Ms. O’Leary speaking.”
A particularly gruff vice president, who I had gathered was a terror to the firm’s employees, growled, “This is Conover. Is Wingdale there?”
“No, sir. She’s in Atlanta until tomorrow.”
“Give her this message: the Orion project is back on the front burner.”
With that, he hung up, having made, to my surprise, no comment about dealing with a kid.
All through the day, people called and, without seeming to care about my age, left messages or asked me to perform tasks.
When I had finished for the day, I met Elizabeth Sue in the driveway. She was returning from a day at the beach wearing short shorts and a halter top. I told her, “You were right.”
“About what?”
“About them not caring if I’m a teenager.”
“Why should they? You behave like you’re a grown-up. With those clothes you look the part, like you’re wearing a uniform.”
SENIOR YEAR
I had the oddest schedule in my senior year. Three times a week at 5:30 in the morning, I met online with Professor Prasad, who was tutoring me in AP calculus. At school, I attended my AP chemistry class during third period, which was late in the morning. As soon as I finished, I rushed home for my online AP French class. In the fall and winter at 3:30 PM, I had girls’ hockey practice followed by the boys’ practice.
One evening in September, my mother stopped by at ten, just after I got into bed, and asked, “You’re a very busy girl. You’re not trying to do too much, are you?”
Happy with my life, I answered, “No, I’m cool.” My mother smiled and I asked, “What’s so funny?”
“Your father worries about you. I told him you were doing fine.”
“Should I say something to him?”
“He’d like that. Remember, you’re his little girl.” When I nodded, my mother added, “If this all gets to be too much, don’t hesitate to tell us.”
Far from being too much, I found that I had no trouble handling the workload. Actually, I enjoyed all the studying and learning.
* * *
Occasionally, I wondered why I differed so much from my classmates. Was I missing something? Had they discovered an activity that was even better than learning new things? If they had, they certainly hid their find from me. The hanging out, being cool did not do anything for me. What, I wondered, was the attraction of doing nothing and wasting time?
After the frat house party and my drive home in a car reeking of vomit, alcohol had no attraction. Drugs, always available for those who wanted them, had no appeal either. I cannot claim to have resisted the temptation of drugs, because for me they were not a temptation. Drug usage, which shaped so much of the high school’s environment, did not exist in my personal world.
The school was always abuzz with stories or rumors of a student having a crisis, getting into trouble, and the like. Sometimes these situations would threaten to touch my world and threaten to involve me. Invariably, however, someone else was far more eager to get involved, so I just backed off and let them do their thing.
Captain of the girls’ ice hockey team, a most competitive karter, few, if any, characterized me as a nerd. However, considering all my academic success, labels like jock and gearhead did not accurately describe me, either. The convenient stereotypes just did not fit. Most of my classmates would probably agree with the proposition that I was moving through their space, not living in their world.
My friendliness and sense of humor served me well, deflecting those intent on knowing the “real” Barbara O’Leary. Always friendly, I was no one’s friend in the fullest sense. Billy, my “boyfriend,” and I shared an intellectual relationship of little emotional depth. I certainly knew the girls on the ice hockey team, but only as players, not as young women. Some of my teachers tried to reach out to me, but they found only a smiling face who aced her classes.
* * *
Because I had such a different (weird) schedule, my real connection to the school staff was Coach Koniev. To him ice hockey was the end all and be all of human existence.
The boys on th
e team called the coach the Mad Russian, and often he was. In a practice or a game, if he caught you napping, his sharp tongue unleashed a torrent of words in English and Russian. Even the innocent quaked.
He gave players Russian nicknames. The team clown became Pushkin and the coach often addressed a player as “comrade.” This caught on and the boys, mimicking their coach’s heavy Russian accent, would often address one another with the same salutation.
After a practice in which the team made numerous mental errors, the coach gathered the players together and told the boys, “Comrades, the Central Committee has informed me, effective immediately, each player must bring brain to practice.” On another occasion, he asked a player named Nick, who was not passing the puck often enough, “Nikita, Politburo has asked, ‘Does young player have glue on stick?’”
All of this would have been silliness if Coach Koniev had not immediately gained his players respect at the first practice. Still able to skate, still possessing an athlete’s body, he would often personally illustrate what he wanted his players to do. Frequently, I would play the role of the opponent in these demonstrations. I saw their impact on the boys. Instead of the usual clowning around, they would pay close attention, recognizing the man’s understanding of the game.
The coach ran his practices with military precision, so many minutes for this drill, so many for that one. Radar gun in hand, he would measure how fast we skated and shot. When a player was absent, he would let me substitute, so I got plenty of ice time playing against the boys. I was not up to the caliber of the best players on the team, but I felt I could have centered the third or, possibly, the second line.
One revelation of the boys’ game was body checking. The rules do not allow body checks in girls’ hockey, so I had no idea how I would feel when slammed to the ice. The first time our best defenseman unloaded on me, I thought the team bus had run me over. Determined not to receive special treatment, I bounced up and continued playing. However, I had a much better understanding of why one keeps her head up.
All the while Coach Koniev was teaching me the game. After each practice, he would review what we had accomplished and what he was planning for the next session. It was in these discussions that I learned the intricacies of plays like the left side lock and the neutral zone trap.
