by Lehman, Kim
“So, let’s try this again,” the man says with a hint of sarcasm. “Now that all you fresh-mucks are standing, I want you to get down here and form a single line in front of me.” Every freshman guy in the gym bounds down the bleachers and stands at attention on the line in front of the burly man. Two of the guys trip, but recover.
“That’s more like it,” he says, looking up and down the row. “In case you haven’t already figured it out, I’m Coach Bryant,” he hollers, even though we’re all less than five feet from him. “You can call me Coach. You cannot call me anything else. For the next two days, I own you during the hours of four and six p.m. You will sweat and you will work hard. You will bleed basketball for two straight days.” He stops in front of me. His mouth is inches from my nose. I hold my breath. “Your minds, bodies, and souls are mine for four hours,” he spits out before moving down the line to the next guy. “If you are doing the math, that is two hundred and forty minutes of your life. Realistically, I know this is not a lot of time to build a top-notch team out of a bunch of inexperienced teenagers; however, I guarantee you that by the time we’re done, I’ll chisel the forty of you down to the top fifteen players this school has ever seen.
“There are two cuts: one today and one tomorrow. Which means if you can make it through today, you get to show up tomorrow, but that does not guarantee you a spot on the team, which means you’d better be giving me all you got both days. Any questions?”
Not one person raises his hand.
For the first time since he entered the gym, Coach’s lips twitch and curl up about a quarter of a centimeter. “Good,” he grumbles. “Now comes the fun part.”
A thunder of exhausted grunts echoes throughout the gym at Coach’s orders.
“Jesus, we’ve practiced our asses off for two hours,” the kid next to me whispers. “I thought we were done.” All of us are experiencing a new and disturbingly uncanny definition of pain. I don’t even have enough energy to respond, but if I could, I would say, “Shoot me. Please! Put me out of my misery.”
Obediently, we all trudge toward the perimeter of the gym. There are so many boys we almost don’t fit across the width. To accommodate, Coach pushes a button on the wall and the bleachers come to life, sliding back like a snail slinking into its shell. Terrific. Now there’s more room for all of us to spread out.
“Here we go!” Coach hollers when we’re all lined up. “Suicides!” There’s a sick satisfaction in the way he screams the word. “And you’d better not jog it,” he adds, as if reading my mind. “When we’re in a game, we don’t give fifteen percent at the end. I’d better see every last one of you hustling, and you’d better bend down and touch every line. Understand? This is where determination beats out talent.”
Taking a deep breath, I glance down the line of other boys and try to summon the strength to fight through this.
“Let me see what you got.” A whistle ignites the charge. We all leap from the first line to the second, turn around and touch the first, then race to the third, then back to the first. By the fifth line, I’m ready to die.
“No mercy!” the coach shouts over our shoulders. “Do it again! If you aren’t puking, you aren’t doing it right!” When I’ve touched all lines and I’m back to the beginning, I start over, digging deep, willing my legs to fight through. A few guys stop in the middle and bend over to catch their breath. One kid stands up and walks, holding his hands over his head.
“What are you doing?” Coach yells. “Game’s not over. Keep moving! Hustle!”
Sweat pours down my face. With every line I touch, my insides wrench and ache.
“Dig deep, boys. I want to see one last push to the end. Who has it in them?”
Something inside turns on. A burst of adrenaline surges through my body. For the third time, I touch the fourth line, sprint back, race to the fifth, turn, and pump my arms, willing my feet to move. When my body starts to give out, I grunt the last four steps and slide headfirst across the line. Coach is going to get his wish: I’m going to puke.
When I flip over and look up into the fluorescent lights, writhing in pain, a figure hovers over me. My first thought is that I’m dead, but then my eyes adjust and I realize it’s not God; it’s Coach. I’m in hell. Looking at me, he grunts. It’s something he’s done consistently today whenever he’s disappointed. I’m pretty sure this is it. He’s about to cut me right here, but instead he extends his hand to help me up.
“You got heart, Fiester,” he snarls. “I like that.” When I’m up off the ground and semiconscious on my feet, he slaps my shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
I close my eyes. I don’t even have enough energy to smile.
Charlotte
As soon as I walk through the front door after school the phone rings. Mom is already home. She answers.
“Lani’s on the phone,” she says. I can’t believe she is already calling.
“Tell her I’ll call her back,” I say.
Mom relays the message, then turns back to me. “She told me to tell you that she knows you won’t really call her.”
“Tell her I have laryngitis,” I try.
Mom tells her. “She said she’s coming over,” Mom says to me next.
I sigh and grab the phone. “Hi.”
“Okay,” Lani starts, “since you wouldn’t tell me what was going on, I tracked down Miles before tryouts. He told me everything. We really need to talk. This doesn’t make any sense.”
Lani is my best girlfriend. She’s the best. I know I should tell her, but I’m just too tired to talk about anything, and with Lani nothing takes less than thirty minutes. “Lani?”
“Hey. I’m here,” she says.
“Lani,” I repeat, “You’re breaking up.”
“What are you talking about? Neither of us are on a cell phone.”
“Sorry! Bad connection. I... wha... you... shoo... talk... tomorrow.” I hang up.
Mom is hovering over me, giving me a very strange look. “I’m going up to my room,” I tell her.
When I’m in my room, I sit on the bed and stare across the seemingly vast space to where my backpack lies on the floor. Miles’s letter is in the tightly zippered front pocket. It’s almost as if the letter has eyes with X-ray vision and it’s pleading, “Open me,” in a shrill, squirrelly voice.
I don’t want to read it, and I do want to read it. Conundrum.
I decide it’s probably one of those things that is better left unsaid. Or, in this case, unread.
Ignoring the letter for now, I waste some timepicking up a magazine, sitting down on the floor Indian-style and casually flipping through the pages. The article I land on is Ten Ways to Know He Likes You. Where was this a couple weeks ago? I slam the magazine shut and toss it over my shoulder. My body slumps forward. I need something else to do; something to suppress the chaotic voices in my head. Jumping up, I grab my music player, resume my position on the floor, put on the headphones, and hit play. The band, Parachute, blares to life. I close my eyes. Crap. The problem with music is that it always reminds you of something or someone. The song playing is one that I always listened to when sitting next to Miles on the bus. Taking the headphones off, I stop the music player and toss it onto my bed.
I do have homework. I think. I should probably get it done.
I unzip the larger section of the backpack and pull out my history book. The assignment is tucked in between World War I and World War II. I reach for a pencil, forgetting for a moment that it’s in the same pocket as the letter from Miles.
When I reach into the bag, the letter practically jumps into my hands. Without thinking, I pull it out. The envelope feels like it weighs ten pounds. It feels heavy in my hand as I continue to pull. The envelope has creased in a few places. Laying it flat in front of me, I smooth the creases with my hands. I don’t want to read it, I remember again.
Carefully, I lift a small edge of the seal. I see a corner of the folded letter.
I remember Miles’s lips.
&nb
sp; I make another small tear into the seal of the envelope. Half of the letter is visible, although I still can’t see the words.
I remember the feeling of his hands.
Breaking the entire seal, I start to slide the letter out.
Alexa bursts through my bedroom door. “I’m going to pick up pizza for dinner,” she says. “Want to go?”
There’s a conflicting sense of relief and disappointment. I look at the letter one more time. “Sure,” I say to Alexa.Thenwithout giving it another thought, I wad up the envelope, jump up off the floor, and stash the letter into my bedside drawer under another pile of papers.
20
Charlotte
On Tuesday morning, everyone in class races for the door as the bell sounds off over the loudspeaker at the end of first period. “All right, that’s it for today,” Mr. Gossman shouts. “Be aware that if you take the static electricity we generated out of this room, I will consider it stealing.” His dry humor and sarcasm are lost on two girls in the front of the room, who give each other concerned looks. “Leave the equipment at your desks,” he says. “I’ll pick it up. Be prepared for tomorrow. We’re blowing up beakers. And remember”—he always recites the same mantra at the end of class—“no studying! If you’re reading your science textbooks, you’re wasting your time.” Mr. Gossman is not a fan of standardized tests. He only gives them because he has to, but our first one was open-book. “Put it into practice. Get out there and do.”
Lani is waiting for me outside the classroom door when I step into the hall.
“So, since you didn’t call me back last night or meet me this morning,” she starts, “let me fill you in on everything you missed.” Whipping out her phone, she scrolls through her Facebook posts. “I’ll just tell you the big stories,” she says. “No need to waste our time with who had a birthday or who’s in a new relationship.”
Lani’s considerate like that.
“Here we go...Kelsey Finnigan posted a close-up shot of her boobs in a bikini.” Lani scoffs. “Girl has no shame. Hey! Dillon Copal posted a picture from football practice last night.” Lani laughs. “He broke his nose. That looks like it hurt. Hmm...Liv Berd’s got an interesting one. She posted a video of her snorting soda from a straw. The caption says, ‘Getting high on Coke.’ She may be the dumbest girl in our grade.”
I tilt my head and look at her curiously. Lani has never cared about gossip. “Lani, what are you doing? You never read that stuff.”
“Oh!” Lani exclaims. “Wait. Hold on. Big post here...Charlotte Hubbard cut Miles Fiester’s heart out with a chain saw.”
I roll my eyes. “Alright. I get it. You think I’m scum.”
“I think you are making a mistake.”
“You’re judging me.”
“This isn’t just any guy. This is Miles we’re talking about.”
I shake my head. “This is why I didn’t want to call and talk to you about this. You’re going to try and get me to change my mind.”
“Yes.” She nods. “Yes, I am.”
I sigh. “I can’t talk about this right now.” My feet move faster, hoping to leave her behind. She’s way faster than I am.
“I just want to understand,” she pleads. “One second you seem happy about being with Miles; the next you’re practically wearing garlic around your neck like he’s some vampire. Why?”
With a frustrated huff, I slow my pace until I come to a stop. Next to me Lani stops too and crosses her arms. One of us has to give in, and as usual it’s going to be me. I pull her by the arm to a quieter section of the hall. “Something happened Friday night.” I sigh. “At the dinner I went to.” I tell her everything as fast as I can, knowing I have limited time until the next bell, and when I’m finished I say, “I’m not going to make that mistake with my best friend. I’m not going to ruin our friendship.”
Lani throws up her hands. “But I don’t see how it could get any worse. You’re already not speaking to him. Did you even read his letter?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“I can’t.”
She runs a hand through her hair. “Maddening, that’s what this is. We’re a month into high school and everything is going to shit. I’m watching my best friends’ relationship disintegrate before my eyes, and it feels like I can’t do anything about it.”
“I know you don’t understand, but this feels like the right decision. It feels less”—I search for the right word—“painful.” Something worse doesn’t come to mind.
“Right.” Lani nods, raising her eyebrows. “’Cause we both know Miles is the kind of guy who will screw you over.”
“Lani, I can’t stop thinking about what happened and how long he’s felt this way, and how I felt when...” I choke on the words. There’s too much emotion within that sentence for me to get my head around it enough to finish. “Look.” I swallow. “I just want things to go back to the way they were. And right now I don’t see how that can possibly happen. It’s not that I’m afraid he’ll hurt me; it’s that I’m afraid I’ll hurt him.” I pause to stop the waterfall of tears from exploding. “You’re right,” I add. “Miles is not just any other guy, he’s the only guy. That’s a lot of pressure. I won’t be responsible for breaking the heart of the only guy I’ve ever cared about and the only guy who has ever cared about me.”
She looks at me, her eyes turn sad. “Well, when you put it that way.”
I dodge lunch in the cafeteria and eat in the library. I told Lani to tell Miles that I haven’t had a chance to read the letter, but I will and I’d call him in a couple days. I just want a little more time. The emotions are still too raw.
Arriving to algebra class early, I take my seat, slouching down as far as I can, hoping to somehow blend into the desk. Of course, that’s impossible for anyone. The desks are practically toothpicks surrounded by air.
Grayson comes in a moment later. “Bastille’s comin’ to Philly in a week,” he exclaims, plopping next to me into his seat.
“I know,” I tell him.
“Are you going?” he asks.
“I don’t have the money or a ride.”
“Bummer. Amy and I are going. It would be cool if you and your friends could go too.” He seems genuinely disappointed. “By the way,” he says. “I realized I didn’t thank you before you left. So, thanks.”
Normally, I would misconstrue this friendliness as a deeper, possibly romantic interest, but now I know better. The kindness I thought was flirting, turned out to be just what it was: kindness. I stare at Grayson for a moment, his dreamy eyes and coy smile. There’s no doubt about it, he’s still hot, but something between us feels different. I’m not sure why. Looking at him I find myself comparing him to Miles. The stomach churning nervousness I usually feel is less emotional and more purposeful. I’m pretty sure the only movement going on down there is the food digesting from lunch. “You’re welcome,” I tell him, my voice void of my usual swoon. The class has filled up. Everyone is settling into their seats as Ms. Ming walks in.
“Clear everything off your desks,” Ms. Ming says. “Just your pencils. I’ll be passing out your tests in a few minutes.”
“Good luck,” Grayson whispers across the aisle with a smile.
“You too,” I say.
After everyone has cleared their desks and is facing forward, all the tests are passed out. Ms. Ming glances behind her at the clock. “You have forty-five minutes. There are twenty-five questions. Watch the clock. Some problems will take longer than others, if you cannot get an answer right away, move on to the next one and come back to it. When you are finished place your exam face down on my desk right here. Okay? Everyone ready?” Nobody responds. “Okay, begin.”
Beside me, I hear Grayson release a heavy sigh.
Fifteen minutes into class and I’m through half of the problems. Most of them are easier than I expect. Twenty-five minutes into class I’m practically done. I spend some time checking my work.
The classroom do
or opens and the head of Principal Dobbins appears. “Ms. Ming, sorry to disrupt your class,” he whispers, “Do you have a moment? Can I speak with you in the hallway? It’s about the issue we discussed earlier.”
Ms. Ming looks around the room. “Class I’ll be gone for just a few minutes. No talking and no cheating off each other’s tests. The only reason to get up is if you are finished and need to place your exam on my desk. Understand?” A few seconds after she leaves I stand up and walk to the front of the class with my exam. As I’m placing the exam on a desk I hear a cough behind me followed immediately by, “Loser!” I can tell it’s Vanessa. Taking a deep breath, I pretend like I didn’t hear her and retreat back to my seat. Three steps in there’s another cough and, “Pig!”
I clench my jaw. How come everyone always says things get better with time? Is there some life manual or something that assures us this will happen and, as suckers, we just say, “Sure. It’ll get better, because so-and-so said so”? Does everyone just accept this as fact because that’s the way things are supposed to be, like stars appearing in the night sky, or the earth’s rotation around the sun? I mean, are we really led to believe there is always a good reason for everything? A higher plan for this chaos called life? ’Cause if that’s the case, then let me tell you, I’m throwing out the book and rewriting the manual. It’s outdated.
I should continue to ignore Vanessa, but something has definitely shifted within me this week, and the Charlotte who let people walk all over her has upgraded to a higher quality rug; one where dirt and slime like Vanessa are less impenetrable. I halt midstep. I’m standing dead center in the middle of class. Slowly I turn and I stare at her staring at me. “You don’t bother me,” I tell her.
She scrunches her forehead. “Excuse me?”
“The things you say. The things you do. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about I wasn’t—“
“Yeah. You were. You were talking to me just now. I know it and so does everyone else in this room.”
