by Liz Fichera
Like that was possible.
Coach Lannon didn’t need to remind me that my golf bag leaned a little on the hefty side, and good thing I had grown used to it over the past year. I’d carried it eighteen holes across the Ahwatukee Golf Club plenty of times, not that I minded. Walking helped me to gauge the slope of the fairways a lot better than driving a stupid golf cart.
The tournament against Hamilton High was being held at Ahwatukee, another plus, since it was the only course I’d ever played. I knew every hill, every tricky sand trap, every mesquite tree and every hazard. I even knew where the cactus wrens and hummingbirds built their nests in the saguaros and paloverde trees on the fairways. Simply stated, I could play the course blindfolded.
Even so, I fidgeted in my seat, waiting for the others to board. It was almost two o’clock, and I wanted the tournament to begin already. I wanted to get to the course. I tried to concentrate on the English book between my hands, but my eyes glazed over the same page, again and again.
One minute before two o’clock, Henry Graser climbed aboard the bus, followed by Zack Fisher and Troy Bean. They talked animatedly and breezed by me like I was invisible. I pretended to stare out the window. Naturally, they chose the empty seats at the back of the bus.
My temples pounded as I stared at the emergency-exit instructions above the bus driver’s seat. I had it memorized. In case of emergency, remain seated…
In case of emergency, throw your body through the glass and don’t stop running till you reach the next galaxy… Okay, I made that part up, but I was certainly thinking it might be necessary.
Then Ryan Berenger climbed the stairs. He boarded casually, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, enhancing his blondness all the more. I turned toward the window like I needed to shield my eyes from an eclipse and waited until Ryan’s footsteps faded into the bowels of the back of the bus. Then I remembered to breathe. What was it about him that was so irritating? Being his partner for a whole afternoon would be pure torture.
Mercifully, Coach Lannon barreled aboard the bus with Scott Paterson, Bob Bernacchi and Dan White trailing behind him. Like the rest of the boys, they darted for the back, too, barely glancing in my direction.
Once everyone was seated, Coach Lannon made a dramatic show of looking at the back of the bus with one hand over his eyes. “What are you boys doing way back there?” It really wasn’t a question. “Get up here!”
I didn’t turn to watch them fill the closer seats, but my skin prickled as I listened to their sluggish footsteps.
“Berenger, you sit up here with Fred.” He patted the back of my seat. “Get better acquainted. You’re partners today.”
Don’t remind me.
Somebody snickered in the seat behind mine as if Ryan had lost a bet.
As Ryan slid into the seat, I scooted closer to the window, putting as much distance between us as possible. Only six inches separated us, the closest we’d ever been, if you didn’t count the cake incident. Still clad in sunglasses, Ryan faced forward and then rested clenched fists on his knees.
Nice.
I faced forward, too, trying to ignore Ryan, wishing that Coach Lannon would say something—anything—that would make the bus move faster. Once I started playing golf, everything else would disappear, even Ryan and his permanent scowl.
The coach proceeded to call out tournament pairings. “Graser, you’re with Bean. Bernacchi, you’re with White.” He glanced down at his clipboard. “And, Fisher, you’re with Petersen. You’ll be assigned to your Hamilton High twosomes once we get to the course. Understood?”
Everyone nodded. A few mumbled and muttered.
“Just a reminder that the Ahwatukee Golf Club is a par 72. The first hole is a par 4 with a dogleg right. Don’t forget there’s water on the third and sixth holes. Nothing any of you can’t handle. I played the course last weekend and the greens were running fast, so don’t go heavy on your putts. Remember—slow and steady wins the race. Control is essential.”
So far he hadn’t said anything that I didn’t know. I’d shot the course under par a couple of times. Getting par wasn’t impossible, but it wouldn’t win tournaments.
“Questions?” he asked.
Ryan raised his hand.
The coach nodded at him. “Ryan? And would you take off those glasses? Who are you trying to channel—Brad Pitt?”
Ryan smirked, but I saw his cheeks flush a little.
Good, I thought. He’s embarrassed himself. He should be embarrassed.
Reluctantly, Ryan removed his sunglasses, letting them dangle against his chest on the end of a black leather strap. “What about giving up strokes, Coach?” He paused and tilted his head in my direction. “Shouldn’t we have to give her, say, two strokes every nine holes to keep the play fair?” His tone was equal parts annoying and condescending. I could tell he was trying to sound like he was doing me a favor by asking.
I knew better.
Every part of me prickled with red-hot, sizzling anger. Ryan was totally messing with me. He was trying to psyche me out.
Coach Lannon’s chin pulled closer to his chest. His voice stayed calm, almost as if he’d been expecting this, but I could tell Ryan’s question made him angry. With a tight smile, he said, “Are you referring to Fred?”
Ryan nodded. “Well, yeah. She’s the only girl on the team.” He turned sideways to acknowledge the rest of the bus, getting a few supportive laughs.
“Glad you noticed,” the coach said, pulling at his chin. “So you think we should make special accommodations for her?”
Ryan shrugged. I hoped it wasn’t my imagination that he paled another shade.
“That’s interesting, Mr. Berenger. I think I already know her answer, but why don’t you ask her yourself?” He folded his arms and glared down at him. “Why don’t you ask Fred if she wants special treatment at the tournament—because that is what you’re asking, isn’t it?”
Out the corner of my eye, I watched Ryan’s Adam’s apple travel up and lodge at the top of his neck like a peach pit. Clearly he hadn’t expected that. He turned to me, looking a bit like he was afraid to take me straight on.
My eyes met his, challenging him—goading him to look away. I wanted him to ask me his stupid question almost as much as I wanted to tell him my answer. I didn’t lower my gaze, even though every part of me wanted to. My hands were trembling, so I wrapped my fingers around the edge of my seat.
Ryan’s face registered something I’d never seen before. For less than a heartbeat, it looked like respect. But then the flicker vanished, leaving the old Ryan Berenger in his place.
“I guess she doesn’t,” Ryan mumbled. “Forget I even asked.”
With pleasure.
Neither of us said a word as the bus grew so quiet that we could hear the freeway traffic through the windows.
In a low voice, Coach Lannon finally interrupted our stare-down and said, “I believe you have your answer, Mr. Berenger. Now, can we close the chapter on Fred and her participation on this team and win a tournament today?”
My fingertips ached as they gripped the edges of my seat. It took all of my willpower not to throw Ryan Berenger out the window.
*
As soon as the bus pulled in front of the clubhouse at the Ahwatukee Golf Club, Ryan bolted off the bus after Coach Lannon, taking a blanket of heaviness in the air with him.
I pretended to fiddle with the button on my golf glove as I waited for everyone to leave the bus. The other boys filed past me with sideways glances, saying nothing. When I was finally alone, I sucked back a steadying breath and reminded myself why I joined the team, why I was at the tournament. Most of all, I reminded myself that I needed to win.
Outside the bus, Coach Lannon handed everyone their golf bags and a tournament scorecard before we all walked to the first tee. The Hamilton High bus was parked next to ours, and it was already empty.
The first tee was on an elevated hill, just past the clubhouse. All eight members from Hamilt
on High and their coach waited for us behind the tee box. They were dressed in matching green golf shirts and shorts, one face paler than the next. The coach waved at Coach Lannon and then tapped his wristwatch.
But everyone’s eyes weren’t focused on Coach Lannon or the Lone Butte High School players who trudged to the tee box in groups of two and three. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on me and my plaid golf bag. Trust me, it was not my imagination.
I figured this would happen. When I hadn’t been able to sleep last night, I’d practiced how to handle the unwanted attention. I had promised myself that I would not blush, I would not lower my eyes in embarrassment, and I would not fidget with my hands. I had planned to walk right up to the other boys and pull out my driver like it was a sword, challenging anyone to doubt my skills with my first drive. That was how I’d practiced it in my mind. It had worked well in the safety of my bedroom. But here’s what really happened…
With my golf bag slung across my right shoulder, I walked alone up the tiny hill to the front of the first tee. I stuffed my hands in the front pockets of my new shorts to keep them from shaking. Sweat began to form behind my ears. My eyes alternated from scanning over sixteen curious faces to assessing the toes of my tennis shoes. Dryness invaded my throat as if I’d just swallowed a glass of sand.
Coach Lannon dropped back and walked alongside me for the last few yards to the tee. I was never so happy to be near him.
When we reached the other players congregating at the top, I hoped that no one would ask me to speak. I’d forgotten how, especially since every pair of eyes—blue ones, green ones, brown ones, some hidden behind sunglasses—tracked every movement and studied every inch of my body, clearly wondering if I was some sort of joke.
Some probably hoped I was.
Then there was my golf bag. Everybody gawked at that most of all, like it had just dropped from a spaceship pod.
A handful of the parent spectators stared, too, although more discreetly. I pretended not to notice them as I scanned the fairway for Dad. I hoped he was somewhere close on his work cart. There was some comfort in knowing that he breathed the same air.
“Coach Nickerson,” the coach said, breaking the silence on the tee.
“Larry,” he replied with a head nod. “Hey, boys.” He paused, face frozen, while I waited for it. “And…”
Coach Lannon finished his thought. “Let me introduce you all to Fred Oday,” he said, answering the obvious question. He placed a heavy hand on my left shoulder and pressed down. “The newest member of our team.”
Member. Team. Right.
Coach Nickerson nodded at me, stared a second longer than he should have and then, thankfully, lowered his tanned face to the clipboard and began to call out the tournament foursomes, checking off each one with a flourish of his pen after he announced them. Teeth clenched, I waited for my name to be called.
“Berenger. Oday,” Coach Nickerson said. “You’re with Bellows and Frazier. You’re up last.”
I exhaled. Last was good. Last meant that Ryan and I would be the last to tee off from the first hole and the last to finish the eighteenth hole. I figured that my nerves would have settled to something below Richter scale proportions by then.
To stay focused, I pulled out my driver and a fresh white tee from my bag. I stood a safe distance from the tee box for some practice swings. Small bonus: the school provided each player with a sleeve of brand-new golf balls and a water bottle. As I waited for the first few foursomes to tee off, I noticed the small crowd of spectators hadn’t moved, including one guy with graying sideburns and a palm-size notebook. He stood by himself underneath a mesquite tree. The man jotted something down and continued to watch me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Odd.
Focus, Fred. Focus, I reminded myself, half pretending to watch the other players tee off. I couldn’t concern myself with the stares from spectators or players. Surely the novelty of a girl on an all-boys’ golf team would wear off eventually. Wouldn’t it? And why did it have to be such a big deal? Didn’t girls play on boys’ teams in other schools? I had read once about a girl on an all-boys’ football team. That had to be a thousand times weirder.
Coach Lannon finally called out our names. “Berenger, Oday, Bellows and Frazier. You’re up next. Hamilton will tee up first.”
I grinned inwardly. Even better.
I grabbed my club and my bag and walked behind the first tee to give the Hamilton players room to swing. The tall one with the reddish hair was up first. I noted that their swings weren’t half-bad. They both smacked the ball solidly with their drivers, but both balls hooked left down the fairway, narrowly missing a thin strip of rocky desert that lined both sides of the grass. It was a par-4 hole so they had to get to the green in no less than three strokes to have a chance at par. Their grimaces after their opening swings reflected their challenge at achieving par.
Then it was Ryan’s turn.
Ryan pulled out his driver, a sturdy club with a shiny metal head.
It was probably custom-made, I mused.
He took two practice swings. His swing was nice. Solid. Smooth. I tried not to gawk at it too much at practice, but now, as his partner, I didn’t have much choice.
Ryan approached the ball, bent his knees, lowered his head and adjusted his hands on the club. Then he pulled back the club above his shoulders. The ball cracked into the sky, sailing far across the fairway but veering right. It was a strong shot, but it rolled near the desert’s edge. Ryan smacked his club against the ground when the ball landed. It hadn’t gone where he wanted. He glared at the sky, angry.
Again I smiled inwardly. Serves him right, I thought. I knew that strip of desert where his ball had landed. The ground was hard and blanketed with tiny rocks and cactus needles. It wasn’t easy hitting a ball out of the desert, even from the edge. I figured he’d scuff one of his shiny irons before he’d get his ball back on the fairway. I should have felt bad for him.
Finally it was my turn, and the tee box turned eerily quiet. It was as if everyone suddenly sucked in a collective breath. The only noise came from a few crows flying overhead. I tossed my ponytail over my shoulder so that it rested down the middle of my back and out of my way. I took a few practice swings to calm my nerves and loosen my shoulders. Then, like the others in my foursome, I approached the ball, bent my knees, lowered my chin and adjusted my grip. I took one last look at the flag on the green in the distance. It fluttered as if it was waving at me. From the tee box, it didn’t look any bigger than a white sail from a boat in the middle of a lake. I inhaled a final, steadying breath, lowered my head and swung.
As soon as my clubface struck the ball, I knew where it would fly. I knew by the sound—loud and solid like a crack of summer thunder. The ball flew high into the sky and then sailed down the middle of the fairway, rolling straight for the green. It didn’t go the farthest, but it went as straight as an arrow and stayed comfortably clear of the rough. In one stroke, maybe two, I was certain that I’d reach the green.
After my turn ended, several spectators gasped behind the tee box.
I nodded politely to the tiny crowd when they clapped, just like I’d seen golfers do on TV. Then I returned the club to my bag lying on the ground at the edge of the tee box. I picked it up, hoisted the strap over my shoulder and trotted off behind the others in my foursome, wiping the thin line of sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand. My pulse still raced from the adrenaline rush of a well-placed tee shot. I offered a silent thank-you to the sky for not embarrassing myself. The first shot was always the hardest.
Ryan was the first one to march down the fairway. One of the Hamilton High players, oddly, waited for me to catch up.
“So, you’re a girl,” the boy said to me with a smirky smile that dimpled both of his cheeks. Gangly with reddish-brown hair and freckles that matched, he made it difficult not to return that smile.
“Um, yeah?” I said, biting down on my lip.
“I didn’t know girls were allowed in th
is division.”
My shoulders shrugged. “I guess they are now.”
“I’m Nate. Fred, right?”
“Yep, that’s my name,”
“Strange name,” he said.
“So I’ve been told.” A few hundred times.
As we continued down the center of the fairway, his eyes drifted from the top of my head all the way down to my shoes. I pretended not to notice. “Where’d you learn to play?” We walked toward my ball. It was perched perfectly above a tuft of fairway grass, straight in front of the putting green.
“Here.” My tone was matter-of-fact. I looked from the ball to the green and judged it to be roughly 120 yards.
“Your parents are members?” Like most of the other players, he wore sunglasses, but it didn’t take bionic eyes to see the surprise behind his eyes.
“Sort of.” I stopped. Grimacing, I lifted the heavy strap and dropped my bag to the ground. I rubbed my shoulder where the strap cut across. Then I pulled out a seven-iron.
The other players stood next to their balls, leaning on their bags, waiting on me. Since I was farthest from the hole, I went first. Just like at the tee box, I took two practice swings and then approached the ball to swing my iron. The ball sailed straight into the air and landed just below the green. I frowned. I’d wanted it closer. Now I had only two strokes to make par.
The other boys hit their balls. Ryan’s ball landed on the green while Nate and his partner overswung and sent their balls sailing over the hole like errant water jets. They all proceeded toward the flag. Walking along the cart path, a small group of parents, along with the gray-haired guy with the notebook, followed my foursome. Coach Nickerson drove along in a golf cart, stopping to watch while feverishly jotting notes on his clipboard before speeding ahead to monitor the next group.
