The Odd Ballerz

by Ruthie Robinson

  Z didn’t make a sound. He was at a loss for words really, the same reaction he’d had the first time he’d seen her. Jones had a lot of hair, giving her a tamed yet untamed look, or maybe that was just his desire talking. She was impressive, he thought again, spectacularly attired this evening in blue, one tube of cobalt blue dress covering all those delicious curves, hair bouncing in time to her steps. The black pumps on her feet created a whole bunch of other thoughts before the restroom door closed on that sweet ass of hers, and he reluctantly pulled his gaze away.

  He released a sigh in both the appreciation of Jones’s fine form and the opposing feeling of annoyance at having to confront her again on day two of her being late. Her tardiness had unintentionally jiggled his opinion of her slightly into the seeking a-way-out-of-camp column. He’d created a table in his head to mark her efforts, or lack of them, as he monitored her today.

  He sighed again and started towards the restroom door to talk to her again. Although he thought he’d made himself plenty clear Monday.

  #

  “Not you again,” Memphis said, skidding to a halt in front of him. She’d changed, faster than he thought it possible, into workout clothes—less form-fitting than her professional dress, for which he was eternally grateful.

  “Excuse me?” he said, surprised.

  “You’re excused,” she said, smiling.

  “Jones.”

  “Coach,” she said, meeting his eyes, challenge in her gaze to go along with her smile.

  “You’re late again.”

  “I am not,” she said, struggling to play this off and to keep from staring at the handsomeness that was this man. He was wearing his usual shades and his mouth had chosen the I-mean-business, straight-line look today. She removed her cell from her back pocket to check the time again. Really it was just for show. She knew the time, just as she knew she was late.

  “You are down to your last strike,” he said, ignoring her denial. It was nothing more than a front, he thought, reading the easily read Jones.

  “We’re going with the hardnosed coach approach today, I see.”

  “We are,” he said, pointing to the phone. “And those have no place at practice.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? I’m not in middle school needing to send a text to my girlfriends. I actually have clients to tend to, so I can’t leave it behind.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” he asked.

  “Are we really doing this now? I thought you wanted me to do laps.”

  “I also want you to be on time.”

  “I was. I am. You’re the one holding me up, making me late, and I’m not running three laps because you feel the need to lecture me.”

  “Two laps. No walking or else I’ll make it three. And are you listening to me, Jones?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir! Coach Z sir! I am listening to you, sir!” she said, fighting back her smile, starting to enjoy antagonizing him.

  “You have one more time to be late and then you’re out of here. You won’t make the team. You won’t make the tryouts. You won’t fulfill your bet with your sister.”

  “No one listens to you much, huh,” she said.

  “What?” he asked, surprised, again.

  “You seem to have this need to repeat yourself. All the time, on and on you go with this late thing,” she said, smiling.

  Lots of imp went into that smile of hers, he thought. “I mean it, Jones,” he said, fighting back a smile of his own.

  “Yeah, yeah, I got you,” she said, and winked before she walked away.

  #

  After the debacle that was Monday’s run, a change in strategy was in order, Memphis decided. Today it was about seeking a comfortable middle-ground pace that would see her through the running of both laps… a pace between fast and slow, no more sprinting for half of one and dead for the remaining three halves.

  She was coming out of the last turn of her first lap, trailing behind that red-headed kid, Luke. He was her twin, she thought; the same clumsiness, the same falling and overall feet-getting–in-the-way-of-things that she lived with.

  “You okay?” Gabe asked, her newfound camp buddy, running alongside her. He slowed his stride to match hers.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Can I run with you?”

  “Aren’t… you…done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then… no… don’t run…this again… at least…not… for… me,” she said. Short on her words, she was. It was either talking or breathing. She had choices to make.

  “I don’t mind. This is better than standing around waiting,” he said, ignoring her words, continuing to run beside her. “You were late again, Ms. Memphis and Coach Z doesn’t like it when you’re late. He said so on the first day, three strikes and it’s out. He told our parents that too,” he said.

  He’d started to call her Ms. Memphis during Monday’s camp and wouldn’t stop regardless of how many times she’d said, just Memphis. He was a stubborn, polite young man and it was good to know that someone was putting the time in at home to shape him into one. “Oh… yeah… really… what else… did he say?” she asked.

  “Be on time. Do your best. Don’t quit. Talk to one of the coaches if you have a problem,” Gabe said, smiling at her. “You know what you should do, Ms. Memphis? It’s what I do when I’m having a hard time with something,” he said, smiling still, all ease in his run. “I picture myself finishing whatever difficult thing I have to do. It takes my mind off how hard something is. You want to try it?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Okay, see yourself crossing the finish line of a big race, the crowd is shouting your name and everything,” he said.

  Right, Memphis thought, too simple-sounding to her, but she nodded her head in the affirmative and did as he asked. In her mind she was crossing the imaginary finish line, dancing like Muhammad Ali after a victorious fight. His hands were in the air, as he danced around his opponent, lying on the mat at his feet. Coach Z was the opponent, lying on the mat in her make believe scenario and surprisingly it worked for a bit; took her mind off that stitch in her side that had shown up again.

  “No walking today, Jones,” Coach Z said, coming from out of nowhere, disrupting the picture in her head.

  “Hi, Coach,” Gabe said, smiling around Memphis’s head.

  “Hey, Gabe,” Z said.

  “This… is me… running…” she said.

  “Keep it up then,” turning around to face her. He was jogging backwards now, as he looked her over with his usual straight face. He was in shape, with no visible signs of anything resembling sweat on his person while she looked a hot mess, she thought, checking out her reflection through the lenses of his shades.

  “Almost there,” Gabe said, bringing her thoughts away from her appearance and Coach Z, who had turned around and was jogging away from them.

  She and Gabe were rounding the last curve of the last lap and yes they were almost done. Thank you, God, she thought, watching Coach Z well out in front of her, running beside the red-headed Luke now.

  “See, you’re done,” Gabe said as they crossed the invisible finish line, and she stopped, bent over, hands on her knees, trying to breathe.

  “You’ll get better,” Gabe said, patting her on the back as he stood beside her.

  “Hope so, and thanks for running with me today,” she said.

  “Any time.”

  #

  Memphis was standing at the front of line number two. Gabe stood to her right, in line one, and Luke was to her left in line number three. They were getting ready for their forty time trials.

  “Take a deep breath, Jones,” she said aloud, sounding a lot like Coach Z, not sure when she started to think of herself as “Jones.” But she had—on the football field, anyway—and it seemed appropriate somehow.

  This is easy. You’ve got this running thing down. No sweat, Jones. Do as Gabe said. Picture yourself running through to the end. Same as with the laps you’ve finished. Good
job there BTW, see, you’re okay, she thought, continuing with the steady stream of self-talk that was her way when she became anxious or when something felt overwhelming to her, as it did today. Being out here in a field with a bunch of middle schoolers—took her straight back to childhood, a particularly painful period in her life when most everything had felt momentous and hard. It was the start of her anxiety attacks, when self-doubt and abundant fear had ruled her life. It was always something unexpected that would catch her off guard, and make whatever activity she was engaged in an all-out effort to breathe. She felt lightheaded all of a sudden.

  “Get a grip, Jones,” she said aloud, her self-talk shifting to ruthless. Sometimes she could bully herself into cooperating. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, and she turned her gaze to Coach Z, who was staring back at her with an odd look on his face. His shades were hanging off the front of his t-shirt, so she had a clear view of his face… eyes, and yes, he seemed confused or puzzled. And then he was walking towards her.

  “What’s going on over here with you, Jones?” he asked after he’d reached her.

  “What do you mean? There’s nothing going on. I’m just practicing some deep meditation, helps me get into the zone,” she said.

  “The zone, huh,” he said, eyeing her with trepidation, his gaze matching the disbelief she thought she heard in his voice.

  “You were starting to sway there for a minute. So are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, meeting her gaze with his no-nonsense one.

  “Absolutely,” she said and smiled. “You just like coming over here to talk to me. Don’t you?” she said and winked. “It’s okay, you can admit it.”

  He remained quiet for two to three seconds more, staring at her like he’d didn’t believe her. “Okay then, let’s go,” he said, walking away.

  She shook out her arms and then her legs for the second time. Easy does it, girl. You’ve got this under control. Take a deep breath, Jones. The track is our friend. You can do this. This is easy, were her final thoughts as she raised her eyes to meet Coach Z’s—which were staring back at her—finding confidence in his gaze.

  A few moments later, she heard “Set, go,” and she did, tripping a little at the start, stumbling a bit after that, it was few seconds more before she was able to get her feet completely underneath her. But she did. Yes! at the small, yet huge feat, of not falling, she thought. She worked to increase her speed then, pumping her arms as she’d seen Alex do countless times, and then she was done, running past the Coaches, holding their stopwatches. “Good run Jones.” Coach Harris said to her at the end.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling at him, so proud of herself.

  #

  Memphis stood in front of the tires, waiting her turn to start. Coach Z was near, of course, and watching her, and what she wouldn’t give to be able to read his thoughts, all of them; not just the quick ones in the short, unguarded moments immediately after she’d finished whatever drill. A mix of confounded, confused, and perplexed had been the expressions he’d let slip through during those moments. It had been both funny and painful to watch his hopes for her die as the camp progressed.

  Whatever. She just wished he’d stop with the watching her. It was getting old and annoying, when it wasn’t helpful. And yes, it was helpful, surprisingly so, this sticking close and watching her; it pushed all thoughts of anything but him off to the side in her brain, making her focus like nothing else. She’d kept her knees up throughout the ladders, ran more than walked her laps, did her calisthenics without too much of a hitch, all because he was near and watching. She wanted to impress him, she thought, the hunky new guy that she had no chance with. It was her, with her crushing, that silently fed this new desire to stand up straight, stick out her chest, and give this football thing her best effort.

  He was walking beside her now, and she was using plenty side-eye to keep track of him as she completed the drill—without falling, thank you very much. “You rock, Jones,” she said aloud.

  He smiled, as if he’d heard her. “Not bad, Jones,” he said when she reached the end of the tires.

  “Go away,” she said.

  He laughed, and there it was again, that beautiful smile of his, a punch to her gut, and a motivator like no other.

  “I will if you keep those knees up,” he said before moving on to the next camper.

  #

  Someone had blown the whistle and it was time to move onward to the next drill, which was her least favorite of them all: the cones. Unfortunately, Coach Harris, her favorite of the coaches so far, wasn’t anywhere near them, standing instead in the middle of the field, bent over and wrapping an ace bandage around his knee. She walked over to talk to him.

  “Hi, Coach,” she said, coming to a stop in front of him. “You hurt?”

  “My knee has been acting up lately. I thought I might take a minute and wrap it, to give it a little more support. Coach Z is going to fill in for me until I’m done here,” he said, and they both looked over in the direction of the cone drill and yes, there stood Coach Z, talking, probably explaining the drill again. She didn’t need to hear it again, she reasoned, her explanation for not going over and joining the group immediately.

  “You wouldn’t be looking to get out of your drills, now would you, young lady?” Coach Harris asked, his gaze filled with humor.

  “Who, me?” she said, smiling, not even going to pretend that it had not been a part of her calculations when she headed this way. “A little, although I did want to see about you, so it’s not all ulterior motives,” she said.

  “You don’t like camp?” he asked.

  “Camp doesn’t like me is more like it. Athletics aren’t really my thing. You’ve seen me,” she said, smiling. “I suck. You know that, right?”

  He laughed. “You can run fast.”

  “Jones,” she heard before she could respond. It was Coach Z, no surprise there, waving her over.

  “It appears your luck is at an end,” Coach Harris said.

  “Yes, it does. I hope your knee gets to feeling better,” she said before she made her way over to an irritated Z.

  “Jones,” he said when she reached him, staring at her, or those shades were. “This doesn’t have to be hard,” he said.

  “Speak for yourself,” she said.

  “It’s your turn.”

  “Right,” she said, walking over to the starting line

  “Set. Go,” he said, and she did. Not a full-out sprint, but as close to it as she could offer. Maybe she hadn’t had time to consider what this drill required of her was the explanation for how she was off to her best start yet. Or maybe it was that trying-to-impress-him thing again, but whatever, she was off to her best run. She ran past the first cone, speeding directly to the second one, where she touched it. She ran back to the first cone, flying past and around it smoothly, feeling confident enough to speed up a little bit more. She went back to the second cone, touched it this time, smiling inside, because she’d managed to stay on her feet. It was back over to the first cone one final time, where she touched it, before running as hard as she could back to the start. She stopped in front of Z and smiled, super proud of herself.

  “Out of order is how you ran that. You know that, right?” he said.

  “What? I did?” she asked, looking up at him from her current bent-over-trying-to-breathe position.

  “Yes, you did,” he said, and he felt a twinge of sympathy at the expression of genuine hurt that covered her face. “Hey, it’s no big deal,” he said, surprised that he felt the need to offer comfort. Hurt, huh, he thought of her expression. “Watch for a while, and maybe you’ll do better on your next try,” he said.

  She smiled, not very brightly and walked to the end of the line. Her second try was a little bit better, albeit slower. The third time was her best, except for that almost fall at the start, but she had gotten the order of operations correct that time.

  “Good job,” he said.

  “Yep,” she said, moving to
the end of the line again, giving him her same lackluster smile from earlier. The whistle blew—someone other than him—and it was time to move on to the next drill.

  #

  As with Monday’s camp, throwing and catching the football capped the end of this camp’s session, and not a minute too soon as far as she was concerned.

  “Jones, you’re with me again today,” Coach Z said, intercepting her before she could find someone else to partner with. “Give me a few minutes to make sure the others are good?”

  “I thought you were the new Coach Harris, working the cone drill,” she said.

  “Nope,” he said, before moving away.

  She looked back over her shoulders, and yes, Coach Harris had resumed his coaching duties at the cone station. She sighed, disappointed and disheartened. She didn’t want to be here anymore, working with him with his looks of pity. His gaze had been filled with it after she’d gotten the order of the cone drill wrong the first time, really she’d seen if after every one of her attempts. God, she hated pity.

  “Take as much time as you need,” she said. He gave her another look, which she couldn’t read. She stood waiting as requested, watching as he moved through the group of boys, demonstrating and talking, basically coaching. He seemed to be a pretty good coach: nice, calm, and patient, all that you would expect and very different from her past experiences. It was a few more minutes before he was standing in front of her again.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “If I must.”

  “Don’t get discouraged.”

  “Who’s getting discouraged?”

  He didn’t reply. “Remember anything from Monday?” he asked instead, moving them to a spot at the end, a little ways past the others.

  “Say hello to my little friend, the diamond,” she said, and she was smiling again, he thought, which was good.

  “Very funny, Jones,” he said without any hint of laughter. “Show me,” and then watched her as she demonstrated. “That’s good. Now take a step back,” he said, and he waited for her to follow his instructions. “What’s up with your eyes? Are they closed?” he asked.