Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  As she studied Kyle’s body—the consistent way his muscles contracted and released, the way his head held a fixed angle—she pulled the drawing pad from her bag. Sketching, she tried to capture movement.

  As Kyle rounded the curve, Coach Brigham came up alongside him. The other boys relinquished the track, letting the two runners pass. Kyle and his coach ran in unison, their gait synchronized as they exchanged a few words. Within a few strides their cadence fell and rose to their own tempo.

  For the next half lap, Leila sat, mesmerized. Although taller with an athletic build, Kyle contrasted boyishly with Ian and his well-developed upper physique. Yet Brigham’s thigh and calf muscles were compact and wiry, compared to the thick, long and powerful-looking legs carrying Kyle. As they completed their first lap, Brigham veered off and slowed to a jog. As he passed the bench, he inhaled. The arch of his back straightened as his line of sight met Leila. Her chin rose with acknowledgment. It was futile to avoid him, but she didn’t look forward to another awkward encounter.

  The outside warning bell rang. Leila packed up and came down from the bleachers ahead of the gym class. Coach Brigham lagged behind. The boys began their procession back toward the locker room, each passing Leila, one by one. Last in the lineup, Kyle came up alongside her, panting.

  “Hey,” he said, shyer than before.

  “Hi, Kyle.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry for kind of getting you in trouble with Myles. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Besides, I don’t really think it was me who was in trouble. What are you, one of his worst students or something?”

  “No—actually, I’m probably his best. He hates handing out an A, so I’m pretty much at the top of his blacklist.”

  “How long has that been going on?”

  “Since I was a freshman.”

  “So what am I? A new way to keep you in line?”

  Kyle shrugged.

  “Yeah, well, keep me out of it, if you don’t mind.”

  His pace faltered. “I said I was sorry.”

  “It’s okay, I just don’t like getting off to a bad start.”

  He began jogging backwards. “So, we’re cool?”

  She offered a smile. “Sure.”

  “See ya ’round.” Kyle broke back into a full jog toward the gym.

  ~

  Leila headed to the one class that ranked lower than math. Phys ed. Why did gym teachers always assume that runner meant athlete, that physically fit meant coordinated? Taking her time as she strolled the corridor leading to the gym lobby, she paused at the sight of black-and-white photographs hanging at eye level.

  Many of the photos depicted intense moments of athletic victory and disappointment. The portrayal of students in unguarded interactions at school events impressed her, not only in their candor but in their composition. She had been reading up on basic design, and the arrangement of subjects in art. These photos executed the principles with creativity. Ian Brigham’s signature did not surprise her; it only confirmed that she would be missing out on someone she might relate to on a deeper level. She stifled her frustration and shuffled off to gym class only to encounter more frustration.

  Whacking a tennis ball around the court was a waste of time and a humiliating display of her incoordination. Leila may have been able to run, but she could not hit a ball of any sort, with any device. If it required synchronizing with someone else, it was even worse. When that someone was a popular girl—Kyle’s girlfriend Maryanne to be specific—it could not get any worse. Unless Leila had a spectator.

  Ms. Thorpe shook her head as Leila made contact with one ball in ten. At first, Maryanne smiled, but she soon cringed every time Leila swung at the ball and missed. With pleading gestures, Maryanne appealed to Ms. Thorpe.

  Miss Karen Weiss intervened. “No, no! Like this—” she said, relieving Leila of her racket.

  Contentedly, Leila watched as Weiss served and Maryanne returned an impressive volley. They played for a few minutes, and then Coach Brigham came off the track field just before the warning bell. Miss Weiss arched her back, delivering a showy serve and smiled at Ian.

  ~

  Ian retreated to his office while the last-period students changed in their locker rooms. He overheard Karen Weiss and Thorpe debating in the girls cubicle.

  “… She may not have large-motor coordination—” Thorpe asserted.

  Karen interrupted, “You mean she’s a spaz.”

  “—but given the fact that she runs everyday, she must have amazing endurance,” Thorpe said and then called out, “What’s more important Brigham—conditioning and endurance, or coordination?”

  He did not want to weigh in with any opinion on Leila, but they likely wouldn’t relent. “C’mon, you know both are required.”

  “That’s right,” Thorpe said with satisfaction, redirecting her comments to Karen. “If there’s an inherent strength, coordination can be trained if it’s due to a lack of confidence. I think that’s her only problem.”

  In fact, Leila could run. Ian had seen that himself. He had photographed many people on the beach back in July, but not until he later developed the film did he realize one of them had been her. She had style and grace worthy of the lens, but he hadn’t clocked her. That, however, was not his lament.

  It wasn’t as if he had needed the entire day to come to the proper conclusion. He already knew the stance he needed to take. If only he felt more resolved. He had a hard time considering Leila as just another silly teenage student, like so many “teenyboppers” that Thorpe teased him about. They were cute kids honing their newfound flirting skills. He understood adolescence and respected the girls. None of them had ever posed any temptation—until Leila.

  Today, Ian would stay in his office, hoping to avoid her at least until tomorrow.

  From the girls’ office, Thorpe called out. “Leila, step on in here.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “What does your knapsack weigh? About five pounds?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Drop that thing on the scale over here.” Thorpe beckoned, “Brigham, check this out.”

  Ian braced himself for the sight of Leila as he stepped into the adjoining doorway. As Thorpe pushed the counterbalance further and further over, Leila looked him in the face as if inviting acknowledgment of more than just a first-day-at-school acquaintance. He could return only a faint smile.

  He glanced at her backpack. It tipped eleven pounds.

  “My lord,” Thorpe said, “I’d hate to be a bug on the sidewalk you run home on! What on earth do have in there?”

  “Homework. Mostly math stuff.”

  Karen leaned to double-check the weight, shrugging it off as if it were of no account.

  “And look at those spindly things!” Thorpe said, pointing at her legs. Although Leila wore modest athletic shorts, she pressed her knees together. Her hands dropped to her thighs as she glanced at her lower body.

  Ian couldn’t help comparing Karen’s tan, muscular, and well-defined legs to the relaxed taper of Leila’s thighs as they curved into her calves. They didn’t look at all spindly to him, not there in the gym office and certainly not on that July afternoon, in her short cutoffs. If the sight of Leila in front of him didn’t now bring a flush to his face, the vivid memory did. He glanced at Karen who could read his attraction all too well. Her jealousy showed on her pinched face.

  Leila blushed as she hoisted her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  “Gotta run.” Leila cast him a disappointed look and then disappeared into the corridor.

  Chapter 6

  Clarence Myles unfolded his Rolling Stone magazine, letting out a snort. Elvis Presley was not a month dead, but already Myles found the media coverage annoying, and now the King had invaded yet another magazine cover. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered with the subscription these days—though the sheer width of the paper provided an effective shield when he wished for solitude during those few minutes before
and after students filed in for homeroom. He glanced at his watch. Ten blissful, tranquil minutes remained.

  His coffee cup steamed as he brought it behind the paper and to his lips. The closed door clicked, drawing his attention. He adjusted his glasses and peered over his magazine at Miss Leila Sanders. For all of his posturing yesterday, she was an unexpected twist to his pre-class morning. Most of his students were standard issue, but there was something about Leila. He had a few favorites, though he prided himself on not letting on. Given her propensity for subtly challenging him, he would have to be extra vigilant. It wasn’t that her countenance was insolent so much as unimpressed—which was exactly what impressed him and exactly why his stern posture must not waver.

  Without acknowledging his frown, she claimed her seat and pulled out her trigonometry textbook.

  “Homework is supposed to be done at home,” he grumbled.

  “It’s not homework. I’m just brushing up before class.”

  “Trying to impress me, are you?”

  “I don’t care about impressing you.”

  He scrutinized her demeanor. She had attitude, but he didn’t sense disrespect. Just the same, he retorted, “You should care about impressing me.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Then I expect you’ll be my worst student.”

  “And I expect you’ll be my worst teacher.”

  “The most hated perhaps, but make no mistake—I’ll be the best teacher you’ve ever had.”

  Apparently still unimpressed, she continued her stare long enough to make her point before returning to her textbook.

  Even after students filed in and her face was one of the many avoiding his notice, he caught her indulging a furtive peek. Their eyes locked. He forced a sneer and looked away. When homeroom ended all but Leila cleared the room.

  Myles pushed back into his seat, folding his arms across his chest, and squinted. “Don’t you have some girly thing to do in the hallway or restroom?”

  “No.”

  He again adjusted his glasses for effect. “You are encroaching on my private time.”

  Leila frowned, but didn’t budge.

  He raised his voice. “Join your fellow urchins in the hallway!”

  Leila rose, meeting his cautionary stare as she laggardly resigned herself to the hall, like an errant child defying a stern parent, testing his follow through.

  This one will be an interesting challenge—I like her.

  ~

  After Leila’s last-period study hall, she poked her head into the gym office. Ms. Thorpe was not in her usual place, neither was Miss Weiss anywhere around. Leila stepped inside, passed the desk and a bag of volleyballs beside the adjoining closed door and read the plaque—Boys Office. She straightened her back and tapped.

  “It’s open.”

  Leila cracked the door. Ian stretched back in his chair, hands behind his hatless head. He glanced at her, did a double take and sat erect.

  “Leila,” he said in a quick exhalation.

  “Sorry. Is this a good time?”

  “Uh … yeah.” He came to his feet, his complexion washed out under the florescent lights.

  She stepped inside. “I mean, will we have a little privacy?”

  His eyes darted. She hoped the distance she kept between them would put him at ease. With a nod, he leaned against the desk, his arms across his chest.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I was hoping we could talk.”

  She closed the door most of the way, leaving it ajar. As he took a breath, Leila took the initiative.

  She said, “I really wanted to call you this summer ….”

  “Leila—”

  “Let me finish. After that whole awkward thing yesterday morning, I sort of wish I had called. It probably wouldn’t have taken us long to figure out I was going to be a student here. I guess then we could have avoided all that—”

  “Leila,” he cut in again, drawing an unsteady breath. “I owe you an apology. I was honestly under the impression you were older—I mean, the car, the nightclub thing—the blues—you just didn’t fit the teen profile. If I thought you were underage or in high school I never would have asked you out.”

  If he meant to defuse the situation, his eyes pleaded contrary to his words.

  “I can see where I might have given you the wrong impression,” she said.

  He shifted, a flush coloring his face.

  She continued, “If I had known that you—”

  At that moment, in their tentativeness, the door swung open. Karen Weiss glanced at Leila with wide then narrowing eyes, reserving the raised brow for Ian. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No,” Ian said. “We were just talking—”

  “Oh yes.” Weiss zoomed in on Leila. “How is our little runner? Has Coach Brigham been encouraging you to try out for track?”

  Leila shot a look at Ian. “Track?”

  “You know,” Weiss continued, “it’s never too early to start training.”

  Leila cocked her head. She hadn’t considered that Coach Brigham might have had an agenda of his own. “Actually, he hadn’t quite got to that yet.”

  “Really?” Weiss cast dubious eyes at Brigham. “Well, you really should try out. And don’t let the fact that it’s an all-boy team put you off. We’ll never get a girls’ team unless more girls show an interest.” With a challenging tone, Weiss continued, “You might have heard we had a girl on the team last year. Miranda did very well, and I’m sure there’ll be even more schools that will allow you to compete this year.”

  Taken aback, Leila directed her dismay at both Brigham and Weiss. “You think I’m interested in the track team?”

  “Why wouldn’t you be interested? You’re a runner.” Weiss said.

  “Running and being a part of a team are entirely different.”

  Weiss smirked. “Perhaps you’re just afraid you’re not good enough.”

  Brigham interrupted, “She runs every day. Of course she’s good enough.”

  Leila flashed scorn. “Okay, what neither of you seems to understand is that I don’t care whether I’m good enough.”

  The two coaches exchanged confounded looks.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Leila said, giving Coach Ian Brigham a final disappointed glare and left.

  ~

  On the last leg of Leila’s return run from school, she rounded her street corner, slowing from a jog to a walk. A concrete path split Artie’s yard and led her to the front stoop where she deposited her backpack before stepping into his apartment.

  “Hi, Artie …,” she called out.

  “Afta’noon, Angel,” he responded in his southern drawl.

  She leaned against the kitchen doorway and smiled. “You need anything before I start my homework?”

  “Nope, I’m all set.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then, I’ll check back before I head off to work, okay?”

  “That’d be fine ….”

  Leila planted a kiss on his bristly black head. Letting the screen door slam behind her, she grabbed her pack and rounded the corner to the stairway. She opened her mailbox affixed to asbestos siding, and snatched a postcard from Amsterdam, Netherlands.

  “Joe ….” She hustled up the stairs, forgetting to count off each step. As she entered her living room, light from the kitchen spilled from the front window, illuminating the words.

  She smiled, her eyes burning. “Miss you too, Joe—”

  Gulping a glass of water, she headed to her bedroom and eyed the box of ashes from several angles. She shifted it as if to align it more perfectly. From behind it, she plucked Ian’s business card and read it for the hundredth time. One phone call and perhaps she could have finally had a friend—too late for that. Besides, men didn’t like to stay “just friends.” She had seen that over and over again, all through her growing-up years.

  A ‘friend’ would show up to watch her father’s band practice, but as so
on as the lady had left for the night, Leila heard all the talk about how she’d get laid within a week. It usually took only days—sometimes that very night, and Leila only knew that because of all the innuendo, if not outright details, the following day. Her dad and Joe were no exceptions, but they’d had a rule against bringing women home. Had they honestly thought Leila didn’t know why one of them wouldn’t come home some nights? She may not have caught on at seven years old, and she hadn’t quite understood by nine, but by eleven, she had a pretty good idea that it had something to do with sex—even if at that age the concept was vague.

  Leila tucked Ian’s card back in the mirror. She returned to the kitchen and emptied her pile of books onto the table. This year, it seemed her workload and the sheer weight of books had doubled. Having eighth-period study hall three days a week would help. If only she didn’t have to alternate that with gym twice a week. The burden of books she would be toting home on Tuesdays and Thursdays made her cringe. One more reason to hate gym.

  For an hour, she perused trigonometry and, with a quick check of the clock, grabbed her keys and the postcard, and trotted downstairs.

  “Artie,” she shouted as she burst through his door. “Before I leave, I want to show you the card Joe sent.”

  He smiled a big, toothy grin and held it toward the light. “Read it to me.”

  “Joe says, ‘Amsterdam loves the blues—and they seem to like me too! Got a new gig that should carry me through the end of the year. I miss you more than you know … Love, Joe.’”

  The smile never left Artie’s face as he said, “I taught him everything he knows.”

  Leila smiled, placing the card on the table in front of him. She had grown accustomed to the ritual of their exchanges. Although she would have enjoyed some variation in their conversation, there was something reassuring in its predictability. She hadn’t yet figured out if it was social nerves or if at eighty-five his mind was going. Just the same, Artie let her ramble on about flat tires, customers from hell, gym teachers, amusing boys, and the Ogre Myles.