Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  “Yeah.”

  “Where do you get off being so judgmental? You don’t even give people a chance. You don’t have any friends—you don’t even hang out with anyone or eat in the cafeteria.”

  “I’m just used to being alone.”

  Leila stared at passing cars. How could Kyle understand why she behaved the way she did? And there was no use trying to fill him in.

  The farther north they drove, the stiffer the silence.

  “Did I miss a turn?” he asked.

  “No, just keep heading north.”

  Kyle slowed at every street, glancing at her as if awaiting instruction to turn. When they crossed over into an all-black neighborhood, he said, “You live in North Millville?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No … it’s just a little weird, that’s all.” He glanced at her. “You have to admit it’s a little weird.”

  “It’s not weird. It’s just where I live.” She rubbed her neck. “What—are you prejudice against blacks?”

  “Of course not,” he said. Given the history of racial tensions in Millville, and the fact that everyone was hypersensitive about the issue, it seemed being called prejudice was worse than a racial slur.

  Irritation broke through her fatigue. “’Cause some of your best friends are black, right?”

  “No, but I’m not like that. I don’t judge based on race.”

  “But you do judge. We all do it, so don’t get on me because of my preconceptions about people.”

  He remained silent, keeping his focus on the street. She’d made him uncomfortable, which was the last thing she wanted. She was grateful, and she was tired

  “Turn here,” she said. “It’s up there. The grayish one on the left with the little blue Beetle.”

  “So—” he turned to her, “—are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, too weary to say that she really didn’t know, that she didn’t want him to leave, that all she wanted was someone to hold her and tell her everything would be alright.

  She tried to smile. “You’ll find your way back out okay?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Leila climbed out. From the sidewalk, she leaned back in. “Thanks for the lift, Kyle. And tell Maryanne thanks for the wet towel.”

  ~

  Clarence Myles rarely second-guessed the way he handled his students. Many considered him harsh, he knew that. He also knew how to get results and had the track record to prove it. Only the rare student ever failed his class, and his students had the highest grade-point average in math at Millville high school. He would not allow someone like Kyle Schultz to skate by on easily made A’s anymore than he tolerated mediocrity from those capable of better—clear and simple.

  Most students reacted predictably. A little intimidation went a long way. In fact, his legendary status required only a grossly exaggerated story or two to earn him several years of compliance if not respect—or fear, as some interpreted it. Either way, his demands sharpened his students and years later, more than a few thanked him. Although someone like Leila Sanders had a great deal of potential, he accepted the possibility that she might never be a mathematical scholar. Nevertheless, he would not abide apathy and certainly not dishonesty.

  What had Leila hoped to achieve by withholding or distorting information regarding her parents and forcing his hand, a hand he loathed to play? Her reaction was too barefaced to be fabrication, yet too calculated to be truthful. In fact, he had miscalculated how far to push her, and although he had saved face in front of his class, he had lost ground with a student he particularly liked and hoped to motivate. Myles could not define what had been violated, he only knew he could not let it pass without investigation.

  He stood at the office counter. “Leila Sander’s file. Please.”

  The secretary dropped a bulging folder in front of him. “I don’t know how many schools this girl has been to, but she’s a heavyweight.”

  Thumbing through the stack, he counted seven different high school files. No extracurricular activities. Irregular attendance and grades that fluctuated, not just from subject to subject, but from quarter to quarter. No suspensions or other disciplinary problems. No notations. He picked up and read her information card. She was living with her father and no mother—and no telephone.

  The secretary tapped her pencil beside him. “Are you done yet?”

  He gathered the papers, withholding Leila’s contact card and closed the folder.

  “Yes. Thank you,” he snarled as he exited.

  “Hey! The card stays with the file!” she called out after him. Myles ignored her. The door shut behind him.

  Leila had no home telephone number listed. Calling the emergency contact was pointless. Myles wanted the parent, the incontrovertible parent. That warranted a house call.

  On his way north to his home in Farmingdale, Myles stopped at a local convenience store for specific directions. As he steered through Leila’s neighborhood, he surveyed his surroundings, glancing at black faces as he drove past. Modest homes lined the streets, some in good condition, but just as many in disrepair.

  His Volvo pulled up to the curb in front of her house. A round-bellied man sat on the next-door porch and squinted as Myles climbed from his car. Myles acknowledged him with a nod and stepped through the chain-linked gate. A concrete walk split the tiny mowed yard. Stepping onto the front stoop, he rapped the asbestos shingle twice. A few seconds later, a small-framed black man opened the screen door and hobbled out. The sun deepened his wrinkles.

  He scrutinized Myles sideways. “Can I help you?”

  With the card in hand, Myles reciprocated with his own sideways stare. “I’m looking for Leila Sanders.”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “My name is Clarence Myles.”

  The toothless man smiled. “Clarence. I use to know a Clarence, everyone called him Larry. Anyone call you Larry?”

  “No.”

  “Clarence Myles—” he rubbed his bristled head and coughed. “Oh, Mister Myles, da maff teacher …. Yes.”

  “And you are?”

  “I’m Artie.” He shrugged. “Sorry about my teef. I didn’t get around to putting ’em in today.”

  Myles smiled politely, though his patience had begun to wear. He glanced at the name on the card. “Would that be Arthur Spartan?”

  “Don’t nobody but da postman call me dat. I’m Artie Sparks.” He held out his hand.

  Myles clutched it firmly. “Artie Sparks? The blues guitarist?”

  “Yes, sir.” Artie smiled, his lips curling around his gums. “Dat’s right—Angel says you know da blues.”

  “Angel?”

  “Dat’s what I call her, ’cause dat’s what she is.”

  Myles had not envisioned Leila in any setting remotely like this. He scratched his neck.

  “Well, Clarence—do you mind if I call you Clarence?”

  “No.” Myles did mind, yet he would tolerate it under the circumstances.

  “Some blond boy brung her home dis morning and she been home all day. It ain’t like her.” As he turned back toward the house, he waved at his neighbor. “I sure hope she gonna be better for tomorrow night.” The old man kept his hand in the air as he stepped inside. “Good to meet’cha.”

  “Likewise.” Myles stood for a moment longer. He glanced at the stairway toward which Artie had gestured, and at the grinning fellow on the other side of the fence. Slowly he walked to the second-story entrance, now scrutinizing Leila’s surroundings under new light.

  “Artie Sparks,” he said under his breath. What else have you been withholding, Miss Leila Sanders?

  That she did not feel the need to drop names or impress him intrigued Myles, yet at the same time, her secrecy unsettled him. He had already sized her up as exceptional, but he might have underestimated her or at least her situation.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, yellowed tape curled across the name Sanders on the mailbox. He climbed the stairs toward a
dim light at the uppermost landing. Each step creaked as he ascended. Near the top, the muffled serenade of Billie Holiday greeted him. He almost smiled. Standing before a glass-paned door, he peered through sheer curtains that obscured much of what lay on the other side. What looked like a small love seat sat in the middle of a tiny room. Bright light poured in from the front of the house. His knuckle tapped the pane, rattling loose glass. A bit of window glaze crumbled onto his shoe. Something stirred on the sofa. A figure rose and moved to the back of the apartment. A moment later, the figure returned and cracked open the door.

  Leila wrapped her sweater tightly. She pulled hair from her face and looked at him through pink and puffy eyes.

  Myles swallowed, now regretting his harshness. “May I come in?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Her voice lacked its usual strength or defiance.

  “Please?”

  She stepped aside, leaving the door cracked. He pushed it open and entered as Leila moved toward her bookcase. Tall stacks of cassette tapes teetered behind a framed picture beside the player. She hit the stop button.

  Myles gave the room a cursory scan. In the kitchen her trigonometry textbook lay opened on the table. One chair sat beside it. On the sink sideboard, one cup and one plate dried on a towel. At his feet, only one pair of sneakers lay on the doormat, and one jacket hung beside the door. Opposite where he stood, a small drawing table consumed the corner. Tacked sketches and paintings consumed the wall above it.

  “I like your choice of music,” he said, gesturing toward her stack of cassettes. “Do you mind?”

  She neither consented nor refused, she simply shifted her weight. In three steps, Myles stood in front of her bookcase crammed with books and drawing pads in gradations of tallest to smallest. More books lay on the floor in a neat pile. Instead of perusing her music, he glanced at the picture, a faded photograph of two men—one black, one white—and a dimpled little girl standing on a beach. Leila around nine or ten years old.

  “Family picture?” he asked.

  She looked at him with eyes that seemed not to care. “Yeah.”

  He again scanned the room for any telltale sign of masculinity. Although the room did not bespeak overt femininity, he detected the faintest scent of lily-of-the-valley. Beside the bookcase, only a single door led out of the open living area—a bedroom door, wide open. A bottom-of-the-line cremation urn sat on her dresser. He sucked in a labored breath at the sight of it and its implication. His gaze returned to her. She half-rolled her eyes and slowly blinked, as if holding her eyes open required her last bit of energy. Myles’ own strength drained at the thought of the inescapable truth.

  He sighed. “How long has he been gone?”

  Leila stiffened. Her eyes darted as if computing. Did she really think he would not deduce the obvious?

  Her chin quivered. “Nine months.”

  “Cancer?”

  She nodded and looked away, pulling her sweater tighter around her waist.

  Massaging his stubbled chin, he stared at her, putting all the pieces together. He hated what he had stumbled upon and the position it put him in. Even more, he hated the thought of a girl on her own, juggling adult responsibilities while suffering loss. And how did an old, worn-out blues musician come into play?

  “And Artie?” he asked.

  “What about Artie?” she snapped at him.

  “Where does he fit in?”

  “He’s a friend of the family.” She pulled her hair away from her face and met his eyes. He believed her. Leila’s eyes always gave her away.

  “And what about relatives?”

  “Like I mentioned, my mom took off, and my dad—he was an orphan.”

  “Who’s the other man in the picture?”

  “Artie’s son, my dad’s best friend, Joe.”

  “Is Artie your legal guardian?”

  Her eyes wandered and then came back to his. “No.”

  “Who is?”

  “No one.”

  Myles sighed and Leila cringed. Truth or not, he didn’t like her answers.

  “Does anyone else know your situation?”

  Leila frowned and turned away. Her reluctance reinforced his concern. He stepped closer and touched her shoulder, drawing her attention. With a raised brow, he insisted she reply.

  Leila exhaled and mumbled, “Coach Brigham knows.”

  He had not anticipated that. Leila stared at him. Defiance shot from her eyes. Rather than risk shutting her down with intrusive questions about Coach Brigham, he rerouted. “Anyone else?”

  “No.”

  He hated interrogating her as if she were incompetent, but he needed at least some reassurance. “How are you getting by?”

  “I’m making ends meet. Joe helps out.”

  “You look skinny. Are you eating?”

  She glared at him. “I’ve always been skinny. It’s genetic.”

  “You turn eighteen in May?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you passing all your other classes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re still working at the mall?”

  Her eyes narrowed with annoyance. “Yes!”

  “Do you have days off?”

  Her spark of defiance returned with ardor. “None of this is your business! I wish you’d just get out of here and leave me alone.”

  “It’s too late for that,” he said, immediately regretting his overly firm tone as she turned away. Had it been so long that he had forgotten how to be tender? He cleared his throat. “I only wanted to know if you have any time for yourself, time to rest up.”

  Her malleability surprised him as she glanced over her shoulder and responded with childlike trust. “I have weekends off.”

  “Good.”

  Exhaling reservation, he turned from her and walked the perimeter of the room as if inspecting her housekeeping, but mostly he needed a moment to think. Rounding the sofa, he glanced at her. She maintained a safe distance as he maneuvered to her art table and stood before it. A set of watercolors lay open beside a cup of gray water and a paper towel blotted with a spectrum of color. Her displayed work was good for her age. While it impressed him, he also understood the artistic temperament. Under the circumstances, it likely did not play in her favor. At the end of the neatly tacked row of her artwork was a black-and-white photograph of her running. Who had shot that?

  He shook his head. He had expected family dysfunction of some sort, but not this. He could not have imagined any of it, least of all the way Leila stirred his emotions. He thought of his daughter and his throat tightened. He needed another moment to collect himself, to get the choking sensation under control.

  Leila appeared to be managing her life, but a young woman on her own, without tangible emotional or material support—apart from a toothless old musician—had obvious pitfalls. In spite of her aptitude for impressing him, did she have the resources to succeed, emotionally or otherwise? What was in her best interest? Myles himself had been victimized by bureaucratic bias. Not all arbitrary rules had an individual’s best interest at heart. In his opinion, they had no heart. He hated to see her life further disrupted, but this was not a good situation. A child deserved a stable home with someone to care for her needs—he knew firsthand the fallout of instability. Shaking his head, he looked at Leila. He had stumbled onto her truth and stood judge over her life. Her eyes pleaded mercy and his insides softened.

  “Are you going to tell?” she asked.

  Her anguished face moved him. “If you got in a jam, would you tell me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I need your assurance that if you got into a bad situation, whatever that might be—that you would tell me—you’d let me help you.” He had hoped to express himself without emotion but failed.

  Leila’s eyes welled and she turned away, wiping her face as she nodded.

  Silence consumed another minute as he weighed options and his own accountability. Finally, he said, “Provided you don’t run into trou
ble … for now … no one needs to know.”

  She sniffed and wiped another tear but did not face him.

  He firmed his posture and stated, “If you’re going to graduate, you need to pass my class.”

  She cast him an irritated glance. “I’m perfectly aware of that.”

  He studied her one moment longer. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”

  Chapter 12

  On Monday morning, announcements crackled over the PA system. Spirit-week agenda. Pep rallies. Costume day. And, of course, the homecoming parade, football game, and dance.

  “… featuring,” Principal Boyd stated, “our very own rock band, the Tailgates ….”

  Leila had no spirited feelings for this or any other school, and she had no intention of participating in spirit-week hoopla.

  “You’re going to wear a costume, aren’t you?” Kyle nudged her, whispering from behind.

  Leila rolled her eyes and ignored him the way Mr. Myles had been ignoring her all morning. She expected something would change between them, but his apparent lack of interest seemed the extent of it. Just the same, she stayed alert in case he changed his mind. Then homeroom dismissed and he called Kyle and Leila to his desk.

  Both students exchanged wary looks and approached.

  “Mr. Schultz, I have a mandatory extra-credit assignment for you.”

  Wiping his palms on his jeans, Kyle’s weight shifted.

  “Miss Sanders is—as of the results of last Friday’s quiz—failing my class. Your assignment is to bring her grade up to a B average. Eighty percent will do. For every two points she’s deficient of eighty percent, you will lose one point from your average.”

  “What!” Kyle exploded. “I could lose up to eight points off my grade.”

  Leila’s jaw dropped. “What are you doing to me?”

  Myles ignored her and continued addressing Kyle. “Exactly. The bonus is that if you succeed, I will bump your grade up to a ninety-nine percent.”

  “But she’s a mathematical moron!” Kyle glanced at her. “No offense.”

  “Yes, she is. Therefore, I suggest you not waste any time.”

  Leila could not find words but Kyle did. “You can’t do this!”