Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  Leila glanced at Myles, then at the paperwork, and back to the lawyer, her expression blank.

  He continued, “Of course, you may independently submit a counter-petition for full emancipation. However, I could not represent you, due to the conflict of interests. Nonetheless, provision has been made in Mr. Myles’ petition to have the judge grant an emancipated status, or some variation thereof, at the judge’s discretion. Therefore, that base has essentially been covered for you. Any questions so far?”

  “Who will represent me?”

  “You will be appointed a guardian ad litem. Often a social worker, someone who represents your best interests as they see them.”

  “Oh.”

  “You should also note that Mr. Myles has a total of six stipulations to be met by you, should he be awarded guardianship. These are not strictly enforceable by the court. However, if proven in violation of them, you would essentially give Mr. Myles grounds for terminating the arrangement. Please note that they are as follows: You must not smoke tobacco. You must not consume alcoholic beverages. You must not use illicit drugs. You must remain sexually inactive. You must maintain a B average in all academic subjects, and finally, you must graduate from high school with a fully accredited diploma.”

  Leila’s palm slid down her thigh. She took a deep breath. “I guess I’m not the only one who likes ultimate control.”

  Myles caught Feinberg wrestling a smirk as Leila’s eyes dropped back to her lap. Myles didn’t expect she would care for his stipulations, but he had hoped for a more transparent reaction.

  “Well?” Myles asked.

  “I guess I can live with those.”

  “Of course, no decision need be made today,” Myles said. “This meeting is just for drawing up preliminary paperwork.”

  Ruben Feinberg pushed his chair back and reclined, his gaze alternating between the two. Myles had sat across from his desk too many times in Philadelphia, negotiating and renegotiating his separation, custody, divorce, and then post-divorce issues. When Feinberg had moved to Long Island, it was he that referred Myles to a job opening in the Millville school district. Desperate for a change, Myles followed through. He trusted Ruben Feinberg as a lawyer and a friend.

  Feinberg picked up where he left off, “Mr. Myles does not need your consent to follow through on this action. Nevertheless, it is his desire that you consent. Without that, the petition will be dropped. If you consent, I will petition the court for an expedited hearing. Given there is no one contesting, and it would more or less be a matter of filing paperwork, the expedition will likely be granted. If you decide sooner as opposed to later, it may preempt over-involvement of Child Protective Services, which is not necessarily a bad thing, although they will no doubt go ahead and assign a guardian ad litem.”

  Leila took a deep breath. “Let’s just do it.”

  Feinberg leaned forward in his chair. “Young lady, do you understand how serious a matter this is?” He narrowed his bushy brows until they joined. “You will essentially be entering a contract with Clarence Myles, one that should not be entered lightly. I’m assuming that you understand how obnoxious Clarence can be, and how miserable he could make your life. At least for the next five months. These prohibitions he’s stipulating may significantly cramp your style.”

  “I know he can be—obnoxious. And actually, his stipulations won’t cramp my style as much as you might think. Besides, the alternatives could be worse.”

  He paused for effect, the way Myles often did. “Are you certain this is what you want?”

  “Yes. This is what I want, if Mr. Myles still wants it.”

  Myles nodded, repressing a smile.

  “I’ll draw up the final papers and you can stop by tomorrow and sign them.”

  Myles rose and extended his hand. “Do it.”

  ~

  Leila tried to remember if there had ever been a time when she felt as if someone had her best interest at heart, above their own. Even in all her father’s trying to protect her, she sensed some ulterior instability, some outworking of his own helplessness and inability to control his moods.

  “You need help!” she had overheard Joe arguing with her dad yet again. “You’re not right in your head. You’re making our lives hell.”

  “You’re one to talk! You’re no better than her mother!”

  “Yeah, well, if you weren’t so screwed up, she wouldn’t have needed to get high, and neither would I!”

  Most days, Leila would have taken ‘high’ Joe over depressed and erratic Daddy. She was accustomed to high. Not until she was older did she realize that high meant drug abuse, and she found the band members amusing until she realized it also made them sick. As far as she knew, Joe was only a light user for years, or maybe she just hadn’t recognized his low-keyed, mellow ways as stoned.

  Leila had only ever heard bits and pieces before Joe or her dad would say keep it down or you’ll wake her, but she had overheard enough of their arguments to make the connection between ‘stoned’ and ‘leaving’—and her mother. Within a month of their last quarrel, Joe had indeed packed up and left. Not that he hadn’t done so a dozen times before, but he had always come back, although she never understood why—after all, her own mother had never come back. It’s ’cause I miss you, Baby, he would say. Didn’t her mother miss her? But finally, even that wasn’t enough for Joe. He boarded a plane and flew so far away that she didn’t know if he would ever come home. They all left. Her mother, Joe, and her father.

  Now, Clarence Myles wanted her. He wanted to protect her. She had only known him a few months, but he felt more permanent than anything or anyone she had ever known. Perhaps he simply liked control, but he had at least asked her permission. She sensed his desire to protect sprung from respect, not from his own insecurity or need to control her—at least she was willing to gamble on that. Besides, it would only be for a few short months. Just the thought of being under his guardian hand, safe and warm, made her hope for it.

  Chapter 24

  When Leila entered homeroom the next morning, Myles acknowledged her with a raised brow and grinned behind his magazine, visible only to Leila.

  Taking her seat, stifling her own grin, she scanned the classroom. Staring eyes darted away—all except Kyle’s. He smiled and leaned forward. “How’s the arm?”

  “Hurts.”

  With that, the perky office messenger entered the room. She handed Mr. Myles a folded paper and then exited.

  Adjusting his readers, Myles perused the note. He rose from his desk and handed it to Leila. She read silently: Please send Leila Sanders to the Principal’s office. It could mean only one thing. He signaled that she should go immediately. As she left the room, she was surprised to find Kyle behind her.

  “Myles told me to follow you. Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To the office.”

  “Yikes.”

  When they entered, Principal Boyd’s secretary instructed her and Kyle to have a seat. Muffled voices traveled through Boyd’s closed office door.

  “Do you want me to go in with you?” he whispered, rubbing his neck.

  “No, this is my thing.”

  The door opened. Ian Brigham walked through. He flinched at the sight of Leila.

  Principal Boyd said, “Miss Sanders … here already?”

  Leila stood as Ian, pale and distraught, walked past without so much as a glance. Like a boulder plummeting through watery depths, Leila floundered in his wake. As he exited, her heart plunged with his, whirling downward. As though gasping for air, she sucked in shame and humiliation.

  “… Miss Sanders,” Boyd repeated, “would you please come in.”

  He held the door and shot a look at Kyle. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Schultz?”

  “No. I’m with Leila.”

  “There’s no need for you to wait. Please return to your class,” he said and shut the door behind them.

  With his pasted-on smile, Superintendent Fitzgerald stood to the s
ide of Boyd’s desk. He glanced at her sling. “How are you this morning, Leila?”

  Her jaw tensed. “How do you think I am?”

  “Please, sit down.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Very well. We wanted to let you know the outcome of Wednesday night’s hearing.”

  She braced herself.

  He continued, “I won’t bore you with the legalities. However you should know that Miss Weiss’ position at this high school has been terminated.”

  “And Coach Brigham?”

  “The extent of any repercussions affecting him is mostly contingent on you. As you know, we are obligated to provide you with the opportunity to run on the track team this season. However, if you choose to do so, Coach Brigham will be required to resign as track coach, although he will maintain all other duties and positions that he currently fills.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Coach Brigham is to have no contact with you whatsoever. Therefore it will be quite impossible for him to coach you.”

  “What do you mean ‘no contact?’”

  “He may at no time approach you or speak to you or be alone with you. He may not contact you over the telephone or through writing, nor by any other means.”

  “Coach Brigham is no threat to me!”

  “We feel it is in your best interest—”

  “My best interest?” She squinted contempt. “You haven’t the first notion of what is in my best interest!”

  “Miss Sanders, please lower your voice.” Fitzgerald scowled. “What you fail to appreciate is that we have more to consider than just your feelings. How do you suppose the parents of our female students feel, knowing there have been accusations against one of our male teachers?”

  “Unfounded accusations.”

  “They are out there nonetheless and not without substance. What you fail to understand is the leniency with which we have dealt with Coach Brigham. Exposing a student to indecent photographs is a grave offense. In spite of what you may believe, or what Mr. Myles may have convinced you of, we have tried to take all things into consideration, including any mitigating factors that might spare Coach Brigham. We suggest you be grateful that we did not terminate his employment also.”

  “Well, you don’t need to make him resign as the track coach. I have no intention of running on the team.” She glared at one and then the other. “May I go now?”

  “In a moment.” Fitzgerald now addressed her firmly. “You need to realize that if you cause Coach Brigham to violate the sanctions placed upon him, by imposing yourself on him, you jeopardize his position at this high school or any other. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes,” she seethed.

  “You may go now,” Fitzgerald said, as Boyd opened the door and closed it behind her.

  Leila stormed through the office and slammed the outer door, barely noticing Kyle’s absence from his chair or him standing in the hallway as she rushed past.

  “Leila, hold up!” Kyle said.

  She kept moving down the hall and burst through the front entrance. She wanted to run and run hard, but once the bitter cold stung her face, she stopped at the bottom step. Frost shot from her nostrils as she paced.

  Kyle stood beside her. “You’re not going to take off again, are you?”

  She panted, inspecting the gray, billowy clouds overhead.

  “No. I want to. But I’m not.” She continued to pace. “I just need a minute to cool down.”

  Kyle stepped in front of her as the sky released snowflakes that settled upon her arm. He grabbed her and pulled her close. If only she could disappear into the fold of his arms and disperse like his breath in her ear.

  ~

  Leila wouldn’t tell Kyle what had gone on in Boyd’s office, but it didn’t take too much imagination to figure it out. What he did know was that Coach Brigham was innocent even if he did have feelings for Leila; Kyle knew his coach well enough to realize he would never follow through on them.

  Before heading home for the long Martin Luther King holiday weekend, Kyle came upon Brigham in the parking lot. He blew warmth into his cupped hands. “Hey, Coach.”

  “How you doin’, Kyle?”

  “I’m okay.” He shivered. “I’m really sorry about everything that’s been going down. It’s wrong, Coach—”

  “Kyle, don’t worry about it. ”

  “Yeah, but it’s so unfair.”

  “Life is full of unfair, man. Just gotta learn to roll with it.”

  Kyle shook his head. “That’s bull—”

  “No,” he cut him off, “It’s life.”

  Kyle let out an exasperated breath that crystallized as his gaze moved from Brigham’s face to the back seat of his Saab, packed to the ceiling. “Looks as if you’re taking off for the weekend.”

  “Yeah. Seems like a good weekend for some hiking.”

  “Really? Where you headed?”

  “New Hampshire. Presidential Range.”

  Kyle chuckled. “You’re nuts, man.”

  Brigham nodded. “Yeah. I kind of am.”

  “Well, stay warm,” Kyle said, just about to walk off. “Oh, and I just want you to know that Leila and I are still going to run together just as soon as her arm’s better.”

  “Good.” His eyes dropped and then came back to Kyle. “How is she?”

  Kyle shrugged. “It’s sort of hard to tell with her. You know how she is, all private and everything.”

  “Yeah,” Brigham said under his breath.

  ~

  Leila’s assigned social worker showed up unexpectedly that afternoon—in fact, as Leila pulled into her driveway, a trim, dark-complexioned woman with close-cropped hair stood on Artie’s doorstep, chatting.

  “Leila, I’m Mrs. Greene,” she said, offering her hand.

  Leila invited the woman up to her apartment. Her warm and spontaneous smile put Leila at ease as they talked for about an hour, covering familiar ground. The only new questions were regarding her mother.

  “When’s the last time you heard from your mother?” Greene asked.

  “I’ve never heard from her.” In fact, Leila didn’t have the faintest recollection of her mother. Only a small creased and faded photo, insufficient to sow even an imaginary memory.

  “No Birthday cards or letters?”

  “No.” Leila shrugged, expecting gushing sympathies. Instead, Mrs. Greene simply nodded.

  “Do you have any idea of where she resides?”

  Check the vicinity of every rehab center in your databanks and you’d come up with a better clue than I’ve got. “No.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might know?”

  The sad truth struck Leila at the worst times, splitting wide open the hole she refused to acknowledge—that void where at least a trace of a mother’s scent should linger. Her breath caught in that vacuum as the word “Nope” slipped out.

  ~

  The capricious weather on the Presidential Range was at best challenging and at worst, deadly. Ian’s agitation begged piercing, subzero temperatures. There was nothing like the burn and strain of slogging through knee-deep snow. During weekends, especially holiday weekends, one never had the trails to himself, and so Ian felt comfortable hiking solo. In fact, he preferred it.

  Fresh snow had fallen midweek, leaving a heavy blanket of glistening white under clear skies. Ian started off in snowshoes where the trail climbed slowly at first, through a tunnel of white. Foot traffic had not yet packed the snow, providing an even more pristine visage, though it added to the initial challenge. Before long, he had worked up a sweat and stripped to his short-sleeved thermal shirt. Over the next several hours, the ascent steepened and he switched from snowshoes to crampons. Each time Leila came to mind, he pushed harder, driving her out. High winds whistled in his ears, burning his cheeks as he approached the Spur.

  Temperatures dropped drastically—nearly thirty degrees —in a matter of minutes. He hustled to pull his layers back over himself. By three o’clo
ck, he stood on the bluff of Crag Camp, overlooking King Ravine. The sun behind him illuminated the snow-crested headwall of Durand Ridge across the ravine, casting Mossy Fall in the shadows. It was unspeakably beautiful. Now, he no longer resisted the thought of Leila, a million miles away.

  Standing at the crest, only inches from oblivion, he drew in a labored breath. One strong gust of wind and he would be over the edge. Alone on the mountain, a man could not help wondering—if his footing slipped and he slid away, who would miss him? If he found himself in a whiteout, unable to make it to shelter and fell asleep in the cold, who would mourn him? He hoped Leila might but doubted she would grieve for long. Given all the women he had been with, why was he without anyone to miss him? He stood in awestruck exhilaration, yet with whom could he share it, either in this moment or in the retelling of it?

  Wind picked up with sudden fury. He had better save his soul-searching for the cabin if he planned to make it before dark. He repositioned his pack and headed toward Gray Knob.

  Twenty degrees in the cabin felt like a heat wave. Several other hikers greeted him with perfunctory chatter that quickly dwindled—all shared one objective. Sleep. To lie in his bag after completely spending himself on the mountain was one of the best feelings. His body sang with exhaustion. In the intense darkness, with senses heightened, a mouse scampered up his sleeping bag and perched upon Ian’s chest. Darkness sharpened his sight and he watched the mouse stare back until sleep overtook him.

  Sometime during the night, he woke in discomfort. He would have to brave the elements and ease nature. A gust of wind caught his breath as he stepped outside; its constant howling whirled about him. The utter black of night dispersed under starlight. He moved to a clearing and relieved himself. The sliver of a crescent moon rested low on the western horizon and a slurry of stars smeared across the concave sphere above. His insignificance in this moment, in the vastness of unending time and space humbled him. For a suspended second, the wind died and absolute silence enveloped him but for the voice in his head, the question he had asked of Leila when they first met, and more poignantly, the question she offered in response—Why does anyone move away from paradise?