The Season of Shay and Dane

by Lucy Lacefield

  15

  shay

  It’s not a first date.

  It’s just a walk. . . a planned walk.

  I can do this.

  I put Jenny’s and mine’s sandwiches into baggies and slide them down into a paper sack, along with a couple of apples, looking around my small apartment to see if I have everything. Of course I have everything. What else would I take besides lunch, a coffee, and my bag? Shake it off Shay.

  I let my shoulders drop a little and allow myself a slight shudder. I’ve been distracted since last night. I couldn’t hardly fall asleep to begin with, and I had to rely on focusing to something to slow my mind down from the day, from Dane. . . and I thought of his eyes, looking up at them, and his soft, strong hand, warm, in the middle of my back. . . and I refused anymore thoughts and finally fell asleep. And now I’m fidgety. Super fidgety. Maybe the walk up the hill will calm me. . . I hope.

  The mornings are getting warmer, and I coach myself to take cleansing breaths walking up the main street, just to be able to be a little better at talking with him today than I was yesterday. I’m just so nervous inside. Is it this way for everyone—in the beginning of liking someone. . . am I normal? No. . . I’m not normal; I know that. At least Jenny doesn’t care that I’m not. . . and he doesn’t seem to care either, I don’t think. Why else would he have asked me to come to watch Saturday? But he doesn’t know me yet—that I’ve kept all boys at a distance all of this time.

  I’m fidgety all over again.

  Breathe.

  Pace yourself. . .

  As I get to the top of the street I take in the view. From this distance the whole campus sprawls itself out in front of you. It’s really magnificent, breathtaking. I truly feel lucky. I look over at the picturesque, spanning lawn and the wind flitting through the leaves of those beautiful trees. . . and wonder if Dane has ever sat there. . . under one of the trees. . . with someone. . . like other people. I think it’s wonderful. . . people. . . having someone to be there with, as much as I can’t see myself. . . no, it’s just not comfortable for me being there together. . . a man. Oh, what am I doing? What does he expect of me? Maybe I shouldn’t be meeting him today. . . Saturday. . .

  dane

  Coach Malloy will be here by late evening—I’ll tell him about her, that I’m giving one of my tickets to her. He’ll have someone sitting beside him, there for me too. I hope he doesn’t mind. I know he won’t.

  Two more blocks and I’ll have a view of the campus. 6:55. I won’t make her worry, today.

  I’ll have to be at the stadium hours before my heats. It’ll be better if we just arrange to meet near the athlete’s entrance about 45 minutes before I run, and then give her the pass to the assigned seat. At least I’ll get to see her that way for a minute, and know she’s there. I didn’t bring it with me today; didn’t think about it. That’d be a little presumptuous—here’s a pass; see you in a couple of days—maybe not, I’ll be stuck in the middle of the arena.—Hope you enjoy it. . .

  Wow!

  Catch your breath Dane!

  Up this hill and I should be able to see her from here. It’s been hard to focus on anything this week, without yanking my mind to redirect itself so I don’t fall behind. I wonder if it’s the same way for her—likely not. I’m struggling though—maybe it’s a good struggle. It feels kind of like a racehorse that’s gate got stuck when the gun fired, and I’m being forced to stay standing behind it. Yeah, that’s it. Not just mentally, but physically. . . everything’s elevated. Whew. Easy. I know how it feels to have eager participants at my whim if I’m willing. I’m sure not going to turn tables. Besides, this is different; they’re disingenuous. And what I’m feeling is. . . real.

  —Christ—I’m glad to see her today. . . but from here she’s nowhere in sight.

  16

  shay

  I feel ill from indecision.

  I can’t ease myself. Maybe that’s my sign—if you can’t decide on something. . . don’t do it.

  I open the refrigerator in our student office and find a place to put our lunches for later. I catch a glimpse of the large white clock to my left and see it’s almost 7:05, looking away.

  He’ll be here soon, if not already.

  I need a minute to think. I don’t know what will force me one way or the other, but if I take too much time, surely he’ll leave, but that can’t be the reason I go.

  The door to my lab has to be unlocked; I’ll take care of that as I’m sorting my head.

  I make my way to my room about six doors down from the office, as I do I pass the set of windows that gives me full view of the bench from around the shrubs and trees.

  . . . He’s there waiting. . .

  I watch him for a minute.

  One of the university mail carriers stops in front of the building and rolls his side door open, taking out two large plastic containers. I see Dane get up and go over to him, picking one of them up and talking as he walks beside him to the building. I step away from the window slightly, just enough where I won’t be seen.

  . . . I think I have my answer.

  dane

  “Hi.” Her voice comes from behind me.

  I turn, with every anticipation, aware to keep it together. “Hi.”

  “I had to take something inside, before we walk.”

  “Sure. Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought it’d be nice to walk down by the bell tower and pond. . . if that’s okay with you?”

  “It’s okay. I like that part of the campus.”

  “Me too.”

  A bicyclist passes by, and it gives us each a moment’s distraction to walk comfortably.

  I want to know so much about her and this thirty minute walk isn’t enough time to get to say a lot of things, especially delicately with her.

  “Are you excited about your track meet?” I’m entirely soft for a second, the thought that she took the initiative. . . my feelings swell.

  “I am; it’s always a big event for both schools. Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes,” she allows without a change in her voice.

  “Are you from around here, the East?” I guess it’s really asking two questions. . . where she lives, her family, and knowing most of the affluent families are somewhere along this coast—at least the ones at Ivy League universities anyway. . . does she come from one of them?

  “I am, Virginia—Abingdon, Virginia.” A sense of disappointment, and regrettably shame, washes over me. . . and the thought that I’m out of my league seems real, very real. I struggle with an immediate hurt, that I’m surprised at. The pause in me alerts her. “Is your family here, in the East?”

  “No. . . no, they’re not. They’re in Kansas. I grew up in a small, rural town there. . . just my sister, my Mom, and me.” I wait, not knowing anything more of what to think right now.

  “I’ve never been to Kansas, but I like what I hear about the Midwest. Do you miss it?” I can tell she has a sense of something in me. That was a lot for her to say.

  “I do. Shay, I’m here on a scholarship. . . there would’ve been no other way.” The words come out before I think long on them. But there wouldn’t be any reason to encourage things—I wouldn’t feel right.

  “Dane, I’m not from a wealthy family either.” I’m sure something in me physical shifted as she said that, whether it was my breathing or the steadiness of my stride, and I wonder if she noticed. I couldn’t have helped it, the relief I feel. . . the way my thoughts are recovering. . .

  I lightly brush the back of her hand with mine, ready to excuse myself if it’s unwelcome.

  . . . Our fingers tenderly lace together.

  17

  shay

  I check myself in the mirror, again. Only thirty minutes before I leave for the stadium. 1:00. Jenny should be showing up anytime. Everyone knows that the congestion around it, let alone the non-existent parking, makes it almost impossible to even get near it unless on foot, or someone graciously
drops you off as close to it as they can get you. And that’s just what Jenny offered to do—come home, grab some lunch, and get me to the stadium on her way back to tutoring.

  The least I could do for her driving around through the crowds all over campus visiting—who make a day of it parading through the history of Yale before an athletic event—was to have lunch ready for her here. And I had to laugh when her request came in the form of peanut butter bread, Cheetos, and a banana. All of which I had on hand.

  I break off two bananas from the bundle and grab a knife to spread the peanut butter. She insisted we eat in the car saying, “Going 10 miles an hour along the ‘hoopla’, will be like a right picnic.” And we neither had time to waste.

  All of the food and two water bottles go into a drawstring bag, when I hear a horn honk outside the window. The nervous excitement in me tingles. This is it.

  I reach for the Dr. Seuss hat, committed to not hurt her feelings and coming to find that no matter how small I folded it with all of its buttons last night, I couldn’t get it into a size that would fit into a back pocket—which I never stick anything inside of. Having then happily conceded that’s it just part of the day, along with wearing my Yale Blue sweatshirt in the spirit of things, I’ll just keep it near during the event.

  All ready.

  By now there would’ve been a second honk if she thought I needed to speed up the pace getting to the car. It’s not the first taxi service we’ve given each other—you learn quickly not to get offended by the urging on to stay in motion with the rate of things—it becomes an appreciation, funnily so. And the thought of rushing to get outside, heightens the excitement in me even more.

  dane

  Other athletes trail throughout the wide tunnel that opens out into the stadium, where the bright sun is bending through. I slowly pace it, conscious to keep my limbs loose, rolling each shoulder, letting the ripple follow down through my hands, wiggling my fingers. She’ll be here in about five minutes.

  I take a slow, deep breath in leaning back my neck, gauging my focus, turning for the last time at the mouth of the walkway to head back towards the small entrance to meet her. As I do, I become more aware of the gravity of people filling the arena. First time inviting a girl—and the stands will be wired.

  I rub the small rectangle pass between my fingers and thumb, which now has a slight curve in it, and push against the metal bar on the door, stepping outside.

  I gave Coach Malloy his pass during supper and told him about Shay. He had said he was glad I had someone else coming and looked forward to meeting her. Shay seemed alright with it too.

  Whew. The old, familiar butterflies are starting to kick off.

  Don’t see her coming yet, but there are so many people it’s hard to pick anyone out.

  I keep pacing in a small area in front of the door, just to keep nerves in check.

  “Hi, Dane.”

  I face back around to the crowds coming in and see her walking towards me. “Hi.” All of a sudden I feel ready to be on the track with her here now. “Lots of people, did you get around okay?”

  “Oh sure,” she says with a smile.

  God, it’s good to see her. “Here’s your pass, they’ll take it just like a regular ticket. Do you remember where to enter in at—the gate number?”

  “23,” she reassures me. “First row, seats 9 and 10. Just like here on the ticket.”

  “Right. . . sure.” I just want to touch her, lean in and kiss her on the cheek.

  “Well, I should probably find my way to my seat and introduce myself.”

  “Yeah, and I need to have a couple of minutes in the locker room.” Our eyes connect for a moment.

  “Good luck, Dane.”

  “Thanks.” I watch her walk away, trembly energy lighting off throughout me, and never wanting so much in my life to have a good performance as I do today.

  18

  shay

  “WELCOME—STUDENTS, FAMILIES, AND FANS—TO YALE’S TRACK AND FIELD EVENT OF THE SEASON AS WE HOST HARVARD!” A roar booms up from the stands as I walk in to find my seat. “AND WELCOME TO HARVARD!” The crowd is riotous with excitement!

  I make my way down the concrete steps along with the others to get to the first row, and look across for my seat number. A pleasant looking older man notices me and smiles my way. I excuse myself getting around the fronts of people, making sure not to upset drinks sitting tucked near the undersides of seats. “Hi, you must be Coach Malloy,” I say immediately comfortable in his company. There’s a quality to his appearance that makes me think instantly of my dad.

  “I am. And you must be Shay—nice to meet you.” He reaches and shakes my hand. There’s a good-all-over feeling about this day.

  The jovial announcer comes on again directing our attention to the events about to commence in different parts of the arena. I look down at my program for the 100 meter and the 4 X 100 meter relay. Both races Dane will be running today. The two heats are somewhat isolated in the middle of the page, listing the 100 meter race to start at 2:00 followed by the 4 X 100 meter at 3:00. I know the big race is the 100 m, and from what the university paper said yesterday it seems that for the first time Harvard will prove to be competition for Dane. I feel tingly from pure, numb delightment and thinking about it. I slide my soda down under my seat with the rest of the cups lined along our row. Only 40 minutes to his race.

  dane

  I shift position momentarily, leaning against the cool, concrete wall listening to the last words of Coach Lewis before we enter into the stadium, half taking-in what he’s saying. I just have to keep focus—not let his pressure to perform get to me and do something stupid like false start—and not let knowing she’s in the stands do the same. I finish my own pep talk about the same time he finishes his—whatever it is he’d call it.

  “Bring it home Dane!” Mitch slaps my ass from behind.

  “Yep—gonna try.” I look back over my shoulder at him as we make our way to the entrance out into the arena. He’s fourth man in the relay and probably the only other truly dedicated runner on the team.

  Two more steps and the sun will be shining on my face and the full scope of charged anticipation will ring out for me to see.

  “AND HERE THEY ARE—YOUR YALE ATHLETES!” Over the uproarious cheering he one-by-one calls out our names as we make our way to the center—I hold a hand high, turning side-to-side acknowledging the packed stadium. I peer far over to the area where my seats are reserved and think I catch a flashing glimpse of Shay and Coach Malloy on their feet, clapping with the rest of them.

  19

  shay

  The exhilaration of the events leading up to Dane’s has my heart racing at times and I find myself enthralled just the same as everyone else watching.

  I sip the last bit of my soda and excuse myself to go find the restroom and stretch my legs for a minute. Dane’s race will begin shortly. You can already see officials milling about on the track lanes near the starting blocks, ready to give them a final looking over.

  Luckily the restroom sign isn’t too far down the large, open arena hall from where I entered in at from our seating alcove.

  In the excitement of things I nearly forgot about Dane’s invitation to walk me home. Jenny’s tutoring will keep her in the student union the rest of the afternoon, and as nervous about it as I am. . . I am glad he asked.

  The light feeling in the top of my stomach and forehead bring back all of the uncertainties and fears of being close to him again, but I remind myself that that’s some time away and just to enjoy the races.

  dane

  I saw her walk up the stairs, as a couple of us moved across the grassy area to the edge of the track. I have a better view of her and Coach Malloy—only about forty feet from where I am. And when I take my place on the track, it’ll be halfway between us now and they’ll be able to see me closely. This is the first time I’ve had both of my seats taken for someone to be here watching me. The special section for athlete’s gues
ts is always filled. The cost to get a first row seat anywhere else in the stadium is hefty and I usually end up giving my tickets to anyone who asks.

  I want to perform for her. Today’s for her.

  I put my hands on my hips shifting them subtly, keeping centered.

  The officials are talking among themselves. The Harvard guys are clustered together a short distance away sizing things up—me—no doubt.

  20

  shay

  “. . . IN LANE 3: HARVARD’S—TRACE—CAPPELLETTI!. . .” Cheers boom into the air—rivaling Yale’s antagonistic bursts of—“Who are ya?!—Who are ya?!” “. . . IN LANE 5—YALE’S!—DANE—MONTGOMERY! . . .” The stadium erupts absolutely wild with applause! I smooth a few tousled strands of hair skimming across my forehead from the light breeze and tuck them behind my ear. I wouldn’t even want a glimmer of trying to see what is about to happen be out of focus. My whole body feels sensationally light but frozen in place, and yet so alive at the same time—it’s a whole different kind of nervousness. I cup my hands together by the tips of my fingers, squeezing them. Come on Dane. Coach Malloy looks steady and reserved as I catch a glimpse of him peripherally.

  “RUNNERS—BY YOUR BLOCKS!” The massive crowd grows quiet. Oh God. The runners lower into starting position—a gun raises high—the SHOT rings out!

  40,000 people go nuts!

  “Go Dane!” I surprise myself.

  Trace is nearing him. “GO DANE—GO!” I’m on my tiptoes—leaning against the railing. His stride bolts—Trace can’t catch up!

  FINISH LINE!

  A roar rises up from the stadium! The crowd is electric! Thundering feet stomp the Yale chant—dominating the sound! Goose pimples flash to the surface over my entire body! “Ahh!” I’m clapping and jumping. Dane slows down to a walk-jog and turns to the crowd waving high. The stands go mental! Swinging Yale Blue towels, clackers, and vuvuzelas explode in celebration!