Coach Me

by Shanora Williams

  I laugh. “I will. Goodnight, Mama. I love you.”

  “I love you too, baby.”

  I hang up, placing my phone down on the desk. For a while, I just stare at the screen of my phone. The screensaver is an older picture of me with Daddy. An eight-year-old me on Daddy’s shoulders. I’m holding a trophy in the air, beaming like a goof, and he’s looking up at me as best as he can, head cocked slightly, smiling proudly.

  I’d just won the final race for that season. I got a first-place medal and the whole team got a trophy. The medal hung around my neck with a red ribbon.

  Before I know it, the image is a blur. The screen of my phone goes black, and I lower my head to my forearms that are on top of the desk and cry.

  ELEVEN

  Janine isn’t going to be able to see Kendall and me on the track as much as before. She’s heading off-field with Coach Mills more often to practice with the cross-country squad. There are many trails around Bennett University—so many that it is easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around.

  Cross country’s first race is going to be the second week of September, which is two weeks away. Unfortunately for Kendall and me, we won’t be doing any real racing until March.

  For the most part, I do my warm ups with Kendall, and weightlifting and conditioning with Coach Veronika.

  Coach Veronika is nice. She’s a petite brunette woman with elf-like traits. Her ears are even elfish. She doesn’t like to go by her last name because it’s “too long and not-at-all sexy.” She talks a lot which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’m not a big talker so it’s nice to have someone who likes to strike up conversation when I don’t know how to during the moments that are a little too quiet.

  She helps me stretch before and after practice and has shown me some really good techniques so that my calves don’t always get so tight.

  To my luck, Foster works more with the javelin, disc, and high jumpers. She’s not on the track much. That squad is practicing on another part of campus, and I’m thankful for that.

  There is Torres though, who criticizes every little thing. I wouldn’t take it so personally if he were doing this to the other girls who sprint, but he doesn’t. It’s mostly me, and it’s never in a way that’s positively critical. It’s always:

  “Faster, Lakes!”

  “You’re leaning too far in, Lakes! Straighten your back!”

  “Lakes! You aren’t pumping your arms!”

  “What have I told you, Lakes! Put power in your thighs!”

  He says the thighs thing often, but I’m used to my father’s technique and I’ve tried the thighs thing. It doesn’t work for me. I take off much smoother when I’m equally balanced, in my opinion, and it’s not like I’m losing any of the practice races anyway.

  I ace them. I’m quick, but Torres is never pleased with how I perform. When I finish, he just shakes his head, a red whistle hanging between his lips. “Run it again,” he’ll grumble, then he’ll blow that damn whistle while making a quick loop in the air with his forefinger, and I pant heavily, going back to my starting line to get into formation.

  “Those fingertips should be flat on the track. I shouldn’t see your nails digging into the rubber.” This is a remark he makes to all of us as we prepare for take-off. There are eight girls total for the meter sprints. Of course, it also includes Melanie Howard. She’s the one who presses her manicured fingernails into the track.

  Janine wasn’t kidding when she said Torres is tough. He is grilling us, and I can see some of the defeat on the girls’ faces every time we have to get back into formation, but a perk is that when we take short breaks, we get to see shirtless football players on the field.

  I’ve caught myself staring at Stephen Hunt way too many times to count and I always have to remind myself that he’s no-good. He’s noticed me too, and he winks and passes a lazy, flirty smile, showing off the top row of his perfect white teeth.

  Boys are just boys, I guess. Right now, I can’t focus on Stephen or his flirty manners.

  It’s a relief when practice is over each day. I go home exhausted, my bones weary and my muscles achy, which is not exactly a foreign feeling to me, but I feel even more worn down now than I have before. It doesn’t help that Torres is always telling us how slow we are, and that we are going to start meeting him at Marble Hall in the mornings to start running around campus, and then do some weightlifting and conditioning.

  I don’t think it’s just the running that is making me exhausted, though. It’s life on campus in general. I miss Mama and being home in my double bed. The bed I have here is a twin.

  I’ve been thinking about Daddy a lot more than usual too. There’s something about Torres that reminds me of my father. His harshness, criticism, and the I-am-not-pleased-with-your-effort demeanor. It’s a trigger and I don’t like it, but I’m stuck with him because he’s practically the expert when it comes to the meter sprints.

  Mama tells me it’ll take time to adapt to my new life…but I didn’t expect my new life to be so…miserable. When I thought of college, I thought of how the real me would be able to come out. I’d be joyous and reborn and excited to practice and run alongside my teammates. Maybe even party here and there.

  Instead, the only people on the team who like me are Kendall and Janine. All the other girls give me strange looks as if I’m some exotic creature that shouldn’t be touched, interacted with, or bothered. When I win the practice races, they glare at me, like they blame me for their slower paces.

  Especially Melanie. I’ve heard her when she talks to Christa and Katie. She complains about how no one can keep up with the new girl and that it’s not fair to the girls who have been here. And sometimes it’s not just those two she talks to. There are others who absorb her gossip about me as well.

  For some reason, she is the queen of the team. She’s the one all the girls aspire to be like, I suppose because she’s attractive and social and has had many boyfriends on campus. She was also team captain last year.

  Normally, I can ignore the whispering and side-eyeing, but it’s depressing when it is your own teammates making you feel out of place. These are women who are supposed to be encouraging and uplifting one another, not talking shit behind your back.

  My words of encouragement to Melanie always go ignored. Melanie doesn’t care what I think. In her eyes, I am beneath someone like her. She may not be faster, but she has more friends and gets away with a lot more than I do.

  Still, I persevere. I have psychology class in the morning but have to meet Torres at Marble Hall, along with the other meter racers.

  I curl up beneath my blanket, feeling soothed after eating some of the soup Mama brought to school for me and the shower that followed, and then I fall asleep.

  The alarm on my phone blares to life and I slap a hand on the screen to stop the noise, groaning as I get up.

  I’m dressed, teeth brushed, hair moisturized and pulled up into a bushy ponytail, and then out the door in no time. I have to be there by 7:00 a.m. I have exactly fifteen minutes to get there. I trek across campus, past trees bundled with orange and yellow leaves, and walk up a set of stairs that goes up to Marble Hall. I had no idea where it was last night, so while I heated up my leftover soup, I looked it up on the campus map on the wall.

  The stairs are steep, and of course Torres would choose the building with the steepest stairs for us to meet at. No need for coffee. The stairs are your wake-up call.

  I notice Torres standing beside one of the pillars, an iPhone in hand. The blue light of the screen illuminates his face, revealing his sharp nose, the scruff around his mouth and along his jaw, and even the length of his dark eyelashes. He’s wearing a black hoodie with black sweatpants and black and white running shoes. The hood of the hoodie is covering his head. He’s scrolling through his phone, resting one shoulder against the pillar.

  No one else is here yet. Damn me and my promptness.

  I step closer to him and he looks up, watching me approach. “
Bright and early, aren’t you, Lakes?”

  “What’s wrong with being early?”

  He huffs a laugh. “Why do you always have to assume that I mean things in the wrong way?”

  “Maybe it’s because of your passive-aggressive tone.” I roll my eyes and turn away, facing the staircase. I make out a pedicured green lawn from here, and a jam-packed parking lot. There’s a circled path and a sidewalk, and a statue in the middle of the circled path. I have no idea who the statue is of, but I feel like I was told during my campus tour this past spring. An old sailor of some kind.

  “So, what are you majoring in?” Torres asks. I look over, and he’s still scrolling through his phone. It’s like he’s asking me this question to clear the silence.

  “Psychology. I want to be a therapist one day.”

  “A therapist?” One of his brows shoots up. He finally looks at me instead of his phone. “Don’t see you as the counseling type. What makes you want to do that?”

  “Past stories and personal experiences. Human emotions and actions are complicated and I want to study the hows and whys.”

  “Interesting.” He holds his gaze on me a little longer before carrying it over my shoulder.

  Two girls from the team, Nicole, and Parker, make it up the stairs. Nicole has really curly blond hair and Parker is red-haired and pale with freckles. They greet Torres, who only nods. He slips his phone into his back pocket, just as three more girls make their way up.

  Then Melanie appears, and for the first time she’s walking by herself. There’s a frown on her face. “I hate mornings, Torres,” she grumbles as she approaches the group. “I hope this is a temporary thing.”

  “Let’s stretch it out on the lawn.” Torres ignores her, walking past me, and going down the stairs.

  What the hell? Why tell us to meet at the hall if we really needed to be on the lawn?

  Some of the girls groan and Melanie curses under her breath, but we follow him, eventually stepping onto the damp green grass. We all do our standing stretches and afterward, Torres says he’s going to jog behind us while we run around campus. We’re running from Marble Hall to the football field, which is about a fifteen-minute jog.

  For the most part, I find the jog refreshing this early in the morning. The campus is quiet and birds are singing sweet melodies. The sun is slowly slipping over the horizon, the warmth of its rays kissing my skin in-between the lines of trees.

  To keep things casual, I keep my jog steady, jogging alongside Nicole and Parker, who don’t exactly flock to Melanie, but they also keep a distance from me. I look at them and their faces are red, their backs too straight. Daddy would have a fit if he could see how stiff they are.

  “Let’s pick up the pace,” Torres calls out as we reach a trail that leads to the football field. I can no longer run beside Nicole and Parker. I push faster, needing the speed. I end up in the front, next to Melanie. I feel her glance at me and then put her focus ahead again.

  “Faster!” Torres calls out. “I need to see those arms pumping! Remember, the only way to get better is to compete against yourself! Push yourself!”

  I catch more speed, my heart beating faster. The freeness of this run consumes me. The fall air is cool against my skin and my legs feel like they’re carrying me themselves. The trail is lined with thick, tall oak trees, the leaves fluttering down in hues of yellows, oranges, and browns.

  Janine, Kendall, and I have jogged this specific trail twice. Three more minutes, give or take, and we’ll be on the football field.

  I can feel it getting closer with each step. The team is behind me. I glance over at Melanie and it’s like she’s trying to keep up with me but struggling to do so. This isn’t a race. She doesn’t have to compete with me. She should only be focused on herself.

  I try and ignore her, focusing on my own two feet.

  “Finish strong! Keep pushing!” Torres again.

  The open gate to the track appears. My heart is beating harder, faster in my chest and I’m so close. So close.

  But before I know it, something yellow pops up in front of me and I trip and fall. I tumble sideways, fortunately out of the way of the teammates behind me, and I let out a shrill cry, instantly reaching for my ankle.

  The girls gasp and stop, turning to look at me. “Oh my God! Are you okay?” Nicole asks, bending down. Her expression is panicked, her eyes wide as she touches my ankle. I can’t even focus on Nicole.

  I lock eyes on Melanie. She’s close to the gate, her hands on her hips. I saw her pale leg. Her neon yellow shoes. She tripped me. How could she do that?

  I start to stand, wanting to give her a piece of my damn mind, but when I do, I stumble again and another sharp pain pierces my ankle.

  “Ow…shit!” I hiss, grabbing it again.

  “We’re close to the track. I can go get some ice,” Nicole says, still in a panic.

  “Don’t try to move. You probably rolled it a little too hard.” Torres crouches down and holds my foot, checking out my ankle. “It’s already starting to swell. Nicole, go grab the ice. Everyone else go about your day. We’ll do more running and conditioning tonight.”

  Nicole takes off.

  The other girls look at me a long time before finally listening to Torres and heading to the track. I would be embarrassed by this if my ankle weren’t hurting so much.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Melanie asks, lingering. She’s not looking at me. Only at Torres’ back.

  I scowl at her. I should scream it. I should just say it right now. You tripped me, you evil bitch! But I don’t. I bite my tongue and I hate myself for doing it.

  I’ve been taught all my life to hold back on my anger—to not lash out and seem like the angry, stereotypical black woman because I’m more than that. But I am angry. She tripped me. I have the right to be angry right now.

  “Go, Howard.” Torres’ voice is firm. He doesn’t look at her. I swing my eyes down to him and his jaw his ticking.

  Melanie turns, but not without peering over her shoulder at me. There is no remorse in her eyes, no guilt. She starts jogging again, blond ponytail bouncing as she cuts a corner, disappearing around it.

  When she is gone, Torres focuses on my eyes. “I’m going to help you up. Try not to lean on that ankle too much.”

  I nod, and Torres leans forward so I can hook my arm around his shoulders. He brings me up with ease, then turns toward the gate. “We’ll go to the nearest bench.”

  I don’t bother nodding this time. I’m focusing too much on not putting too much weight on my ankle as I hop like an injured bunny.

  We make it to the first bench in sight and just as Torres places me down, Nicole shows up with an ice-pack. “Here,” she says. She starts to hand it to me, but Torres takes it, lifts my leg up on the bench, and places the ice-pack right on my swollen ankle. It’s cold as hell and I hiss, eventually numbing to the cool temperature.

  “Thanks, Nicole. You can go get your day started. I’ll call Veronika.”

  “Kay.” Nicole gives me a sympathetic look, but there’s something in her eyes. Something telling. Did she see what Melanie did too?

  Nicole walks away and when she’s gone, I realize I can’t hold it in anymore. “Melanie tripped me,” I blurt out.

  Torres is quiet, focused on placing the ice pack on the right part of my ankle. For a moment, I think he didn’t hear me, or maybe he didn’t want to hear me, and I start to say it again, but he finally says, “I know.”

  I frown, caught off guard by that. “You know?”

  “I saw her do it.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say something?” I snap.

  “I will say something,” he counters.

  “Why not say something when it happens? She tripped me! You saw it!” I’m on the verge of tears now. I grit my teeth, a part of me wanting to slap the ice pack out of his hand.

  “Because if I would have reacted back on that trail, I would have lost my temper, Lakes. I would have been fired for yelling in h
er fucking face.” Torres pulls his hand away and stands up. I notice his jaw is ticking the way it was when he told Melanie to go, and one of his hands is balled into a fist. “Her father donates a lot to this college. She gets away with a lot of shit and we have to look the other way when it happens. You aren’t the first person she’s tormented. She’s been a nightmare since joining this damn team.”

  I don’t even know how to react to that, but I am so pissed. I’m so angry, and trust me, it takes a lot to make me angry, but this? This is unfair. I never did anything to Melanie for her to treat me this way.

  Who cares that Melanie’s dad donates to the school? She tripped her own teammate because she got mad that she couldn’t keep up! She tripped me to feel superior!

  “She’s a fucking bitch!” I shout, and damn my voice for wavering.

  Torres crouches just as I drop my head and my bottom lip quivers. My tears have blinded me at this point and my throat is raw as I try to fight some of those tears. I don’t want to cry over an ignorant person like Melanie and her selfish actions, but I am, and that makes me even angrier.

  “Look, Lakes—Amber.” He sighs, and for a split second, I stop sobbing because it’s the first time I’ve heard him say my real name. “I’ll speak to Hamilton privately. Tell her what I saw. Hamilton is good for situations like this. I’ll tell her to cut Melanie out of practice for a few weeks, might even tell her to seat her for the first couple of races. She won’t get away with what she did.”

  “Why can’t you just cut Melanie out?”

  “Because I’m just an assistant coach. I have to discuss this with Hamilton. She’s the one in charge.”

  “That’s not fair and you know it!” I bite into my bottom lip until it hurts. “God, I hate it here!” I whimper, throwing my head back and closing my eyes. “I hate it here so much. My mom was right. She said I wouldn’t fit in here.”

  “What? Cut that shit out,” Torres demands. His voice is gruff. Angry, just like mine. I drop my head, open my eyes, and realize he’s frowning at me. “This is what people like Melanie do, Lakes. They are intimidated by your talent. They know you’re good, and they want to dull your shine.” He leans in closer, and I can smell mint on his breath. “Do not let these privileged people steal your fucking shine. That shine is yours. You worked on it every single day to get here. They have no right to take that from you.”