by Bob Purssell
My mother replied with a rhetorical question. “If it were important to the other captains, wouldn’t they dress accordingly?”
* * *
The day of the pep rally, I did wear my gold silk blouse and black pantsuit. In a sea of tops and jeans, I didn’t just standout; I looked like I had arrived from another planet. While some gave me compliments, I don’t know how many times I had to answer the questions, “What are you doing?” and “Why are you so dressed up?” George from the boys’ hockey team quipped, “Our team manager, slash coach is announcing her million-dollar–a-year contract.” One of the girls told her susceptible friend, “Barb won the Publishers Clearing House giveaway.” The gullible friend congratulated me. I was attracting so many comments that I actually considered calling home and asking my mother to bring over some jeans. Of course, she never would, so I didn’t bother.
During the last period of the day, the student body and faculty assembled in the gym for our pep rally. After the cheerleaders led a cheer, each coach and his or her team assembled behind the microphone. After speaking about the team and introducing the players, the coaches then asked their team captains to say a few words. Girls’ ice hockey was the fourth in this succession of six squads.
The boys’ basketball team went first. Their captain, in a moment of exuberance, declared, “This year we’re going to the hole and stuff our balls.” The wrestling team’s captain sauntered to the microphone, said seven words (“Be cool, come out and watch us”), and then rejoined his teammates.
When my time came, I stood up and walked to the microphone. As I did, I looked out at the seemingly unending sea of faces, and my throat went dry. As the coach of the girls’ team introduced me, I swallowed to keep my voice from cracking. Beginning to speak, I could feel the hundreds of eyes peering at me.
“Saturday, we begin our season. We on the team believe that we have a chance to do well this year. We may even qualify for the state championship. That’s something we haven’t done for a good long time.
“But all of our team’s—your team’s—ambitions depend, in part, on you. We need your energy, your enthusiasm to spur us on to greater efforts. With your support, with you cheering us on, we can have a great season. Without that support, our prospects are nowhere near as bright.
“I know that some of you are skeptical. So let me demonstrate.” Pointing to those on my left, I said, “When I point to you again, yell, ‘Go Wildcats.’” Then pointing to those on my right, I instructed them, “When I point to you, yell, “Wildcats will win.’” Now addressing everyone, I said, “Every time you cheer, cheer louder than you did before.”
I pointed to the left half of the assembly. A few of the students shouted, “Go Wildcats,” but most spoke the words, while others remained silent. Wondering if my idea was going to be a flop, I pointed to the students on the right. Their cheer of “Wildcats will win” was somewhat louder than the initial “Go Wildcats” cheer. I pointed back to the students on my left. Their second cheer was definitely louder than their first effort.
The second “Wildcats will win” cheer was loud, and much relieved, feeling my idea might work, I alternately pointed left and right. The crowd increasingly got into it. By the fourth sequence of cheers, the gym was rocking. After the sixth exchange, the din was so loud that one of the women teachers put her hands over her ears. I raised both hands and the cheering died out.
When the gym had quieted, I rhetorically asked, “If you were playing, and you heard what you just did, would you play harder?” After a pause, I finished. “Okay, my teammates and I appeal to you to come to the games and yell like you just did. Better yet, bring a friend and yell like mad. You’ll have a great time, and you’ll help your team win.”
I waved as I stepped away from the microphone. Students started clapping. Reveling in the moment, I savored my success.
After I left the microphone and rejoined my teammates, the ecstatic girls on the hockey squad greeted me with hugs and pats on the back. I blushed. When the event was over, George from the boys’ hockey team found me and said, “You done good, Coach.” I blushed again.
The following day, Mr. Bernstein, the assistant principal, saw me in the hall and waved me over. When I reached him, he told me, “Barbara, you did a great job. You set the tone we were all looking for.”
Embarrassed, blushing, I replied, “Thank you.”
“So you won’t be surprised, I’ll be sending your parents a letter telling them how pleased I am.”
About a week later, Elizabeth Sue, the prettiest cheerleader, told me, “I don’t get it. You were so cool in front of that big crowd, but when some guy tries to say a word to you at a dance you, like, run away from him.”
I gave Elizabeth Sue some goofy answer, but like her, I didn’t get it either.
* * *
A potential crisis loomed as the opening contest of the season approached. There were twenty-five players on the boys’ ice hockey team and only twenty could dress[22] for the game. Ready to shift the responsibility, the Imaginary Coach hinted I should make recommendations. Not liking the idea, I feared those who did not play would blame me for that ignominious distinction. However, not knowing what to do, I reluctantly agreed.
Three days before the first game, Mr. Bernstein waved me over as I walked to my physics class. He asked, “Barbara, who’s making the decision about which boys dress for the opener?”
“I am, I guess,” was my unenthusiastic response.
After saying, “That’s not such a good idea,” he added, “Let me take care of this.”
This was my first inkling that the school administration had any idea of my role vis-à-vis the boys’ team.
During the season, my role grew. As team manager, I would stand behind the bench during games so I could help the players. After several poor decisions, the Imaginary Coach sought me out and asked what I would have done. I told him, and he replied that in the future I should give him advice. We worked out a system. When he needed help, which was often, the Imaginary Coach would look in my direction and I would give him, in a deferential manner, a one-sentence suggestion.
I would like to say that we became a great team and won the state championship. We didn’t, but we weren’t a patsy either.
MRS. W
Editor’s Note: In a note to a friend, dated 9 May 2064, Barbara O’Leary wrote: To me a secret is a trust, something I must not disclose, but rather, I should keep safe from prying eyes. Instinctively at first, then later from practical experience, I came to believe that secrets grew in value if they remained truly hidden. With such an outlook, as my life progressed, I amassed more and more secrets and confidences. Although I never made any statements or assertions in support of my philosophy, others somehow seemed to realize how I was behaving. Often without prompting, without negotiating for a quid pro quo, they divulged to me the most potentially embarrassing facts. Of course, they ran no risk of disclosure because I kept all their secrets secret. When I did use one of my secrets, I always went to great lengths to hide the source of my knowledge.
* * *
As team manager, I got an insight into the male mind that few young women ever do. By Christmas, I stopped being a girl to my male teammates and became one of the guys. Consequently, I saw and heard the boys’ hopes, frustrations and fears, their language, their thoughts and their desires. Since I kept all these expressions as confidences, the boys’ trust in me grew and their revelations became more explicit and potentially more embarrassing.
Now in any high school, there are those girls whom sociologists characterize as “sexually active.” The boys on the hockey team were far less charitable; “fucking slut” was one of their descriptions.
My teammates’ disdain for these girls only fueled my determination not to be like them. However, at least some of the boys were attracted to these oft-disparaged young women. When I saw my teammates talking to and jo
king with these girls, in my naiveté, I wondered: What could be the attraction of a fucking slut?
To preserve my reputation, I kept my distance from the school’s promiscuous girls. However, the teacher of my honors class in American history assigned licentious Karen, whom the boys often characterized as a fucking slut, and me to write a paper on the American labor movement during the first half of the twentieth century. Why the instructor chose to pair us I will never know, but the decision had consequences far beyond my understanding of the Wagner Act.[23]
The Friday afternoon before our report was due, Karen and I met at her house to finish up. I figured that by five I would be on my way. At four-thirty, Elizabeth Sue drove her personal BMW into Karen’s driveway. A tall, beautiful girl, she was Karen’s closest friend and also identified by the boys on the hockey team as both a “piece of ass” and a “fucking slut.” Since Karen and I had nearly finished our report, I prepared to leave these two to whatever they had planned for the evening.
To my surprise, Karen suggested, “Barb, why don’t you come with us tonight. We’re going to a really great party.”
Before I could respond, Elizabeth Sue seconded the invitation. Wary of any association with these two girls, I replied, “My mother would never let me go unless she discussed it with your mother.”
“Not a problem,” answered Elizabeth Sue. “I’ll tell my mom to call your mom.”
Relieved, I thought, there’s no way my mother will agree to this. Figuring I was off the hook, I gave Elizabeth Sue my mother’s phone number.
“You two finish up what you’re doing,” directed Elizabeth Sue. “I’ll call my mom and explain everything.”
By five, Karen and I had completed our project. We found Elizabeth Sue in the kitchen sipping a soda she had taken from the refrigerator. When Karen asked, her friend explained, “My mom just called. It’s all set. Barbara, your mom said she was cool with you going with us. If you want, you can stay over at my house when we get back.”
Surprised to say the least, I scrambled for an excuse. “I haven’t got anything to wear.”
“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” responded Karen. “Liz will lend you an outfit.”
With mock horror, Elizabeth Sue replied, “What am I, a clothing store?”
“Don’t plead poverty, you rich bitch,” countered Karen.
Hoping Elizabeth Sue would agree, I said, “I can’t possible ask you to—”
With the word, “Bull,” and a dismissive wave, Elizabeth Sue headed toward the door, saying, “Let’s go, girls.”
* * *
Elizabeth Sue Wingdale’s house was gigantic, at least twice, maybe more, times the size of my parents’ large home. Her walk-in closet could have held the inventory of a modest woman’s clothing store. Without a thought, she and Karen outfitted me with an expensive sweater, mini-skirt and stockings. The shoes were half a size too small, but somehow I got them to fit. Karen suggested, “At the party, you can take them off. Nobody will mind.”
While Elizabeth Sue did Karen’s make up, I verified that Elizabeth Sue’s mother had called mine. To my astonishment, my mother told me, “Oh, yes, Mrs. Wingdale called earlier. She’s very nice. It sounds like you’ll have a wonderful time. I’m excited for you.”
“It’s okay?”
“Of course, I appreciate your calling us. Have a good time.”
Confused, I rejoined Karen and Elizabeth Sue. Karen asked, “Everything okay?”
Distracted, I replied, “Yes.”
“See, it’s all working out,” commented Elizabeth Sue.
No longer sporting my jeans-only look, dressed in a provocatively short skirt and black pantyhose, now excited, I decided to put away my qualms. Mother had agreed I could go. She thought I would have a good time, so why not?
In the backseat, listening to my two companions, I wondered if the boys’ judgment was harsh. Perhaps they had it wrong. Maybe Karen and Elizabeth Sue were not all that bad. I decided I should make up my own mind.
* * *
As we exited the interstate, Karen looked at me and explained, “At the party, I wouldn’t advertise the fact I was in high school. If they ask, tell ’em you’re home from college for the weekend.”
There was a big crowd, mostly guys, on the lawn of the frat house. With me bringing up the rear, the three of us went inside. At first, we hung together, but then Elizabeth Sue went off with a guy. Sometime later Karen also left me.
Feeling nervous, uncomfortable, I kept dancing, the loud music preventing conversation. Eventually, I got thirsty. There was no shortage of beer, but I opted for the punch. My first sip enlightened me. Putting the cup and its strongly spiked beverage aside, I went back to dancing.
Doing as Karen suggested, anxious to keep secret my high school status, I made a point of asking the guys I met questions, keeping them talking about themselves. When they asked, I explained I was home for the weekend from my college in St. Louis. Satisfied, the guys would let the subject drop and return to convincing me they were, as one of them put it, “party animals.”
Around eleven, I decided to catch a breath of fresh air. Outside, I realized I was one of a handful of girls surrounded by a hoard of guys. An outburst of cheers caused me to look to my left. Surrounded by a crowd, two guys were having a peeing contest. Repulsed, nervous, scared, I went back inside the frat house.
I wanted to leave.
* * *
Trying to find either Karen or Elizabeth Sue, I went from room to room. They were not on the first floor. Getting evermore nervous, I worked my way up a crowded staircase, not seeing either of my two companions. I started down a hall and looked in the first door. In the corner, I saw Karen sitting bare-chested on the lap of some guy who had his right hand under her skirt.
Pushing my way across the room, I yelled to make myself heard above the din, “Where’s Elizabeth Sue?”
Karen said, “Next door,” before locking lips with the guy in a passionate kiss.
Forcing my way back across the room, I headed for next door. When I reached the doorway, Big Boy, with a beer in his right hand and a belly hanging over his belt, blocked my view. He informed me, “You can’t go in there,” and then belched.
Angered, I pushed Big Boy aside and looked into the room. Elizabeth Sue was lying on a bed, apparently asleep. Three guys, one without any clothing below his waist, were standing at the base of the bed laughing.
I screamed, “What are you doing?”
The guy without any pants ran past me and out of the room; the other two followed moments later.
Big Boy put a hand on my shoulder.
I spun around and looked him in the eye. He started to speak but stopped when I hissed, “I’m taking my friend home. Do you think I need to call the police?”
That changed Big Boy’s attitude. Explaining, “She was tired; she asked if she could lie down,” he helped me lift an unsteady Elizabeth Sue to her feet. As I buttoned her blouse, looking at me with barely open, sleepy eyes, Elizabeth Sue tried to speak but was unable to form a sentence.
When I asked, “Have you been drinking?” the girl slowly shook her head. After sniffing Elizabeth Sue’s breath and not smelling any alcohol, I glared at Big Boy. “Did you drug her?”
Not answering my question, Big Boy protested, “See, nothing happened. She’s okay.” He then added, “See, her-her dress, miniskirt is okay.”
I hissed, “Did you rape her?”
That did it. The word “rape” carried like a shot. People in the hallway stopped what they were doing and looked to see what was happening.
Terrified, Big Boy put his arms under Elizabeth Sue and said, “I’ll carry her. Where’s your car?”
“Outside, across the street.”
We began pushing our way through the crowd in the hallway. After directing Big Boy to wait, I dragged an inebriated Karen off the
lap of the guy who was fondling her, put on her top, and ordered Big Boy to, “Get us out of here.”
With Big Boy carrying Elizabeth Sue, with me dragging a drunken Karen, Big Boy led me down the stairs and out the frat house’s front door. At the car, I recovered Elizabeth Sue’s keys from where she had hidden them under the right rear tire. Big Boy helped me put both girls in the backseat.
As I opened the driver’s door, Big Boy explained, “We all were just having a little fun.”
Furious, I snarled, “Tell your friends to go fuck themselves.”
* * *
Carefully, I drove away from the frat house. Since I was attending driver’s Ed, I only had a learner’s permit, which required me to drive with an adult and only during daylight hours. Fear of arrest filled me with terror; a terror that excluded all other thoughts. I never considered the idea of taking Elizabeth Sue to the hospital or summoning assistance with my cell phone.
Determined to escape back to my home, I focused exclusively on my driving. Except for a few hours behind the wheel of a car, the only motor vehicles I had driven were go-karts. Everything hinged on my not breaking any laws and not drawing attention to my driving.
After a mile on local streets, I reached the lightly traveled interstate. Driving below the speed limit, I stayed in the right lane. Twice, we drove past police cruisers. Luckily, in both instances, the officers were already ticketing motorists.
Behind me, I heard Elizabeth Sue’s soft moans and Karen’s repeated belches and occasional puking sounds. I opened the windows when the smell of vomit began to permeate the air.
Just after one-thirty in the morning, we arrived at Elizabeth Sue’s mansion. To my surprise, the house was dark. Where were Elizabeth Sue’s parents?
Opening the BMW’s rear doors I ordered, “Come on; get out.”
Karen, still drunk, slid off the seat onto the ground. I helped her up and guided her to the back door. All the while she was laughing, trying to sing a song. Becoming annoyed, I told her to, “Be quiet,” as I left her in a heap next to the door.