by Monica Nolan
“Well then—” Bobby began eagerly.
“And it’s not really your woman-chasing ways—”
“Enid, the only woman I’ve thought of for the past few weeks is you!” Bobby told her earnestly.
“But this obsession with the game, the game above all else!” Enid’s voice cracked with emotion.
“It’s just a metaphor,” Bobby tried to excuse herself. “You know the old saying, life is like a field hockey match, you have to learn to play your position, develop your ball-handling skills…” The gym teacher could tell she’d fouled again by the look in Enid’s eye.
“It’s a terrible metaphor!” cried Enid. “It reduces life’s complexity to the level of a sandbox! Do you even understand what you’re saying? It’s just a rationalization for emphasizing sports to the exclusion of all else!”
“That’s not true,” Bobby groped for the words to convince Enid that field hockey need not divide them.
“I see Dot. We don’t have time to think about our feelings now,” and Enid hurried after the perfidious Old Girl.
Maybe we don’t have time to think of them, but we can’t stop ourselves from feeling them, Bobby thought sadly, watching Enid link arms with Dot and walk toward Essex.
She tried to put the Math Mistress out of her mind, at least until after Dot was dealt with. At lunch, Bobby buttonholed Hoppy, whose class Dot had attended, to check up on the unscrupulous blonde. “Has she done anything funny?” the gym teacher asked anxiously.
Hoppy said that Dot had behaved beautifully in Home Ec for Independent Living. “She was the fastest in class, rewriting a recipe for six so it works for one,” Hoppy reported. “I didn’t see any signs of that tendency Enid talked about.”
“Oh, that tendency, what was it again?” Bobby asked, wondering what ruse Enid had used to put the teachers on guard. Hoppy leaned forward over her coleslaw.
“She has a thing for young girls, especially athletic types. You should keep a weather eye out. I understand she’s planning to join your modern dance class this afternoon.”
Sure enough, when the girls, old and young, filed into the gymnasium for the last period of the day, Dot was among them. She and a group of friends laughed inordinately as they emerged from the locker room, wearing their ancient gym tunics. Bobby felt a wave of fury at this harpy housewife who had dared to tamper with the good clean fun of field hockey. She moved to the record player and put on Bernstein’s Age of Anxiety. The discordant moaning of the clarinets sobered everyone up.
“Today, we’re going to learn how to fall,” Bobby announced. “How to fall without hurting ourselves.”
One of Dot’s cohorts raised her hand. “Must we learn how to fall to the accompaniment of this sort of music?” she implored.
“This is modern dance,” said Bobby severely. Actually, she had turned the fifth form dance class into a vehicle for teaching various martial arts techniques. As long as she played discordant music in the classical style, she believed, no one would be able to tell the difference.
However, today would be the real test of her teaching skill. She would use her lesson plan to trap Dot Driscoll into an admission of guilt!
“Falling without getting hurt is a valuable skill.” Bobby let her eyes rove over the group of women and girls. “Whether you’re seven or sixty-two.” Would Dot recognize that reference to Miss Froelich’s age? “Start from a position of perfect posture: firm feet, tucked tummies, straight spines, shy shoulders, chin above chest. Now bend your knees. Deeply bend your knees. Lower…lower. Try to get as low as you can. You want to be so low that your tailbone almost touches the floor. Curve your spine. Pretend you’re a snail…then sit, and roll back. Good!”
“Ow,” said one Old Girl as her head snapped back on the mat.
“Tuck your chin,” cautioned Bobby. “Let’s try that again.”
She walked up and down the rows of students offering helpful comments as the rhythmic thud of falling bodies sounded over the screech of violins. At the back of the class, where the Old Girls had clustered, Bobby noticed that Mamie McArdle, the well-known Bay City columnist, was taking the lesson seriously. Her earnest round face was bedewed with perspiration as she struggled back to a standing position. “This takes it out of you,” she panted. “If I did this every day I could really reduce!”
“You’re doing fine,” Bobby praised her. She turned to Dot. “You’ve had some experience with falling, haven’t you, Dot?”
“Why, no.” Dot seemed flattered. “Do you really think I’m doing well?”
Bobby moved away, wondering if she was being too subtle. She glanced over her shoulder at Dot’s handsome, laughing face. Had she made a mistake, trusting Mona’s version of events?
“Now, I need a volunteer. Mrs. Driscoll, how about you?” Dot came forward with a smile.
“The ability to fall is essential when you are attacked,” Bobby told the class as the music built to a crescendo. She took hold of Dot’s tunic, jerking her off balance and kicking her feet out from beneath her. Surprised, Dot still curled gracefully and rolled to the floor.
“Very good.” Bobby couldn’t help praising the startled woman. She lowered her voice as she helped her up and said, “If you haven’t fallen before, you must have watched someone fall.”
“Not that I can think of,” Dot assured her.
“Pair up!” Bobby clapped her hands. “I want you to take turns throwing and falling.” She demonstrated again with agile Shirley Sarvis, and the class followed their example to the best of their ability. Dot had paired up with Mamie, and Bobby approached them, determined to take another run at the impervious assassin. “Will you be visiting Kent Tower this trip?” she asked. But Mamie had knocked Aunt Dot to the ground and, forgetting to curl, the suburban housewife landed flat on her back and was gasping for air.
“Oh, the tower!” said Mamie reminiscently. “Do the girls still sneak up there and throw pebbles down at their friends in the quadrangle? It would be fun to see it again, but oh, those stairs!” She gave a mock shudder. “No, I’m staying on solid ground. I’m afraid your class has quite worn me out, Coach Bobby—may I call you Coach Bobby? The girls tell me that’s what everyone calls you.”
The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. Bobby felt furious with herself. She’d failed. Dot’s sangfroid had foiled her.
The columnist followed Bobby as she went over to the phonograph to stop the record.
“I’d love to have a real powwow with you. You used to be quite the field hockey star, didn’t you? Tell me—confidentially and just between us two—do you ever feel bitter, knowing your career is over and all that’s left is teaching young girls who will soon outstrip you?”
“No, I don’t, not at all,” protested Bobby. She said it automatically, and yet as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized they were true.
“You had a bad fall, didn’t you?” Mamie pursued. “I noticed you seemed a little, well, focused on falling. Do you find your accident has unbalanced”—Mamie chortled a little at her joke—“your curriculum?”
“Really, Miss McArdle, I can’t discuss this with you now,” said Bobby. Dot had vanished with the rest of the class. “I need to start getting ready for the field hockey game this afternoon.”
“The big game, of course!” Mamie patted Bobby’s hand. “I’ll be in the stands, cheering for the team.”
Bobby followed her out the door and saw her hurry to join Dot and her other friends farther up the path. As she watched, Ole joined the Old Girls. Bobby breathed a sigh of relief. Ole wouldn’t let Dot harm the Holy Martyrs.
Then she saw Enid running down the path. The Math Mistress flew by Aunt Dot and her chums and hurtled straight at the Games Mistress. Staggering with exertion, she fell breathlessly into Bobby’s astonished arms.
“In my math class—talking about odds—one of the Old Girls—said Savages favored—four to two!” Enid gasped out the message.
At first Bobby felt a warm glow of pride. T
he next instant, realization hit her like a cold wave breaking over her head. If the Savages were favored to win, that made them Dot Driscoll’s target!
“And she had free run of the locker room!” Bobby exclaimed, horrified.
Dropping Enid, she dashed back through the gymnasium and into the locker room. The scene in the locker room was typical—girls in various states of undress, open lockers, more girls coming in from the side door. Bobby stood craning her neck, trying to look everywhere at once.
Then she spotted Mimi Nakagawa, shaking her head as Linda, a cupcake in one hand, held out a plateful of the delicious-looking morsels, frosted in strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. “Go ahead,” urged the fourth former. “My aunt made them!”
“American desserts too sweet,” the Japanese girl responded. As Bobby pushed past the disrobing girls, Kayo lifted one from the plate. “Vanilla, my favorite!” She opened her mouth, and Bobby dove through the crowd and knocked the sweet from the surprised girl’s hand. “Don’t eat that!” she ordered.
Chapter Thirty-four
The Big Game
“I’m sorry, girls, I can’t have you breaking training,” Bobby told the startled Savages as she swept the cupcakes into her athletic bag. “Let’s save the sugary snacks for our post-game party, all right?”
The firm discipline Bobby had established stood her in good stead. The field hockey players obediently handed over their cupcakes. The only player who had consumed more than a nibble was Penny Gordon, who apologetically gave Bobby the remaining half of her strawberry cupcake.
“It has a funny taste anyway,” she said.
Bobby compressed her lips. “Come with me,” she told Penny. The halfback followed Bobby through the gymnasium and out the field entrance, where Enid was sitting on the ground, her back against the building, still panting.
“I want you to go with Miss Butler to see Miss Rasphigi in the chem lab,” Bobby told Penny, helping Enid to her feet. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to play the game today.”
Penny’s eyes filled with tears. “It was only half a cupcake!”
“I know, I know,” said the harried coach. “It’s not that—I’ll explain later.” She handed Enid the bag with the cupcakes. “See if you can get Miss Rasphigi to analyze these,” she told Enid in an undertone. “Maybe we can get Aunt Dot on attempted poisoning, if nothing else.” She looked at the stalwart teacher, her eyes aglow with admiration. “You saved the Savages, Enid!”
Enid flushed and brushed off the praise. “It took teamwork,” she replied.
Bobby’s heart caught in her throat. “Enid—did you say teamwork?”
Enid tried to frown. “It’s just an expression. Come on Penny, let’s get going.”
Bobby looked after the sobbing fourth former and the girl of her dreams for a moment. Maybe she’d win at this game of love yet!
Before she sent the Savages out on the field to warm up, she assembled them one last time. Her heart swelled as she looked over her team, unified in their determination to beat the Holy Martyrs. Mimi Nakagawa stood between Linda and Sue. Angle and Kayo were in the back row, between Edie and Annette.
“Girls, before you go out there, before you win or lose, I want to tell you how proud you’ve made me.” Bobby choked up a little and had to blow her nose before continuing. “When you started out at the beginning of the season, many of you were completely ignorant of field hockey techniques. Many of you had never even held a hockey stick. You were unsure of yourselves, and unsure of each other. Today, you’re not only playing for the trophy, which is a heck of an accomplishment, but what’s more important, you’ve learned to play together. You’ve become a real team. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Now remember: do not accept food or drink from anyone but me. Go get ’em!”
The girls burst into cheers and ran enthusiastically onto the field, just as the Holy Martyrs descended from their bus, looking as brawny and tough as ever.
The bleachers were beginning to fill with students, Old Girls, and faculty, all eager for a good seat at this climactic game. Hoppy’s Young Integrationists were sitting together, holding a vertical banner that said something in Japanese. Peggy Cotler was in the front row, with her reporter’s notebook ready. Ole waved to Bobby from a spot midway up. Bryce, wearing a tie striped in Metamora’s crimson and white, was next to him, trying to light a cigarette in the chill breeze, Serena, Alice—even Madame Melville was there, smoking one of her foul-smelling cigarettes.
Then she saw Dot, a few rows above, sandwiched in between Mamie McArdle and another Old Girl. It riled the Games Mistress to the core to see the Savages’ would-be saboteur playing the part of the faithful fan.
At least she’s where I can see her, Bobby reminded herself. As the referee blew the whistle to clear the field, Miss Craybill settled herself in the bottom row, between Miss Otis and Vivian Mercer-Mayer. “What an attractive Games Mistress!” Bobby heard the high-society heiress exclaim.
A stillness settled over the bleachers as the rival teams took up their positions. It was as if the whole school instinctively felt that this game was about more than just field hockey. Winning it would be a kind of vindication of all that Metamora stood for—curiosity and a passion for learning, gay camaraderie and loyal sisterhood, tolerance, courage, honesty—and all those indefinable things which made it so special. Victory, in some strange way, would wipe out the ugly falsehoods about Miss Froelich’s death that threatened to besmirch Metamora’s noble character.
Kayo was poised, tense and still, at the bully. A shrill whistle set her into motion, and so rapidly did she and her opponent tap sticks and ground the regulation three times that the clacking of sticks was like the rat-a-tat of a machine gun. Then Kayo had the ball, pulling it to herself and sending it back to Angle on her right in one fluid motion. It all happened so fast that Bobby could hear the murmurs in the stands, “What happened? Where’s the ball?” The players were all in motion now, a pair of hefty Holy Martyr halfbacks closing on Angle as she dribbled up field.
“Don’t power through,” muttered Bobby. “Pass, Angle, pass!”
As if she could hear her coach, Angle feinted and passed back to Kayo. Kayo kept the ball only a few seconds before sending it to Annette, who with her usual subtle skill had evaded her guard. Annette dribbled the ball up and shot. It was a difficult shot; the angle was too oblique to be certain. It looked like it would clear the far post and be out. The Holy Martyr goalie thought so too; she waited an instant too long before diving for the ball, just as it sneaked inside the far post and bounced into the side net.
A deafening cheer rose from the bleachers. “Yeaaaaah, Metamora! Yeaaaaah, Annette!”
The Holy Martyrs were angered. Their center beat the ground with her stick in frustration. Their anger made them careless. They racked up more fouls than goals in the first half. Even without the penalty hits, which Bobby’s endless drilling made a sure thing, the combination of Angle, Kayo, and Annette was unbeatable.
At halftime the players trooped off the field, sweaty and happy. “What did you say to that right wing that made her drop her stick?” Sue Howard asked Linda.
Linda replied, “Oh, she tried that old ghost business on me. So I just asked her a few questions about her sexual adjustment.” She added seriously, “I’ve decided I’m going to be a field researcher for Dr. Kinsey, and I need practice collecting histories.”
Bobby felt a wave of gratitude for Sandy Milston and her library.
“Lemonade, anyone?” Turning, Bobby saw Aunt Dot carrying a big thermos and a package of paper cups.
“Lotta,” Bobby called, spotting the fourth former in the stands. “Get these players some ice water.” With the alacrity of a punished dog being called to his master’s side, Lotta leaped recklessly down the crowded bleachers and flew to do Bobby’s bidding. Bobby grabbed Dot’s elbow and hustled her around the corner of the gymnasium to relative privacy.
“Too much sugar?” inquired Dot. “I can get them something
else. Iced tea? I want to help—”
“I’m sure you do!” Bobby’s anger spilled over. “You must be hot and tired from rushing around wrangling refreshments. Have a glass of lemonade yourself, why don’t you?” She grabbed a paper cup and filled it from the thermos.
“I’m not thirsty.” Dot was taken aback.
“Have a sip!” Bobby urged.
“No, really, I—”
“Drink it!”
Dot shrank away as Bobby tried to force the glass of lemonade to her lips. “I said no!” She struck the cup from Bobby’s hand, and the lemonade spattered the dead grass.
The mask was off. Anger, fear, and greed danced across Dot’s face like a trio of demented ballerinas.
“I know what you’re doing,” Bobby told Dot. “And I know what you’ve done. But this—this perversion of good, clean fun ends here, if I have to tie you to the vaulting horse!”
Dot turned away. “You’re insane. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bobby grabbed her arm. “Don’t you? Mona told me everything. Maybe I can’t prove you killed Miss Froelich, but I’ve got plenty of evidence that you tried to poison a bunch of teenagers!”
Dot turned white. “Mona’s a pathological liar!” She forced the words out from between her bloodless lips. “You can’t believe a word she says.”
The whistle blew, signaling the end to halftime. Bobby turned and left the defeated Dot, who was standing as if frozen.
“Bobby!” It was Enid, panting from the unfamiliar exertion again.
“Enid!” Unconsciously Bobby grasped Enid with both hands. “Exercise agrees with you.”
“Oh Bobby, you’re indefatigable,” Enid couldn’t repress a smile. “I had to take Penny to the infirmary. She threw up in Miss Raspighi’s lab. Miss Rasphigi says the tests she has to run may take a while. How’s the game going?”