Thorpe and her assistant, Karen Weiss had talked about the ‘Girl Runner,’ but it never occurred to him to ask her name. Even a little forewarning would have gone a long way in mitigating some of the awkwardness. At least he could have acknowledged Leila in a more dignified way.
Thorpe interrupted his musing. “So, what do you think of her?”
It took a moment to process her question. “You say she runs every day?”
“To and from school.”
Karen Weiss entered the office, saying, “I suppose that was her. What do you think, Ian?”
He knew Karen well enough to measure his response. “Until I see her run, it’s hard to say.”
“She has the right build, even better than Miranda. Perhaps this will be the year,” Karen said.
“We’ll see.” Brigham slipped into the boys office adjoining Thorpe’s. Karen followed as he yanked his chair and sat.
“I’ve been waiting three years for this,” Karen said, leaning against his desk, her tanned thigh only inches away. “The girls need a team of their own.”
“Please don’t quote the federal statute again, Karen. You’re preaching to the choir. You think I want a repeat of last year?”
“Miranda was your best runner.”
“She wasn’t our best, but I’ll grant you, she was good—besides, you know that wasn’t the concern. I simply don’t want to expend more energy on the gender issue than on drills and meets.”
Karen huffed. “It’s no longer a matter of allowing girls to play on a boys’ team. It’s a matter of the school board finally funding a separate girls’ team.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Ian said, scooting his chair away from her. “It’s Thorpe’s husband who’s on the school board. Go hound her.”
“You are simply no fun at work, Ian,” she said, nudging her calf against his bare knee as she peeked out the door. She stood and then leaned over him, whispering, “Are we still on for tonight?”
“Um, sure,” he said, already uncertain about exactly why they had rekindled the relationship after a summer-long reprieve. He had assumed it would feel as comfortable as slipping into an old T-shirt, but it didn’t fit the way he remembered. It occurred to him that perhaps they never ‘fit’ in the first place. In fact, by the time June had rolled around at the end of the last school year, Karen had cooled things off. Just before she left for vacation in Connecticut, she had suggested they date others over the summer. Ian supposed she’d already had someone else in mind. He told her it didn’t matter, though perhaps it bothered him more than he had anticipated. She left a void—he couldn’t deny that. And he did like her most of the time, even if her eyes glazed over at the mention of art or photography. Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was cute, nicely built, and wore her shorts short, not to mention she was also daring, fun loving, and energetic in bed. Yet the superficiality that once seemed good enough now left him empty. Besides that, he could never convince her that an evening at the Blues Basement constituted a good time.
As soon as Karen left, Ian stretched back in his chair and nudged his office door shut. The one person occupying his thoughts more than he cared to admit had just walked out of the gym on her way to homeroom. How could he have so grossly miscalculated Leila’s age? Not that she looked even close to her mid-twenties, but she sure didn’t carry herself like the typical seventeen- or eighteen-year-old. And of all things, she was a new student at Millville Memorial High School.
Chapter 5
As soon as Leila stepped into the hall, her recurring dream came rushing in—swarms of faceless bodies darting at her, spinning her around until she lost any sense of direction. All she could think of was Ian Brigham.
Even though their first encounter had been brief, she hated that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. She wasn’t like those other boy-crazy girls who fell for every cute guy that came along. Guys did not impress Leila. They provided the illusion of stability, like a rickety chair—useful to an extent but unreliable. She would rather stand. Yet meeting Ian had tricked her into hoping, or at least into imagining.
The one man she dared build a fantasy around—painting him into her imaginary life-by-the-lake, complete with photography and art studios in a quaint cottage—had sneaked his way in the backdoor and stood just out of reach. He now fit the category of another recurring dream; someone—some vaguely significant person—always beyond her grasp. Her body throbbed and heated with embarrassment, excitement, and even shame; she didn’t have time to over analyze why, that would have to wait.
Bumping shoulders and elbows as she pushed her way through the crowd, Leila squinted at her crumpled schedule. Laughter punctuated the murmur of voices, fading as the halls cleared. Following a few stragglers, she bounded up the stairway. Not until she had run the length of the second story did she realize she had taken a wrong turn. She spun as the bell clamored. Her sneakers chirped against the polished floors as she sprinted to the opposite end of the long corridor, where light from a distant window reflected off the floor, dimming everything around it. Panting, she neared the open door of Mr. Myles’ homeroom and was met by an alphabetic recitation. Adrenaline shot to her fingertips as she stood in the doorway.
“…Rabinowitz. Rodriguez. Ryan. Sanchez. Sanders—Sanders—”
Leila cringed at her name. Students froze in morbid silence like no other homeroom she had ever attended. All eyes shifted to her and back to Mr. Myles.
A face smiled from a seat in the row nearest the door. The front and corner desk in front of him remained unoccupied. The boy gestured, mouthing, “Sanders?”
Leila slipped into the corner chair, catching a glimpse of her teacher’s profile as he turned away, facing the long row of windows. Her stomach turned as he stiffened and drew in a deep, stuttering breath. He continued roll call, his grumbling voice prickling her skin. “Schultz. Sterns. Stilwell…,” and finished up with, “Tanner, Thompson, and Trombley.”
He clapped the roll-call book shut and spun around. Before she even saw his face, she recognized her Sam Goody customer from hell.
He paced along the windowed side of the room, his tennis shoes silencing his steps as he moved from the front of the room to the back, and again to his desk. He did not spare any of the drama she had grown accustomed to. For a paycheck she tolerated him, but the balance now shifted. As he skulked toward her, she struggled to bring her sight to his.
If you look away, you lose.
He stood before her, eyes brimming with disapproval, stolid and icy as ever.
“You’re a newcomer and a late one, at that!”
Leila shifted to sit erect and maintained her gaze.
“No one shows up late to my classroom. Perhaps you didn’t realize that, Miss Leila Sanders,” he said, emphasizing her first name with recognition.
Despite her thumping chest, Leila didn’t flinch or squirm. “It’s not my custom to be late, Mr. Li—” Limburger nearly slipped from her lips. She corrected, “Myles,” unintentionally emphasizing his name the way he had hers.
His eyes widened and then squinted as if they might spew flames. “There are consequences to being late to my classroom, Miss Sanders! Do you understand what that means?”
“I’m sure it means I’ll pay for this in ways I can’t even imagine.”
His brow rose a mere fraction and with it, the corner of his mouth. A distinct frown reversed his almost-smile. “Be careful, Miss Sanders. As any of your classmates will inform you, you are not off to a good start.”
As he walked back to his desk, she quaked from her core to every fiber of her clothes.
Myles announced, “Complete these contact cards and pass them to the front.” He placed a stack on each first desk and lingered at Leila’s before slapping it in front of her. He then returned to his desk and buried himself behind his Rolling Stone magazine.
Leila had done this dozens of times. It should have been straightforward and simple but her hands sweat.
Last na
me. First name. Address. She quickly filled in the blanks.
Date of Birth: May 3, 1960
Phone number: None
Father: Marcus Billings. Oops … Erased Billings and rewrote, Sanders.
Father’s Address: She sighed. Same.
Mother: Marilyn Sanders
Mother’s Address: She fidgeted with the pencil, Unknown
Guardian: —
Emergency contact: Leila began writing Artie Sparks, but on second thought, Myles would recognize the Delta blues artist’s name and think she was being insolent. With vigor, she erased Artie and rewrote Arthur Spartan, his legal name. Her animation drew Myles’ attention. As he rose, he kept his eyes set upon her and began collecting cards from the front row.
He towered over the desk of each front-row student as Leila tucked her card under the pile. When he reached her desk, she kept her sights straight ahead at his oxford shirt beneath his corduroy jacket. As she placed the stack in Myles’ outstretched hand, she met his eyes. The fluorescent bulbs blanched his high cheekbones and highlighted the streaked-gray hair that curled behind his ears. His receding hairline seemed consistent with a man in his fifties. Was his clean-shaven face simply a pretense of good grooming meant to impress on the first day of school?
Glaring back, he pulled her card from beneath the stack, and positioned it at reading-glasses level, telescoping it to arm’s length.
“Leila … Sanders ….”
She held her breath. Just then, a perky girl appeared in the doorway. “I’m here to pick up the record cards for the office.”
Myles frowned. “Just in time to suck all the fun out of that!”
He shoved the cards at the girl.
“Next on the agenda—locker assignments. As seniors, you are entitled to your very own locker this year. Unfortunately, too many parents in your community chose to procreate in 1960. Therefore, we have a locker shortage and two of you will have to share. The question is, which wretched souls will forfeit their long-awaited privacy?”
Again, he approached his morning target. Inhaling courage, Leila met his stare with a raised brow and cocked her head. A sinister smile curled his lips as he tore a paper in two and slapped one half on Leila’s desk and the other on the boy’s desk behind her. “And I don’t want to hear any whining.”
He then moved on to Sterns and Stilwell.
The bell rang. The good news was that homeroom had ended. The bad news was her first class, trigonometry, was with Mr. Myles.
Leila followed the sandy-haired boy to their shared locker.
He fumbled with the combination. “They say he’s an acquired taste, but I don’t know anyone who’s acquired it.”
She forced a smile, looking up from his Jethro Tull T-shirt to his face.
He grinned. “I thought for sure we were going to see a massacre on the first day of school. Man, you have no idea what you walked into—don’t no one come into any of his classes late.”
“He’s just a big bag of wind.”
“Sure he is, but he’s the kind of wind that can make your life hell. Don’t you see? He’s going to have it in for you for the rest of the year. The last kid he targeted ended up pissing his pants right in class.”
Leila rolled her eyes. “Great.”
“Oh, in case you didn’t know, I’m Kyle—you know, Schultz, behind you.”
“Yeah, I’m Leila.”
“Huh. Leila—like the Clapton song?”
“It’s spelled different.”
He shook his head. “You’re definitely new here.”
“More or less.”
He squinted. “You run past my house every day.”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Huh.” He shut the locker. Neither of them had deposited anything. “Well, it’s back to Mr. Myles again.”
He rolled his eyes and grinned. One corner of his mouth curled up and the other curled down. He had a boyish face. If he hadn’t been so tall, she might have mistaken him for a freshman.
“Fortunately,” he continued, “after math, I won’t have to see him again until tomorrow.”
A petite and pretty girl with blond, Farrah Fawcett hair came up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist.
He turned and kissed her quickly. “You’ll make me late!”
The girl glanced at the newcomer.
“This is Leila. She’s new. This is Maryanne.”
“His girlfriend.” She looked Leila up and down, raising an unimpressed brow. “Where are you from?”
“New Hampshire.”
She smirked. “I guess so.”
“Well, gotta run,” Leila said.
Kyle kissed Maryanne and pushed her away. “Seriously Annie, you’re going to make me late.”
When Leila reentered the class on time, Mr. Myles scowled.
“You …,” he exhaled with disdain and then returned to his reading.
His seat assignment landed her at the exact desk she had claimed in homeroom with Schultz again behind her.
“Welcome to trigonometry,” Myles stated and began to scratch out formulas on the blackboard.
While keeping her guard up, Leila copied numbers and letters that made no sense. She had barely passed geometry and even now had trouble remembering any of it.
After a minute, Kyle’s breath tickled the back of her neck as he whispered, “What would happen if I pulled that chop stick out of your hair?”
Myles flinched. His head cocked and his scribbling paused. Leila’s eyes widened.
Mr. Myles whirled around and braced himself against his desk as if restraining a full-blown tantrum. “Yes, Miss Leila Sanders, we’d all like to know what would happen if Mr. Schultz pulled that chopstick from your hair.”
She blinked. He can’t be serious.
He grabbed a wooden ruler and slapped it against his palm. “Well, Miss Sanders? Answer the question!”
She cleared her throat. “Well, sir, I’d have to injure Mr. Schultz with it. You’d confiscate it because I used it as a weapon. I’d be sent to the office and possibly suspended.” She paused. “At the very least, I’d have no way to eat my lunch.”
A glint shot from Myles’ eyes—the same she had seen at the store—a begrudging sanction of her wit, though she doubted he meant to let on.
He came to the front of her desk and tilted his head.
“So, you do understand how things work, Miss Sanders.” He walked past her to Kyle’s side.
Myles’ ruler snapped against his desk. “Is this how it’s going to be, Schultz?”
“No sir, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
~
A young woman wearing a long denim skirt and a gauzy peasant blouse greeted Leila at her classroom door, pressing her palms together and bowing in guru fashion. “Welcome.”
Leila averted her eyes, making her way to an obscure seat in the far corner.
After the bell rang, Miss Michaels drew in a cleansing breath and smiled. “Good morning, my fellow artists and creative spirits.”
A boy sitting in front of Leila toked an imaginary joint and passed it to his snickering friend.
With the grace of a ballerina, Miss Michaels distributed sketch tablets from student to student, her long skirt floating behind. “You probably noticed the wine bottle, softball, and Kleenex box on the table in the middle of the room. Today, I just want you to sketch what you see. There is no right or wrong interpretation.”
Leila eyed the objects, comparing their relative angles. If only she were as good at interpreting mathematical abstractions of angles as she was at visually sizing them up and transferring them to paper. By the time she had turned twelve years old, Leila had mastered the cylindrical bend of beer cans and bottles, the disk shape of lounge tables, and cubic angles of amplifiers and keyboards. Her favorite was the freestyle curvature of an open, empty guitar case. If nothing else was available, she always had her left hand or a foot or the figures and faces of those surrounding her, those in her father’s blues b
and.
She liked sketching, but she loved painting. Running provided inspiration for painting as opposed to simply sketching. Early morning transits offered long shadows, contrasting vibrant light, and rich color. Yet, as much as she loved painting, she struggled with it. Oils and acrylic weighted her brush and congealed like Elmer’s glue, but watercolors, for as much as they defeated her attempts at getting them under control, begged her persistence. She had hoped that being free to pursue painting, rather than piano lessons, would bring better results. To an extent it had, but her slow going brought frustration.
Leila’s pencil took over as her mind buzzed. Miss Michaels hovered from one pupil to the next as she made her rounds toward the back of the classroom. As Miss Michaels approached, Leila covered her work.
“May I?” the teacher asked.
With hesitation, Leila revealed her drawing—not so much a sketch as a precise depiction of the objects on the table.
“Very nice, Leila,” she whispered. “My, but you certainly do get carried away with details.”
That was an understatement.
~
Leila sat on the top bleacher, tucked away from the breeze, and read over her math homework. With all the stress of trigonometry—the formulas and the teacher—she could never catch up with all the abstract concepts, let alone keep up. And this was just day one. Her last semester in New Hampshire, shortly after her father died, was a blur. Just the same, math had always been a jumble of numbers. Her only recourse was to study and study hard. She bit into her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cramming as much math as she could for the remainder of her lunch session.
An irregular stream of boys distracted her. Taking to the track, they jogged counterclockwise followed by Coach Brigham. She sat up straight, her pulse in her ears as he laid his clipboard on the bench and turned toward his students.
The boys progressed around the track. Some jogged side by side. Few seemed to be exerting themselves. Kyle, the front runner, passed each jogger in the sporadic line. He seemed to be the only one running. All the others moved along at a sloppy trot.
Portrait of a Girl Running Page 3