Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  “Like father, like son,” she said.

  “And you won’t find a better guitarist north of Mississippi —not even across the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “Except you, of course.” She kissed the top of his head.

  “Don’t you be flatterin’ me, Angel—now, you git on off to work.”

  Chapter 7

  Assuming she had been a topic of discussion among the phys ed staff, Leila took her time changing into her gym shorts, and lagged behind the class as they filed out to the track rather than the tennis court. She suspected a not-so-secret agenda.

  Clutching her clipboard, Ms. Thorpe announced, “Today we will establish a basis to determine the progress of each girl, between now and the end of the semester.” Her voice carried even when she spoke at a normal volume. “Begin by taking your at-rest pulse, proceed to some basic stretches, and then begin running the track. After each lap, I will record your pulse rate.”

  At least the track collaborators, Brigham and Weiss, had not shown up. Leila breathed easier. After mimicking her fellow pupils’ stretches, she moved with the rest of the girls as they hit the track. Finding a comfortable middle ground, she brought her speed up a notch so as not to disappoint Ms. Thorpe, and she then maintained that pace.

  Ahead of Leila, Maryanne ran with another three girls—the stereotypical popular girls. They bantered amongst themselves as each vied for position. Leila trailed behind. Rounding the 400-meter mark to complete one lap, each girl slowed with her fingers to her wrist, already counting off and comparing pulse rates. Each paused long enough to report to Ms. Thorpe and to notice that Coach Brigham had made an appearance along with Miss Weiss. Leila came up next, not nearly so eager as each girl ahead of her. She refused to look at either teacher.

  “Rate?” Thorpe demanded.

  Leila poked at her wrist, unable to find her pulse.

  Thorpe shoved the clipboard at the coach and grabbed Leila’s wrist, counting off as she looked at her watch. Thorpe’s brow shot up as she frowned. “You know a large portion of your grade in this class is based on effort, don’t you Sanders?”

  “I guess,” Leila said.

  “Then I want to see some effort out there!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Leila pulled back out into the stream of girls, feeling Weiss and Brigham’s stare. The other girls clumped into groups of threes and fours as Leila ran alone. As she came up behind each group, she slowed her speed and passed without drawing much attention.

  At the half-lap mark, she caught up to the forerunners again and held back, maintaining her posterior position. Her rhythm choked. Her economizing gait would give away her lack of enthusiasm, and so she loped alongside the popular girls but pulled away from them as she rounded the bend the second time.

  Again, Leila had difficulty locating her pulse. As she approached Thorpe, Leila shrugged. “One-ten?”

  Thorpe’s eyes and nostrils flared as she thrust her hand to Leila’s throat, pressing her finger deep into her neck. Leila’s eyes widened—now she had no trouble feeling her artery.

  Thorpe again glowered. “You think this class is a waste of your time?”

  Leila glanced at Brigham and back at Thorpe. “No ma’am, I don’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Sanders.” She shook her finger. “You think because you run every day, and because you’re probably in better physical condition than every girl in this class, that you shouldn’t have to exert yourself!”

  Leila did not respond but for her now increasing pulse. Thorpe had the attention of the entire class.

  “Admit it!” Thorpe’s hand settled firmly on one hip as she poked her finger at Leila. “You would much rather use this time to catch up on your homework!”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Thorpe squinted until her eyes nearly disappeared. Leila braced herself.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Thorpe exhaled. “I’ll cut you a deal. You get out on that track and run—I mean give it all you’ve got—you run to my satisfaction and quit when I say quit, and you don’t have to show up for my gym class for the rest of this semester.”

  Leila squinted back, fixing her gaze. “But I need to pass gym or I won’t graduate.”

  “You’ll get a passing grade.”

  Leila weighed the stakes. Any unwanted attention paled when compared to freedom from humiliation in gym class, not to mention extra time to complete assignments before her run home. And no more Weiss. “I need to pass with an A.”

  You look away, you lose.

  Thorpe’s eye twitched. “Then earn it! and you’ve got a deal.”

  Leila started on the track slowly, breathing from her diaphragm. She relaxed her shoulders and arms as her clenched fists unfurled. Picking a row clear of any runners, she gained momentum. Her breathing steadied as she established a consistent rhythm, holding her pace for a half lap. Each foot stroke blurred her awareness of the other girls, and her mind cleared as she overtook them without a glance.

  Rather than put distance behind her, Leila thrust forward into some other consciousness, running toward something beyond escaping gym or impressing Ian. She fixed on it, on the thud of each foot stroke against the immovable plane beneath her. Her own breath and pounding heart muted.

  She was flying.

  She didn’t know how long or far she ran, but when her exertion exceeded her lung capacity, she slowed simultaneously with Thorpe’s whistle. “Class over!”

  Maryanne and her friends moved, glancing back at Leila as they made their way toward the gym, exchanging cupped whispers.

  Leila took the final 300-meters at a leisurely run and then tapered to a jog. The three gym teachers exchanged words, though Brigham’s eyes remained upon Leila. Thorpe just smiled as she puffed her chest, turned, and then strutted toward the school building behind Weiss and the last of the popular girls. Brigham headed out to meet Leila on the track.

  She walked, now breathing hard and arching her back—exhilarated rather than tired.

  She called out, “Did you want to check my pulse?”

  Brigham smiled and shook his head. He walked toward her as she headed his way.

  “Did Thorpe pass me?” she said when they met up.

  “How can you even ask that?”

  They continued alongside each other, toward the building.

  Leila looked at him sideways. “So, now I suppose you’re going to try and recruit me for track.”

  “Can you blame me? I’m the track coach, that’s what I’m supposed to do.” He looked much better outdoors—his relaxed smile had returned and so had his natural color.

  “Well, you’re going after the wrong girl,” she said. “I have no interest in running track.”

  “But why? You’re a natural.”

  “Lots of reasons.”

  He looked straight at her. “Would you care to share?”

  “Aside from the fact that I’m probably the least competitive person you’ll ever meet, this just isn’t a good time for me, that’s all,” she said, avoiding his eyes.

  “Is that what you always say when you’re too scared to follow through?”

  Leila had used the ‘not-a-good-time-for-me’ line on him before—in fact, she used it often when hoping to sidestep uncomfortable issues without divulging too much.

  “I’m not scared to follow through when something’s in my best interest.” She now met his gaze. “But as far as I can see, this is only in your best interest.”

  He smiled as if caught. “Sure, it’d be great to coach someone like you—with your potential, I mean—but think of what it would do for this school. Your participation would likely push the board to fund a girls’ track team.”

  “I have been to so many schools that I couldn’t care less who gets what team.” She kicked at some loose gravel as they walked. “And I’m not so self-centered to think I’d have any impact on anyone or anything.”

  “You sell yourself short, not to mention your future.”

  She smirked. “And n
ow you’re going to tell me I’d get a scholarship for running? Yeah, well, maybe in another twenty years when anyone finally gives a hoot about girls’ sports—hell, I don’t even care about girls’ sports. Or any sports for that matter.”

  He stopped walking and faced her. She paused with him.

  “Then what do you care about?”

  “I care about getting through this school year without drawing any attention to myself.”

  “It’s a little late for that. Tomorrow you’ll be the talk of the school.”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “Why can’t a girl just run and be left alone?”

  “Why would a girl want to just run and be left alone?”

  “What—now you wanna be my shrink?”

  “I want to be your coach.”

  “I don’t need a coach.”

  “What do you need?”

  She looked directly at him. “What you can’t give me.” She started walking again.

  “Okay, Leila, listen—what’s your bottom line?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m willing to negotiate.”

  She laughed. “What?”

  “What’s it going to take to get you on the team?”

  “You mean, like a bribe.”

  “You already proved you have a price. What is it in this case?”

  She shook her head. “Yeah, well, Thorpe caught me off guard—I didn’t have a chance to think it through.”

  “Just the same, you do have a price.”

  “I can’t believe you.”

  “Sure you can.”

  She smirked. “Bribing me to run track is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Is it?”

  “Okay, I’ll do it for a million dollars.”

  “Be serious.”

  “You be serious.”

  He sighed. “Okay, just think about it—will you at least consider it?”

  “And you’ll get off my case, and keep Miss Weiss and Thorpe off my case too?”

  “If you’ll think about it—yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ll think about it—but don’t get your hopes up. I’m only stringing you along to get you off my back.”

  He threw a hand up and backed off with a grin. “A maybe is good enough for now.”

  As they left the track, Leila thought of only one thing she wanted from him—from anyone, for that matter. She just wanted a friend. Could she ask for something so simple without it turning into something too complicated? She could certainly test his boundaries with some friendly conversation.

  “I meant to tell you,” she said, “I really like that tape you gave me.”

  “Tape? Oh, yeah …,” Ian chuckled. “I forgot about that. I thought I just misplaced it or something.”

  “Or maybe you thought you gave it to some other girl?” she grinned. “You probably have a whole truckload that you dole out to ladies in distress.”

  “And thanks to me, there are quite a number of spinsters enjoying the blues as we speak.”

  “Including Miss Weiss?”

  “No. Not Miss Weiss.”

  Leila smiled. She couldn’t help liking him. She would have liked to needle him a little more on Miss Karen Weiss, but she had other curiosities. “So, given that you’re the track coach, how much photography do you actually do? I mean, are you primarily a photographer and then a coach or the other way around?”

  He flashed surprise and hesitated. “I guess I’m a photographer … I mean, that’s primarily what I want to be. Coaching is just what I do.”

  “Well, you have business cards.”

  “Yeah, I’ve sold some pieces, but I’m nowhere near the point of supporting myself with it.”

  “I really like your work in the gym lobby.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “They’re really intense. I almost feel embarrassed for your subjects.”

  His eyes sparked. “Why embarrassed?”

  “You caught them with some pretty stark emotion written all over them.”

  “I know. I’m never entirely comfortable with that.”

  They paused at the school entrance. “Do you ever photograph people who actually know you’re photographing them?”

  “I’ve done some portrait work.”

  “But not like school-picture portraits.”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “More intimate?”

  “I suppose you could say that.” His folded arms contracted across his clipboard.

  She sensed his discomfort and veered toward something more neutral. “The ones in the lobby—did you crop them to tighten your composition, or did you frame them in your lens that way?”

  “A little of both.” He smiled, his breath irregular. “You have an artistic eye.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Are you an artist?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What medium do you work in?”

  “Pencil. I’m trying out watercolor but struggling.”

  “That’s a hard medium.”

  “Yeah, but I like the challenge.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  She turned to look at him, catching him as he studied her face the way a portraitist does. As if in pain, he looked away.

  Leila spoke her heart, “I’d love to see more of your work, sometime.”

  He tensed and drew a long breath. “Leila,” he said, now evading her stare, “As much as I’d like that, I really wouldn’t be comfortable with it.”

  She knew why, but tried to make light. “Why? You’re not insecure about your work, are you?”

  “My insecurities—”

  Ms. Thorpe burst through the doors. “We’ve made some headway, have we?”

  Ian gave a quick and noncommittal shrug, as Leila huffed with irritation, not so much at Thorpe’s question but at the interruption. Leila pushed past them both, in a hurry to retrieve her books.

  Her run home sapped more energy than usual, and it wasn’t just the extra exertion of running for Ms. Thorpe, but the added weight of frustration from experiencing just a glimpse of what she could have enjoyed with Ian Brigham, if only she wasn’t a student and he a teacher. Why can’t I just look for a friend my own age? Kids at school seemed to do it all the time—make friends, go to parties, hang out at lunchtime. They made it seem so easy—getting along and sharing interests. Leila couldn’t remember exactly when it had dawned on her that she hadn’t any friends her own age. She had overheard other kids talking about playing after school, but for the longest time she thought they meant playing an instrument—like in a band.

  It hadn’t felt like isolation at the time, after all, her father had rarely left her unattended—either he or Joe or another trusted member of the band had always kept her nearby. She had learned how to stay quiet and out of the way, not only during band practice, but when her father went into a mood, sometimes for weeks. She knew how to entertain herself, and her isolation felt normal at the time. Now it felt lonely—and heavy.

  Chapter 8

  When Clarence Myles entered the faculty lounge, conversation lulled. He cut a path through several teachers, including Thorpe, Michaels, Brigham, and Weiss, avoiding all eye contact. If the lounge hadn’t housed the only refrigerator short of the cafeteria—and lunch staff rated even lower than faculty—he would have bypassed it altogether. He yanked open the buzzing old Frigidaire. His pesto-slathered chicken breast between two slices of French bread, and a bit of last night’s Brie cheese, would be worth a return visit at noon. Too bad his lunch couldn’t include a few swallows of Merlot.

  Myles filled his coffee mug and moved toward the door as Miss Michaels resumed the conversation, chirping, “… she’s such a free spirit, it’s no wonder her feet barely touched the ground. At any rate, it looks good for the track team this year with Kyle Schultz and now Leila Sanders. She’s bound to be a star runner.”

  Myles paused, casting a glance at Weiss who kept her eyes on Brigham—not as if that were anythi
ng new, but she didn’t stare with her usual lust. Brigham stood, without reaction.

  Thorpe chimed in, “She certainly has the self-discipline for it, running to and from school every day. Problem is she’s not exactly a team player, this one.” She jabbed Brigham. “You’re going to have a real challenge on your hands.”

  Myles’ brow shot up. He applauded his own intuition, finding a degree of satisfaction in learning that the rare student who had made an impression on him was, in fact, exceptional in some way—perhaps even a nonconformist, as uninterested in playing nice with the establishment as he was. At seventeen, not likely but, in her case, conceivable.

  “Do you think we’ll get a girls’ track team out of it?” Andrea Michaels stirred the pot.

  Miss Weiss, lingering to the side and unable to contain herself, finally blurted what everyone knew she would: “Title Nine states—”

  Another faculty member cut her off. “Spare us the Title-Nine lecture, Karen.”

  “Karen’s right, though,” Brigham spoke up. “And if Leila Sanders forces the issue, once and for all—good.”

  All eyes fell on Thorpe who remained silent as Brigham brushed past Myles and walked out.

  No one bothered to ask Myles’ opinion lest he snarl and make some snide remark about frail egos, pointless administrative debates, unilateral budget cuts, or policy fanaticism. Over the past nearly thirty years of teaching and having been involved with previous school systems, even serving on a school board in Philadelphia, he had a particular dislike for administration-versus-faculty politics. He admired that Brigham seemed to share his distaste. In fact, Ian Brigham was probably the only staff member with whom he had exchanged more than a few perfunctory words.

  Last year, during the first week of September, Brigham—the newcomer to the faculty at Millville High School—had noticed the Rolling Stone magazine under Myles’ arm. He casually mentioned an article, highlighting some blues or jazz.

  Myles had asked, “Do you play or just listen?”

  In a manner consistent with blues modesty, Brigham replied, “I mostly listen, but I noodle some blues on my guitar.”