Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  He rubbed the side of his face. “How long have you been on your own?”

  “Since my dad died last December.”

  His eyes shifted with slow comprehension and finally came back to Leila. “That was less than a year ago.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “Don’t have one. She took off before my third birthday.”

  He moved toward her. “How did your dad die?”

  Leila inhaled and held her breath as she said, “Cancer. It took a couple years.”

  Ian shook his head. “I’m so sorry—my dad died when I was a freshman in college … I know how hard that is.”

  “How did he—?”

  “Car crash.”

  “That’s sudden. It must have been hard.”

  “Yeah, it kinda blew my whole world apart.”

  Her brow furrowed as if she were calculating. “You were a freshman—at Dartmouth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that why you dropped out?”

  “Yeah. No more funding.”

  “You never said what you majored in.”

  He snorted. “I was supposed to be a doctor—just like Dad.”

  “He didn’t leave you any money to finish your education?”

  “It all went in the civil law suit.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He was drunk—killed a woman.”

  Leila sighed. “Whoa.”

  He couldn’t believe he had just divulged to her what he had never told anyone. Why did he feel compelled to confide in her? “Yeah. And he wanted to tell me how to run my life…?”

  Leila’s watering eyes gripped him with such intensity—his empathy for her intermingling with his own repressed grief. He wasn’t sure which was more disconcerting—the pang of emotion or the fact that young Leila stirred it. He shrugged, a fake smile curbing the significance of it. “I didn’t want to be a doctor anyway, that was my dad’s idea—though I would have liked an MFA.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “My parents divorced when I was eleven. She’s in Denver, married to some big-wig hospital executive.” He laughed as though none of it mattered, then looked back at her. Somehow, she had managed to make her confession about him.

  “Never mind that.” He craved knowledge of her. “How are you making it?”

  “My dad and I devised a plan so that I could live on my own. I work, and my other dad helps out.”

  “Your other dad?”

  “My dad’s best friend. He lives in Amsterdam, I mean, that’s where his post office box is.”

  “You mean Netherlands or upstate?”

  “The country. He and my dad broke up—that is, the band broke up—shortly before the diagnosis.”

  “They were musicians?”

  “Yeah. Blues. Seems like we were on the road most of the time, or moving around between gigs.”

  “You traveled with your father’s band?”

  Leila chuckled. “Mostly during school vacations. Crazy, huh? I can’t tell you how many years it took before I realized that wasn’t normal.”

  Ian stared, trying to comprehend what she had just divulged. Now the blues made sense, and her familiarity with nightclubs, and her ease with men. In fact, Leila was not the typical teenage girl.

  “Who took care of you while your father was sick?”

  “Me.”

  “Who took care of your dad?”

  “Me,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Until hospice stepped in. That’s why I had to move. They pretty much had me all set up to go into foster care. As soon as he died, I relocated across the state border, from Vermont to New Hampshire—you know how slow inter-state bureaucracy is. I just got lost in the system.”

  “No one ever questioned who you were or where you came from?”

  “I stayed low-keyed, moved to New London, a quiet little college town where landlords are accustomed to renting to young women. It was easy. Even when I started at the high school after Christmas vacation, I was surprised at how easy it was to fall between the cracks. If you don’t make trouble, it’s amazing how people will believe what they want. Add a move to Long Island six months later, and my trail fizzles into obscurity.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to simply go into foster care?”

  Leila shrugged. “Maybe. But my dad scared the crap out of me with stories about how bad that could go—said it would give me nightmares for the rest of my life, like it did him.”

  She stared off for a moment, a slow grimace forming. When her gaze returned to his, she had more the countenance of a woman than a child.

  She continued, “So we worked on a plan, and he made me promise to follow through.”

  “Jeez, Leila.” The ramifications of her loss began to register. The pang in his core returned. “I am so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay.” She would have been convincing but for the way she pursed the quiver from her lips and her eyes darted.

  If he moved only inches, she would have been in his arms. He tucked his hands back in his pockets. “When do you turn eighteen?”

  “May.”

  “Is that why you don’t want to run track? You’re afraid someone will find out before you’re legal?”

  “Come spring, it won’t really matter I guess. I’m just more comfortable living quietly below the radar.” Her eyes moved to his, and although he did not close the gap between them, she seemed nearer. “Besides that, I’m not competitive, and I’ve never been a team player. I don’t like participating.”

  She tipped her chin toward him. His jaw and loins tensed.

  “Leila,” he breathed her name, full of caution as he stepped back, one arm restraining the other across his chest.

  If Leila had stepped a hair closer or initiated a kiss, Ian might have wavered in his determination to keep his hands to himself.

  Leila turned away. “May I see your darkroom?”

  “Uh—I suppose,” he said, part relieved and part distrusting his own self-control in close quarters. Then he remembered the photographs hanging to dry. The frames of her. “I ought to warn you, though. Just before you got here I was working on one of those pictures of you running at the beach.”

  “Really?”

  He pushed the door open and turned on the light.

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m afraid I didn’t have a chance to hide the evidence.”

  “Evidence of what?” She stood before the drying line and glanced at him with a smile and went back to scrutinizing each shot.

  He chuckled. “I think I’ll refrain from answering that on grounds I might incriminate myself.”

  “I’ll bet,” she said and turned to him.

  Even in the stuffy, too-warm room, goosebumps rose on his torso. He wished Leila would quit looking into his eyes as if reading his thoughts. With any other woman, he would not hesitate to stroke her face, drawing her in to sample her willingness—though in most cases it was she who tested his—it had been that way since his thirteenth birthday. He felt far more comfortable letting a woman set the pace. Intimacy rarely felt urgent. But in this moment, he wanted Leila in a way he had never experienced. Perhaps it was her innocence that tempted him. If he touched her, grazed her arm or her cheek, could he stop himself from taking what he had no right to?

  “What do you think of them?” he asked, moving past her, keeping a safe distance.

  “I like them. I mean, I’ve never seen myself running. I look far less awkward than I imagined.” A rosy blush colored her cheeks. “I have to admit, it’s pretty flattering.”

  He refrained from the flirtation of his usual banter and kept silent as she sidled past and moved from photo to photo.

  “May I have this one?” she asked, unclipping a shot of her body in midair.

  “Of course.”

  She examined it a moment longer and then moved over to his equipment. He gave her a brief rundown of the enlarger and different chemical baths and how
they worked. They ended up back in front of the drying line. From there, he stepped into the doorway.

  “So, aside from the subject,” she said, moving past him and back out into his work area, “What inspires you most?”

  “Lighting,” he said as she stood between him and the glowing rear windows. “The light has to be just right.”

  She turned to face the shaft of light. It bathed her in luminance.

  He continued, “Late afternoon or early evening is best.”

  “Like this time of day?” Her face filled with all the expectation of a virgin—he knew the look so well.

  “Exactly like this.” His breath caught in his chest. Their eyes met. Hers traveled all over him as if begging him near her. He approached and stood before her. She parted her lips and drew in a deep breath.

  “Sit,” he whispered.

  Leila lowered herself to the stool, her gaze fixed upon his face. Touching only the stick restraining her loosening hair, he released the thick tresses, which tumbled over her shoulders. She sank her fingers in and drew her hair back, catching and reflecting the sun. He stood over her for a moment longer. He needed to move quickly before he lost the light.

  “Would you take off your sandals?”

  They slipped from her feet. He reached for his camera.

  “And the blouse—would you mind?”

  The shirt slid from her porcelain arms onto to the floor, exposing her tank top as he shot frame after frame. He could not catch his breath as his lens unleashed her beauty. For a moment, he lowered his camera and stared.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, under his breath. She blushed.

  “Arch your back a little.” He clicked. “And dip your chin.”

  She obeyed.

  “Turn toward me.” He moved closer, swept her hair to one side, and backed away.

  She kept her eyes on him and seemed to interpret his movements, submitting to his subtle gestures. Each adjustment of the lens was a caress, each shot a kiss. He lingered in the sensuality of her body and prolonged the intimacy of all they had shared, if only through his lens.

  He finished off the first roll in black and white, while the light remained strong and intense. The sun had begun to set and the shadows fell longer as the light changed hue. He switched to a camera loaded with color film for picking up the subtleties of dwindling light and shot another entire roll.

  As though he had spent the past hour in foreplay, he ached. There would be no culmination. She would soon be gone and he would have to shelve their afternoon like some inaccessible archive. His camera lowered. Neither spoke. The dim light extended the quiet. Leila’s chest rose and settled matching his own heavy breathing as her eyes glistened. Her faint smile strained. Without a word, she stood and slipped into her sandals as Ian picked up her shirt and photo, handing them to her.

  “Thanks for indulging me,” he said, standing so close that she brushed against him as her arms slid into sleeves.

  “I wish I could say anytime ….”

  He looked away, forcing himself to back off.

  “So, when do I sign up?” she asked without a smile.

  “Sign up?”

  “You know, for track.”

  “You could at least pretend to be a little enthused.”

  “I don’t recall you were particularly enthusiastic on your end of the deal, at least to begin with.”

  “Touché.”

  “So, do I start calling you Coach now or wait till I make the team?”

  “Start whenever you want,” he said, although he did not like the sound of the title on her lips.

  “Then I guess I’ll start tomorrow.”

  His beer had worn off and the full brunt of her words struck him. He hated the thought of tomorrow—of the moment she would step out of his house and become his student.

  “Leila,” he said, thinking he ought to stake the boundaries they had been pushing all afternoon.

  “I know, Ian. This never happened, right?”

  “I’m not saying that. It’s just that this can’t happen again.”

  “It would have been easier if I hadn’t come. Is that what you wish?”

  The tendons in his neck strained. He shook his head. There was no way around the wrongness of it all, no matter how right it felt. “I really need for you to leave now.”

  Her eyes welled as she whispered, “Okay, I’ll let myself out.”

  She walked alone to the front of his studio as if she had somehow done something wrong. It felt reminiscent of a breakup, or worse yet, a one-night stand.

  “Wait,” he said, gaining on her. “Let me walk you out.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “I want to.” He caught up.

  “I hate my life.” She wiped the corner of her eye.

  He ushered her into the foyer, scrounging restraint. “This won’t always be your life.”

  She half smiled.

  He reached out to stroke her arm but withdrew. “There’s a lot I want to say to you, but you know I can’t.”

  “I know.”

  He nodded, his resolve wavering as he opened the front door. “Okay, then, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  She walked to the curb where she had parked her car, and not until she drove away did he close the door.

  Chapter 10

  Thoughts of Ian quickened Leila’s step as she ran to school the following morning. She would be careful not to linger in his company or meet his eyes too often. It would take only one look to confirm that it had all happened, though nothing really had happened. He had only shared his photography and shot a few pictures. No, he hadn’t even touched her, though the back of his hand had brushed against her hair but only briefly, only to adjust it. That didn’t really count—not if someone were to ask—yet remembering it gave her a shiver.

  Leila pushed through the alcove door and glanced at the phys ed office but detected no noise or movement. Not until after her shower, as she passed back through the alcove, did she spot Miss Weiss sitting in the girls’ office. Weiss stared at Leila without acknowledgment. Apparently Leila’s impressive run had not warmed the woman’s attitude. Had Ian told either of the girls’ gym instructors that she would be trying out for track in the spring? Even if Miss Weiss did not yet know, had Leila given her reason to be so cold?

  Leila’s disconcertion intensified in math class as Myles paced, distributing results from Friday’s quiz. Slapping paper after paper on desk after desk, he moved around the class until he arrived in front of Leila. He paused, sneering.

  “I hope this is not indicative of what I can expect from you in the future, Miss Sanders.”

  An F filled the entire page, sprawled atop red markings and slashes. Leila did not respond.

  Myles moved on to Kyle, withholding his A+, making him snatch it from his teacher’s grip.

  Myles growled, “Don’t get cocky, Schultz.”

  When their teacher had passed, Kyle whispered, “Wow, you really suck at math.”

  Leila ignored him.

  After class ended, she approached Mr. Myles’ desk as he scribbled. Her courage waned as she waited for his attention. He peered up over his glasses.

  “What, Miss Sanders?” he said with a loud breath.

  Sometimes Leila saw him as just another man, puffing himself up to look big and scary, and sometimes she experienced every bit of the intimidation he reveled in.

  She held her breath. “I need extra help.”

  “What? You mean tutoring?”

  “Yes.”

  “And whom would you have for a tutor?”

  Her jaw shifted. “I don’t know.”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to.”

  “Good God, no.”

  “And I’m supposed to take time out of my busy schedule to arrange this tutoring?”

  Leila shrugged.

  “Miss Sanders, it has become quite obvious that you are simply not applying yourself.”

  Her anger defl
ated his size. “As if you have any idea how hard I work at applying myself.”

  “What I do know, Miss Sanders, is that your time and energy would be better spent on studying than running. You should seriously consider applying your wit to academics rather than challenging your instructor. Do I make myself clear?”

  Although still sitting, he seemed to loom over her, larger than ever as the truth of his words bore down on her. She stared at him in defeat and then retreated.

  Kyle lingered just outside the door. “Tutoring?”

  “Eavesdropping?”

  “Hard not to overhear. What exactly are you having trouble with?” he asked as Maryanne showed up right on schedule.

  “I’ll figure it out,” Leila said and headed to art class.

  Her pencil would not obey, and her paints behaved even worse. Perhaps her father was right and Mr. Myles too. She ought to apply herself more and stay focused. Painting could easily be classified as a needless distraction, but she craved it as much as running. Perhaps she should abandon both and concentrate on graduating.

  ~

  Leila bumped elbows with her former gym classmates as she sidled past them on their way out of the alcove. What a relief to not have to play tennis! She sighed with silent satisfaction until she caught a passing glimpse of Miss Weiss in the office. Without drawing the woman’s attention, Leila moved to the locker room. When she emerged in her running shorts and T-shirt, lugging her homework-laden backpack, Miss Weiss was backing out of the office, her hand on her hip.

  “I’ll see you tonight, then,” Miss Weiss cooed, within Leila’s earshot. Weiss spun around and spotted Leila. The woman’s eyes flashed scorn. Leila should have immediately turned away, but astonishment held her fast a moment too long. Miss Weiss’ expression morphed with a raised, challenging brow. Coming to her senses, Leila walked away with a lump in her throat.

  How many other nights had Ian spent with Karen Weiss? Leila had no claim to him, but she had canceled out Miss Weiss as anyone of consequence. She couldn’t imagine what Ian saw in such an abrasive person. But then, why wouldn’t he be involved with someone? Leila blushed at her naivety. Only a fool would think he had no woman in his life. After all, he was a grown man, and that’s the way men were. Still, Ian cared for Leila, but apparently he also cared for Karen Weiss—at least a woman like her could give him what men wanted.