Portrait of a Girl Running

by J. B. Chicoine

  She contorted her mouth as if reconsidering.

  “Why don’t you go home and get changed, and meet me back at my house before the game? And don’t worry about Maryanne. She’ll be fine. She’ll hardly notice you’re along.”

  Leila bit her lip. “Fine.”

  Kyle nudged her as she climbed into her car. “And would it kill you to wear your hair down for once?”

  ~

  Leila stood before her mirror, combing out damp tresses. I suppose it wouldn’t kill you to wear your hair down. She applied a few strokes of mascara and inspected the results. For the effort makeup took, it did make her pale eyes stand out. She wondered if Kyle would notice and hoped Maryanne wouldn’t. It wasn’t a date, but the idea of spending an afternoon with Kyle excited Leila. Maryanne, on the other hand, made her nervous—how would his girlfriend react to the intrusion? It was too late to reconsider the mascara, but she would forgo blush or lip gloss.

  Rather than give her a cool reception, Maryanne complimented Leila on her brown angora sweater and long locks. She even engaged Leila in small talk. Kyle, as expected, behaved as always—uninhibited, kissing Maryanne as though there was no onlooker. When the three arrived on the track, Maryanne tiptoed, reaching for a hug and kiss. Again, it was no passing kiss. Leila looked away, heated at their open display of affection bordering on passion. As Maryanne pranced onto the football field, Kyle’s gaze followed the swish of her skirt.

  “C’mon,” Kyle said, heading to the home-team side.

  A chill breeze whipped, stirring leaves and cheerleaders’ hems. Standing between the short chain-link fence and the bleachers, each pocketed their hands to ward off goosebumps. Leila straightened her back, her insides fluttering at the sight of students milling around the track and heading their way.

  “Don’t look so petrified,” Kyle said, tipping his chin toward them. “They’re only a bunch of morons like me.”

  Leila breathed deep and rolled her shoulders, trying to ease nerves.

  “Hey, Kyle. Hi, Leila,” they said as they passed by.

  “Do I know them?” Leila asked, though she recognized one guy from Artie’s neighborhood.

  “Doesn’t matter. They know you.”

  Leila tensed again. The nip in the air did nothing to cool the heat flooding her body.

  “Didn’t you know? You’re Leila, the girl runner.” He laughed. “Speaking of runners, here comes one now.”

  A boy with a bobbing gait and wearing a letter jacket headed toward them. Leila didn’t recognize him.

  “How ya doin’, Kyle?” Deep dimples sank into his olive complexion. He stood about Leila’s height, though his curly dark hair added several inches.

  “Micah, how you doin’? This is Leila.”

  “Hi,” he said. Heavy lids half-covered his glazed, brown eyes—she knew the look well.

  “Micah’s on the track team.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Hi Micah.”

  “Micah is the Tailgate’s lead guitarist, you know, in the band that’s playing tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  Kyle nudged Micah. “I just found out Leila plays piano.”

  “Cool.” Micah’s head bobbed with approval. “What’s your genre?”

  “Mostly blues,” she said.

  “Wow, lady plays the blues.” He grinned. “That’s cool.”

  “Yeah,” Kyle chimed in. “She’s good, too.”

  Leila frowned and smacked his arm. “Shut up, Kyle. You don’t have any idea how I play.”

  Kyle shoved her. “Do too.”

  Another couple of kids joined them. Before long, she was one in the crowd. They moved onto the bleachers, about halfway up. Leila sat in front of Kyle, catching a whiff of pot when Micah sat beside her. The two boys speculated on the outcome of the game. It all sounded like trigonometry to her.

  “So,” Micah redirected the conversation to Leila. “You think you might try out for track?”

  “I guess that’s the plan.”

  “Cool.” His head continued bobbing. “I hear you’re pretty fast.”

  She shrugged but Kyle jumped right in, “Man, you have no idea.”

  She tightened her lips, glaring.

  He shot back, “God, Leila, it’s not like it’s some big secret.” He returned to Micah. “We were running track this morning, and she—blew—me—away. We were trying out a drafting exercise. I was tailing her, moving at a steady clip—not full speed—but she didn’t even know I was in the dust till she was a hundred meters ahead.”

  “Seriously …,” Micah bobbed.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She exhaled as her attention drifted, then snagged on the sight of Ian entering the field. His camera-bag strap cut diagonally across his T-shirt, tucked into just-snug-enough jeans. With his camera and telephoto lens in hand, he scanned the track perimeter. A large-busted cheerleader bounded toward him, her hips swaying as she invaded his personal space. She then twirled and bounded back toward the cheerleading squad. Ian veered off and followed her.

  Kyle grabbed Leila’s shoulder from behind and whispered in her ear, “I know. Doesn’t she just make you sick?”

  She jabbed his knee. “You’re such a jerk.”

  Ian shot a few pictures of posing cheerleaders and then headed toward the bleachers where the trio sat. As soon as he arrived at the divider fence, Kyle sprung to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  Scaling down the bleachers, two benches at a time, he met Coach Brigham at the fence. Leila did not have a chance to panic before Micah asked her opinion on the British Blues Revolution.

  “I’m not real familiar with it per se, but I like some of the Eric Clapton I’ve heard.”

  “Slowhand—he’s like one of my idols. Him and Jimi Hendrix. That song ‘Layla’ is pretty cool, too.”

  “Yeah.” She knew the title more than the actual song and tried not to sound uninterested—it was just that Ian and Kyle were so distracting. She knew what they were talking about. Kyle’s animation and then Ian’s smile and nod gave it away.

  Micah grew quiet. Leila tightened her clasped hands. Why was Kyle taking so long? Micah seemed nice enough, but she hadn’t bargained for sitting alone beside him. How could she be so at ease with grown men, while most teenage boys seemed like a foreign species?

  “So, Micah,” she cut the silence, “do you know any good blues riffs?”

  “Are you kidding me? They’re pretty much the entire foundation of rock.”

  Leila smiled at the familiarity of his words—perhaps he wasn’t so foreign after all.

  “Hey, would you like to hear some Clapton tonight?” He grinned.

  “Yeah,” she said, though it didn’t really matter to her. “That’d be great.”

  Down at the foot of the bleachers, Ian looked up, bringing his camera to his eye. Twisting the lens, he shot a couple frames. She broke out in a full grin. His camera lowered and he smiled back.

  Micah’s fingers twitched across his imaginary guitar. Many of Leila’s ‘older friends’ had a similar twitch.

  Kyle returned, sitting beside Leila, and continued his teasing. Before she knew it, the game had begun. At halftime, Principle Boyd crowned Maryanne’s rival Deirdre, the buxom cheerleader, as queen. Ian caught it all on film. By the time the game started back up, Leila had lost track of Ian until she spotted Miss Weiss leading him, along with Leila’s gaze, just behind the bleachers. Leila’s neck craned. She couldn’t grasp the drift of their exchange as people milled around and passed in front of them, but there wasn’t a whole lot of space between Ian and Miss Weiss. The two stepped farther out of sight. Leila tried to focus on the game. Although she understood little of it, she soon found herself rooting for the home team. When they won, she applauded the victors, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointment for the defeated team.

  Although Maryanne took her own defeat cheerfully, a pang of empathy sent Leila to her side.

  “I don’t know,” she said to Maryanne, “but do you think it’s possible the
judges might have been swayed by her unruly boobs?”

  Maryanne burst out laughing. Kyle smirked.

  Bare branches raked the sun as it dropped into the treetops. Although the air had warmed halfway through the game, the chill again set in. Kyle replaced his jacket over Maryanne’s shoulders. Micah had disappeared at halftime—said he had to set up sound equipment, but on their way into the school building, Leila saw him behind the score shack smoking a joint.

  When they entered the gym, a few students had already gathered for the dance and stood around the black-skirted bandstand. The familiar sound of tuning instruments sent a tingle of pleasure up her spine.

  Mr. Williams, the band teacher, assisted Micah with the amplifier connections and fiddled with the pickups on their guitars. Lead, backup, and bass guitars, drums, and piano. Leila migrated away from her group and toward the bandstand. She missed this element of her past, though not too long ago she couldn’t wait to leave it behind. The bassist reminded her of Joe—tall and handsome and light-skinned for someone considered black. He passed her a nod of recognition—in fact, she had seen him around her neighborhood. He seemed to appreciate the attention and played a few licks while keeping his eyes on her. Musicians —they just love an audience.

  Before long, Principal Boyd introduced the Homecoming Queen and King. With applause, he invited the Tailgates onto the stage. The lights dimmed as a rear spotlight beamed on the lead guitarist, Micah, backlighting the frizz of his curly hair. Ian was right there with his camera. Deirdre and the captain of the football team took center floor for the Homecoming King and Queen’s dance. Maryanne grabbed Kyle’s hand and leaned over to Leila.

  “Check this out. His mother is a ballroom dance instructor,” she said and dragged him in front of the stage with the other runners-up. Kyle took the lead, maneuvering Maryanne, spinning and twisting her petite body. He was even more graceful on the dance floor than he was on the track.

  To complete the warm up, Micah coaxed a few more dancers on to the floor with a quick tempo. Leila closed her eyes. The sounds transported her to a hundred nights in dozens of garages and basements, each note plucking a bittersweet chord. Her trained ear scrutinized their sound. Initially, their timing was off. Micah’s voice sounded pitchy, but as they heated up, they pulled it together and synchronized well. Then he went into a zone, contorting his body and face as his fingers zipped up and down the frets, playing Hendrix. Hours had gone into Micah’s agility, but he made it look easy. As her attention moved from player to player, she analyzed their form and technique, comparing them to those she had grown up around.

  As familiar as it all felt, it struck Leila odd; she had rarely seen any band play for an audience. She knew the sound of recorded music, warm-ups, and practice, but only one time did a more lenient nightclub manager allow her to sneak from the backroom and sit in a dark corner near the bandstand. The opportunity had thrilled her. On that long-ago night, in some small way, she grasped what drove her dad. Micah had the same drive as he played. That look lingered when he glanced up between songs and smiled right at her.

  He then moved into some Lynyrd Skynyrd as she scanned the perimeter of the gym just in time to spot Karen Weiss in a tight red dress. She grabbed Ian’s lethargic hand. He shook his head, giving her no second chance before he walked away. The sight of some rift between them sent Leila into distraction. She scarcely noticed Micah clearing his throat as he stepped up to the mic.

  His head bobbed. “Here’s a little Clapton, from Derek and the Dominos ….”

  Leila vaguely recognized the high-pitched riff as Micah launched into another zone. The audience rallied. He drew it out several more times, leading into the vocals.

  Kyle nudged her with a loud whisper, “Hey, Micah’s singing your song.”

  “Shush.” Leila’s attention focused on Micah.

  Micah improvised on the tempo and slowed his hand as he hit the notes leading into the first line of “Layla.” Although she couldn’t make out all the lyrics, she understood just enough to ignite a fire in her chest that spread to her cheeks.

  As he sang the refrain, a chill shot up her spine, and she glanced at Ian. Their eyes met. Had the song evoked the same reaction in him? Leila braced herself for the next chorus. Her self-consciousness suspended in the minutes that passed. The refrain came again and again. She could have sworn another hundred pairs of eyes stared. When the song finally ended, the entire gymnasium came to their feet in an ovation. Leila stood too, wiping a tear. Kyle whistled from behind and nudged her as she clapped. Micah announced a short break.

  “You okay?” Kyle asked.

  “Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Seriously moving stuff, huh? Is he good or what?”

  “He’s very good.”

  “Bet that first verse about running and hiding, and your foolish pride, really got to you, huh?”

  She shrugged. She would have to listen to the lyrics again to catch all the words, but she had the feeling Ian already knew them by heart.

  She pulled at her turtleneck. “I’m going to get some air.”

  Leila pushed through the side exit, catching a whiff of the cool night and the scent of cigarettes wafting from glowing dots near the parking lot. As the door closed, an overhead light shone on Ian. She matched not only his folded arms but his unsteady gaze until their eyes fixed. Again, the torment. Each forced a smile.

  Ian spoke. “That was quite a performance.”

  “Yes.” Leila kept her eyes on his, biting her lip.

  He exhaled, his hand rubbing his short-sleeved bicep. His weight shifted toward her just as the door pushed open.

  Micah stepped out between them. “Hey.”

  “Outstanding performance, Micah,” Ian said. “You did Clapton proud.”

  “Thanks man.” Micah bobbed and glanced at Leila.

  She fidgeted with her earlobe. “It was very moving. You got me all choked up.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, his gaze cast to her feet and then her face. “I saw you, you know, at the end. That’s like a serious compliment.”

  She smiled, careful to limit her eye contact with either of them.

  Micah piped up, “I was wondering if you wanted to dance, I mean, they’re just playing a Dire Straits tape, but….”

  “Sure, if you don’t mind dancing with a spaz.”

  “No, I’d like to dance with a spaz.” He bobbed and opened the door. As she stepped inside, he poked his head back out, saying a few words to Coach Brigham.

  Leila and Micah joined several other couples at the center of the floor. “Sultans of Swing” played softly in the background. While everyone else danced faster, Micah placed both hands on her waist, setting a slow pace. She would have been more comfortable with the old-fashioned, hand-in-hand stance Joe had taught her, but she had no choice other than to settle her hands on his shoulders. As they swayed, there was something familiar and disarming about Micah, about the way he moved to the music, something in the way his T-shirt, moist with perspiration, felt inoffensive beneath her hand. The way he smelled of marijuana.

  She knew Micah. She knew he stayed up practicing a technique or song for hours until he perfected it. He had foregone sleep, food and human conversation as though music filled his every need. Her dad would have approved of Micah.

  As they danced, he spoke up, “So, um … do you read music, play by ear, or improvise?”

  “I never really learned to read music too well. I guess I only know how to play by ear and improvise.”

  “Seriously. That’s cool.”

  Leila shrugged. Sometimes she wished she had applied herself to the more disciplined aspect of playing, the way her dad wanted. “So what, you can improvise,” he would say, unimpressed, “but you’ll never amount to anything if you can’t read.” Joe, on the other hand, liked to show off her knack for the impromptu, and the band found her adorable. Adorable—that’s what adults say to kids doing their darndest, whether or not they were any good.

>   “I really like this song, ’cause it’s about a bunch of musicians,” Micah said.

  Leila smiled. He felt oh, so familiar.

  His hand crept up her back. “I really like your sweater. It’s soft.”

  She stared over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “So, do you play a lot?”

  “Every Saturday night.”

  “Cool … So, would you get completely freaked out if I, like, asked you to play some blues with us later? ’Cause Steve, ya know, our pianist, got wasted and he’s pukin’ out back. And besides, pretty much everyone will be gone by then, and it would be really cool if you played.”

  Leila tossed her head and laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  Leila’s eyes widened and she drew back.

  Micah added, “I mean, you know, if you don’t want to, that’s cool too, ’cause lots of people don’t like playing for an audience. I just thought, you know, ’cause it’s blues, and there won’t be hardly anyone still hanging around, and Coach Brigham is gonna mess around with us too—”

  At the mention of Coach Brigham, Leila’s pulse hastened a smile to her lips. “He plays?”

  “Yeah, real sweet acoustic blues guitar.”

  She could have guessed Ian played. Part of her wanted to surprise and impress him. Leila couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “So, you’ll do it?” Micah said.

  She shook her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t.”

  “C’mon, you gotta know some Allman Brothers or something.”

  In fact, Leila did. The tape Ian had given her was laced with it. Better than that, she knew Robert Johnson, B.B. King, Lightning Hopkins, Muddy Waters and the like. For Pete’s sake, she played with authentic blues musicians every Saturday night, and she had no trouble keeping up. Sometimes she had even crept into the lead. And the thought of playing around with Ian—she couldn’t stop smiling.

  “Seriously, we gotta have a pianist,” he said, nudging her.

  “Well, I guess I could try and play just a little.”

  “Cool.” He nodded as the song ended. He walked off toward the stage, continuing his head-bob.