CHAPTER NINE ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A. Linhares

Where is Josh?

 

 

This morning, on the way to school, I sort of fibbed to Sean about needing to check on something during lunch. Yes, I’m still his GF. Yeah, I thought about breaking up with him, but I chickened out. I let him off the hook because he called and explained that he had a (forgotten) dentist appointment yesterday so his cousin Marc took him there and then home. Oh, and the girl he was with is just a friend. I half-way believe him. I know. I’m weak. Maybe with a little nudging, Sean will change. In the long run, who cares? Okay, truth is, I want to find out if Josh is dating anybody before I let Sean go. Like Shakespeare said, I have a method to my madness.

I pass through the Food Court, looking for Josh O'Dell. I really want to talk to him about the switch and our assignment in Mr. Jackson’s class. We're lab partners and I really want to our discuss path forward. I wonder why he never returned my call. I circle the cafeteria twice. Uh! Where is he? I see someone in our Crime Science class and ask, "Hey, have your see Josh O'Dell?"

He looks blank.

"Tall, muscular, brown hair, freckle on his left cheek."

"Sorry. I don't know him."

James Beal is sitting by himself, reading a photography magazine. I go over and stand by his table. "Jimmy, have you seen Josh?"

He puts down his chocolate milk and smiles at me.

"No, but when I volunteered to be Mr. J's Teacher's Assistant during his Basic Science class, the office said Josh was already his TA."

I peer through the doors and see that the Science corridor is empty except for the hall cop I spoke to yesterday. I don’t want to deal with him so I plop down on a bench and stare at the fountain until the first bell rings. It’s a great spot to hang out and think.

I stand and pace around the garden a couple of times. What if Josh leaves through the other door. I look through the glass. Hall dude is gone. Great. I push through the door, and tip toe down the hall. I pier through the little window in the door. Sure enough, Mr. J is teaching a Basic Science. I know this because Char is sitting in the back row filing her nails. She sees me and smiles. I press my finger to my lips and move off to the side and wait.

The first bell rings and the door flies open. Char MacDougal is the first one out. “Hey Cook. I thought you and I were in this class together, what gives?”

I smile. “Remember when they called me to the office yesterday?” I crane my neck, hoping to see Josh, and explain to her what took place and a little bit about Mr. J’s class.

“So, they’re making you take Mr. Jackson’s Crime Science course instead of Basic.”

Char makes a face. “Ewe, that sounds really hard."

"It's cool. I think I'm going to like learning about crime."

"Well, I gotta go. I don’t wanna get detention for being late…Saturday School sucks. Besides, my Billy wants me to make good grades.”

“Is our little Char making a change for the better?” This I’ll have to see.

Char sneers at me.

I see Mr. J come out and lock the door. No Josh. He smiles at us, and then walks away. I smile and wish I had the nerve to ask him where Josh is, but he and Char would think I have a crush on him.

Char nudges me with her shoulder. “Buh-bye Cook.”

I call out, “Hey, did you make sure about Friday?”

Backing away from me, Char gives me a thumbs up, and then zips down the hall and out the doors.

I take the same route to my next class. Sean is in the garden in an intense discussion with a teacher. Huh, wonder what that is all about. I see Char's spiked hair. She goes into a girl's bathroom. Come to think of it, she never told me what it was she wanted to tell me yesterday. She and I hardly ever talk for more than a few minutes anymore. I leave text messages and voice mails, but she never calls me back. That’s so rude. I wonder why I bother to keep her as a friend. We have zero in common any more. I consult my watch. I'll catch up with Char later. I'm anxious to show Ms. Fergus my short story outline.

Creative Writing class is a breeze. Ms. Fergus spends the whole time explaining how to outline a short story so I work on writing my story. After dinner last night, I perfected mine and started writing my short story. The hardest part is keeping it under 6000 words. I have a tendency to ramble. Pop was too busy with his Neighborhood Watch bunch to read it. So far, I think it's pretty good, but I want her input.

"Be prepared to pass in you outlines tomorrow," Ms. Fergus says, just as the dismissal bell rings. She blocks the door and everybody stands by their desks wondering why. She looks serious. "The three people who left early yesterday report to detention for the next three days. You know who you are.” She opens the door and stands next to her desk with her arms crossed over her chest.

I stop at her desk and avert my eyes as the three students (everybody saw leave early) leave looking shocked and pissed that they're busted.

I hand Ms. Fergus my outline and she looks surprised. I look at Ms. Fergus and speak softly, “I worked on it yesterday after you left. Um, I saw you out by the gym with the police. Is everything okay?”

She nods and takes my paper. “I apologizes for never coming back. Two girls got into it during a basketball game and started duking it out in the showers. They called me to break it up because Coach Thompson wasn’t around. They had to have a woman present since male coaches aren’t allowed inside the girls’ locker room." The last student leaves and Ms. Fergus smiles at me. “By the way Blakely, handing in your outline early will get you extra credit.”

I nod and turn to go. “Thank you. By the way, I really like your class.”

“Sorry, sucking up won’t get any extra points.”

I laugh. "See you tomorrow."

I linger outside Mr. J’s class waiting for Josh O'Dell. My gut tells me he's not at school. My fellow classmates arrive, but no sign of him. I consult my watch and glance around. Where is he?

Beal sticks his bony head out the door and bugs his eyes at me. “Cookie, aren’t you coming into class?”

“Go away!” I murmur under my breath.

Beal just stares at me.

To avoid a scene, I turn my back and look up through the glass ceiling. I wish I could cast a spell and make Beal disappear forever. Not die, just send him to another universe and time. A tiny jet is cutting a perfect white line in the cloudless blue sky, like a line in the sand. I sigh happily and take this as a sign from a higher power. Jimmy Beal will be sitting on one side of the classroom and moi on the other, next to Josh, my new lab bud.

The final the bell rings and I rush inside classroom 508, shutting the door behind me. Practically every stool is taken, there’s even a new row of regular desks along the back wall full of students. Oh, no, what if they put Josh in another class because this one is so overcrowded? Please God don't let that be true.

Mr. Jackson is busy writing on the chalkboard.

I place my backpack on the tabletop and perch on the stool next to Josh’s in anticipation of him showing up late. I scan the classroom, which is fairly quiet––just a few whispers here and there mixed with rusting of paper and feet.

I can hear Jimmy Beal singing to him self all the way over here. He’s humming some weird song and making wet wheezing noises. He barks a hard cough as if he’s about to hurl. I glance over and he puts his inhalator in his mouth. Gross. I quickly drop my eyes. Robbie Mason taps me on the shoulder and I jump.

“Why are you in my place?”

Robbie is an official member of the tattooed and pierced bunch. Today he’s sporting a new silver nose spike. He keeps pulling his upper lip down over his teeth. I guess it would take some getting used to it being there. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with decorating ones body like a tribesman, it’s just not my thing. I crinkle my nose in response to his apparent discomfort.

“Uh, Mr. Jackson told me to switch with you. Didn’t he tell you?”

He looks around the classroom. “Okay, so where am I supposed to sit?”

“Uh, my guess…in the stool up front next to Jimmy Beal?”

I gesture toward the front row and smile sweetly. Like most of the students in this class, James Beal is considered a whiz kid. He could be in college, but his immaturity holds him back.

Robbie looks over at Beal. “Damn, that dude is mental. He’s not retarded, he’s just an irritating dork.” He makes his way over to the front row. Then he looks at Beal blocking his way. Beal sits there and just bobs his head in the positive. “Yoh, Dude! Let me by!”

Beal look as if he likes the attention and leans into Robbie smiling like a goon.

Robbie pushes him away. “Get off me FREAK!” He smacks Beal on the back of the head.

Marc smacks Beal with his notebook. “Yeah faggot! Move!” Beal finally gets out of the way. I can’t tell if the three of them are playing around or bullying Beal. Beal doesn’t seem to mind. He looks happy enough picking the large zip on his chin.

Ewe.

I take out my notebook and pen. Still, no sign of Josh. Damn if he was switched to another class, I’m so sunk. No way can I pass this class without his help.

Mr. J calls my name during roll call and I wiggle my fingers and call out, “Present.”

“Josh O'Dell. Absent. Jillian Flynn.”

Jilly Flynn raises her hand and says, “Over here. Just so you know…Josh O’Dell wasn’t present in his other classes either.” She shrugs delicately. “I don’t know why he’s out.”

Robbie raises his hand. “Hey, yoh Mr. J? I talked to O'Dell late last night because we were lab buds." He give me a quick look. "Josh said he started feeling rotten during your class and on the way to the office, he totally puked his brains out in the bathroom. He’s thinks the chloroform smell got to him."

Beal leans over and pretends to vomit.

Marc frowns at him and leans away. “Thanks for the puke visual bro. That's disgusting!”

Mr. Jackson makes a face. He rapidly finishes roll call, and then tosses the list of names on his desk. “Okay, shall we get started.” He crosses to the blackboard, picks up a fresh stick of white chalk and writes, What is Criminal Behavior?

Totally bummed, I prop my elbow on the surface next to my notebook, and rest my head in my hand. I sit there doodling. I try to focus on what Mr. Jackson is saying, but my mind keeps wandering all over the place. If only I’d called him again last night... Why didn’t Josh call me and tell me he was sick?

Why would he?

I force myself to focus when I think Mr. Jackson is looking at me. Then I space out, imagining our conversation if I had called. My mind goes blank. I take a deep breath, sit up, and listen to what Mr. J is saying.

“…this is crucial to understand the scientific study of the nature, extent, causes, and control of criminal behavior––in both the individual and in society.”

Mr. Jackson makes his way over to my table and I sit up even higher. He looks right at me and I smile awkwardly.

“Cookie, do you mind calling your ill lab partner tonight and sharing your notes?”

I nod my head, and then whisper to Karri Otis, sitting on my right, “Can breathing chlorophyll can make you that sick?”

“Uh, no, but Chloroform can,” she says enunciating the word.

"What's the diff?"

“One knocks people out, the other is a major component of photosynthesis in plants.”

“Yeah, I knew that.” I feel really stupid getting the two mixed up. Who am I kidding, these people are beyond intelligent. *Sigh* I feel so out of place in here without Josh. At least you know why he’s not here.

Marc asks Mr. J, “Isn’t criminal behavior an individual choice?”

“Sure. My Momma always said, ‘you are who you hang out with.’”

Jilly says, “Guilt by association.”

"Bad Company."

“Exactly."

Beal adds, "Bad company corrupts good character. First Corinthians, fifteen thirty-three."

"Bad Company is an English rock super group."

Other people raise their hands, and Mr. J heads back to the front of the classroom. I raise my hand and he points at me. “Miss. Blakely?”

“What about gangs? I was just wondering why anyone would want to join one and ruin their life.”

“Yeah, there are some really bad gangs in every big town.”

Robbie calls out, “Georgetown has the Goth and Emu gangs."

I say, "They’re not a bad bunch––just misunderstood.”

A couple of people to laugh.

A cute black guy with a nice smile, shakes his head. “Ya’ll ever hear of Preppy Gangs? Because, hello, this school is teaming with ‘em.”

His statement causes a rumble throughout the classroom, most from the new students.

Mr. Jackson raises his voice, “Okay. Settle down people. I think we’re getting off subject. At a later date, we’ll discuss all the theories and practices of communal groups. Meanwhile you can check these books out in the library.” He points at a list of suggested books on the chalkboard. “The Handbook of Juvenile Justice: Theory And Practice, by Barbara A. Sims and Pamela Preston, is one of my favorites.”

Over the next hour, Mr. J talks about all the ins and outs of crime analysis. I take lots and lots of notes now that I have a perfect excuse to call Josh O'Dell tonight. We are officially partners and I plan to buckle down and do my very best. No way am I going to flunk this course and look like a dumb ass.

Mr. Jackson consults his watch. “Okay people, for the remainder of the time, talk amongst yourselves and share your thoughts on your crime case assignments. Feel free to move around the room.” He walks over to Beal and speaks to him in a low voice. The two of them step outside the in the hall, and Mr. J shuts the door.

Since neither of our lab buds are here, I get up, go over, and ask Robbie about Josh. “Sucks that Josh is out.”

“Yeah, but his mom said it wasn’t serious, just a chemical reaction.”

“Strange. It didn’t make anybody else sick. I just hope he doesn’t misses another day.”

Robbie smiles at me. “So, you interested in O’Dell?”

I blink. “No. He’s my lab partner.”

Mr. J and Beal come back in, and I return to my seat. When the bell rings, I jump up, quickly gather my things and make a dash for the back door—another good thing about sitting in the back of the classroom. That and I don’t get stuck in the bottleneck of people wanting to chitchat with Mr. J on the way out.

“Hey, Cooook-eee, wait up! I want to take your picture!”

I hear a string of clicks and flashes.

A girl on my left say, “Smile!”

Huh? I turn my head slightly and catch a glimpse of Beal in the corner of my eye behind me.

He waves a bony arm in the air and yells my name again.

I spin around and shove him hard. He falls backwards and two football players trap him in a squeeze play. They carry Beal a few feet and drop him in a trashcan.

Good.

Sorry, but I’m sick of dodging the media everyday while coming and going from school. Then there’s always whispers and stares in the hallway. It’s horrible. I hate being the center of attention because of my mother’s death.

Hunching over, I make a u-turn and head in the direction I saw Jilly take yesterday. I duck through the door and find my self alone in a short hall with four solid wood doors, all shut tight. At the end of the short hall, I turn right, and push through another set of doors that takes me outside. I’ve never been in this part the campus, it’s all brand new construction. I pause on an elevated cement walkway and get my bearings. There are heat waves out on the horizon. Man, it has to be over 100 degrees today.

Suddenly, Beal comes barreling through the doors and I hurtle the railing and dive into a bush next to the wall.

In my head I scream, “Keep going!”

Beal ambles down the walkway looking for me. He has two cameras hanging from his scrawny neck. Mumbling, he dashes side to side.

I mash my hand over my mouth. It’s unbelievably hot out here, but I hold my breath and remain in my hiding place a few more minuets. I still need to go to my book locker and swim practice starts in less than ten minuets unless it's been postponed again. Swaying slightly, I dodge a bee buzzing around my face and peek out. He’s gone!

I pull up onto the walkway and glance down at my watch. I’ll never make it; I’ll have to drag by stuff with me. After crouching in the bushes, I feel all itchy. Plus my bra is wet with sweat and my top is plastered to my back underneath my backpack. I scraped my knee a little, but it was all worth it. Last thing I want is my picture in the school newspaper. I enter the next building and don’t see Bonehead anywhere in sight. I contemplate wearing disguises between classes. Perhaps dark glasses and a hat. Right now, I can’t wait to dive into the cool, turquoise water. With a fresh burst of energy, I weave in-between clumps of slow moving people and make my way across campus. The air outside the gigantic two story gymnasium, is heavy with chlorine and humidity. By the end of the day, the sun and body oils will burn off a lot of the excess chemicals dumped in the pool, but right now, it’s pretty gross.

Panting, I slow my pace and slide my loaded backpack off my shoulders, practically drag it behind me as I trudge up to the steep sidewalk leading to the girl’s side of the gym building. As I approach the gym door, I see a new notice taped to the glass.

Boy and Girls Swim Team Try-outs TODAY! Inquire within.

I’m not looking forward to facing the fact that I’m out of shape. Like I said, I got it in my head that over the summer, I didn’t want to see anyone from school except Sean Palmer and Char MacDougal. This included opting out of all swim practices for the rest of last year and the whole summer. I thought seriously about dropping out of school all together. Pop made me sit and listen to long lectures that included numerous corny Irish wit and wisdoms like, “You’ll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind!”

Several other girls arrive and we all smile politely. They look like freshmen. I wonder if they’re here for team try-out. I shove down on the door handle with my backside and hold the door for them, trying not to make a face from the chlorine fumes stinging my nose.

They say, “Thanks.”

I considered just going for a GED online or maybe doing home schooling. But Pop convinced me to hang in there when he said, “If you don’t get a good education what will you do for a living? Do you want to work at the Mall selling giant pretzels for the rest of your life?” I finally gave in and said I would return to school. He’s was right, I didn’t really want to quit school. Besides, I couldn’t take anymore of his ludicrous Irish sayings. Before I do anything, I need to face my swim coach, Rebecca Thompson, to see where I stand, and ask for my old locker. After missing all summer, she may not even let me on the team.

I pause at the big plate-glass window and gaze longing out at the Olympic size pool. Its aquamarine water sparkling like diamonds in the sun looks so inviting. Looks like try-outs are running late. Coach T and the other coaches are still out there roping off the pool for laps. Coach T came to GHS the same year I made the team. She saw the potential in me and encouraged me to ‘get there’. I’m third in the state. This year is my last chance to claim second or even first place.

Yeah, right…

The door leading out to the pool opens and a slim lady with long yellow hair and a dark tan pauses and yells over her shoulder, “Okay, Beck! I’ll be right back. I have to get the equipment and towel cart.”

She curses under her breath and then looks at me with big blue eyes. She flashes me a cheerleader smile. She’s dressed like all the other coaches: navy shorts, white athletic shoes and ankle socks. She looks like she just graduated from college. She must be Coach T’s new assistant. Every year, we get a new assistant coach, most of them are right out of Georgetown University.

I match her smile then drop my eyes to the embroidered blue name on her white polo shirt that reads Asst. Coach E. Crabtree.

She moves to a wire cage, pulls white towels from stainless steel shelves, and carries them to the counter. She’s maybe, five-two, and comes across as a real girly-girl—the complete opposite of Coach Thompson.

I stay put a few more seconds enjoying the AC blowing long strands of my hair away from my face and wonder, what Coach T is going to say to me about missing summer sessions. Last year, the school district asked Pop to write a letter explaining why I was absent so much from school. He had to send it certified mail to the principal and the District of Columbia School Board, for my permanent records. I asked him to attach a note excusing me from swim team indefinitely.

“Hey, if you’re here for freshman swim try-outs you’d better get a move on,”

I look over and touch my chest as if to say “moi”?

Coach Crabtree bobs her head, and then pulls down another handful of fluffy white pool towels.

I open my mouth to explain, but think better of it and snap my mouth shut. I mean, what’s the point. Here goes nothing.

I go outside and I zip across the glary white deck with my heavy backpack in tow. I leap over the low board and land successfully on both feet. I say a little “ta-da”. Up ahead, I catch a glimpse of Coach T walking briskly between the pool and the side entrance to girl’s dressing rooms in white vans, a navy blue shorts and white GHS shirt. Shoulders slumped forward and never slowing, she fishes in her pocket for her keys and turns towards the equipment room, where her office takes up a small corner.

I jog over and touch her arm. “Excuse me, Coach?”

By this time, we’re at her office door and she has to stop to unlock the door. Her skin is dark tan muscular and make-up free. She turns her head and raises a thin brown eyebrow at me. Feeling a little queasy, I raise my hand and smile faintly. She can’t yell at me forever, she has try-outs to conduct. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” she says, and shakes her head as she slides back the wire door. She goes behind her desk and starts rifling through a bunch of locks in a plastic shoebox. Coach looks up at me and frowns a little. Her dark brown eyes feel like darts, but they’re misleading. Coach T has a heart of gold.

I chew on my lip and wait outside the wire cage.

“Cookie Blakely,” she says, pushing around the contents in the box. She palms a big brass lock and tries several little gold keys on a big silver ring, each time whispering a curse when it doesn’t work.

“Um, Coach––?”

Without look up, she says, “Just hold your horses Blakely. I’m busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest!”

I swallow a giggle and look Coach Thompson’s gold framed Alabama University diploma, which looks out of place hanging on the only cement wall in a cramped sports equipment room. Coach T cracks us up with her wacked sense of humor. She tells everyone she meets, “Listen, I’m a southerner through and through so keep your blankety-blank Yankee attitude to yourself!” She actually says ‘blankety-blank’. My first year on swim team, she drove us in her van to Virginia for a competition. If Coach T didn’t like the way somebody drove she’d say something like, "Bless his little heart, if they put his brain on the head of a pin, it'd roll around like a BB on a six lane highway." On the way back, this car pulls out in front of her and lays on the horn, and says, "Bless his little heart, Lord must be his co-pilot because he’s so blind he couldn't see the moon shine." She said, I begin all my insults with ‘bless their little heart so I don’t sound so mean.

“We missed you this summer girly.” Coach T looks at me and tries another key with no luck. “Give me a hand here.”

Great, now I’m forced to enter her office. I take a cautious step closer, as if approaching a sleeping lion. I was hoping to put this conversation off for as long as possible, maybe forever. I’m hot and tired. I just want to get my old locker.

“Sorry about that,” I say, moving inside to explain and help her. “I’m okay now.” I set my backpack on a box of volleyballs and hand her a key. “Um, you received my certified letter, right?”

“Yep!” She says, narrowing her eyes as she slides the key into the lock and pops it open. “Why is it always the last one you try?” She smiles at me and tosses the open lock up in the air catching it like a baseball. Tugging open her bottom desk drawer, she shoves the box inside and closes it with her foot. She looks at me sternly. “So are you back to win?”

“I am.” I nod solemnly and meet her eyes. “And if it’s okay and still available I’d really like my old locker, 803.” I like the location, plus it’s in the far corner away from the flow of traffic.

“I’ll check.” Coach tosses the lock on her desk then crosses the floor and unhooks a clipboard off the wall. She taps the paper. “You’re in luck.” She marks on the form with a pencil hanging on a string then replaces the clipboard to its hook. “Got a combination lock?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Over the summer you’re poppa called me—quite a few times.” She smiles a little. “I got the feeling he was looking for female advice.”

I drop my gaze to the floor. Poor Pop, he worries so much about me.

“I’m so sorry about your mother passing on sugar. That’s tuff to deal with at any age. My mom is almost ninety and I will miss her something awful when she goes.” I look up and see a little worry line between her eyes. “I guess you know that Sean Palmer came by my office and talked to me about you.”

“Huh, he did?” I blink. Okay, that’s just weird. I frown thinking why Sean would go out of his way to talk to Coach T about me.

“Yep.” She shakes her head. “That young man has the best jack knife form I’ve ever seen. He’s a cutie and seems like an okay feller. She gives me an exaggerated wink. “He a keeper?”

I mutter, “Yes.”

“Listen Cookie, you’re the fastest long distance swimmer on the team. With a little practice, you’ll be up to par in no time. And if you haven’t already, you should apply for an athletic scholarship this year.”

The phone on her desk rings. She snatches it up, listens for a few minuets, and then makes a face like she just bit into something rotten. The school has an automated message system that rings the teachers with recorded messages. I’m familiar with how it works. Principal Bishop let me work in his office for a couple of weeks to hide out from prying eyes.

I wait for her to hang up and try to process what she just said.

Coach Thompson runs a hand over her buzzed brown hair and then slams down the mouth piece, mumbling something under her breath about the girls skirmishing in the shower.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She looks at me with a blank expression, her mind obviously still on the phone message. She says, “No, dad burn it!” Then she blinks at the clock on the wall. “Dog gone it, I need to get out to the pool for freshman try-outs.” She shoves a lap timer in her pocket.

I follow Coach out and she locks the door.

We go inside and pause next to the lockers.

Coach says, “Bless her little heart, my new assistant coach is a fast learner, but she still has that fancy-College-grad-attitude, which is about as useful as tits on a bull when you’re talking to a kid. Know what I mean?”

I shake my head. “UH, not really.”

She stares at me a moment. “Blakely, you mind giving me a hand today?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“Well then get your butt changed and hurry out to the pool.”

I scurry across gym’s cement floor and open locker 803. Feels like old times. I plop down on the bench, rapidly change into my swimsuit, and lock up my stuff. Before heading out to the pool, I better make a quick pit stop. I round a row of lockers outside the bathroom. A girl comes out adjusting her suit over an ample butt.

I think, swimming will slim that down in no time. I stand in front of the mirror and smooth my hair back into a ponytail. I enter a stall, wiggle out of my suit, and hover over the commode. I gasp. On the back of the door fresh graffiti says, “I love Sean Palmer!”

Who on earth wrote that?

Oh, great, everybody is going to think I put that there.

I tug on my suit and grab a handful of wet paper towels full of dry powder soap, and scrub the door. Thankfully, the words come off easily enough. I throw the paper in the trash and do a quick inspection of my reflection in the mirror. Looking good!

I push through the doors and hurry over to the freshmen girl’s swim team line up. I can’t believe how many new people showed up for try outs. There are three times more than last year. I see Coach T over talking to the men coaches. I search for familiar faces and spot Sean on the opposite side of the pool with the boy’s team. He looks fidgety––as always. When I think he sees me, I smile and wave, but he doesn’t wave back. What’s his problem? Maybe he didn’t see me. Wait until I ask him about talking about to Coach T. He’s so in trouble. Then I turn around and eye the girls in line wondering who wrote the graffiti about my boyfriend.

Coach Crabtree b-bops over pushing a rolling cart stacked with towels and first-aid equipment. She claps her hands. “Okay, ladies…listen up please! If you’re not here for the swim team try outs, you need to exit the pool area immediately!”

After a couple of minuets, when nobody leaves, she shouts, “Okay, my name is Coach Crabtree—”

A few of the girls snicker.

Coach Thompson comes over and blows her whistle. Crabtree jumps a little and I think oh, yeah, Coach T’s going to eat you alive. Coach shades her eyes as she strolls up and down the deck, sizing up the swarm of girls waiting by the pool dressed in an assortment of swimsuits. She motions for me to come closer so I rush over and stand by her side.

All eyes are on Coach T, but it’s Crabtree who steps up on a dive platform and shouts, “Listen up ladies! If you make the team, you have to wear a one piece Endurance-plus Nautical Navy Speedo.” She holds up a sample. “They only cost about seventy dollars.”

I squint at her. Or not. Hum, maybe she’s spunkier than I thought.

A girl in a faded red suit says, “Are you crazy? My mom can’t afford that!”

Crabtree frowns and everybody starts talking at once.

“Er, if it’s a problem, please speak to me––”

“Jiminy Cricket Coach Crabtree,” Coach T exclaims, cutting her off. “Hold your dang horses! Get down from there!”

Crabtree hops down. “But I thought––”

Coach T holds up her hand. “Hush up! I didn’t expect such a massive turn out. We need to go to plan B.”

Coach turns and looks at me. She’s wearing a pair of dark blue Oakley wraparound sunglasses so I can’t see her eyes.

“Blakely, like I said, I’m going to need your help so stay put for the time being.”

“Sure thing Coach, whatever you need.” Feeling honored, proud (and way more confident as seasoned swim team member), I stand close by waiting for further instructions. I smile at Coach Crabtree’s red face. And then look at the freshmen girls mulling around complaining about the cost of the swimsuit. Some don’t look very happy.

“This isn’t fair. Why can’t we wear my own swimsuits?”

Coach Thompson puts her whistle to her lips and blows hard. Everyone jumps and gets real quiet, again and she motions for Crabtree to steps up on the platform again.

Crabtree waves her arms. “Listen! Sorry, don’t worry about the swimsuits right now. Because there are so many people trying out this year, we don’t have day light. Therefore, we’re going to do this a little bit different. You will have only two chances instead of the three to achieve your best time. If you are a newbie…this is how it’s done. Most importantly, you’ll need to watch the person in front of you. When the whistle blows, make certain you do not—I repeat—do not, dive in on top of a person exiting the pool.”

Crabtree hops down to address a swarm of confused-looking new girls. I open my mouth to make a suggestion, but she turns her back to me. I look at Coach Thompson and shrug. “I was going to suggest we split up the crowd into four groups to avoid an accident.”

Coach Thompson shakes her head in the positive and step up on the platform. She blows her whistle again. “Okay, let’s try this again. I am Coach Thompson, the Head Swim Coach here at Georgetown High. Some of you know me as Coach T.”

She pauses while several of us whoop like Marines during a visit from the President.

Coach nods. “Thanks girls. Coach Crabtree and Cookie Blakely are gonna be dividing ya’ll into four groups.”

I raise my hand and smile.

Coach T continues, “As you exit the pool, listen for my voice...I’ll be shouting your lap times. Both times, you want you to walk over and tell them to Coach Crabtree so she can write them down on the tally sheet. She’ll over there by the towel cart.”

Coach Crabtree waves the clipboard over her head enthusiastically as if we don’t already know who she is. Some of the newbies standing behind her are mumbling and groaning. She glances over her shoulder and gives them a look as if to say work with me people...or else. Shaking her head, she turns back around, cups her hands to her face and shouts, “We’ll post a list of the girls who made the swim team on the bulletin board in the girl’s gym by Monday.”

“The good Lord willing,” Coach T mumbles. “Any questions?” She pauses a bit, but nobody raises their hand. “All righty then, as I call your name, form four single lines.” Coach T points her clipboard in my direction. “First line starts behind Cookie Blakely.”

This puts me first in line and while the other girls line up one by one, I stand there with my arms crossed tightly over my chest, hands fisted. A million butterflies are flapping around in my stomach. For some reason, I feel really nervous and I can’t catch my breath. Truth is––even if this doesn’t count––I hate going first for anything. I need time to get my composure. I know the Abercrombie twins are always absent the first two weeks of school, they’re traveling with their rich parents, but what about Sally Bergman over there waiting for the pool so she can practice diving. This is so messed up. I want to tap Coach T on the shoulder and say, “Did you forget that I took the whole summer off?”

Why am I freaking out?

Periodically, I turn a little and check out the tall athletic looking blonde girl standing behind me. It’s the girl Sean had his arm around. I heard coach call her name, Kelly something.

Kelly takes a few deep breaths while stretching her arms overhead. She’s doesn’t look like she needs any help from me or anybody. She has big green eyes and even bigger boobs than Char. She also has a perfect body. I notice her looking at the boy’s team and I could swear she and Sean made eye contact. Maybe she wrote the graffiti in the john.

Coach Thompson goes to the side of the pool and shouts, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road!” She climbs ups on a high bench, between two of the four dive platforms in a row, arms extended straight out. “All right. The first four girls in line, step up on a platform.”

We get in place.

On your mark,...get set...

I feel shaky, but then sheer instinct moves me through the motions.

Coach T. blows her whistle. “Go!”

I freeze. Or do I? No...I’m in the water, swimming along at what feels like a pretty good pace. I flip, push off the wall, and return. When I reach up for the edge of the pool to pull myself out of the water, Kelly “big boobs” practically dives in on top of me. I duck out of the way, and then someone grabs my wrist and hoists me out of the pool.

“What’s up with you Blakely?” Coach T. demands pulling me aside. “You got a late start, your time was your worst ever, and your form was beyond sloppy!”

“Huh?” I can’t believe Coach is in my face. “Didn’t you see that?” I point. “Kelly almost dove in on top of me! She almost killed me!”

“Talk to me afterward!” Coach says, looking even more annoyed.

Stunned, I look at the next girl in line. “Um, did you happen to hear what my lap time was?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

I ambling over to Coach Crabtree. “Um, I couldn’t hear my lap time,” I tell her feeling shaken to the core.

She hands me a towel. “Oh, well, you were told to listen for it. Next.”

Whatever. Is it my fault a freaking hurricane hit the Gulf? Feeling sorry for myself, I wrap the towel around my waist and slink away from everybody. I plop down on a hard bench next to a wall. I want to get in my car and drive home...but I can’t…I have to stay until everybody’s finished and talk to Coach Thompson about my crummy performance. Worst time ever…sloppy form? What’s wrong with me? I sit in the sweltering heat sulking until I see it’s time to try again. My second time was great, 35 seconds, one of my best ever––inner happy dance.

After the try outs, I go to Coach Thompson’s office, as instructed. She and Coach Crabtree are in a heated discussion so I stand outside her door, feeling better than I did. Coach has to let me be on the team.

Coach T pushes Coach Crabtree out of her office. “Sorry to cut this short Elle, but, it is getting late and I still have to go over lap times so I can compile the swim team.”

“I’m just saying. Next time, could you let me know there’s a change in strategy?”

“Tell ya what. I’ll write you a letter.”

Coach Crabtree passes me and I flash her tight smile at her.

Looking like a cat theater swallowed a canary, Coach T motions me in and before I can utter a word she says, “Quit stressing, you’re on the swim team. I was just showing my muscles so the freshies don’t take advantage of my good nature.”

I blow out a breath. “Thanks Coach T, thank you so much.” A big smile spreads across my face. “I promise I’ll never let that happen again.”

She waves a hand. “Hey, it happens. Now, skedaddle! I got work to do!”

I glance over my shoulder and see that Coach is smiling at me and I feel so much better. Male voices drift through the open window at the top of the brick wall. I picture Sean waiting for me in the hot parking lot. He’ll probably be pissed that I’m running behind. Oh well, if he doesn’t want to wait he can catch a ride with some of his buds.

I hurry by the pool and see Sean's cousin, Marc. I shout, “Hey, Marc, please tell Sean I'm running late and that I'll be right out.”

He raises his hand and goes inside the boy's dressing rooms.