My sneakers squeak as I make my way across the gym floor to where Coach Wally is keeping time as the rest of the class jogs the perimeter. He barely acknowledges me as I hand him my late pass. When he doesn't mark me present on the roster, I clear my throat and look pointedly at the clipboard. Coach Wally sighs, makes an exaggerated check, and tilts the board so I can see.
"Satisfied?"
"Thank you," I say.
Coach Wally just shakes his head and sighs again. "Go warm up with the rest of the class, Bishop."
One of the back doors is propped open several inches, and I shiver against the winter air seeping in. I fall in line as the group passes, keeping my head down and thoughts to myself. I count the steps as I jog, if only to take my mind off the test and the unfairness of it all, even though I know Mr. Jessup was right to count the problem wrong. I might be smart by high school standards, but the professors at Cornell won't show me any preferential treatment or think I'm special, not when everyone there is just as driven. All I can do is work better and try harder.
Somewhere around step one seventy-five, I notice another pair of legs matching my stride. I glance to my left to see who it is.
Chase.
He's looking at me.
"Hey," I say, although it comes out sounding more like a grunt.
He nods. "Do you always run with your head down? Kinda makes it hard to see where you're going."
I shrug in response and clutch at the stitch in my side, wishing Coach Wally would blow his whistle already and end my misery. Physical Education is my least favorite class.
"Your breathing's all wrong," Chase says as we round a corner.
"Huh?"
"It's all shallow and hyper-like. Breathe from your diaphragm, three counts in and two counts out."
I watch as he demonstrates the "correct" way to breathe, as if I haven't been doing it my entire life.
"Most people breathe from their chest, up here." He thumps his chest near his heart. "But you can't get enough oxygen to your muscles that way, so that's when you start panting and getting tired. It's just one vicious cycle."
Before I can comment, Coach Wally's whistle brings everyone to a sudden stop. I bend over and grab my thighs, embarrassed at how winded I am.
"You know what to do!" Coach hollers.
I straighten and stretch my arms over my head, the last pangs of the stitch finally melting away. Chase seems confused at everyone partnering up. I gesture at the rows of floor mats on the other side of the gym. "Follow me," I say.
I lay down on the mat and bend my legs at a forty-five-degree angle in front of me. When Chase continues to stand there, I wiggle my feet. "You have to hold them."
Chase eyes my sneakers. "Seriously?"
"You don't have a choice. Participation counts for half the total grade." I wiggle my feet again. Chase crouches and wraps his fingers around my ankles, pressing down with his palms to hold my feet firmly in place.
"These are one-minute drills," I explain, looking up at him. "At the end of my minute, we switch places."
Coach Wally blows his whistle, signaling the start of the first minute, and I begin a steady up-down rhythm. Though I keep my eyes on Chase, I notice he looks everywhere but at me.
"How do you know so much about running?" I ask.
The question gets his attention. He shrugs and shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. "I was in a running club."
I grunt on my way back up and pause to catch my breath. "A running club?"
"Bishop!" Coach Wally yells. "I didn't say you could stop." I roll my eyes and lower myself to the ground.
"I guess you could say I was an energetic kid," Chase says. "My folks thought it would be good for me."
Coach blows his whistle and we switch places.
"And was it? Good for you, I mean."
Coach blows his whistle again, and Chase begins his round of sit-ups. He grunts, but I don't think it's from the effort. "At least I'm in excellent physical shape," he says with a lopsided grin. I smile back.
The whistle sounds again, and we complete rounds of jumping jacks and various yoga stretches. When that's over, we gather to hear what the day's torture will be. My stomach drops at the sight of the red ball tucked under Coach's arm.
"Listen up!" he says. "We're playing dodgeball today! Boys on one team, girls on the other!"
"This should be fun," Chase says beside me, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Coach blows his whistle and twirls his finger in the air, motioning for everyone to get into place.
"Good luck," Chase says to me before jogging away.
When playing dodge ball, I have one simple strategy: total evasion. It's a strategy that works well if one is not overly fond of, say, for instance, getting pummeled by a rubber sphere hurtling through space. Of course, the whole point of dodge ball is to dodge the ball, but the trick is to take cover behind the girls who are bigger than you or the girls who squeal and throw up their hands in front of their faces anytime the ball comes within two feet. Those girls are easy targets. They are the ones the boys go after first.
I don't consider myself a weakling, but I do have a strong sense of self-preservation. And I can say with absolute certainty that teenage boys derive a certain amount of pleasure from watching teenage girls screech and yelp to avoid a bunch of balls flying toward them at top speed. I'm convinced there's something Freudian about the whole thing.
Didn't the district ban dodgeball?
The one problem with my strategy is that it only works for so long. You either get taken out early in the game or are left standing vulnerable, a lonely little island, when most everyone else on the team has already been picked off. That's precisely what happens fifteen minutes in with just five more minutes on the clock.
It's just me and two other girls representing our team. Truthfully, it's Priscilla and Leanne doing all the work and me doing my best to stay out of the line of fire. Except for Gabe, who gets pulled for his unsportsmanlike conduct, and Adrian, who is sidelined after getting elbowed in the nose, the rest of the guys are still in play. It's a daunting predicament to be in if you are widely considered a nerd like I am.
The girls in the bleachers are going wild. There's no real hope of us winning, though. Not getting creamed is our goal. One of the balls rolls in my direction, and with no one else in front of me to deflect it, I pick it up and hurl it with as much strength as I can muster. The boys are so focused on keeping tabs on Priscilla and Leanne, they've completely neglected me. My ball strikes one boy in the left shin with an audible thwack of rubber against flesh. He turns, a look of stunned surprise on his face.
"All balls on Bishop!" he yells as he jogs to the sidelines.
Sensing impending doom, Priscilla shoves another ball in my hands. "Throw it!"
Each of us now armed, Priscilla, Leanne, and I heave our balls at the oncoming mass of testosterone, taking out two more of their players.
"Scatter!" Leanne yells, barely audible above the whooping and hollering coming from the rest of our team.
I stoop to retrieve an incoming ball that missed pelting me by half an inch. I take my chances and charge the dividing line, hurling my ball at the closest target. Zach dodges a second too late, and my ball rebounds off his leg. I laugh, my heart beating in my throat, and dive as a ball whizzes past my head.
Coach Wally blows his whistle. "Watch those balls! Try not to decapitate anyone today!"
I glance at the clock. Less than two minutes to go. Our teams are now more evenly matched. Priscilla and Leanne have each taken out a few more guys. I swipe another ball from the ground and scan our opponents, carefully choosing my next target.
Chase.
He looks at me in that same moment, a Devil's grin spreading across his face. Palming the ball in his right hand, he arcs his arm as though about to throw a pass. I don't know what he sees in my face, but Chase hesitates. At the last second, he pivots and throws.
Seeing the ball whiz through the air in one of those clichéd, slow-motion moments, I watch as it spins a direct path for Leanne. I yell her name and, in the same second, throw my ball. Leanne turns at my voice and the entire gym falls silent. All eyes are on my ball as it intercepts Chase's mid-air, hitting it off its mark. Everyone, girls and boys alike, erupt in shouts of disbelief. Chase throws his head back and falls to his knees. His face is red with laughter.
Coach Wally blows his whistle for the final time, signaling the end of the game. We girls lost, but it was a close game.
On my way to the locker room, amid congratulatory pats on the back and tugs on my ponytail from some of the guys, Chase stops me.
"Good game," he says. His shaggy blonde hair is wet with sweat at the tips and plastered against his forehead. He lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. He's got abs. I try not to stare.
"That last move was pretty epic," he says.
"I didn't know I had it in me," I say, still riding high on waves of excitement and adrenaline.
Chase's eyes travel my face, making my cheeks burn.
"Well, bye," I say, ducking into the girls' locker room before he has a chance to say anything more.
*****
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