September 17th, 2008
Still Toby
It’s 3:15. Girls have been trickling in for the last ten minutes. Basketballs bounce haphazardly. My heart races, and a bead of sweat trickles down my left temple. I raise my hand, wiping the sweat away, and do a discreet pit check, turning my nose to each side. I smell okay, and I look again to the gym’s main entry doors. I’m not sure which possibility makes me more nervous—JerryAnn showing up or not showing up. I look down at my phone. Her response last night was immediate.
JerryAnn: Thank you. I’ll be there.
She has five minutes. I shouldn’t worry, but Milo’s here again, this time with a whistle. I didn’t think things could be worse, but he’s on a power trip, yelling at the girls to gather in teams, and I’m paralyzed, just like I was as a kid getting bullied. Milo’s whistle blows near my ear, and I’m shaken from my thoughts as JerryAnn walks down the long hallway with two boxes of donuts in her hands.
In my head, Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero” provides the soundtrack to JerryAnn’s confident strides. Her eyes scan the hall. When she’s close to the gym, I turn and face the team to distract myself from her unfairly long legs, her pink fitted sweater, and her soft hair. I don’t turn and face her, even when her sweater brushes against my arm. I never could stand up to bullies, especially the pretty ones.
She breaks the silence. “Are you coaching these girls?”
I nod my head.
She nods. “That’s why I’m here? You want me to take over?”
I nod again. I’m as useful as Se?ora Johnson’s bobblehead paperweights.
She points to Milo, who’s yelling at a girl for traveling. “Who’s the kid?”
I swallow. Clear my throat. “Milo’s a student. He’s helping me out.”
“He’s not helping anybody.” JerryAnn adjusts her sweater. “Let me make a few calls.” She walks to the bleachers and sets the donuts on a bench. I follow her like a lost puppy and sit beside the donuts—I can smell all my favorites. JerryAnn takes out her phone, crosses the gym, and stands in the alcove leading to the computer lab and family consumer science classrooms. A fan blows on the carpet, drying it out, post-vomit clean-up. A stray basketball rolls toward JerryAnn while she talks, so she picks it up, placing it under her arm. The fan is blowing her hair, and I watch her, hoping she’ll stay. I need a hero.