The Odd Ballerz (7 page)

She made a left turn at the next county road, FM 233, on the lookout now for the Gold and Black Elite Training Camp sign stationed at the beginning of that small road that led into his property. She slowed her car down to a crawl to avoid the two horses that were standing off the side of the road, eating the grass. Where were the pastures they belonged in? she wondered, continuing to scan the horizon for his sign, and yes there it was, about three yard ahead on the left. She made the turn onto the small road that would take her around to the back of his property, and so far her luck was holding. She wasn’t on time, but she wasn’t late either.

She was driving past the fields now, empty except for the coaches, standing around with their clipboards in hand, whistles around their necks, and their backs turned to the road. “Yes,” she said aloud at that little bit of grace that left her arrival unnoticed. There were cones, orange and yellow, scattered about the field, some in a line, others haphazard in their design. Different drills today perhaps, she thought, as she continued to search the field, hoping her luck would stick around a minute more and her tardiness would continue to go undetected.

She was closing in on the parking area, just around the bend, before she gave into the impulse to check her rear view mirror. Z wasn’t watching but Coach Damian was and smiling too, and what was that about, she wondered. She shifted her focus to parking and her need to find a spot, and quickly too, if she had any chance of making it. Shoot, the larger parking lot was full of cars. Parents staying to watch practice she guessed, so it was over to the overflow parking lot located a little further down the road. Another sign with another arrow under the word OVERFLOW pointed her to it. Even more additional parking lay past what she knew now was the building that housed Z’s glass making business.

Really, how much parking did one person need? she thought, pulling into a spot directly behind his home in between a minivan and a truck. She looked over to her left, a quick glance at Sloan Glassworks, a square building not that much different in size and style from his utility building, from which the boys were pouring out in earnest now. It was back to hurry up as she opened her car door.

# # #

Z stood, his back to the drive, watching as the boys made their way over to the track, ready to begin the lap running portion of camp. He searched them for signs of my-friends-call-me-Memphis. He’d started watching out for her as the hands of his watch moved closer to the camp’s starting time. He was curious to see what she had in store for him today.

That’s what he told himself this watching out for her was about. It was, and it wasn’t. Actually, it was about a whole lot of things, and all of them different from each other.
Why was she here?
was the first question he wanted answered, but running a close second was
What was she wearing today?
and wanting to see her before she changed, especially if it was anything like Monday’s attire. And yes, he took his kicks where he could get them, and Jones’s figure was one such kick. It had taken up residence in his brain, planted roots and everything. Staying there for the long haul was its intention.

He didn’t spot her among the first group of boys taking the track and she wasn’t among the last of them pouring through the utility building now either. So that meant she was late again.

“Looking for Jones of the two left feet?” D asked, sauntering over to stand beside him. “She’s parking and late again, in case you were wondering,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the parking lot.

“Who’s parking and late again?” Z asked.

Damian laughed instead of answering. “You do know we can dispense with the pretense that you’re not interested.”

“You’re married and it’s not interest that you think you see. It’s an appreciation for the female form in all its glory. One can admire a work of art and not need to own it,” Z said, turning his gaze to the parking lot now, searching for Jones’s auto.

“Sure, we can go with that,” Damian said. It was quiet between them as they waited for Memphis to exit her auto, and both of them inhaled sharply when she stood. “Damn, that woman is dangerous in a dress,” Damian said, tracking Jones, who was practically running to the restrooms now, which was no small feat in those shoes.

“Alex’s sister has arrived, I see,” Beryl said, standing behind Z’s left shoulder, watching Memphis, who was closing in on the front door.

“Yep,” Harris said from his spot off to the other side of Damian.

“Nice,” Beryl said.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Damian said, chuckling.

“Good thing the Austin Ballerz have that new rule,” Harris said, smiling, his gaze on Z, whose eyes were still trained on Jones.

Z didn’t make a sound. He was at a loss for words really, the same reaction he’d had the first time he’d seen her. Jones had a lot of hair, giving her a tamed yet untamed look, or maybe that was just his desire talking. She was impressive, he thought again, spectacularly attired this evening in blue, one tube of cobalt blue dress covering all those delicious curves, hair bouncing in time to her steps. The black pumps on her feet created a whole bunch of other thoughts before the restroom door closed on that sweet ass of hers, and he reluctantly pulled his gaze away.

He released a sigh in both the appreciation of Jones’s fine form and the opposing feeling of annoyance at having to confront her again on day two of her being late. Her tardiness had unintentionally jiggled his opinion of her slightly into the seeking a-way-out-of-camp column. He’d created a table in his head to mark her efforts, or lack of them, as he monitored her today.

He sighed again and started towards the restroom door to talk to her again. Although he thought he’d made himself plenty clear Monday.

# # #

“Not you again,” Memphis said, skidding to a halt in front of him. She’d changed, faster than he thought it possible, into workout clothes—less form-fitting than her professional dress, for which he was eternally grateful.

“Excuse me?” he said, surprised.

“You’re excused,” she said, smiling.

“Jones.”

“Coach,” she said, meeting his eyes, challenge in her gaze to go along with her smile.

“You’re late again.”

“I am not,” she said, struggling to play this off and to keep from staring at the handsomeness that was this man. He was wearing his usual shades and his mouth had chosen the I-mean-business, straight-line look today. She removed her cell from her back pocket to check the time again. Really it was just for show. She knew the time, just as she knew she was late.

“You are down to your last strike,” he said, ignoring her denial. It was nothing more than a front, he thought, reading the easily read Jones.

“We’re going with the hardnosed coach approach today, I see.”

“We are,” he said, pointing to the phone. “And
those
have no place at practice.”

“You’re kidding me, right? I’m not in middle school needing to send a text to my girlfriends. I actually have clients to tend to, so I can’t leave it behind.”

“Can’t or won’t?” he asked.

“Are we really doing this now? I thought you wanted me to do laps.”

“I also want you to be on time.”

“I was. I am. You’re the one holding me up, making me late, and I’m not running three laps because you feel the need to lecture me.”

“Two laps. No walking or else I’ll make it three. And are you listening to me, Jones?” he asked.

“Yes, sir! Coach Z sir! I am listening to you, sir!” she said, fighting back her smile, starting to enjoy antagonizing him.

“You have one more time to be late and then you’re out of here. You won’t make the team. You won’t make the tryouts. You won’t fulfill your bet with your sister.”

“No one listens to you much, huh,” she said.

“What?” he asked, surprised, again.

“You seem to have this need to repeat yourself. All the time, on and on you go with this late thing,” she said, smiling.

Lots of imp went into that smile of hers, he thought. “I mean it, Jones,” he said, fighting back a smile of his own.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” she said, and winked before she walked away.

# # #

After the debacle that was Monday’s run, a change in strategy was in order, Memphis decided. Today it was about seeking a comfortable middle-ground pace that would see her through the running of both laps… a pace between fast and slow, no more sprinting for half of one and dead for the remaining three halves.

She was coming out of the last turn of her first lap, trailing behind that red-headed kid, Luke. He was her twin, she thought; the same clumsiness, the same falling and overall feet-getting–in-the-way-of-things that she lived with.

“You okay?” Gabe asked, her newfound camp buddy, running alongside her. He slowed his stride to match hers.

“Yes,” she said.

“Can I run with you?”

“Aren’t… you…done?”

“Yes.”

“Then… no… don’t run…this again… at least…not… for… me,” she said. Short on her words, she was. It was either talking or breathing. She had choices to make.

“I don’t mind. This is better than standing around waiting,” he said, ignoring her words, continuing to run beside her. “You were late again, Ms. Memphis and Coach Z doesn’t like it when you’re late. He said so on the first day, three strikes and it’s out. He told our parents that too,” he said.

He’d started to call her Ms. Memphis during Monday’s camp and wouldn’t stop regardless of how many times she’d said, just Memphis. He was a stubborn, polite young man and it was good to know that someone was putting the time in at home to shape him into one. “Oh… yeah… really… what else… did he say?” she asked.

“Be on time. Do your best. Don’t quit. Talk to one of the coaches if you have a problem,” Gabe said, smiling at her. “You know what you should do, Ms. Memphis? It’s what I do when I’m having a hard time with something,” he said, smiling still, all ease in his run. “I picture myself finishing whatever difficult thing I have to do. It takes my mind off how hard something is. You want to try it?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Okay, see yourself crossing the finish line of a big race, the crowd is shouting your name and everything,” he said.

Right, Memphis thought, too simple-sounding to her, but she nodded her head in the affirmative and did as he asked. In her mind she was crossing the imaginary finish line, dancing like Muhammad Ali after a victorious fight. His hands were in the air, as he danced around his opponent, lying on the mat at his feet. Coach Z was the opponent, lying on the mat in her make believe scenario and surprisingly it worked for a bit; took her mind off that stitch in her side that had shown up again.

“No walking today, Jones,” Coach Z said, coming from out of nowhere, disrupting the picture in her head.

“Hi, Coach,” Gabe said, smiling around Memphis’s head.

“Hey, Gabe,” Z said.

“This… is me… running…” she said.

“Keep it up then,” turning around to face her. He was jogging backwards now, as he looked her over with his usual straight face. He was in shape, with no visible signs of anything resembling sweat on his person while she looked a hot mess, she thought, checking out her reflection through the lenses of his shades.

“Almost there,” Gabe said, bringing her thoughts away from her appearance and Coach Z, who had turned around and was jogging away from them.

She and Gabe were rounding the last curve of the last lap and yes they were almost done. Thank you, God, she thought, watching Coach Z well out in front of her, running beside the red-headed Luke now.

“See, you’re done,” Gabe said as they crossed the invisible finish line, and she stopped, bent over, hands on her knees, trying to breathe.

“You’ll get better,” Gabe said, patting her on the back as he stood beside her.

“Hope so, and thanks for running with me today,” she said.

“Any time.”

# # #

Memphis was standing at the front of line number two. Gabe stood to her right, in line one, and Luke was to her left in line number three. They were getting ready for their forty time trials.

“Take a deep breath, Jones,” she said aloud, sounding a lot like Coach Z, not sure when she started to think of herself as “Jones.” But she had—on the football field, anyway—and it seemed appropriate somehow.

This is easy. You’ve got this running thing down. No sweat, Jones. Do as Gabe said. Picture yourself running through to the end. Same as with the laps you’ve finished. Good job there BTW, see, you’re okay, she thought, continuing with the steady stream of self-talk that was her way when she became anxious or when something felt overwhelming to her, as it did today. Being out here in a field with a bunch of middle schoolers—took her straight back to childhood, a particularly painful period in her life when most everything had felt momentous and hard. It was the start of her anxiety attacks, when self-doubt and abundant fear had ruled her life. It was always something unexpected that would catch her off guard, and make whatever activity she was engaged in an all-out effort to breathe. She felt lightheaded all of a sudden.

“Get a grip, Jones,” she said aloud, her self-talk shifting to ruthless. Sometimes she could bully herself into cooperating. Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, and she turned her gaze to Coach Z, who was staring back at her with an odd look on his face. His shades were hanging off the front of his t-shirt, so she had a clear view of his face… eyes, and yes, he seemed confused or puzzled. And then he was walking towards her.

“What’s going on over here with you, Jones?” he asked after he’d reached her.

“What do you mean? There’s nothing going on. I’m just practicing some deep meditation, helps me get into the zone,” she said.

“The zone, huh,” he said, eyeing her with trepidation, his gaze matching the disbelief she thought she heard in his voice.

“You were starting to sway there for a minute. So are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, meeting her gaze with his no-nonsense one.

“Absolutely,” she said and smiled. “You just like coming over here to talk to me. Don’t you?” she said and winked. “It’s okay, you can admit it.”