I have to say, when my fantasies took place in the boys’ locker room, I did not envision holding an interview with the seventy-year-old baseball coach first thing on a Monday. We sat in the middle of the ungodly smelly room with a tiny recorder in between us and a notebook in my hand. He looked less than enthusiastic to be speaking with me, but part of Springdale High’s new “transparency initiative” involved leaders needing to be more available for press interviews. And, in this case, I’m press.
Mrs. Brandt had prepped me, warning me that Coach Triad would be less than forthcoming and would probably have some prepared answers that he’d consulted on with the school’s PR team. But she’d helped me come up with a few questions to catch him off guard and make him a bit more candid.
“So, Mr. T. Can I call you Mr. T?”
“No,” he said, adjusting his hat.
“Cool. Mr. Triad. Can you tell me—”
“Coach T,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You can call me Coach T,” he said.
“Very specific. Noted,” I said. “Coach T, can you tell me about your experience being the baseball coach at Springdale? How many years have you been here?”
“I’ve been here for over forty years. Coaching this team has been one of the best experiences of my life. I was a Spartan back in the day, and being able to pass down that legacy for years to come means everything to me,” he said.
“That’s sweet,” I said. I wrote down baseball is an incestuous lovefest in my notes. “And how many years have you been working alongside Jolene Foster?”
“Who?” he asked.
“Jolene Foster, the dance team coach,” I said.
“That’s her name now? They come and go so quick that I can never learn all their names. She’s blond, right? Cute dimples?”
I wrote down pervy old man in my notes. “Yes, she’s blond. So why do you think they have such a high turnover rate?”
“I don’t know, their husbands get new jobs? They start having kids? It beats me,” he said.
FUCK THIS OLD DUDE, I wrote in my notes.
“Do you think it has anything to do with their salaries?” I asked.
“I’m sure they get paid a fine amount for what they do,” he said.
“Well, according to public record, you make a tenured salary of sixty-five thousand dollars a year and growing each five years that you stay, while Ms. Foster’s salary is under twenty thousand dollars a year. The salary for this position has not changed in over ten years, even though our dance team has won state competitions the last two years in a row. Do you feel like that’s fair pay for what she does?” I asked.
“How did you figure out my salary?” he asked.
“It’s public record. Could you please answer my question? Do you think it’s fair pay for what she does?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose not,” he said.
“The dance team practices every afternoon after school in the gym and has for years. They are preparing for their state competition in two months. It was brought to my attention that the baseball team recently took over their spot without warning and outside of their typical training season. Is this correct?”
“I didn’t know that they use that space,” he said.
“Really? In your over forty years here, you didn’t know that the dance team uses the gym in the afternoons during the first quarter of school?” I asked.
He squirmed in his seat. “Well, I guess I had an idea. But our team is bigger than ever this year. We needed a larger spot to start our HIT—high-intensity training—for the season. The gym is the natural spot.”
“So you overtook the dance team’s space outside of your competition season because you felt entitled to it?” I asked.
He scrunched up his face before standing from the wooden benches that we squatted on in the locker room. “I don’t enjoy your tone. I’ve answered enough of your questions.”
“That’s fine with me. Do you have anything else you’d like to add, on the record? Any remorse for taking over their spot?” I asked.
“I don’t have any remorse. They keep me around for a reason. They pay me more for a reason,” he said.
“And what reason is that?” I asked.
“You don’t see the dance team bringing in revenue for the school. You don’t see them bringing in recruiters. It’s just the way the world works, doll. I’m sorry to say,” he said.
He hobbled his way out the door, and I sat back down, looking over all my notes. I had some gold here. Now all I had to do was investigate the revenue that the baseball team was actually bringing in for the school, if recruiters were doing any shady gift giving to the school/coach behind closed doors, and seriously get an interview with Jolene Foster. If she had to put up with this crotchety old man for any longer than five minutes, I felt horrible for her.
The first person I wanted to tell about the interview was Grace. She’d be so excited to hear all the juicy details of Not Mr. T being a total sexist pig in his interview. He played into my hand even better than anticipated. Apparently he’d taken a nap through the school’s PR seminar at the beginning of the year.
She was already sitting in Mr. Kavach’s room when I rounded the corner. She looked up at me expectantly, but the bell rang for the start of class before we could talk. I eagerly took out a sheet of notebook paper from my bag and did a very un-studious-Savannah thing and decided to pass notes with Grace during class.
I had the interview with Coach Triad this morning!
I slid it under her arm. She opened it immediately, not even trying to be sneaky at this point. She scribbled in her signature purple pen before handing it back to me.
How did it go?!
He spilled. Major. I can’t wait for you to listen to the recording.
No. Way.
Yes way. We’re going to be able to blow this one up, Grace. This is going to be our big story for the Spartan Spotlight!
And then, Kavach called us out on our not-so-subtle note passing and my brain slipped back into our calculus class.
* * *
After calc I raced to Mrs. Brandt’s class to give her the recording of my interview and tell her how well it went. Her eyes lit up when I went over every truth-baring detail that Coach Triad spilled (and made appropriately angry faces for every sexist thing he uttered, too).
“Oh, Savannah, this is going to be a big story,” she said, grabbing a piece of notebook paper. “I want you to talk to Chase Stevens. He was a student of mine from about three or four years ago who was approached by recruiters after baseball season. Now that he’s done playing college ball I think he’d be willing to talk about what went down without the fear of having it hurt his chances at playing.”
“Ooh, that would be perfect,” I said. “I’m also going to make a point of getting an interview with the dance team coach, and maybe a few from the past just to confirm the numbers we have on salary. Should we expand it a bit? To other sports? I think the next natural step would be to get the softball team involved, since it’s the closest parallel.”
“You’re on the right track,” she said. “But is the story going to be about the disparity between boys’ and girls’ sports? Because I think that story has been blown in the past.”
“No, you’re right,” I said. “It’s totally about the money that is funneling into that program. There’s something that isn’t adding up.”
“Bingo. This is why I keep you around,” she said, winking. She handed me the piece of paper with Chase’s information on it and smiled down at me. “I’m really proud of you for working so hard on this. You know that this will most likely get pushback from the school, but you’re going for it anyway. I hope you’re considering a journalism program for school. I could help you identify some standout programs.”
I shifted my weight, looking down at the ground. “I think I’m going to Indiana State in the fall. They have a decent program.”
She nodded. “I’m not knocking Indiana State, because I have a lot of students who go there and love it, but not all of them have the academic success that you have. Savannah, I really think you should consider applying to places like Columbia and NYU with your test scores and your talent. And you have a very happy teacher who would be willing to write glowing recommendation letters for you.”
“That means a lot to me,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
I put the scrap of paper in my backpack as the last warning bell for second period rang. I now had T minus two minutes to run to the gymnasium and get dressed for PE. It was going to be another one of those days where I got docked points for taking too long to get dressed.
“I’ve got to get going. I’ll keep you updated when I get those interviews scheduled,” I said.
“Sounds great!” she called after me.
I didn’t understand the guilty feeling that ate a hole into my chest as I left her room. Wasn’t it my choice where I wanted to go to school? I’d decided a long time ago that I’d go to whatever school Ashley went to so that we could fulfill our destiny of being the best college roommates ever. Knowing that I had my future planned out so securely was a sense of comfort for me. It helped me get through every fight with Mom, every time my dad canceled his plans to come out and visit us—as long as I could count down the time until I was in college with my best friend again, everything would be okay in the present.
The day went on pretty uneventfully, minus my spectacular fall during a match of Wiffle ball. I definitely put the wiff in Wiffle. I had plans to study with George later, and one could say I was a tad bit excited. We decided it would be easier if we just had a scheduled time to meet each week rather than having to make a new plan all the time. Scheduled George time was very okay with me. I preheated the oven to bake some Toll House breakaway cookies and set them out to prepare them for their grand entrance into the oven and eventually my eager mouth.
The doorbell rang, and I almost skipped to answer it. If I was going to continue to play it cool for George and ignore how dorky-hot he was, I needed to act like a regularly functioning human being in front of him. My uncoordinated skipping was not helping me achieve normal-human status.
“Hey,” I said. He stood outside my doorframe with a Pizza Kitchen pepperoni pie in hand, and I don’t think I’ve seen anything more beautiful than George with a pizza. His almost-red hair was sticking out at odd angles, like he’d just woken up from an after-school nap and remembered he needed to be here. My mouth watered (for multiple reasons, mostly the pizza, though, to be honest) and I invited him inside.
“You’re seriously an angel for bringing pizza with you,” I said. “It’s like you finally understand how to get on my good side.”
“It’s been a long road to get here. Things Savannah doesn’t like: three-legged races and almost being hit by a car. Things she does like: pizza.”
And you, I wanted to say. Suddenly I felt silly for thinking it. Of course he wasn’t interested in me. He was adorable, charming, and actually nice. I was a sometimes-mean and generally unagreeable chubby girl. The reality of that thought stung me for a moment.
“You’ve learned quickly, grasshopper. I’m quite impressed,” I said.
We sat across from each other in silence for a few moments before the oven’s preheating alarm went off.
“Oh! I’ve got to put the cookies in!” I said.
“Did you make me cookies? Now I feel lame for bringing the pizza,” he said.
“They’re premade Toll House cookies. All I have to do is plop them onto a cookie sheet and put them in the oven. Another thing you will learn quickly is that I’m not the domestic goddess that my mother wishes I was. I can pretty much make mac and cheese and put frozen food in the oven, and that is the extent of my cooking skills,” I said.
“I’m still impressed,” he said.
Fiyero came up to inspect the pizza box sitting on the table, and George started talking in his dog voice at my fur baby and everything inside of me melted. I don’t know what it is about seeing someone you’re into interact with your pets that is so heartwarming, but it definitely made me swoon all over George again.
He opened the box of pizza, which was our signature half-pepperoni and half-pineapple. I scooped up a plate from our cabinet and set it in front of him just in time to catch a rogue pineapple from hitting the floor. Fiyero whined at me, knowing that if that pineapple had fallen, he would have had a delicious treat.
“What’s the quiz on this week?” I asked, settling into my spot. I grabbed a slice of pepperoni and started eating to my heart’s content.
“Polynomial functions,” he said, sighing. “You’d think this functions thing would be getting easier after a few weeks of it, but I’m still having the worst time.”
“Maybe you haven’t had the most qualified tutor in the world,” I said, picking off a pepperoni and popping it into my mouth.
“No, you’ve been great,” he said. “At least with your help I can fumble through problems with an inkling of an idea about what’s going on. Without you, my precalc grade would be in the toilet.”
“Don’t beat yourself up too much. You got an A on your last quiz, didn’t you?” I asked.
“A pity A. I got extra credit for coming to enough before- and after-school practice sessions with Kavach,” he said.
“There’s no shame in that game,” I said, “And I bet Kavach is way more comfortable giving As to people who actually give a damn about doing well in his class. You’ve been putting in the effort above and beyond most people.”
“Tell me what it’s like to be inside your head,” he said suddenly.
“Trust me, you don’t want to take a look around in there. There’s a lot of stuff going on that no one realizes,” I said, resting my head in my hand.
“Like what?” he asked.
I looked up at him, gauging how genuinely interested he would be in hearing all my deepest, darkest thoughts. His eyes met mine and never left, never feeling self-conscious about how long we looked at each other. My heart raced at the thought of telling this boy that I’d only met a few weeks ago about myself. He made me feel like I’d known him for years, like we’d put a bookmark in our friendship and we were picking up where we left off. I didn’t know whether to be excited or scared that I already felt so comfortable and familiar with him. I decided to stick with excited for my own sanity.
Mom decided now would be the perfect time to shuffle her way back into the kitchen, pausing to look down at me.
“What are you cooking?” she asked.
I turned around, trying to give her the “Please do me a solid and leave us alone” eye, but she didn’t register my silent plea.
“Baking,” I corrected. “There are cookies in the oven.”
She went over to the oven and switched it off, putting on an oven mitt hastily. She took the cookies out and tossed them on the counter.
“Those weren’t done!” I said, walking over to her.
“You know how I feel about having processed sugars in this house,” she said. Her eyes were wild, like she hadn’t slept in days. Her robe hung open to reveal her in a teensy-tiny camisole and shorts, her collarbone jutting out sharply against the robe. I tried to think back to the last time I actually saw her eat in this house, and I couldn’t remember.
“I made them for my friend. Remember George? The boy in our kitchen witnessing your freak-out?” I asked.
She started scraping the partially cooked balls of cookie dough into the trash can, disregarding all my yells asking her to stop. She was on her own mission in her mind, and nothing that I was saying could break her out of her daze.
Her eyes snapped to the pizza on the table and she started making her way toward it. I turned to George in horror as she made her way closer to him. This was the final straw. He’d never want to get to know me better after seeing Mom like this. We’d hit our friendship breaking point, and all I could do was watch it happen.
“Stop, Mom, stop!” I yelled. “He brought that; he bought it with his own money! Please stop!”
She stopped slowly, turning back around to face me. Horrified tears had already started falling down my face as I waited for her next move.
“Get it out of my house,” she said. “If it’s not gone before I get back, you’re grounded.”
Like a tornado, she exited the room. I was frozen to my spot, never wanting to look at George again. How could I after what he just saw? Anxiety sprouted from my toes and wound itself up my body like unwanted ivy on a building. When it reached my lungs, the force of it made me hitch forward. I held on to my chest in an effort to keep myself together at all costs.
George touched my shoulder tentatively, and I looked up at him. I tried to wipe my eyes quickly so that he wouldn’t notice I was crying, but it was too late. He’d seen the stream of tears already. Every part of me expected him to come up with an excuse to leave, any way for him to get out of this awful situation, but instead he asked the question that I didn’t realize I needed to hear the most.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I shook my head, not able to hold back the tears anymore. He wrapped me up into a hug and held my head to his shoulder. He didn’t try to analyze the situation or give any advice. He just held me as I cried. My hands locked themselves together behind his back, and in this moment I felt safer than I had in a long time. Here, like this, Mom’s words couldn’t hurt me. The neglect from my dad over the past two years was a distant memory. With George I was able to forget all the ickiness that had become my life and be supremely content, even if it was just for a few moments.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. I nodded into his chest before pulling away. I wiped under my eyes to catch the makeup that made liquid trails down my cheeks.
“Oh, shoot,” I said, pulling on his shirt, which now had a mascara stain on it.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. He picked up the pizza box, and I rested a quick kiss on Fiyero’s head before heading off, trying to silently apologize to him for leaving him alone with Mom for a while.
We piled into his mom’s car and he turned up the radio on full blast. It happened to be one of Pitbull’s latest hits, and George timed his signature “Dale!” in perfect unison with Mr. Worldwide. I burst out laughing at how ridiculous it was that George could sing every word to a Pitbull song and be incredibly funny after what he just witnessed. God, I needed the laugh.
The road twisted into the route to Sandcastle Park, the place where we’d had our eventful meeting for the first time. Today it was pretty empty—everyone must be busy on this Monday afternoon. That, or they heard our fight across town and everyone collectively decided that I needed some time in Sandcastle Park more than they did.
He led me to the playground that had a castle tower at the top of the slide. It had been an ongoing debate between Ashley and me whether the castle tower came before the naming of the park. It was a classic chicken-or-the-egg debacle. I liked to believe the castle slide inspired the name, since it was one of my favorite places in the entire park.
He sat down on one of the swings, and I joined him, swaying back and forth.
“Whenever I’m angry, when I feel like I could explode with all my nervous energy, I swing. And, since I’m new to town and don’t know any other parks besides this one, these are the swings of choice,” he said.
He started pumping his legs, and I followed him. Once we were high enough off the ground, I started to lean backward each time I went forward. There was a certain type of power in being able to manipulate when your blood rushed to your head. I felt in control of how my body was feeling in a way that I didn’t normally.
He let out a high-pitched yell as he reached the peak of his height of the swing and I thought it would break off from going so high. But he came down.
“Try it!” he yelled.
I let out a little scream, testing the waters.
“Louder!” he said.
This time my yell echoed around the park. As I let it out, I felt like a weight had lifted off my chest. The horrible energy that had been cooped up inside of me for weeks was let out in that one yell, and I felt free. I tipped my head back, relishing in my new weightless feeling. It was pretty damn glorious.
George leaped from his swing, landing feetfirst on the mulch in front of us. I let the height of my swing die down a bit before I attempted my jump, knowing that I’d probably break an ankle if I attempted the same jump as him.
He sat down on the picnic table across from the swings, where he’d set the pizza down. He opened the box back open and took out a slice, taking a big bite into it. I sat down across from him and rested my head in my hands. He kicked my shin under the table and motioned toward a slice of pizza, and I shook my head. I’d lost my appetite.
“I’m sorry you had to see that back there,” I said.
“Stop,” he said. “Seriously, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I’m so embarrassed,” I said.
He tapped my foot with his until I looked back up to meet his eyes. “Every family has stuff. Don’t be embarrassed.”
“It’s just—the only person who has ever seen her like that is Grace, but she’s known us forever. She knew Mom before she changed and knows that whatever that was, wasn’t her. You didn’t know her before, and it makes me so sad that this is the Mom that you get to meet,” I said.
“You mean before the TV show?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, breaking eye contact with him. “Well, before my dad cheated on her, really. Things started spiraling pretty quickly after that.”
“That … that sucks,” George said.
“I always wished that I’d been born into Grace’s family, ever since I was little. She and Mrs. M have this amazing relationship, and Mr. and Mrs. M love the hell out of each other, and they always make all this time to be a family—I never realized how bad things were with our family until I went over to Grace’s house,” I said.
“What about your sister?” George asked.
“Ashley has been the one saving grace of everything happening in our family. She is the one who always held us all together, mostly the one who held me together. She’s the perfect opposite to me, calm, caring, and protective to my outspoken, stubborn, and opinionated,” I said.
“You say opinionated and outspoken like they’re bad things,” he said.
“Those two traits have gotten me in the most trouble over the years,” I said.
“Savannah, of course you’re outspoken and opinionated—you’ve got so much stored up inside your brain that it would be impossible for you to keep it quiet,” he said.
I blushed a deep red all over. “Can I appoint you as my official hype man? Can you just follow me around at all times and spin all my bad traits into good ones?”
“Sign me up.” He smiled. His brown eyes crinkled in the corners, and I wanted so badly to reach out and kiss him in this moment. I’d never felt that desire so strongly in my life before, that I needed to attach his face to mine or I would pass out right here in Sandcastle Park. I sat on my hands to keep from reaching out toward him involuntarily. I had no idea what my body was capable of with this overwhelming feeling taking over me.
“So,” he said, breaking me out of my daze. “I have this competition that I have to perform at for jazz band on Friday. I’m not sure if you like jazz or if you’re even into that sort of thing, but I wanted to extend the invite just in case—”
“I’ll be there,” I said. “Just tell me when and where and I’ll for sure be there.”
His blush was matching mine from earlier, and we both smiled like big dummies at each other. I tapped his foot under the table like he had done with mine earlier and he met my eyes again.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied.
From that moment, I decided that a blushing George was my new favorite thing to look at.