have picked any number to move toward. Just so long as it took me away from where I was, that was all that mattered.
That’s also how I feel about chatting with my father. I am just going to keep edging into it. Inch by inch. He wants to know everything about me. My classes, my teachers, my friends. He was actually interested in the fact that I got Saunders, the psycho physics teacher, instead of Miss Brawley, the non–mentally ill one. He loved my Freddie Mercury insight. He even noticed that I use “hectic” a lot. I told him it is sort of my signature word except that no one else besides him has ever noticed it. He told me that his signature word used to be “churlish.”
Having him to report back to makes the reversed-binocular feeling useful rather than weird. Like I am an anthropologist gathering data on the customs and culture of a strange tribe I’ve been dropped in the middle of.
Today is the first day since school started that isn’t so humid that my hair can make you seasick with all sorts of hectic waves and loopy roller-coaster twirls. The lack of humidity is good, since I got in some flatiron action myself and my hair is almost as straight and smooth as Paige’s or Madison’s. Also, the Nike running shorts that I am wearing are as short and ridiculously expensive as theirs, and my T-shirt is just as unflattering and generic, and the flip-flops I got at Goodwill are just as broken-in and run-down.
Why not? It is their world I am edging into. They didn’t invite me. When you visit Muslim countries aren’t women supposed to cover up?
I know Mom will say that they are all clones and I am being a clone. As if all Twyla’s old friends, all the emo kids, are such giant individualists in their identical skinny black jeans and hair smushed down perfectly over one eye. Or me in my inevitable pair of whatever jeans and whatever top. As if being completely and utterly anonymous is less clonish than Nike running shorts.
While I am occupied thinking of how I will word it when I tell my dad all my insights into clone levels, a guy with a video camera stations himself a few feet from my blanket. He yells to a skinny kid in cargo pants who has a mic in his hand, “That’s good! Right there! Move in a little closer! We can get the whole team in the shot! OK, get Coach!”
The kid with the mic pulls Coach Hines away from practice and leads him over close to where I am sitting. I want to leave, but it would be too obvious.
The camera guy is like, “OK, rolling,” and Cargo Pants is, “Hi, this is Paul Harbaugh with Pirate Video, and we’re interviewing Coach Hines. So, Coach, we’ve got our first game against Pineridge Consolidated tonight. Are the Pirates ready?”
Coach Hines has been watching his players on the field the whole time the kid is asking his question. When he notices that the talking has stopped, he turns around and plants himself with his feet spread wide and his arms crossed across his chest. Coach Hines is a very neat person. He wears crisp, pressed khakis and made the school order him and the assistant coaches white polo shirts with their names and a little pirate embroidered on them in red. He was recruited from a small college up north and always wears a tie and blazer to games. Some older kids told me that before he came, Parkhaven’s team was crap and there were no black players. Now it’s about half black, and last year we went to state. Everyone expects us to go again this year.
Without really knowing what the question was, Coach Hines answers like he is on ESPN. “We’ve got some good athletes this year. Lot of talented athletes. Lot of seniors. Trent Dupey, returning defensive end.” He talks about a “strong safety” and a “dog linebacker,” how they need to focus on their defensive game. “Offensively, we’ve got some top players returning. Wayshon Shelf set a couple of school records last year. A very smart kid. Runs great routes.”
Cargo Pants asks him a long, involved question. While he listens, Coach Hines shifts his lower jaw back and forth like a snake. Like he is going to unhinge it so he can consume Cargo Pants in one delicious pockety bite.