OWEN YOUNG KEPT HIS EYE ON CASEY AS SHE SPRINTED around the far side of the track. He appreciated her hungry strides and fierce concentration. She wasn't breaking any records this afternoon, but she was fighting.
"Go!" he yelled to her. "Come on! Dig!" He didn't think she heard him. By now she'd be wrapped in a cocoon of rushing wind, her head pounding and her heart a drumbeat. Owen knew the sensations. His own muscular legs tingled now with sympathetic pain. He wore a tank top and gym shorts and his tanned skin seemed to glow in the afternoon light.
He smiled ruefully. He knew the girls sometimes sneaked looks at him, and called him a fox. A balding fox, he thought, as he pushed back his thinning hair. They loved to make jokes about his sunburned forehead, and they went into mock mourning when he wore his glasses in English class. He didn't wear the specs for practice, though. There was a limit to how much he'd surrender to the ravages of time.
"Aces!" he said, as Casey slowed to a jog. The other girls whooped and clapped encouragingly. Casey managed a weak smile as she shook out her arms and sucked in air.
Owen walked over to her and slipped a strong arm around her trembling shoulders. "Nice," he said.
"Too slow."
"It's heavy out today."
"No excuses."
"Come on," he said. "When do I make excuses? I'm brutal."
She smiled, and her slender body yielded to his squeeze. "My time was way off."
"Off," he corrected. "Not way off. You went off balance in the downside turn. Try using your arms more."
She nodded. He let her go and watched her walk in tight little circles. "Cramped?"
"A little."
"Work it out. I think we're going to break."
He went to a bantam-sized girl with cropped hair who waited with a clipboard. "How'd she do, Amy?"
The girl looked at the clipboard. She'd just penciled in Casey's time on a chart. "Fourteen-three."
Owen felt a small vacuum of disappointment. "Two seconds off."
Amy gave him a sympathetic look. Owen walked away and gathered his thoughts. Sometimes he couldn't take their beautiful, caring eyes. It hurt to love the kids as much as he did, and to get as involved as he got. It tore him apart to go to each graduation, to hug them in their flowing black gowns and feel their wet faces against his neck. It was bad enough when the courts took your own kid away from you. To lose a hundred more every June was rough.
But he knew he wasn't going to change. I'm just a cockeyed masochist, he thought wryly. He'd keep coaching these intense girls, and he'd keep teaching English. He'd keep entering marathons he could never win. What made it worse was that he liked doing it.
He dismissed his reflections and went back to the long wooden bench where the girls had gathered. Some of them sat with knees apart and heads lowered. One girl idly flipped a towel. Casey Gordon put one sneakered foot on the edge of the bench and massaged her cramped thigh. Other girls sprawled on the yellow grass.
Owen gestured for Amy to give him the clipboard. He let his eyes touch each of the girls. "Okay," he smiled. "You ran your butts off. Unfortunately, you stank."
They gave mock cheers. Owen smiled again. "Actually, you didn't look bad at all. You're rusty from a summer of stuffing yourselves with ice cream and lying on the beach getting suntan oil r-u-b-b-e-d into your shoulders." He contorted his face into a travesty of rapture. The girls laughed. "We lucked out in one way. The first meet on"—he checked another sheet—"September eighteenth is against Greenfields and they finished last. Not that we underestimate any rival, but it gives us a shot at a win." More laughter. "Unfortunately, on November fourteenth, we have to face Northville for the first time and we have got to be ready. If we lose to them once, we won't meet them again."
He let that sink in, and watched Casey. Each year there was one student, maybe two, who became special. He thought that, this year, it might be this hard-driving, complex girl. She wrote surprisingly good poetry; her eleventh-grade English teacher had shown Owen some of her verse. Most poetry by high-school girls was greeting-card jingle, but Casey went for the heart.
Now Casey was going to be in Owen's Honors English class and on the track team. He wanted to help her develop her writing. He wanted to find out what animated her. He laughed to himself. What he wanted was to be her friend, until she graduated. The only problem was, Casey kept it all inside, tightly locked with a heavy chain. The way she ran, falling and bleeding, reminded Owen of himself years ago. But he'd run for the joy of it. Casey seemed to be running from something. And when she got hurt, she seemed pleased, as if she'd deserved it.
"Now," he said to the girls, "we've got a couple of weeks before Greenfields, but one of those is the first week of school and that's hectic for you and me." He glanced at the molten sky. "It also looks like there's going to be a record heat wave. But we still have to practice. Every day. No excuses. If you have sweat glands, prepare to use them now."
The groans rose in a tragic chorus.
Casey said, "You think you've got problems. I've got him for English."
Owen grinned. "True. Physical training and intellectual training, back to back."
"That's exciting," she said.
"Okay, ladies," Owen said. "Go home." He jerked his thumb upward and they slowly scattered. Owen watched as Casey retied her sneaker laces. She scooped up her gym bag and Owen said, "Casey?"
She stopped, and looked at him. "Yeah?"
"What does Casey stand for? I haven't gotten my official class rosters yet."
She smiled. "Katherine Claire."
"Impressive name."
She averted her eyes. "Yeah, well unfortunately, I didn't turn out as impressive as the name."
"Hey, what's with the sad song?"
"Sorry."
Owen felt a surge in his heart. "Don't keep apologizing. Casey's not worse than Katherine, just different."
She looked at him without emotion, her eyes shielded. "That's for sure."
He'd lost her. "Okay. I was just curious. I'll call you Casey."
"Whatever."
"Take care. Rest the leg."
"Right. 'Bye."
Like a deer released from a trap, she turned and sprinted down the slope. Owen cursed himself for being a clod. Wearily, he gathered his own equipment and stood for a moment, sweating. The deserted track mocked him as cruel ghosts ran its perimeter.
He forced himself to brighten. There'd be time to get through to Casey Gordon. He shouldered his bag and trekked toward the school building.
Casey spent half the afternoon trying to figure out what to wear for her date. She lifted dresses and skirts from her closet, stared at them, and hung them up again. She opened and shut bureau drawers, which wasn't easy because some of them were overstuffed. The white sunlight pressed against the windows, but air conditioning kept the room cool. Finally, after a lot of cursing and ten minutes of sprawling on her bed feeling sorry for herself, Casey chose a pink gingham dress that looked summery and feminine.
She took a long, steamy shower and used baby oil soap. She scrubbed her hair, which was ratty from practice, and combed creme rinse through the tangles. Her stomach fluttered as she wriggled a shift over her underwear. She didn't want to eat supper in her dress.
With wet hair slapping her neck, she racketed downstairs. Daddy was out back grilling hamburgers. She went outside and got smacked by the heat. "Whoa," she said. "It's bad today."
The barbecue smoke stung her nostrils, and she stood behind her father, watching him squirt ketchup onto the burgers. "Hi, baby," he said.
"Hi, Pops." She stood on tiptoe and kissed his stubbled cheek. "Patio Burgers, huh?"
"Yup." Patio Burgers were his specialty; they always elicited jokes about throwing meat on the patio. "I think Mom wants you to set the table."
"Do I have to? I was hoping to just eat and get ready."
"For what?"
"Date tonight."
"Oh." He always looked mortally hurt when she had a date. He bent over the acrid smoke and his eyes watered. Casey turned at the sound of splashing and saw JoAnne in the pool. At eight, Casey's sister was a spindly monkey, with muscular legs from her gymnastics class. She bounced up and down in the shallow end of the pool, her little head bobbing amid an archipelago of inner tubes and rafts.
"Casey?" Dad said. "The table?"
"Yeah, yeah." She looked bleakly at the picnic table, which was shaded by a big fringed umbrella. Mentally, she made a list: paper plates, plastic utensils, paper cups, napkins, mustard, salt, pepper, salad—oh, damn, that would get her hands smelly from oil and vinegar.
The muffled ring of the doorbell roused her from her misery. She tried to peer through the back door. "Who the heck is that?"
"Who?" Dad asked.
"Don't you hear the bell?"
"No."
She laughed. "I'll see who it is."
"Don't forget the table."
"Yes! All right! Don't get apoplexy." She shook her head and went into the house. Her bare feet felt slippery on the foyer tiles. The front door was closed because of the air conditioning, and Casey could just make out a humanoid shadow through the white curtains.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Rapist."
"What?"
"Open up."
Baffled, she said, "Glenn?" thinking of a friend who sometimes had a strange sense of humor.
"Thanks," the voice said.
She realized her goof, with a rush of embarrassment. "Oh, no! Paul!" She opened the door. Paul grinned at her from behind dark sunglasses. He wore a white sports jacket over a pastel-blue T-shirt, and white slacks and shoes. He looked absolutely gorgeous and he was attracting attention from other kids in the street.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "You're supposed to pick me up at seven."
"No watch," he said, holding up a bare wrist.
"I haven't eaten yet."
"Me either."
Her heart did a Thumper imitation. "Listen, I'm not even dressed—"
"You mean that's a skin condition?"
"Will you stop?" She sucked in a breath, trying to slap her fluttering mind into submission. "I guess you could eat with us; Daddy can make more hamburgers."
He smiled more suavely. "I don't want to eat hamburgers with Daddy. I'll take you out."
"Oh." She tried to assimilate this change in plans. "Well, I have to ask. Could you stay here?"
"I guess."
She smiled, delighted to see him and madly excited. She sprinted through the house and out the back door, letting the screen door slam. Mr. Gordon looked sharply at her.
"Listen," she said, "my date is here early."
"Huh?"
"The guy who's taking me out."
"Who's taking you out?"
"Daddy." She tautened her lips, to stop herself from chattering. "There's a guy taking me out tonight. I told you, remember?"
Mr. Gordon had closed the grill cover, and he held the redwood handle with one hand. "Yes, I remember."
"So he's here now instead of at seven, and he wants to take me out to supper."
"I'm making supper."
"I know," she said. "But he wants to take me out. Do you mind if I don't eat with you guys?"
Daddy put on his hurt-angry expression. "Well, yes, I mind. We don't give up the family dinner on a whim."
Frustration bubbled in her throat. "It's not a whim, Daddy. The guy is standing out front waiting for me."
"So let him wait. Or tell him to come back."
"I'll ask Mom," she said tightly.
"No, you won't. After dinner, you may go on your date. If this fellow doesn't think you're worth waiting for, he isn't worth going out with."
"That isn't fair!"
"Neither are you." He turned back to the grill.
"I can't believe this. I can't believe I have to tell—"
The back gate opened. The sudden scrape and squeak made both father and daughter look. To Casey's horror, Paul sauntered into the backyard. He seemed to glow in the sinking sunlight.
"Hi," he said. "I'm Paul VanHorn."
"Yes?" Mr. Gordon said.
"I'm taking Casey out tonight, and we have reservations at Clams Unlimited." Paul leaned on the serving cart next to the grill. JoAnne had stopped splashing in the pool and stood straight and silent, looking with delicious terror at the interloper.
"What?" Mr. Gordon said.
Paul scratched the tip of his nose. "The thing is, sir, that a scout from Yale will be there. He was out at the track today watching the team. Now these scouts aren't allowed to talk to the girls, but if he happens to be in the same restaurant ... "
Mr. Gordon looked at Casey. "Is he serious?"
Casey couldn't speak.
"She didn't want to tell you," Paul said.
Mr. Gordon said, "Are you nuts, or what?"
Casey could only shake her head. Mom came out of the house, carrying the napkin holder. "Oh, hello, Paul," she said cheerfully.
Mr. Gordon stared at his wife. "You know him?"
"Of course I know him," Mrs. Gordon said, as she adjusted the angle of the umbrella. "He delivered the fence."
Mr. Gordon looked back at Paul, and recognition brightened his face. "I didn't recognize you."
"It's the sunglasses," Paul said.
Mrs. Gordon said, "Are you here for Casey?"
"Yes, ma'am," Paul said. "We're just having a hard time getting her out."
"Excuse me?"
Casey shook her head No!, and Mr. Gordon said, "I told her she had to have dinner with us."
Mom nodded. "Well, Casey, he's right. You can't spring things on us like this."
"It's my fault," Paul said. "I came early."
"Oh." Mrs. Gordon sized up the situation. Casey made hard fists out of her hands. "Well, Ron, that seems like an extenuating circumstance."
"But I'm cooking the hamburgers."
"I can reheat what we don't finish. I think we can show Casey some leeway."
Daddy's eartips reddened. Casey knew she was playing Mom against Dad, but she didn't care. Daddy said, "Fine. If that's what you want to teach her." Viciously, he flipped the burgers. One dropped between the grates of the grill and he snapped an obscenity. Paul beckoned Casey to go with him. Casey said, "I have to get dressed."
Paul made weird faces and rolled his eyes toward Casey's father. Casey giggled. Mom said, "Paul, why don't you wait out front. She'll be along."
Paul shrugged, and ambled back through the gate. Mom looked reprovingly at Casey and said, "Try to make your arrangements more conscientiously next time."
"I will," Casey said. "Thanks! See you guys tomorrow."
Daddy was grabbing at the protruding edge of the fallen Patio Burger and hissing curses, so Casey didn't wait for a reply. She heard Mom yell, "JoAnne, come out of the pool, please. Dry up and change for supper."
JoAnne whined "N-o-o-o-o!" as Casey let the screen door slam behind her.
As she leaned back against the red vinyl seat of Paul's 1980 Oldsmobile Cutlass, Casey laughed. "You're out of your mind."
"I know," he said. He drove casually, a hand palming the top of the red steering wheel. The radio blasted rock music, and the engine roared. They raced past scrub trees toward a pink and violet sky.
"You're lucky my dad didn't call the cops," Casey said. "What kind of story was that? A scout?"
"I was trying to get you out."
"First of all, Yale wouldn't send a track scout to Westfield High School. And why wouldn't a scout be allowed to talk to me?"
"I don't know," he said. "I made it up."
"You almost got me grounded forever. Thank God my mom came out."
"Good old Mom."
She turned sideways to study him. He'd shaven quickly, because there were a couple of tiny scabs on his cheek and neck. His sandy hair whipped in the warm wind. He sort of grimaced as he drove, and his fingernails tapped a rhythm on the roof. The jacket fit him loosely; it was a cheap knockoff of the Italian original. She'd seen it in Caldor's.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Clams Unlimited."
"Really?" Oh God, Casey, you sound like a junior-high jerk. "That's kind of expensive."
"You're worth it."
She felt her neck get warm. Her dress was scoop-necked and it shaped her nicely. She felt girlish and sexy at the same time. She'd fluffed her hair with the blow dryer and put on light blush and liner and a touch of lip gloss, just enough to make her mouth look moist. She wanted to look good for him.
"I don't want you to feel obligated," she said. "You only asked me to the movies."
"I got off work early," he explained. "There wasn't anything to do at my house, so I figured I'd see if you were ready."
She impulsively touched his arm. "I'm a little worried," she said.
"Why?"
"They say some pretty terrible things about you. Nice girls aren't supposed to date you."
He laughed. "Yeah, I know. I didn't fit in with all the cheerleaders and preppies. I wasn't even smelly enough to be a dirtbag."
His anger was almost palpable. He'd opened a secret trapdoor and she'd gotten a glimpse of demons chained in a cellar. But he'd shut the door again, and now he hummed along with the music. Casey felt scared, but somehow close to him. Maybe it was a stupid fantasy, but she thought that she could become very important to Paul. She was getting the hot flushes and the scoops in her stomach that meant she was falling.
He broke her reverie by spinning the steering wheel sharply to the right. Casey caught her breath as the car swerved, slowed, and jounced over the gravelly shoulder of the highway. She felt weird stopping on a major road. Other cars whipped past, rocking the Olds. She could hear twilight wind, and she could see the western sky aflame with dusty scarlet.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
He hitched himself sideways and looked at her. "I'm nervous," he said.
"About what?"
"About the good-night kiss. You know: Am I getting a kiss? Am I not getting a kiss? It bums me out."
She laughed, more startled than amused. "What?"
"So I wondered, could I get a good-night kiss now? Then I can enjoy the evening."
She wondered if he could hear the drumming of her heart, because it sure deafened her. What did she do now? Boy, oh boy. Lonely road, night falling, Paul VanHorn the girl killer. Would he bury her under the road divider? Daddy would be furious.
That made her laugh out loud. Paul scrunched up his face in a little-boy expression. "Did I make a funny?"
"No," she said. "I just don't—I don't know, Paul."
He smiled reassuringly. She hoped it was reassuringly. "I'll make it easy. No hands."
She thought she would stop breathing. He put his hands behind his back. The car's motor kept running, chug chug chug. Clouds raced like sculls across the lavender river of sky, and the horizon turned blood red. Whoosh went another car past them. Casey could see headlights stabbing the blue dusk.
Her mouth was dry. Her hands rested stiffly in her lap, and boy, were they damp. She could feel her deodorant melting under her arms. Paul leaned toward her and she stiffened and pulled her head back. His lips brushed hers. She sat utterly still and her pulse kicked her throat. He pressed his mouth to hers very softly. His lips felt cool and dry.
She shut her eyes. His hair smelled of hot afternoon sun. She sensed moisture on his forehead. She returned the pressure of the kiss, but kept her mouth firmly shut. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. This was ridiculous. She had kissed before. She had more than kissed. What was the problem?
Then his mouth was gone. Her eyes flickered open. He sat in a casual, nonthreatening way, one arm over the wheel. She let out a long, rattling breath.
He sat quietly for a long, long time. She died inside, not knowing what to say. She didn't think she could say anything, anyway; the roof of her mouth was sucking up her tongue. Darkness seemed to close over the car like a black hood over a birdcage. Say something, she begged. Please.
His fingers reached out and brushed aside a strand of her hair. "Wow," he whispered. "You are a sex machine."
She gaped for a full five seconds before her laughter came rushing. He turned to face forward and gunned the engine. This is going to be some relationship, Casey thought.