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She got to school early on Tuesday to explore the athletic locker. Which was, of course, locked. To unlock the locker meant contact with Larry—the world’s crankiest custodian. Just the thought of having to converse with him made her sick with dread. Still, in the name of that small neon yellow ball, she went in search of him.
It should have been easy to find the only custodian in the smallest school in the state—but it wasn’t. She finally deduced that he wasn’t there yet and resigned herself to sit and wait by the athletic locker like some sort of aging gym rat. She’d almost nodded off in the warm gym when she saw the lights flicker on in the main office.
She got up and padded across the small gym/cafeteria, crossed the empty hallway, and entered the main office. “Good morning, Julie.”
Julie looked up. “Morning. You’re here early.” No smile within a mile.
“Yes, I’m looking for Larry. Do you know what time he gets in?”
Julie spared her a glance and then sat down and looked at her still sleeping monitor. “He’s probably been here for an hour by now.”
“Are you sure? I’ve looked everywhere—”
“Yes,” she said, now glaring at Emily. “Of course I’m sure. I’ve worked here for twenty years. So has he. And his truck is in the parking lot.”
Emily was offended and tried not to be. “I apologize. Let’s start over. I need to find Larry. Can you tell me where he is?”
“Why do you need to find him?”
This was none of her business, of course, but Emily was already losing this battle, and she knew it. “I need to get into the athletic locker.”
Julie opened a drawer beside her, reached in without looking, and came out with a key. “Here you go. Don’t forget to bring it back. New teachers are always quitting without returning their keys. There are probably a hundred master keys floating around this fine state of ours.”
Then why do we bother to lock anything? Emily thought, but she smiled and said, “Thank you. I’ll bring it right back.”
The locker smelled like sweaty socks and pickle juice. She fumbled for a light switch, skinning her knuckles on unidentified hard plastic artifacts until the string dangling from the ceiling brushed against her collarbone and nearly made her shriek. Her first thought was that it was a spider web, but when she gave it a yank, it lit up the small room and revealed nary a spider in sight. There wasn’t room for one.
Trunks were stacked upon trunks, each trunk labeled by something illegible scrawled across yellowed athletic tape. The top trunk held basketball uniforms. Surprise. The one beneath that—basketball uniforms. The one beneath that—prom gowns. She could hardly believe that’s what she was seeing, but there it was.
She moved these trunks out into the gym, which created enough room in the locker so that she could then turn around. Next she wheeled out the basketball bin, its wheels creaking in protest as if to suggest she didn’t have the right.
Behind the basketballs were two large equipment bags. Unzipping them (and then tucking her nose inside her shirt) revealed the school’s baseball equipment—quite a bit of it. She carried it out into the gym. Underneath the bags was a trunk of baseball uniforms and two buckets of balls. She was getting warmer.
Next she found a pitching machine buried in a pile of netting that could only be a collapsed batting cage. But when she slid the pitching machine aside, a pile of floor hockey sticks hit the cement floor with a terrific crash. She cringed, waiting for the jangle of Larry’s keys, but it never came, so she resumed her excavation. Some folding metal chairs, three flat soccer balls, one rock hard football, and finally: softball bats. Two of them. Leaning on yet another trunk, this one shoved so far under some shelving that she hadn’t even seen it. Could this be it? She dragged it into the light.
And there they were. Softball uniforms. A wave of warm peace flowed through her. Or maybe it was sweat. She dragged the new trunk out into the gym and then stood and wiped her brow. Only then did she begin to worry she’d never be able to get all this stuff back into the locker. Oh, well, she wasn’t sure there was anyone left to scold her for such a trespass. The sex-offender athletic director was long gone.
Another foray into the locker found tennis rackets, boomerangs, dodge balls, medicine balls, and oddly, a stack of pillowcases. But no softball catching equipment. No softball batting helmets. And no softballs.
As she slid the odds and ends back into place, she was almost discouraged. I’m really going to have to fundraise. I don’t want to do a bottle drive. There was no redemption center on the island. She shuddered at the thought of her small car packed full of stinky returnables on the ferry. She thought about asking her church for help but didn’t think they would be able to. Half of them were fishermen, coming off a long winter of no fishing. She knew many of them were struggling. Leaving the softball uniforms and two bats immediately in front of the door, she turned off the light and closed up, grateful the door did in fact click shut. Then she turned to return the key to the office despot.
