That evening, Elsie pulled open the doorway of the Barton Middle School gymnasium and stepped inside. The old facility was steamy, and smelled of sweat and athletic shoes. The walls were lined with trophy cases holding dusty prizes. Elsie didn’t bother to look for any plaques bearing her name, though she had attended the school in her teenage years. Her medals were in a different hallway, by the speech and debate room.
A teacher with frowsy gray hair stood behind the counter with a roll of tickets. “Three dollars,” she said, then peered over her bifocals. “Elsie Arnold!”
“Hey, Mrs. Simmons.”
“I had you in eighth grade math. Or was it ninth grade?”
“Ninth, I think.” Elsie pulled three one-dollar bills and set them on the counter.
“I always thought you’d end up in the law. You’d argue with anyone about anything.” She gave Elsie a bright smile.
Elsie wasn’t certain that the statement was a compliment. But it was probably true. “Have you seen Bob Ashlock come through?”
“Oh, he got here early. Detective Ashlock never misses a minute of his boy’s games. So you and Detective Ashlock are still keeping company?”
“Yep,” Elsie said with a tight smile, as she thought: nosy old bag.
“Well, I bet your folks are tickled. You’re finally settling down with a nice man. You couldn’t do better than Detective Ashlock.”
When the teacher handed Elsie her ticket, Elsie took it without comment. In fact, Mrs. Simmons was correct; Elsie’s parents were overjoyed that she and Ashlock were a couple. And it could certainly be argued that Elsie couldn’t do better than Bob. A lifelong law enforcement officer, he was a local hero in the community for his stellar record of service. He was also really good in the sack.
As Elsie walked into the gymnasium, she entertained the fantasy of whispering some of Ashlock’s finer skills into Mrs. Simmon’s shocked ear; it restored Elsie’s spirits and made her grin. While she scanned the bleachers for Ashlock, a ponytailed cheerleader bumped into her, nearly causing Elsie to drop the cup she held: a giant drink from Sonic.
She spied him, several rows up, facing center court. As she joined Ashlock on the bench, he looked pointedly at her cup.
“Did you pour a shot into that?”
Elsie frowned, wounded. “I only did that once. One time. Since then you act like I’m swilling at every game.”
“Sorry.” He pointed at the opposite side of the bleachers. “Bree’s here. The ninth-grade girls just wrapped up.”
“Did Taylor play?”
“Oh yeah. Damn, she’s good.”
“Shoot. I should’ve gotten here earlier. I wanted to see her on the court.”
Elsie shifted on the hard seat, wondering whether she should run over and say hello. Across the gym, Breeon was beaming at her daughter, wrapping her in a hug. The other girls on the team clustered around Taylor, their faces animated.
Elsie set her purse at her feet and sucked on the red Sonic straw. No way was she going to crash that happy scene when she hadn’t made it into the gym in time to witness the victory. As she watched Taylor’s teammates buzz around her like bees in a hive, Elsie wondered why the girl would even entertain an interest in modeling. Seemed like Taylor had it all.
“Ash, why do you think girls all want go into modeling these days?”
He grinned at her, his eyes crinkling. “You thinking about moonlighting? As a model?”
“Oh please.”
His hand grasped her knee and gave it a little squeeze. “I’d like to take some pictures of you. Can think of some nice poses. But I be damned if I’d let anyone else look at them.”
His hand slid up her thigh. She grabbed it, pushing it down to a less sensitive spot. There would be no point in getting hot and bothered at the school gym.
“You know, if you wanted to, we could Snapchat.”
“What’s Snapchat?”
Elsie waved a hand, didn’t bother to reply. She was thirty-two; Ashlock was almost ten years older. Snapchat was a young people’s game.
He was watching the gymnasium floor, but Elsie persisted. “Why would a modeling agency reach out to a young girl in Southwest Missouri with no experience?”
On the gymnasium floor, the cheerleaders ran out waving green and white pom-poms. Ashlock pointed at the boys’ locker room. “They’re heading out. Keep your eyes peeled for Burton.”
When the players ran onto the gymnasium floor, bouncing balls and shooting baskets, Ashlock stood and whistled, a piercing sound that made Elsie want to cover her ears. She watched his son, Burton, aim at the basket. The ball slipped neatly though the net.
Elsie cheered; but when she and Ashlock settled back onto the bleachers, she had a thought. Ashlock had three children from a prior marriage: Burton, who lived with him, and two young daughters who lived with his ex-wife in the boot heel of Missouri. Elsie tugged at his arm.
“What about your girls? Do they ever talk about being models?”
He scoffed, his eyes still trained on the game. “My girls are playing with Barbie dolls.”
She persisted. “What if one of your daughters was communicating with an agency?”
“Communicating? Communicating how?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Online, or maybe through social media?”
His head jerked to face her. “Are you kidding? My babies aren’t on social media. They’re not messing around on the internet either. Good lord, Elsie. They’re still in grade school.”
Burton’s team scored; Ashlock rose, repeating the ear-splitting whistle. But this time Elsie barely registered the assault on her hearing, as she debated whether to advise him that twenty-first century children knew how to search the internet as soon as they learned to spell.
When Ashlock sat, he asked, “Have you eaten dinner?”
She shook her head. He gave her knee a pat. “Good. The moms from Burton’s team are having a potluck in the cafeteria after the game. I signed us up for KP duty.”
Elsie sucked on her Sonic drink, wishing that she’d had the foresight to spike it after all.