2

 

Two months later.

 

I twist the doorknob of my classroom for Golf Psychology. I can’t believe I’m this late. Twenty pairs of eyes turn in my direction, making me want to run back to Pennsylvania. Why did I ever think my decision to come to Orlando made sense? I’ll certainly be the worst golfer here.

Breathe. I cross the threshold at the same time I hear my name being called. Or should I say the name I’ve grown accustomed to hearing mispronounced for most of my life?

“Robert Lacy? Are you here?” The instructor stands only a few feet from me.

“It’s Roberta, actually. I go by Bobbi. With an I.” I pray my burning cheeks won’t betray my discomfort, but I’m certain they will. All I want is to become invisible. And go home. It’s the memory of my brother lying in bed that propels my feet deeper into my nightmare.

I sweep my gaze across the classroom. A few men in their mid-forties cluster toward the front of the room eating ham and egg sandwiches for a late breakfast. To my right, a group of recent high school graduates whisper to each other about some dumb thing they did the night before. And women…I search the classroom again. The admission rep told me women attend this golf college. Maybe they do, but I don’t see any in this class, and that knowledge sinks to the bottom of my stomach.

I spot a vacant seat at the end of the third row and rush to it. Once seated, I readjust the collar of my pea-green jacket made for much broader shoulders than mine. Could it possibly look any worse on me than it did this morning? A requirement, the brochure said. Requirement or not, the ridiculous coat makes me so hot I want to throw up. I’m in Florida, for goodness sake, not Alaska.

Stuffing my backpack beneath my seat, I shrink into the hard-backed chair. Why hadn’t I risen earlier? Tomorrow I won’t be the last one. I look up and offer my best smile to the instructor who has finished reading his register. He stands with his hands on his hips, and he’s wearing an expression that says he’d prefer be anyplace in the world than teaching at Orlando Golf College. I empathize with him. With only a few hours’ sleep behind me, it takes all my effort to listen to his instructions.

“We take attendance at eight. I expect everyone to be on time tomorrow or you can assume the door will be locked.” He shoots me a pointed glare and turns toward his desk, giving me adequate time to finish my assessment of him. OK, he is good looking in that slightly-older man genre. Mr. Drew Hastings. Drew. His name rolls over my tongue, and then I catch myself before I whisper it aloud. It sounds like a character from one of my mother’s soap operas.

My gaze travels from his sun-bleached hair to his tan oxford shoes, the exact brand my brother bought last year. They still sit on the floor of his closet in the original box, since walking is not in his immediate future. Drew’s red polo shirt stretches across his ample chest.

A jock, of course.

I won’t ever fit in here. Not even with all the praying I’d done after I’d sent in my application. This situation reminds me of when I’d tried out for cheerleading in the tenth grade. A double flip? Right. I’d walked around hunched over for a week and signed up for the yearbook staff instead. Is earning my degree in Golf Management God’s plan for my life? Why would I think it is? My mother wants me to come home. Robert points to Scripture about God’s will for my life. Only Grandpa supports my decision to come here. But he isn’t in his right mind half the time.

A sudden jolt to the back of my chair causes me to pull up straight. I peer over my shoulder. A guy a few years younger than me is bent over his desk intently listening to a game on his cell phone. His maddening tapping increases.

I take a deep breath. If I’m going to survive here, I can’t be a wuss. I slap his desk and point to his foot; his size ten leaves my chair and finds a home on the floor in front of him.

“After class you can sign up in the hallway to play golf. First come, first served.” Drew Hastings picks up a whiteboard marker and outlines the homework assignment for the next week. Golf Psychology. More like golf torture by the way the attention span of those nearest me wane. I scribble down the required page numbers and study Drew’s face when he turns back toward the room. His eyes remind me of the sky over our back field on a June morning. I blink back tears when I think of home.

When class ends, I sling my backpack over my shoulder and follow my classmates into the narrow hallway where everyone congregates around the bulletin board. I hadn’t planned to play golf today, but I need the practice. Inching my way through the crowd proves useless, and I curse my height. Why aren’t I as tall as my brother?

A wayward elbow nudges me in the side.

I rub the area and bite my lower lip. That’s it. I drop my backpack to the floor and push forward, digging my fists into the backs of anyone in front of me. My actions cause only one jock to move aside and the others act like I’m a gnat on their necks.

“You need to use a little force or they’ll walk all over you.”

I turn to my left and look up. Drew (or should I call him Mr. Hastings?) stands next to me wearing a lopsided grin. A hint of cinnamon comes from his direction.

“I thought that’s what I was doing.” I shrug. “I wasn’t planning on golfing today, anyway. I probably should take a lesson first.”

“My lesson sign-up sheet is over there.” He points toward the water fountain. Two or three blank sheets of copy paper hang in a neat line. “If you’re fast, you might get in.” Again, that smile. Is he flirting with me? I move as casually as I can and glance at the now almost-filled golf sheet.

“Are you any good?” I give him my best sizing-you-up look.

“PGA.”

If he’d said he’d dabbled a little in high school it would have been enough. At least he has offered to teach me, and I haven’t met any of the other instructors yet. Besides, I could fall into his eyes.

“You’re on.” I pull out my pen (one of the twenty my mother packed for me) and walk to the board. I scribble my name into the one o’clock slot. There. It’s done. I have officially started my golf career.

The thought makes me want to bawl.

 

****

 

Drew comes over the slight incline and walks steadily toward me, the afternoon sun sending shots of golden hues through his hair. He twists the cap off a bottle of water and takes a long slug. “Are you ready?” His lips sink into a straight line.

I wipe the sweat dripping from my chin. He’d said we’d practice for a half hour. But his grim look says it will be less.

“Do you want me to hit a few?” I rest my driver at my feet and wait in the unflinching heat.

“Sure. Show me what you’ve got.”

I adjust my wrists on the club and swing the driver the way I’d been taught. When my hips twist and I feel that sweet snap in my body, I watch with satisfaction as the ball races over two hundred yards.

Drew whistles behind me. “Not bad. How long have you been playing?”

“Does it show?”

“What kind of lessons have you taken?”

I study the turf beneath my feet as though it is growing right before my eyes. I look back at him, deciding I should be honest if I’m ever going to make it here. “I haven’t taken any. I’ve only played with my brother. My dad, too.”

His eyes widen. “Your brother, is he a pro?”

“He was going to be. My dad was.”

“And?”

I can’t tell him that my brother almost died saving my stupid paintings. So I don’t. I look away.

“I take it you want to be as good as they are. You’ll need to sign up for more lessons.”

He makes his pronouncement as though he’s a dentist telling me I’ll need braces because of my crooked teeth.

“I know I will. The question is, can you teach me? I need to be better than good.” I stretch my back to lengthen my five-foot-four frame.

Drew meets me with a stance of his own. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time. Better practice on that downswing this afternoon.” He packs his clubs and hoists the bag onto his shoulder still wearing that reserved look.

“You won’t be sorry,” I call to him as he turns away. I pump my fist in the air.

“I don’t expect to be.” Drew turns back, catching my gesture of glee. It’s then I see what I’ve been looking for since he arrived at the range—a flash of a smile in his eyes.