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After our run the next Monday, Francie and I went into the clinic to help Laney restock her supplies. I was on my knees, shoving boxes of large bandages into the lower cabinet, when Coach Lopez came in, carrying a bundle of mail.
“Hi, girls. Sorry I wasn’t able to work with you today. Other responsibilities. But you’re doing really well. I wish the boys were as motivated as you are.”
We laughed. It was true. Most of the boys goofed off when the coach wasn’t around. But they weren’t planning on running the Boston Marathon in five months.
He turned toward Laney, who was putting new sheets on the cots. “Actually, Laney, I want to talk to you about driver’s ed. You got any time in the afternoons after school? Mrs. Samples has to drive her mother to Orlando for cancer treatments, and I’m looking for a replacement. It’d be on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
Laney nodded. “Sure, I’ll do it. My teaching certificate’s up-to-date.” She looked at me. “Francie already has her license, but I bet you’d like to get your learner’s permit, Faye. You should sign up for driver’s ed.”
My heartbeat quickened. “That would be great. I’ll be sixteen in January.”
“All right, then. We can talk about it later.” She turned and smiled at Coach Lopez. “Do I start this week?”
“Yeah. I’ll get the materials together. Thanks.” His tone became lighter. “Uh, Faye, some letters came for you after the track meet.” He thumbed through the pile of mail in his hand. “There’s a boatload of requests for newspaper interviews.” Noticing my expression, he hurried to continue. “I’ll ignore them. But there are a few other letters, too. Let’s see.” He pulled out three envelopes. “This one is from somebody who wants you to model athletic footwear for their catalog. And this is from a man in Utah who wants to marry you, because you’re so fast and could breed a bunch of boys to start a running dynasty.” He laughed, and we joined in. “There’s one more.” He opened it. “Oh yeah, this one is from a man who thinks you’re his long-lost daughter. That one’s kind of sad.” He paused to put the letters back in their envelopes. “Do you want these letters, Faye? Or should I throw them away?”
“Man, crackpots come out of the woodwork when a girl does something out of the ordinary,” said Laney, shaking her head.
“Throw them away, I guess,” I said, shrugging. “No, wait.” Francie and I could read them later for a laugh. “I’ll take the crackpot letters. A souvenir of my time in Valencia. But throw away the ones from the reporters.” I shuddered. He handed me the letters, and I stuck them into my geometry book.
Laney was right. There were a lot of crackpots in the world. A running dynasty. What a crazy thought.
* * *
WHILE WE WERE STRETCHING on Tuesday afternoon, Coach Lopez gestured for us to join him in the infield. He looked like he was about to cry. After staring at us for a long time, he said, “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to coach you anymore.”
As I tried to make sense of what he was saying, Francie asked, “Why on earth not?”
“The principal threatened my job if I continue. And I had a hard time getting this job, what with my family coming here from Cuba.” Misery was obvious in every inch of his body. “I’m sorry.”
Francie looked like a steam engine about to explode. “What could be wrong with coaching us? Is it getting in the way of your work with the boys?”
“That’s what he said, but it’s not true. He got called on the carpet by the superintendent when Faye ran in the meet, so he’s not about to stick his neck out again.” He spat into the grass. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any choice.”
Francie and I stared at each other. She looked as horrified as I felt. I said, “We’re sorry, too. You’re a great coach.”
We all stood there for a few seconds, not knowing how to end this terrible conversation. Finally, Coach shook his head, took a deep breath, and said, “I’ve set up a training schedule to prepare you to run the marathon in April. You’re both in good shape, and I’m sure you can do it, even without me. Here it is.” He held the pages, filled with squiggles, out to us. “Study this, and do what it says, and you’ll be all right.”
Francie took her copy, but I hesitated. “Coach, I want to run the Boston Marathon more than anything. But isn’t it still against the rules for females to run in it?”
He fidgeted with the clipboard. “Strictly speaking, it is against the rules for females to register. But the rules need to be changed. The race committee will probably be looking hard at runners who register under names that might be female. The registration papers are stapled to the training schedule. I figure you could be Frank Ivey,” he said, gesturing at Francie. He turned to me. “And you could run using your initials. What’s your middle name?”
“Faye is my middle name. My first name is Dana. But nobody calls me that.”
“Dana. That’s perfect. That can be a man or a woman’s name. You’ll register as Dana Smith.”
“But, Coach, what if my parents won’t let me go?” I usually tried to ignore the little voice in my head that said I was wasting my time training so hard, but having our coach quit made that voice even stronger.
“Just take it one step at a time, and focus on running right now. Maybe they’ll be open to it by April. All right?”
He was trying so hard to be positive that I tried, too. “All right. Sure.” I took the papers and gave him a feeble grin.
His lips became a straight line. “I’ll try to find you another coach, but I can’t think of anybody right now. I guess if you follow the program I wrote out for you, you’ll be all right.”
* * *
AFTER THAT, ALTHOUGH we still ran every day, we couldn’t keep up with Coach Lopez’s schedule. Then Francie twisted her knee in PE and couldn’t run for a couple of weeks. I ran without her, but it wasn’t any fun, and my mileage dropped.
I could feel the Boston Marathon, and my track scholarship, slipping away, and I had no idea how to get them back. Going to college began to seem like a sweet fantasy made up by a girl in a novel. Definitely not me.
The future I dreaded was starting to close in. I would end up doing farm labor for the rest of my life. Or sitting in an office, typing boring letters. I felt like I was drowning, and all it would take to go under for the last time would be for me to stop fighting.
Finally, Francie started running again. On our last run before the Christmas break, I brought up the Boston Marathon. “We’ve got to find another coach.”
“I know. I asked my dad if he would coach us, but he doesn’t have time.” Her dad had some big real estate project going on and was rarely home these days.
“There’s got to be somebody.” I thought about it while we ran a lap around the track. “Why don’t you ask your dad if he can find us somebody else? And I’ll talk to Reese, too.”
“All right. I’ll ask him again.” She sounded as depressed as I felt.
* * *
CHRISTMAS EVE WAS BUSY at the carving store. Customers had bought out most of Stan’s inventory. At six in the evening, he handed me two twenty-dollar bills. “You can go home now. I can handle it from here.” He smiled. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks, Stan. Merry Christmas to you, too.” He was letting me off two hours early. I wasn’t about to argue, though, because I was dead on my feet.
I had spent a month carving a pelican as a Christmas gift for my parents and had finished it the day before. About three feet tall, it stood on a post with its head tucked in, long beak against its chest and feathers ruffled, as if it were about to go to sleep. Truthfully, the feathers looked more like roof shingles, but it was the best I could do. I’d painted the bird in bright colors, figuring it would stand outside the door of our cottage and welcome guests. I hoped my parents would like it.
I called Mom to pick me up early. I would be able to go to church with my parents after all. Getting into the truck, I saw that Mom’s eyes were red rimmed and her lips were pressed together. She looked really mad. As far as I knew, I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“What’s up?” I asked.
She said, “Get in. Your father is an idiot.”
Okay. They’d been fighting again. Nothing new in that, although they usually gave it a break at Christmas.
As soon as I walked into the house, I smelled something strong that reminded me of... pot? Dad was sitting in the living room, playing his guitar. He sang whiny, emotional songs. A half-filled beer bottle sat on the coffee table.
I stood still for a second to take this in. Unless somebody else had been in the house, Dad had been smoking pot and drinking beer. I’d never known him to take a drink, although Mom had said he used to drink a lot when he played in a band. He’d stopped drinking after he had an accident of some sort. As for marijuana, I didn’t think adults smoked that stuff, especially not my dad.
I stood just inside the door, gawking. Mom headed toward their bedroom, saying, “Faye, I left your supper on the stove. Eat it quickly, and get dressed for church.” She turned around and glared at Dad. “Bud, are you going with us?”
“Huh?” He stopped in the middle of the song and looked around, his eyes red and glassy. “Oh. Yeah, I’ll get ready.” He leaned his guitar against the couch and drained the beer. “Hon, are there any brownies left?”
She stomped into the bedroom and slammed the door. I grabbed my plate and stuffed food in my mouth then rushed to get dressed. When Mom came out in a new red dress, I leaned in and asked, “What happened to Dad?”
“The sheriff came around, looking for a guy who used to work here. He was long gone, of course, but it upset your dad.” She sniffed. “And then Mr. Barrett caught one of the pickers smoking pot, and he fired him. I’m not sure if he knows your dad was smoking it, too. I keep waiting for the knock at the door.” Shaking her head, she said, “And here at Christmas, too. I don’t know where we’ll go.” She seemed ready to burst into tears.
Dad came out of the bedroom, looking handsome in his grey suit. He’d splashed on English Leather and gargled with mouthwash, so the evidence of alcohol and pot was gone. He grinned at me and put his arm around Mom. “You look good enough to eat.”
She pushed him away. Life was back to normal.
At church, I sat between my parents. Mom sang the Christmas carols in a beautiful alto that could harmonize with anything, and Dad had a great tenor. I carried the lead, and the three of us sounded wonderful together. The sweetness of it brought tears to my eyes.
I wondered how long the harmony would last.