I change in seconds and flee to my second sanctuary. I run to the court to get my bearings. A basketball is my security blanket as I put up shot after shot. I settle into the downtime that only comes from hoops. I shoot threes around the key. Satisfactions fills me as they fall in—swish, swish. Oliver’s words and my words swirl around and around in my head, running altogether, but my hands keep on with their practiced motions.
I should have just read something else, anything else! Why do I need to read that one? It was so personal. I mean, I could have read the poem I wrote about the apple falling from the tree and a turtle comes along and eats it. But no, I had to spew my emotions out in the classroom. I let my feelings fly, splattering the walls and making everyone mega uncomfortable.
There is such a thing as too much self-expression. Sometimes festering and withholding is necessary. My silent self-admonishment is interrupted by a loud clapping of hands. I turn to my stunned audience. Crap.
Mr. Smit gives me a hard look. “You know our school has a basketball team, right?”
I’m sheepish. “Yes. Yes, I am aware.”
“Is there any reason you aren’t on it?”
I look down at the floor. “There is, but It’s personal. I mean, I don’t really want to talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
He shakes his head. “For someone who doesn’t want to play or talk about it, you sure are putting on a show.”
I can’t argue with that. “Well, I’m sorry. It’s how I relax, I guess.” I toss him the basketball before sitting down and staring hard at the door of the gym. I just want to be myself right now. I’ve got a lot of sorting to do.
Mr. Smit continues to stare. I can feel it. I can’t bring myself to return his questioning looks. He plants himself in front of me. I stare at the toes of his tennis shoes. “All I’m saying is, you have an athletic gift, Katie, and it’d be a crime for you to waste it.”
I fidget but remain silent. I don’t disagree with what he’s saying, but all I can think is I did everything right to be the perfect daughter, the basketball star, but it wasn’t enough to keep my dad, so what’s so great about basketball?
He clears his throat. “Alright, you all know what to do. Get to stretching. We’ll be doing some lifting today and then some conditioning.”
We all groan. Conditioning means running and box jumps. This is good though. Now I don’t have to talk or think. Coach Smit turns on his music. He’s like an 80’s junkie, which is okay. That’s the music my dad liked. Even though I don’t want to, sometimes I miss my dad, despite his being a big disappointment. We start stretching. I go and stand by little red spitfire; thinking if I do this, Oliver won’t follow. Wrong again. Here he comes. “Who was your poem about?”
I laugh. This gets him going; “What’s so funny?”
I give him a glare. “You are. All you guys think everything is about you. I mean, a poem can’t be written, a song can’t be sung, a statement can’t be made, without some man in the general vicinity thinking it’s about him. Not everything is about the male species.”
He throws up his hands. “Sheesh. I surrender. Never mind. Wow.”
“Well, I’m just tired of it. Maybe I wrote that for someone I knew who had a hard time. Maybe it’s written for any person who has been burned by love,” I protest.
He leans in. “And have you, have you been burned by love?”
I start to answer, but Red Spitfire pipes up. “I’m about sick to death of the two of you having your lover’s quarrels in gym class! I don’t care what the hell your problems are. Just don’t hash them out here!”
I clap my hands once in her direction. “Thank you, Red! I’ll gladly take your advice. I don’t want to talk either.” We go through the rest of gym class in silence, apart from the musical talents of ACDC and Rick Springfield’s Greatest Hits.