Bobby Blanchard, Lesbian Gym Teacher Page 23

  She pushed Enid toward the window. “You go first, I have to talk with Kayo,” she whispered.

  “Me?” Enid was horrified. “But I’ve never climbed ivy in my life!”

  “It’s just like climbing a ladder. You’ll be fine.” Bobby waited until the Math Mistress’s dangling feet had cleared the top of the window frame before she turned to Kayo, who’d been watching the odd proceedings blankly.

  “Sit down, Kayo, and give me those pills you took. They’re not going to help the pain you’re feeling.”

  “How do you know?” Kayo shot back. “Maybe my ankle’s killing me!”

  “I know because I’ve been there.” Bobby looked at Kayo steadily, until Kayo looked away.

  “I owe you a big apology for playing fast and loose with your feelings. You showed such—such promise that I encouraged you more than I should have. It was unfair to you, and unfair to the rest of the Savages. My only excuse is that it’s my first year teaching and I’ve made some mistakes. Some real doozies.” Bobby thought back over the past few months, amazed at all that had happened.

  “You’re just saying that because you lost against Adena today and want me back on the team,” Kayo retorted. “All you care about is winning!”

  “That’s not true,” said Bobby earnestly. “I care about the physical, emotional, and moral development of every girl in Metamora’s athletic program! Besides, we won today.”

  “You did? Because of Angle, I suppose. She only apologized to me because she’s got that grudge against the Holy Virgins. I bet she wasn’t sorry at all. I’ve tried, really tried to be nice to her, and she just looks at me—looks and says nothing!”

  “We won because of teamwork, Kayo. And Angle apologized because she felt bad for you.”

  Conflicting emotions warred with each other on Kayo’s mobile young face. Bobby watched her closely. The teen was like an irresolute child, peering into the adult world, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. What to say? How to give her the gentle push that would take her over the threshold to maturity?

  “Grow up, Kayo!” said the coach abruptly. “You’re not the only person at Metamora with problems! On the hockey team alone you’ve got kleptomania, incipient alcoholism, and the troubles of a broken home! Not to mention that your Headmistress is on the verge of insanity and your school is on the verge of collapse!”

  Kayo’s chin snapped up at this unexpected assault. Bobby continued on doggedly. “You’re Head Prefect and team captain, and you can do something about these things if you choose, instead of hiding behind heartache and pain pills.”

  “Next you’ll be saying I don’t have any school spirit!”

  “No, never,” Bobby protested. “Oh, Kayo, I’m only being tough on you because I believe in your potential!”

  “Oh, fine,” Kayo said after a moment’s silent struggle. “I’ll play against the Holy Virgins. I suppose you want your letter sweater back. I feel so humiliated!”

  Bobby felt a little better. Kayo was going to be okay. Maybe her captain’s pride was more injured than her heart.

  “Kayo, next year you’ll be going to college and you’ll meet scads of wonderful girls, and I bet you’ll humiliate lots of them,” she assured the tempting teen. “Say, how about if we trade—you return my letter sweater, and I’ll give you my lucky stick? It’s time I passed it on.”

  “Really?” Kayo’s eyes widened in delight.

  “It’s a deal.” Bobby got up and straddled the window sill. “Now I’ve got to go, I’ve left Enid hanging too long. Don’t tell anyone you saw us.” Bobby swung out the window and swarmed up the ivy to join Enid, who was clinging to the side of the building.

  “I’m stuck,” said the Math Mistress in a strangled whisper. Bobby helped her move her hands and place her feet until at last they’d reached Miss Craybill’s bedroom window.

  “If it’s closed, I’ll murder you,” said Enid between clenched teeth.

  “Relax,” Bobby reassured the terrified teacher. “Miss Craybill is a fresh-air fiend.” The window was, in fact, open an inch, and Bobby was able to push it up easily. She boosted Enid over the sill and clambered in after her.

  The Headmistress’s chamber had changed slightly since Bobby’s last visit. The photos were gone and the deranged woman dozed fitfully under the smooth counterpane. A pair of budgies flitted about in a cage that hung from a stand by the bed. The intruders seemed to have agitated the birds, and they flew from one side of the cage to the other, chirping frantically.

  Miss Craybill opened her eyes. “Bobby—and Enid. To what do I owe the pleasure?” She struggled to sit up. “I’m afraid I’m not myself. Refer all questions to Miss Otis for the duration.” Her eyelids sagged closed.

  “Miss Craybill!” Bobby shook the sedated school mistress until her eyes opened. “We found a letter from Miss Froelich we think you should see.” Enid helped her prop Miss Craybill up, and Bobby looked around for some sort of stimulant. There was nothing. Then the coach remembered the pint of whiskey, a gift from Adena’s field hockey coach, still in her jacket pocket.

  “Do you think this’ll hurt her?” she asked Enid as she poured a jigger into an empty mug on the side table. Enid shrugged, and Bobby tipped the contents into Miss Craybill’s mouth, pinching her nose closed. The Headmistress coughed and sputtered. “Not the demon rum!” Her eyes flew open in horror and she pushed the mug away.

  Since the Headmistress’s abhorrence of alcohol seemed to have stimulated her into a semi-alert state, Bobby held the letter in front of her. “Read this, Miss Craybill, read this!”

  The old woman began to read, without comprehension it seemed. Slowly she sat up straight, and taking the letter in her own hands she read it again. “Why, that scamp!” The words burst forth. “She never canceled!”

  It was marvelous to see the pink return to Miss Craybill’s pallid cheeks and the sparkle to her dim blue eyes. “Where did you find this?” she demanded. Quickly Enid explained how she’d been casually flipping through the mathematical reference book in the library.

  “And it’s been there all this time,” marveled the Headmistress. “Like a needle in a haystack. She must have forgotten about that letter. How like her. She was always leaving a trail of scraps, like Hansel and Gretel. Shopping lists as bookmarks, problem sets mixed in with textbook catalogs…” She drifted into a reverie and a tear glimmered at the corner of her eye. “And she never got to see the blue-crowned trogon,” mourned Miss Craybill.

  “But the point is, it’s not your fault,” interrupted Bobby, determined not to let the Headmistress sink again into destructive self-pity. “You’ve got to get over this guilt complex, this—this—” She threw her hands up helplessly. “You tell her, Enid!”

  “You’re used to running the school, the teachers, the student body like the fief of your own little fiefdom.” Enid’s voice was like maple syrup dripping down a stack of pancakes. “You’ve been doing it for so long that you forget that all of us are individuals, autonomous beings. Miss Froelich was wholly in control of her own destiny—”

  The door swung open and the nurse burst into the room. She was not the one Bobby had seen before, but a brawny young woman, with muscles that rippled under her white uniform. “I thought I heard voices,” she said, advancing on the uninvited visitors menacingly.

  “Hush, Nurse, you’re interrupting.” Miss Craybill spoke with her old authority. She threw the covers aside. “Make yourself useful and give me my dressing gown,” she commanded.

  “And so you see,” Enid continued as the bewildered nurse searched for the garment, “you have nothing more to do with her death than I do with the death of a Chinese peasant on the other side of the world.”

  The nurse handed Miss Craybill her quilted dressing gown. “Would you like some beef tea?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Beef tea? I could eat a whole side of beef,” Miss Craybill cried, wrapping herself in the dressing gown. “But first I think I’ll take a bath. I’m feeling terribly frowsty.�
��

  Bobby didn’t want to return to the morbid topic, but she had to ask. “Miss Craybill, what was it Miss Froelich said before she died?”

  Miss Craybill furrowed her brow. “It makes no sense now. Did I mishear her? I thought she said something like, ‘You’ve gambled with our lives’—or was it ‘their lives’? Something lives. What could she have meant?”

  Chapter Thirty

  Cocoa in the Common Room

  Bobby and Enid took the stairs for their descent, circumnavigating the special sub-prefect, who was engrossed in a comic book.

  “Maybe what she said was ‘I’ve been rambling all my life,’” suggested Bobby. “Or ‘scrambling with chives’? No wait, I’ve got it! ‘You’ve scrambled their drives’—Miss Froelich was trying to warn Mona about nutrition and the students’ energy level!”

  “I think you’re right about one thing,” Enid said decisively. “Miss Froelich was addressing Mona, not Miss Craybill. But she wasn’t talking about nutrition—she was talking about betting!”

  “You mean Mona Gilvang is a gambler?” Bobby tried to picture the wholesome housekeeper dealing cards to a table of men smoking cigars and listening to horse races.

  “I think so,” declared Enid. “But let’s ask her.”

  As they retraced their steps to Dorset, Bobby asked, “Miss Froelich said ‘gambling with lives.’ What does that part mean?”

  Enid didn’t reply. She just walked faster.

  The common room in Dorset was still crowded with Savages eagerly chattering to their classmates, reliving the triumphs of the Adena game. Edie and Misako were toasting marshmallows at the fireplace, while Linda and Joyce argued about the finer points of obstruction. In the back corner of the room, Angle and Kayo were sitting together, evidently deep in a serious conversation.

  “Have you seen Mona?” Bobby asked Hoppy. She and Netta were observing the whole scene, as avid as bird-watchers before a nest of ivory-billed woodpeckers. Netta looked up at Bobby’s question, but Hoppy only waved them impatiently toward the kitchen.

  In the shining, industrial kitchen Mona was humming a little tune as she ladled cocoa from a bubbling vat into the empty mugs crowded together on a tray.

  “Bobby, congratulations!” Mona called out. “Hello, Enid! Aren’t you girls thick as thieves these days! I wonder, would you mind giving me a hand—just add a squirt of whipped cream to these mugs I’ve already filled, and then we can take the trays in.”

  Obediently, Bobby shook the bottle of whipped cream and began squirting a gob of the stuff into each mug. “I don’t want to pry,” Bobby began, somewhat embarrassed. “But do you have a gambling habit you haven’t mentioned?”

  “Gambling? What will these girls think up next!” Mona laughed gaily. “I’m happy to say that gambling is not one of my vices. Careful, Bobby, not quite so much whipped cream,” she cautioned the Games Mistress, who was absentmindedly making towering mountains of the foamy treat.

  “You can’t laugh this off,” declared Enid, who stood to one side with her arms folded. “We know what Miss Froelich said—we know that her last words, ‘You’ve gambled with their lives,’ were intended for you, not Miss Craybill. These are serious charges, Mona!”

  Before Mona could reply, a sudden intake of breath made them turn. Netta Bean had slipped into the room. Looking straight at the housekeeper, she asked sadly, “Oh, Ramona, what have you done now? You told me you’d reformed!”

  “Ramona? You know her?” Bobby wondered if the mismatched pair had met at the Knock Knock Lounge.

  Enid was struck by Netta’s revelation as well. “Reformed?” she asked tersely.

  “We were girlfriends once.” Netta answered Bobby first, her tone mournful. “Until she turned to blackmail, dope dealing, who knows what else.” She looked at the harried housekeeper. “I can’t believe I ever loved you! I can’t believe I trusted you last week when you told me you were through with crime!”

  “Keep your shirt on, Netta,” Mona began in a placating tone. “You always exaggerate that business in Bay City. I’m not doing anything wrong. I take a little flutter on the high school sporting events from some of the locals. It’s a fine old American tradition!”

  “You’re a bookie, not a bettor,” Enid realized.

  “The high school sporting events!” Horror filled Bobby and she set down her can of whipped cream. “You mean you take bets against the Savages?”

  “Calm down, Coach.” Mona was on the defensive now. “What’s the harm? These bluffs are crawling with fervent field hockey fans, eager to place a wager on the home team, as well as wealthy housewives bored with bridge, ex-hockey players, and not a few parents who like the added interest in the games.”

  “Ramona,” moaned Netta. “How can you? You trained as a teacher once. You’re gambling with lives!”

  “You’re the one who’s behind these ‘accidents’!” Angrily, Bobby advanced on the housekeeper. “You’re the one who rubbed the Pioneers’ shin guards with poison ivy! Who slipped the Ants’ star center a mixed drink instead of a milkshake!”

  “I swear, Bobby, it wasn’t me!” Some of the housekeeper’s insouciance slipped away. “Believe me, I have a hard enough time calculating the odds of an honest game!”

  “What I can’t understand is the cold-blooded cruelty that let you stand by and do nothing while poor Miss Craybill went half crazy, blaming herself for her friend’s supposed suicide,” put in Enid hotly. “That’s much worse than any illegal betting.”

  Mona threw out her hands. “She jumped to conclusions! Was I supposed to incriminate myself to argue her out of her guilty conscience? I told her over and over again that it was an accident.”

  “But was it an accident?” Bobby heard herself asking the question almost without her own volition.

  The sudden stillness in the big kitchen was broken only by the simmering of cocoa, which took on an ominous sound, like the bubbling of quicksand as some helpless animal is trapped and sucked under.

  “What are you talking about?” Mona said finally. “She had her binoculars. She was observing nuthatches. She was observing nuthatches!”

  The kitchen door swung open, and music and noise filled the tense kitchen as Linda poked her head in. “Mrs. Mona, Mrs. Mona, is there any more cocoa? And Misako broke a chair, demonstrating the Twist Push-Pass Feint.”

  “I did not break it.” Misako appeared behind Linda. “Beryl broke it when she fell on it.”

  Mona seized the tray of cocoa. “We’ll have to finish our chat another time,” she told the three teachers. “These girls will tear the common room to shreds in their high spirits!” She exited through the door the fourth formers held open for her. As it swung closed behind her, the words “Girls will be girls!” floated back.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  In the Gymnasium

  “We must report her to the Midwest Regional Secondary School Girls’ Field Hockey League, there’s just no way around it,” Bobby said for the tenth time.

  She and Netta and Enid were sitting in her office in the gym.

  “I should have said something when I recognized her last week,” Netta mourned for the twelfth time. “Why did I believe her? Why do I still fall for her line? Oh, I wish Lois were here, instead of at that collating conference!”

  Enid sighed. “We’re repeating ourselves and not getting anywhere. Bobby, I know you want action—”

  “This whole hockey season has been tainted! Do you realize that?” raged the young coach. “And how many other high school sports has this terrible vice infected?”

  “I know, I know,” Enid tried to soothe the infuriated Games Mistress. “As a matter of fact, the Problem Solvers were using Metamora’s sports stats in a probability exercise, and I noticed an odd predictability to the field hockey games. The underdog won, every single time! However,” she added hastily as Bobby opened her mouth, “you also want Metamora to survive, don’t you? We have to deal with this discreetly. Remember, the Old Girls are coming this we
ekend.”

  Bobby closed her mouth. She knew Enid was right. Then she opened it again. “But we have to make sure Friday’s game is clean,” she declared. “I don’t want the Holy Virgins getting the plague or finding ground glass in their shoes on my turf! If we win against them, I want it to be fair and square!”

  “Mona said she had nothing to do with that,” objected Netta.

  “Netta, I can’t believe after everything you’ve told us you’re still defending your ex!” retorted Bobby. “She masquerades as the widow Gilvang, and instead it turns out this Mr. Gilvang is alive and living in New York—”

  “She married him to help him emigrate from Sweden,” muttered Netta. “The quota for Scandinavians was full.”

  “Just a second, Bobby, I’m with Netta,” interjected Enid. “Let’s look at bookmaking mathematically. Your bettor puts down eleven to earn ten, you set your line to balance the action, and if you don’t get middled too often you’ll earn, no matter who wins. A heavy bettor is the likeliest culprit, not Mona the bookie.”

  Netta wasn’t paying attention anymore. “What was that noise?” she asked nervously.

  They all listened intently. Then Bobby and Enid heard it too—a faint creaking that seemed to be coming from the big gymnasium she’d thought was empty. Switching off her desk lamp, she eased open the door and peered out. She could see nothing except the faint outlines of the vaulting horse and balance beam. Night had fallen. It was dinnertime by now, and everyone should be in Dorset, tucking into their Yorkshire puddings. But someone was out there. Who? What did they want?

  Enid’s shoulder was pressed against Bobby’s. “Do you see anything?” she whispered.

  “No,” Bobby whispered back. She went behind her desk and took her lucky stick down from its place of honor.