Bobby Blanchard, Lesbian Gym Teacher Read online

  “Oh, never mind.” The housekeeper gave a little laugh. “Girls will be girls! I just wish Munty Blaine hadn’t taught so many Metamorians how to jimmy the shed’s padlock. Have you been working out? You look awfully invigorated. How about a cup of cocoa with me in Devon?” She put a caressing hand on Bobby’s bicep.

  “Sorry, not tonight.” A daring idea had come to the young teacher—she would study those psychology and education texts herself! After all, Miss Watkins had said she wasn’t dumb. Maybe she could figure out Angle all on her own! “I need to hit the books,” she explained to the disappointed housekeeper. She was itching to get back to the dorm and delve into Problems in Adolescent Development.

  “Well, another time.” Mona trailed her hand along Bobby’s arm as she released her with evident reluctance. Bobby had turned toward Cornwall when Mona recalled her.

  “Oh! Before I forget.” Bobby turned back. “I thought you should know, Enid went to Miss Craybill with her concerns about the athletic program. She’s a brilliant teacher but perhaps a little too serious about government-mandated educational goals. Of course she didn’t get very far—Miss Craybill had a date with a crested kingfisher—but you might want to make sure the Savages operate strictly by Metamora’s rule book. I’d hate to see the team dissolved before it even plays a game!”

  “Thanks,” said Bobby automatically as Mona wheeled the bicycle away. The soothing effects of her exercise were done away with in a moment by this new evidence of Enid’s implacable hatred for hockey. Well, now the hostility was two-sided!

  Chapter Ten

  At the Flame Inn

  Bobby swirled the dregs of beer in her glass absentmindedly as she said, “Could it be something as simple as a growth spurt? I was rereading Problems in Adolescent Development from that psych class I had to take, and the author—who’s a doctor!—says parents and teachers should never underestimate the profound effects a sudden growth spurt can have on an adolescent. Inadequate sleep—grouchiness—dissociation from a stable peer group—and the next thing you know you have a juvenile delinquent on your hands!”

  Elaine shifted restlessly in her seat across the table from Bobby. “When you said you wanted to go someplace quiet and talk about hormonal urges, I didn’t picture this,” she said, irritable as any sleep-deprived adolescent.

  The two girls were sitting in the Ladies’ Lounge of the Flame Inn, a cozy room off the bar done up in Late American Rustic. Small cocktail tables in knotty pine filled the room; candles in red-pebbled glass and a moose head on the wall provided ambience.

  “Do you want another gin and tonic?” Bobby asked. She looked around for the waitress and pointed at Elaine’s empty glass when she caught her eye.

  Maybe it had been a mistake, meeting here instead of the Ellmans’ deserted pool house, as Elaine had suggested. But Bobby had been learning more from her studies of the adolescent psyche than the importance of integration in the peer group. Chapter 23, “Sex and the Adolescent,” had certainly given her pause. “Sex is a natural part of the adolescent’s development,” the author had written. “It is important not to relegate it to the back alleys and dark corners of the adolescent’s world where he will learn to associate it solely with shameful physical urges.”

  The chapter went on to discuss the many ways young couples could interact with each other in the light of day. While the book’s emphasis had been on group roller-skating and church clubs, Bobby felt that meeting Elaine at the Flame Inn was a pretty good start at integrating her special friendship with her peer group.

  Now she took a gulp of beer and searched for another topic. It was important to find interests in common besides the physical urges, the book said. “How’s candy striping?” she asked.

  “My candy striping days are over,” said Elaine moodily. “I never liked being around all those sick people anyway. It was just a good excuse to go into Bay City.”

  Mentally Bobby erased that topic from her list.

  “I’m so bored with life I could scream.” Elaine was continuing her usual complaint. “Daddy’s gotten stricter than ever since I changed my mind about college. If I’d known he was going to cut my allowance, I’d have gone. If only he’d let me get an apartment of my own….”

  Bobby had heard this sob story before and her thoughts drifted back to the Savages. The team was shaping up amazingly well after its three official practices and the two unofficial sessions she’d squeezed in. Once she’d given the squad passes from Study Hall, and once she’d taken advantage of the warm September evenings with a post-dinner practice—although she’d held her breath when Miss Craybill wandered by. However, Miss Craybill was gazing up into the trees, looking for a white-breasted nuthatch, and passed without noticing the girls vigorously pursuing the hockey ball across the field.

  Yes, the team was making tremendous advances in skill and technique. When the girls elected Kayo captain, they’d given Bobby an active assistant coach. Kayo taught Misako the Indian dribble, corrected Annette’s grip, and had the team running drills when Bobby arrived at practice. Tuesday night’s practice wouldn’t have occurred if Kayo hadn’t rescheduled the DAPs meeting. Kayo seemed willing to do anything to make the Savages a success.

  Bobby wished she could say the same of Angle, who stubbornly resisted Bobby’s efforts to make her a team player. Indignant cries of “Ball hog!” and “Grandstander!” followed her up the field whenever she got hold of the ball.

  Yet the coach couldn’t blame Angle alone for the lack of teamwork. Much as she hated to admit it, Bobby couldn’t deny that there was some truth in Enid’s accusation that the DAP girls dominated the Savages. It was natural, Bobby supposed, that after playing together for so long the DAPs tended to pass to the teammate they knew rather than the teammate in the best position. Natural, but unfortunate. What would happen at Friday’s game? Would the team forget their factionalism and pull together or would—

  “You’re not listening!”

  Bobby started guiltily. Elaine was looking at her with accusing brown eyes.

  “Sure I am,” Bobby alibied. “You were talking about your apartment—and your allowance—and how your dad should realize that if you lived in Bay City and got involved in charity events, you’d add to the prestige of Ellman Cycles.”

  “That was ten minutes ago, Bobby! I was describing a Danish modern tea cart I might purchase. But clearly you’re not interested.” Elaine stabbed out her cigarette in the knotty pine ashtray.

  “Sure I am,” Bobby soothed the petulant debutante, secretly wondering if modern furniture could be a bond between them. Then she sat up straight. “Why, there’s Mona!”

  The Metamora housekeeper was at a corner booth with a svelte blond woman whose back was to Bobby. Bobby couldn’t help admiring the delicate ankles peeking out from her crisply creased capris.

  “Who’s that, another of your college conquests?” inquired Elaine caustically.

  “No, I’ve told you about her, she’s the housekeeper at Metamora. She’s awfully nice.”

  Elaine’s eyes were like angry brown coals. “First you ignore me, and now you’re cruising other girls!” She glanced across the room at Mona’s table and stiffened. “Oh, no!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s Mrs. Driscoll—from my mother’s bridge club! I can’t let her see me here with you! Oh, I knew this was a terrible idea!”

  “Look at it this way,” Bobby tried to comfort the distraught girl. “We’re two friends having a drink together, just like them.” A happy thought struck her. “Or what if they’re just like us? Maybe your mother’s friend is secretly playing on our team!”

  “The only thing Dot Driscoll plays is high-stakes bridge!” snapped Elaine.

  “Well, keep your shirt on, she’s leaving,” reported Bobby. She watched as the two women stood up from their table, laughing. She wanted to get a better look at the blonde, and half wished this Mrs. Driscoll would spot Elaine and come over. But Mona’s mysterious friend threw a ca
mel’s hair coat over her shoulders and exited.

  “Why, Bobby, what a pleasure.” Bobby’s head snapped around. Mona was standing at their table beaming. The young gym teacher had been so busy watching the other woman depart, she hadn’t noticed Metamora’s housekeeper approach.

  “Hello, Mona,” Bobby said lamely. She could practically see the smoke coming out of Elaine’s ears as the girl fumed inwardly. “This is—this is my friend Elaine Ellman. She was my candy striper at Bay City General.”

  “Elaine Ellman…” Mona held on to the hand Elaine reluctantly extended. “Now, I know I know that name from somewhere.”

  Bobby knew Mona was going to bring up Ellman bicycles, and that Elaine would be more furious than ever.

  “Didn’t I read in The Glen Valley Crier that you’re engaged to Ted Driscoll, son of the dry-cleaning Driscolls?”

  Bobby felt as if the ball had been stolen from her just as she was lifting her stick for a shot on goal. She looked at Elaine, waiting for her denial. But Elaine only flushed a little as she answered, “Oh, do you know Ted?”

  “I was just chatting with his aunt-by-marriage, Dorothy Driscoll,” Mona explained. “I finally forced her to give me her cook’s famous coconut cream pie recipe. I’m hoping to tempt Miss Craybill’s appetite with a special treat,” she told Bobby in an aside.

  Bobby was too stunned to respond coherently. “Oh, ah? I mean, that’s terrific. Pie, I mean.”

  “Well, I should be going. Bobby, do you have a way back to Metamora?”

  “Bryce and Ole,” replied Bobby automatically. “They’re picking me up after the show at the Bijou gets out.”

  “Oh, that’s right, they’re seeing The Music Man again. Well, I’ll say good night, then. Nice to have met you, Elaine.”

  When they were alone again, there was an awkward silence. “You’re engaged?” Bobby said at last.

  “What of it?” Elaine tossed her head defiantly. “It doesn’t make any difference to us.”

  “But…but it does!” Bobby protested. She wished the author of Adolescent Development Patterns had dealt with a similar dating problem in his textbook.

  “We can still have fun. We can still park at the far end of Glen Mountain Road, and meet in the pool house, and do all the things we like. Look, all my engagement to Ted means is that Daddy will stop bothering me about college and raise my allowance so I can buy a trousseau. I’m not ‘off the team,’ or however you would put it.”

  “You may not be off the team, but your team loyalty is certainly in question!” Bobby responded hotly.

  Elaine’s temper, never placid, began to fray. “Maybe I need a more competent coach,” she shot back. “One who understands the point of the game!”

  “What are you saying?” demanded Bobby indignantly. “Are you implying my ball-handling skills are slipping? Why, I taught you everything you know! Your technique, your wide knowledge of plays…Where do you think you’d be without me?”

  Elaine stood up. “Don’t be beastly, Bobby Blanchard,” she said coldly. “I’m leaving, and I never want to see you or hear another ghastly sports metaphor from you again!” She stalked away, leaving Bobby open-mouthed. Halfway to the door, she turned around and added, “And I’ll have you know, I was considered quite a good player at Shady Lane Summer Camp, long before I met you!” She slammed the door of the Flame Inn Ladies’ Lounge behind her.

  Bobby bent her head over her beer, both angry and astonished. Shady Lane Summer Camp! Hadn’t Elaine always said she was the first? Had she ever really known Elaine? Had their romance been no more substantial than a shadow that had disappeared when she’d tried to drag it out of the dark corners into daylight? Well, good riddance! she told herself defiantly. The engagement to this dry-cleaning Driscoll boy was the last straw. What had she and Elaine ever had in common besides the brief moments of wordless passion they shared? Bobby was a field hockey fan, and Elaine was an aficionado of modern furniture. It was probably better this way.

  As anger faded, melancholy stole in and settled on Bobby’s heart like a thick winter fog. What was the matter with her? Why was it she could never hold on to a girl for longer than a semester or a summer break?

  And now that she was marooned in Metamora, where would she find a girl, period?

  Who needs ’em? Bobby blustered mentally. To heck with these girls and their engagements! I’ll just concentrate on my students.

  Chapter Eleven

  Home Game

  There was a nervous quiver in Bobby’s stomach as she watched the bleachers begin to fill with students, teachers, and even a sprinkling of parents. The big yellow bus from St. Margaret Mary’s had arrived and was disgorging their field hockey team, the Holy Martyrs.

  “Here come the Holy Virgins,” muttered one of the Savages. They were an impressive bunch, Bobby had to admit as she watched the squad of hulking, freckled girls descend and heard them shouting at each other in deep, hoarse voices. Their coach was a stern-faced, square-jawed woman wearing a kilt of black watch plaid that matched the team’s uniforms. Next to the Martyrs, the Metamora girls in their brand-new crimson and white pinnies looked a little…frivolous.

  Bobby wished the Savages’ first game wasn’t against the top-ranked Martyrs. Her players might talk boldly, calling the team by its unsanctioned nickname, but Bobby knew they were intimidated. However, the schedule set by the Midwest Regional Secondary School Girls’ Field Hockey League couldn’t be helped.

  “Miss Blanchard! Miss Blanchard!” It was Miss Craybill calling to her. Bobby hurried to join the Headmistress, who stood with a little cluster of visitors. “Miss Blanchard, I’d like you to meet some of our family and alumnae,” Miss Craybill twittered. “Mrs. O’Shea, Angela’s grandmother.”

  The stout white-haired woman in her shapeless black coat bore no resemblance to her granddaughter, save for the shrewd gray eyes. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she said, pursing up her mouth.

  “Your granddaughter is a wonderful athlete—a real natural,” Bobby told the old woman. “You must be very proud of her.”

  “It was God that gave her the gift, not I,” Mrs. O’Shea responded sourly. “And the devil may yet put it to his own use. I don’t mind telling you, I’d rather Angela were still with that lot.” She nodded at the Holy Martyrs as she rattled a string of beads through her hand.

  Bobby wondered again why Angle had left St. Margaret Mary’s so abruptly, but Miss Craybill’s hand was on her arm. “I must steal Miss Blanchard away from you, I’m afraid.” As she walked Bobby a few steps away, she murmured, “She pays Angela’s tuition, you know,” then aloud, “and this is the Kerwins’ aunt, Dottie Grimes—pardon me, I often forget my Metamorians’ married names! Mrs. Driscoll, I should say.”

  Bobby hardly heard the introduction. She was face-to-face with the beautiful blonde she’d glimpsed drinking with Mona at the Flame Inn. The unexpected sight of Dot Driscoll was like a blow to her solar plexus. Dorothy Driscoll’s face belonged on the cover of Vogue, while her figure would be at home on a stage in Vegas. Her ash blond hair made a halo around her face, and she wore a red mohair sweater over double-knit jersey pants that showed the generous flare of her hips. A wide black belt emphasized her hourglass figure. Bobby’s head swam.

  “Did—did you play hockey like your sister?” she managed to ask.

  “No, but I’ve always been an avid onlooker!” Mrs. Driscoll smiled.

  “Dot had a career in insurance before her marriage,” Miss Craybill told Bobby.

  “I’m just a happy housewife now,” laughed Dot.

  Bobby searched for small talk but she was too dizzy with desire to do anything but stare at this beautiful apparition, which had appeared on Louth Athletic field like a religious vision.

  Celibacy had never suited the ex-hockey player. Ever since she and Elaine had broken it off, Bobby had been prone to these storms of desire, which swept over her with the speed of a forest fire after a dry spell. Anything could spark the flame; and living as she di
d in a remote girls’ boarding school, surrounded at every turn by tempting female flesh, there was no shortage of sparks. One day it would be Mona, bending over the refreshment table to pour out some cocoa. Another time it might be squeezing past Laura Burnham at a faculty meeting. Even Miss Rasphigi, glimpsed one twilight walking toward the chemistry lab, had taken on a certain enigmatic allure. Worst of all, Bobby had discovered that her archenemy, Enid Butler, had the power to attract her!

  Then there was Bobby’s heightened awareness of the hormonal heat surrounding her in peasant dance, stunts and tumbling, and even tetherball classes. After a particularly vigorous kinetics class, Bobby would often retreat to her office and try to calm herself by studying diagrams of hockey plays while wrapping her overheated head in a cold, wet towel.

  Field hockey practice was no better. Why did the girls have to run giggling around the showers snapping damp towels at each other? Why was it that Kayo always seemed to be taking off her blouse when the coach visited the locker room to hustle the players along? Sometimes Bobby even suspected the Savages’ captain was deliberately flaunting her charms! Then she pushed the thought away, ashamed of her overheated imagination, and did some pull-ups on the bar across her office doorway.

  But Kayo’s aunt was of age, and right now all Bobby could think about was pulling Dot Driscoll under the bleachers and exploring at close range the generous curves her attire advertised. She wanted to spirit the blond beauty into the woods nearby, push her up against a tree and—

  Why, that’s like my dream, Bobby realized with a prickle of horror. That dream I had on the train.

  Like a swimmer coming up for air, she shook her head, trying to clear away the miasma of lust and fear.

  “Coach Bobby! Coach Bobby!” The piping voice of Lotta Reiniger, who had attached herself to the Savages as water girl, pulled Bobby out of her reverie. “They’re looking for you on the field!”