Hannah Gersen - Home Field

“What’s five times seven?” Bry asked from the corner of Dean’s desk, where he sat doing his homework. The elementary school started and finished an hour earlier than the middle and high schools, so Dean had been letting him hang out in his office during the last period of the day, which happened to be his planning period. It was a convenient arrangement, if not strictly allowed, but Dean knew no one would give him a hard time.

“Is it thirty-seven?” Bryan asked.

“I think that’s a prime number.”

“Come on, just tell me. I hate sevens.”

“Here, it’s easier this way.” Dean grabbed a handful of paper clips from an unused ashtray on his desk and began to arrange them into seven groups of five.

“I get it, I get it.” Bryan began to manipulate the piles himself and Dean wondered if his teacher had shown him this method. She was an older woman who insisted on memorization. Dean found her to be a little harsh, but Bryan seemed to like the strict rules; they satisfied his innate desire to please.

Robbie had not adjusted to the school year as well as his younger brother. Yesterday Dean had gotten a call from the vice principal, who informed Dean that Robbie had been sneaking out — he had actually used the word sneaking .

“He’s been going out for lunch instead of eating in the cafeteria,” the vice principal said, “which, as you know, is not allowed even at the high school level.”

“Does he get back in time for class?” Dean asked.

“Yes, but he’s not allowed to go out in the first place.”

“I was just trying to find out if he’s skipping lunch or class. Maybe he hasn’t made new friends yet and he doesn’t like going to lunch.”

“That’s exactly it, Mr. Renner. According to his teachers, he’s a bit of a loner, and we think it may be because of some of the difficulties he’s facing at home.”

“Difficulties?” Dean repeated. The vagueness of the word disturbed him. He recalled one of Robbie’s former teachers describing Robbie as “sensitive”—a good thing, at the time, or at least Dean had heard it as good. But it was also the word that Nicole’s family used to describe her. He was grateful to be on the phone, so the vice principal could not see his shaking hands.

He said yes to the vice principal’s recommendation that Robbie start seeing the school counselor a couple of times a week. When he hung up the phone, it occurred to him that Robbie wasn’t even being punished for breaking the rules. That he was considered too fragile to punish.

The bell rang, which meant Robbie was getting out of school and would be heading their way soon. Dean didn’t know what he would say to him, but he put the worry out of his mind, because he was supposed to meet with the girls’ cross-country team. The girls had a race the next day, but no coach. Their coach had taken a new job over the summer and no one had thought to replace her. It was something Garrett should have attended to, as A.D., but Dean felt guilty about it, since he was the one who’d thrown everything into chaos at the last minute. The principal said he had a new coach in mind, but he wouldn’t share the name with Dean. Which meant he was scrambling. Probably he’d bribe one of the young teachers with the promise of a better schedule — honor students and electives.

“I have to go talk to some students,” Dean said to Bry. “You okay hanging out here for a while?”

“Yeah, okay.” Bryan was still moving the paper clips.

Dean headed to the big gym, where he’d told the girls to wait. But it was too big a meeting place. Dean realized his error as soon as he saw the four narrow-shouldered girls sitting on the bottom row of bleachers with their backpacks balanced on their laps. When he gathered the football team here, they would sprawl across several rows of bleachers, shedding coats and backpacks. Dean would always have to wait a few minutes for them to settle down; it was as if they needed the space of the gym to absorb their energy. But the girls seemed dwarfed by the room’s expanse. With the exception of one very tall girl with long legs and square, sturdy knees, none of them looked like runners — or even athletes. In addition to the tall one, there was a blond girl whose skinny arms and pudgy middle seemed to come from two different bodies; a serious-seeming redhead with a skim-milk complexion; and finally, a small, wiry girl whose short, bleached hair made her look like a baby chick — not the look she was going for, Dean guessed, with her dark clothes and triply pierced ears. All were dressed casually for the warm day in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals.

“You girls don’t have the tradition of dressing up on game day?” Dean asked.

“Why would we dress up for the football game?” asked the tall one with the runner’s legs.

“No, I mean for your team. Because you have a race tomorrow.”

“No one really cares that we have a meet tomorrow,” the pierced girl said.

“How can they care if they don’t know?” Dean said.

“Even if they knew. .” The pierced girl didn’t bother finishing her sentence.

Dean scanned the ten names on his roster. A small team. But you didn’t need a lot for cross-country. It only took five to score.

“I guess we should wait until everyone gets here to get started,” he said.

“I think this is everyone,” said the serious-looking redhead. Her hair was pulled back into a tight French braid that clung to her skull and went straight down her back, as if keeping her posture in check.

“Not according to this.” Dean held up his list.

“Let me see,” the red-haired girl said. “You must have last year’s team. Those girls graduated.” She pointed to the first three names. “I don’t know about the others.”

“Daria’s not coming, she quit over the summer,” the blond girl said. “And Tamara and Julie didn’t like practicing with the boys’ team, so they quit, too.”

“Who cares, Tamara wasn’t any good anyway,” said the pierced punk duckling. “And Julie wanted to play soccer, she was just looking for an excuse.”

“Tamara wasn’t bad,” the blond girl said. “She was faster than Jessica — no offense.”

The red-haired girl — Jessica, apparently — waved away the remark, but her skim-milk cheeks went blotchy.

Dean asked the girls to introduce themselves and learned that there was one from each grade. The tall girl was actually the youngest. Her name was Aileen and she was a freshman. The punk duckling was the senior. She went by See-See, short for Tennessee, a nickname bestowed upon her because she had been born there, on a commune, her mother having once been a sort-of hippie. (All this was explained to Dean very quickly and so efficiently that he understood she had been giving this spiel for many years.) The other two were Lori and Jessica. Lori, the blonde, was a sophomore. Jessica, the French-braided redhead, was a junior.

“So which of you is the captain?” Dean asked.

They looked at one another and started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“There are four of us,” See-See said. “It’s not, like, a situation in need of leadership. We all run the same race, the same way. Nobody’s calling any plays.”

Dean heard the youngest girl, Aileen, whisper, “Wait, is he the football coach?”

“Every situation needs a leader,” Dean said. He pointed to See-See. “You’re the captain by default, you’re the senior.”

“Okay.” See-See turned to the other girls. “Hey, I’m your captain.”

Dean was annoyed by her nonchalance, but he pushed on. “Tell me about your conditioning regimen.”

No one said anything.

“From this summer?” he pressed. “What did you do to prepare for the season?”