The girl always had an answer. To the first question, she would tell people she was attacked by a shark. Sometimes it was a bear. Other times it was a tragic skiing accident in the Swiss Alps. There was always an exciting story to think up and the girl was a natural at lying. The second question was worse. If she admitted the accident had given her scars, the scars, those burned red ribbons of horror, they would always ask to see. So the girl told the others that she was shy, or that it was against her religion. With high school being the cesspool that it was, that started a rumor about her being a frigid prude. Well, it was better than the one that had her sleeping with Camden McQueen in the ninth grade.
But no matter how used to the questions and the whispers and the looks that the girl got, every time gym class would come, she’d be a barrel of nerves. It didn’t help that in the tenth grade she got Mr. Kane: a tall, paunchy asshole of a man with a balding crew-cut and the desire to make every girl’s life a living hell. Mr. Kane wasn’t even a proper gym teacher—he taught law class to twelfth graders. And yet there he was, barking at young girls to give him push-ups or a few more laps around the track.
The girl hated to run. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, but she was slow and her run was worse than her walk. She couldn’t do sports like soccer or hockey either, anything that could involve impact for her scars or required a lot of balance and quick turns. Consequently, she was always picked last when it came for teams for the sports that she could play.
On that particular day it was a game of soccer in the sun-baked grass field behind the school. As she had done many times before, she went up to Mr. Kane and told him she couldn’t play and would have to sit it out.
And like the many times before, Mr. Kane turned to her with nothing short of disgust.
“Again, Miss Watt?” he sneered over his clipboard.
She swallowed hard and hated how she had to prove her disability when most of the time she was trying to hide it. “Yes. You know I have a disability.”
“Actually, I don’t know. I never received a doctor’s note and you look right as rain to me. I’m a bit tired of these excuses, Ellie. You can walk, right? So you can play soccer.”
She shook her head and stood her ground. “It’s not an excuse. I can’t. I might get hurt and then I won’t be able to walk for days.” Why did he have to be such an asshole? Couldn’t he see from her eyes how sincere she was?
By now a few girls had crowded around him, girls she wished would go back to touching up their makeup on the sidelines. Vicky and the girl now had an uneasy truce, but as the years went on, new mean girls took the reins at the school and didn’t ignore her the way that Vicky did now. These girls loved to tease the girl every chance they got.
Mr. Kane folded his arms over his fat stomach, an almost impossible feat. “To tell you the truth, I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit. Soccer never hurt anyone. You’re just hurting yourself—and your grades—by refusing to play. Maybe you should stop being a little baby about all of this and man up.”
The girls snickered and Mr. Kane looked ridiculously pleased with himself. The girl felt an anger pushing up through her veins like a swarm of malevolent bees.
“I’m not a baby! I have a—“
“A disability, yes we know. But what is your disability? Does it have a name?”
“Sir Limps A Lot!” one of the girls shouted, somehow conjuring up that dreaded earlier nickname. The girl felt like stomping her pretty red head into the grass. With cleats.
“Hey, be nice,” Mr. Kane tossed over his shoulder at her in a vain attempt to look like a diplomatic teacher and not some controlling, sexist moron. He looked back to the girl. “Come on. Tell us what it is. Tell me what happened to you, tell me exactly why you can’t play the game, and I’ll let you off.”
All eyes were on her, watching her expectantly, waiting for her answer. She couldn’t tell them the truth, tell them what really happened to her. If she did, she’d shame her parents and they’d been shamed enough. No one would believe the truth anyway. No one would believe it happened because she’d been caught trying to steal from one of the Gulf Coast’s most powerful drug lords.
“I…” the girl started but couldn’t find the right excuse, the right answer that would satisfy all of them. She looked down at the ground, her cheeks heating.
“I knew it,” someone in the crowd said, “it’s probably something lame like she has one leg longer than the other.”
“Ha, lame, get it!” joked someone else.