The Dollhouse

Chapter 7

THE obvious tone of Violet's voice was clearly directed towards me.

She had lied on purpose. Fabricated some fancy story about a boarding school. But why? I turned back towards the front, questions lingering in my mind.

No one spoke a word for the next few hours. Until Mrs. Appleby uttered the dreaded words.

I don't think there are enough adjectives in the American dictionary to describe how much I hated gym class. Every aspect of it was loathsome - how red my face would go, the sweaty odor, the embarrassment of stripping off in the changing room.

No other girl seemed ashamed of her body. Betsy casually checked herself out in the mirror in her underwear beside me. I had daintily removed my shoes.

My hands were shaking. I could hear everyone chatting away gleefully, some already leaving to warm up. But while the sound of sneakers squeaked on the dirt-stained floor, I was rooted to the spot, slowly unbuttoning the front of my dress.

The changing area was almost deserted. In a sudden panic, I started to rip off my clothes manically. The last thing I needed was a scolding on my first day.

"Oh, you must be the other Fitzgerald sister."

Coach Martin was the name of the gym instructor. He was a burly man, with a bit of a stomach himself and streaks of grey in his bristling mustache. "Alright, rounders today, guys."

Every word he spoke went straight through my brain. My eyes wandered to the cluster of students, where I saw Violet. Her arms were crossed. My sister wasn't paying attention to Coach Martin. She was squinting at something across the hazy field.

My own eyes adjusted.

Our stepbrother was sitting on the sidelines. On the bottom of the bleachers, he had brought along his book, nonchalantly reading as if he couldn't care less.

Looks like somebody 'forgot' their gear.

"Hey, we're both in the batting team," Betsy said, as I joined the line. "Man, this is the first chance I've had to talk without Mrs. Sour Apple breathing down my neck."

I snorted against my will. "No kidding."

"Do you like gym?"

Various visions of past humiliation flashed before my eyes. "Uh, not particularly."

"Aw, that's okay. I thinks it sucks."

"It's an injustice," the nerves get the better of me. "It's like some sadistic competition to prove how good you are, with everyone as your audience to judge."

Cool it, Shakespeare.

But my new hippie friend found it amusing. "You're funny."

Whatever reassurance I felt disappeared once I approached the base. My new classmates watched me in anticipation. The wooden bat felt clunky in my hands. The bowler, a black boy named Samuel, paused until I was ready.

The leather-cased ball didn't make it very far. I hardly reached the second base before the coach called "out!" Red-faced and relieved, I returned to my team. The familiar banging sensation in my chest was back.

I hated running. More than anything in the world.

"Never mind, kid," Coach Martin said, barely looking at me. "You're only a skinny little specimen anyway."

He didn't intend the words in a nasty way. But a hot, uncomfortable feeling hit me like a punch to the stomach. So the baggy shirt did draw attention to my skinny limbs.