future Head Prefect.
The self-assured sixth former blinked, but kept her poise. “Of course,” she said.
Bobby blew two blasts on her whistle. “Next group!” she shouted. Taking the list from Lotta, she starred the names of the Kerwin sisters. Her glance traveled to Kayo, surrounded now by her friends and admirers. Two girls offered her paper cups of water, and Kayo chose one, tilting her head back to drink. Bobby couldn’t help noticing the way the sun glinted on the drops of liquid on the girl’s full upper lip and silhouetted her figure, which made a mockery of the juvenile gym tunic. Irrelevantly, she wondered what Elaine was up to. I should give her a call, she thought as she turned to the next group of players.
The sun was even lower on the horizon by the time Bobby read out the list of girls who’d made the squad. “Penny Gordon, Edith Gunther, Beryl Houck, Susan Howard, Ilsa Jespersen, Dodie Jessup, Kayo Kerwin, Linda Kerwin”—Kayo had been right, of course, about the other Metamorians who had been practicing with the squad of Old Girls;—“Annette Melville, Misako Nakagawa…” Bobby hoped Hoppy would be happy. “Shirley Sarvis, Patty Suarez…” Thirty-five would be the right number, she’d decided. Varsity, Junior Varsity, and a practice squad, plus a couple extras. “Joyce Vandemar, Helen Wechsler, Nancy Yost.”
For a while it was pandemonium on the field. Some of the chosen ones squealed and hugged each other, while others simply beamed or tried to act nonchalant. Applause broke out at Kayo’s name. A few of the unchosen wept.
“Girls will be girls, won’t they?” Mona observed with an indulgent smile as she stood by Bobby surveying the scene. “What an exciting afternoon! My cocoa keg is empty.” With a wave, she hurried off to dinner prep at Dorset and the rest of the crowd began to disperse as well. Bobby was deciding she would squeeze in a little scrimmage when she noticed a student on the sidelines, a tall, rawboned girl, her knobby knees showing beneath her gray skirt, the sleeves of her gray blazer too short for her long arms, her regulation scarlet tie missing. She had picked up one of the hockey sticks, and with one hand she was using it to juggle a hockey ball on the end, bouncing it up and down as easy as a mother burping a baby.
Bobby hurried over to the unknown student, excitement catching in her throat. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Sorry,” said the teen, letting the ball drop to the ground and holding out the hockey stick.
“No, that’s quite good!” Bobby told her. “What’s your name?”
“Angela Cohen O’Shea.” There was defiance in the girl’s voice and stance.
Bobby tried to place her. “I don’t remember seeing you in gym class,” she admitted. “What year are you?”
“I’m a junior—or fifth former, I s’pose.” The girl shrugged as if Metamorian terms were not only unfamiliar, but also a little ridiculous. “I have a doctor’s note excusing me from gym. Allergies,” she added laconically.
“You’ve played field hockey before, haven’t you?” Bobby tried to reach the taciturn girl.
“Some.”
“Why didn’t you try out today?”
“I’m not a joiner.” The girl turned away.
“Don’t you want to help your school win?” Bobby called after her, although with little hope. She’d seen this type of girl before. A loner. A rebel. No school spirit.
But the girl turned back suddenly. “Against who?”
“Why…why, the other teams in the Midwest Regional Secondary School Girls’ Field Hockey League,” said Bobby, bewildered.
“Does that include St. Margaret Mary’s?”
Bobby tried to remember the list of schools she’d glanced through. “I think so,” she said cautiously.
“Okay. Count me in.”
Bobby decided to wonder later what had motivated the girl’s abrupt change of heart. Right now, she wanted to see what else this Angela could do.
A little murmur arose among the newly anointed Savages as Bobby returned to the playing field with Angela in tow. “What’s Angle doing here?” she heard Beryl Houck mutter. Beryl was a red-faced, boisterous sixth former with a sharp tongue for students outside her own circle of friends. Ignoring her, Bobby blew her whistle twice and shouted, “All right, Savages, let’s try a little scrimmage!” She began assigning positions, explaining, “I’ll rotate players on and off so everyone gets a fair shake.”
The game, when she cried “Ball in play,” was chaotic, only roughly resembling field hockey as the Spitfires played it. Too many of the girls were unfamiliar with the rules. Kayo and Linda and their friends did what they could, shouting, “No obstruction, Annette! You can’t get between Beryl and the ball!” or “Offsides, Anna, offsides! Wait for Shirley to get ahead of you.”
Still Bobby was pleased. Kayo was a really excellent player, feinting, dodging, and dribbling up the field with ease. And it was amazing how quickly the ignorant girls picked up the game. Her spirits rose. It was just possible the Savages would make a respectable showing, their first season out after so many years.
She turned to Angela, who was watching the game with a bored air. “Sub in for Linda,” she told her. She saw the gangly girl tap Linda on the shoulder and take her stick, and then her attention shifted to Edie Gunther in goal, who was positioning herself nicely for a roll-in near the ten-yard line. So she didn’t see how Angela stole the ball from Kayo and left her sprawled on the ground while the rest of the squad howled “Foul!” But she did see Angela dribble the ball up the field in under five seconds and whack it into the goal so hard that Dodie Jessup, the other goalie, shrank to one side, not even trying to block. Bobby blew her whistle as Beryl and Penny helped Kayo pick herself up.
“Go, Angle!” shouted Lotta shrilly into the startled silence.
Chapter Seven
The Problem Student
Bobby burst into the faculty lounge at sherry hour in search of Mona. She was just itching to tell someone about her newly discovered athletic phenomenon. To think she had found a girl like Angle at Metamora! The coach of the newly re-formed Savages had discovered that for all her truculent air, the gangly girl was quick to grasp the tips Bobby offered on grip and dodges. And her drive, her passion! She had that elusive quality that turned a basic aptitude for athletics into something more. Bobby had played her discovery as center against Kayo, Beryl, and Linda in succession, and Angle could beat them all on the bully.
True, she’d racked up fouls almost as fast as goals. Shirley, Helen, Anna, and Edie were all bruised and limping after attempts to tackle her. But Bobby felt sure she could tame her prodigy’s unbridled aggression. Properly channeled, it would be an asset to the team.
“Mona, you ought to have stayed for the scrimmage…” she began, hurrying over to the housekeeper, who was sipping sherry in a corner by the fireplace. Too late, she noticed Miss Otis sitting next to her.
The young gym teacher tended to avoid the humorless Latin Mistress, whose overriding concern for Metamora and its traditions made her an obstacle to any innovation. Faculty gossip said she’d expected Miss Craybill to make her Vice Mistress now that Miss Froelich was dead, and hoped to one day succeed Miss Craybill and become mistress of all Metamora. But Miss Craybill had as yet named no new Vice Mistress, and Miss Otis had to content herself with seniority in the faculty lounge.
Today she swiveled around in her chair to address Bobby. “Is this newfangled sport a proper activity for our Metamora girls?” she asked earnestly. “Cui bono?”
Mona stepped in, earning Bobby’s silent gratitude. “Field hockey is no newfangled sport, Bunny! The Savages existed ab aeterno, or at any rate since 1932. Bobby is simply restoring a lost Metamora tradition.”
Miss Otis considered. “That may be,