was never much for words in situations like this. Or action. But that suited Bobby fine. Like Coach Mabel always used to say, “When you get control of the ball, keep control of the ball. Don’t pass it to a player who’s unprepared.”
Elaine moaned and rocked her hips. She pulled Bobby’s head down, and Bobby lost track of her own metaphor in the hot delight that was Elaine’s kiss. Was Elaine the ball or the other player? Was she defense or offense? Who had possession of the ball now, at this particular moment in time, when Elaine’s thigh was grinding into Bobby’s crotch and Bobby had her hand up Elaine’s skirt and their lips were fused together? Who was winning?
Later, they both lay on the blanket, Elaine’s head pillowed on Bobby’s shoulder. They’d consumed the picnic Elaine had brought, as ravenous for the food as they’d been for each other. Bobby had her hand curled around the last beer. Elaine lit a cigarette, and Bobby watched the haze of blue-gray smoke slowly rise and dissipate in the clear country air. “Want one?” Elaine asked.
“I’m in training,” Bobby replied automatically.
Elaine turned to look at Bobby, propping her head on her hand. Her large brown eyes, fringed with dark lashes, were extraordinarily beautiful, and Bobby wanted to dive into them and die a delicious death by drowning. She leaned forward, intending to kiss the freckled tip of Elaine’s nose, but the other girl blocked her, taking a drag on her cigarette.
“In training for what?” Elaine asked. “You’re not on a field hockey team anymore. You’re not going pro, like you planned.”
The words sounded harsh, issuing from those velvety red lips. Bobby leaned back and looked at the sky. “No, I’m not on a team anymore.” Not on a team. Not a right wing. Not going out with the rest of the girls for early-morning sprints and drills. On her own. “But I’m a physical education instructor now—”
“Gym teacher!” Elaine hooted. “I still can’t believe Metamora hired you!”
“What do you mean? Why not?”
“Metamora…Well, it’s just not you, Bobby. It has a reputation. Famous women have gone to Metamora—like Mamie McArdle, the columnist, Harriet Hurd, the diplomat, and Vivian Mercer-Mayer, the socially prominent heiress. Metamora’s caviar on toast points, and you, you’re more pork and beans.” She added hastily, “Don’t get me wrong, darling, you know I love pork and beans.”
Bobby didn’t mind the comparison. She liked pork and beans too. But she was curious about Elaine’s sudden expertise. “How do you know so much about Metamora?”
“Elsie Cooper went there,” said Elaine as if this explained everything. Sometimes she forgot that she’d never introduced Bobby to anyone in her social circle. “Actually, she almost had a nervous breakdown when she was rejected by Metamora’s chapter of the Daughters of the American Pioneers. You know,” she said as Bobby looked at her blankly. “That high school society. The chapter at Metamora is supposed to be terribly exclusive.”
“Well, the teachers aren’t exclusive. They’re all nice and friendly.” Bobby made a mental reservation in the case of Enid Butler. “Besides, Miss Watkins said—”
“Oh, those silly tests.” Elaine dismissed the vocational counselor with a wave of her hand. “Are you honestly going to turn yourself into a gym teacher because a punch card tells you to?”
“Well, what do you think I should do?” Bobby asked weakly.
“I think you should become a golf pro at the Glen Valley Country Club,” said Elaine decisively.
“A golf pro,” Bobby repeated thoughtfully. In some ways the idea was tempting—at the country club, no one would expect her to be intellectual. And maybe it would be nice to finally meet some of Elaine’s social circle. Bobby was tired of her teammates calling her “Back-alley Bobby.”
“Of course, we’d have to pretend not to know each other. Do you think you could remember to call me Miss Ellman, just at first?” Elaine dipped her head and kissed Bobby swiftly, flicking her tongue teasingly against Bobby’s. “Just think, I could improve my golf game and see you at the same time! Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“Sure,” Bobby murmured as Elaine threw her leg over Bobby’s. Bobby slid her hand over the curve of Elaine’s hip, and Elaine kissed her with increasing passion
A branch cracked in the stillness and Elaine sat up suddenly, still astride Bobby. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” said Bobby, her hands squeezing Elaine’s rounded bottom. “A squirrel or a bear or something.” As Elaine continued to look around nervously, she couldn’t help adding, “I don’t think it’s your father, or even the manager of Adena’s Ellman Cycle shop.”
“That’s not funny,” Elaine bristled. She got to her feet and straightened her skirt. “It’s getting late. We should go.”
Bobby didn’t argue. The golden glow of twilight was dimming, and the cares and worries of her new job flooded back in. The bulk of students would arrive on Monday and her lesson plans were still in a jumble. Elaine’s stories about Metamora’s caviar-eating girls had done nothing to quiet the butterflies in her stomach.
“You’ll think about the golf pro position, won’t you?” said Elaine as they packed the picnic things.
“Sure, sure.” Bobby didn’t want to quarrel with the cycle heiress—or have to admit that her golf game wasn’t what it should be.
Elaine carefully backed the roadster onto the rutted side road and they bounced their way back to the paved road.
“Did you see that?” Bobby exclaimed just as they reached the main road.
“What?” The little Triumph picked up speed.
“Nothing,” said Bobby. She thought she’d seen a shadowy figure, bicycling through the trees. But that was ridiculous. It must have been some sort of optical illusion. There was no sense in alarming Elaine.
It was probably a deer, she told herself.
Chapter Five
Peasant Dance
Bobby blew her whistle and the fourth formers stopped shambling through the Russian peasant dance she’d been attempting to teach them, sagging collectively in relief. “Straight spines, straight spines!” Bobby called reprovingly as she made her way to the phonograph where Bartók was still spinning around. The bell rang, marking the end of the period, and she lifted the needle off the record. “Class dismissed!”
The young gym teacher felt as relieved as her students at the conclusion of the hour’s gyrations. Miss Fayne’s lesson plans were as dull as ditchwater, but after the disastrous reception of her timekeeping lesson, Bobby had decided to play it safe and stick to the established curriculum. After all, Miss Fayne had taught at Metamora for three years!
Yet she had to admit that she was as bored by the Russian peasants as her students seemed to be.
“Miss Blanchard, Miss Blanchard!” Karen Woynarowski was hopping up and down with eagerness. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
At least the students had warmed to her as a woman, if not as a teacher. As usual, a crowd of them in their scarlet gym tunics were hanging around her desk, thrusting out excuse slips for Bobby to sign, asking for advice, or just peppering her with questions on every subject under the sun.
“Go ahead, Karen.” Bobby smiled.
“What kind of beauty routine do you follow at night, Miss Blanchard?” blurted the blushing fourth former. There were self-conscious giggles from the group of girls as each one pictured the gym teacher, at night, in her bedroom.
“Beauty routine?” What did that mean? “Well, I wash up with soap and water every night before I go to bed, and I brush my teeth, of course,” Bobby admitted.
“What