Читать книгу After Hours: Midnight Oil / Midnight Madness / Midnight Touch - Karen Kendall - Страница 20

PEGGY DROVE HOME half appalled and half relieved that she’d finally told her story to someone. She wasn’t sure why she’d spilled her guts to Troy, but his smug comment about the male culture of football had enraged her. She’d had to make him see that it wasn’t okay, the whole boys-will-be-boys mentality.

It was fine for boys to be boys—as long as boys being boys didn’t involve them acting like animals.

She started to cry as she drove and hated herself for it, for being weak. But the tears came faster as she thought about her father’s reaction to her making the college team. He’d congratulated her, but he’d been puzzled, just like everyone else, as to why she’d wanted to play. She was a girl. The question hung in the air between them, never asked by him and never answered by her.

He’d never connected it to her wanting his attention, never realized that she’d tried to impress him and show him she was just as worthy of his love as that jerk Alan, who had his own dad anyway, and didn’t need to take hers, too.

Her mom had flown in for one of the early games, which was sweet, if a little embarrassing. Mom had dressed from head to toe in chartreuse—even her socks—and worn what Peggy could only describe as a Peter Pan hat with a tiny green feather. She’d also brought a set of ancient red-and-white pep-squad pompoms, and cheered in rhyme from the bleachers, looking like a demented Santa’s helper.

Peg had wanted to punt her to the North Pole but felt horribly guilty about it. At least one of her parents cared enough to show up—even if it was the one who a) couldn’t really afford the plane ticket, and b) didn’t know the difference between a field goal and a point after touchdown.

She slicked the tears off her cheeks with the heel of her hand and pulled into her apartment complex, parking the Mini as close to her door as she could. Then she went inside, glanced at Marly’s mural and sprawled on the carpet in front of it. The girl she’d painted was full of power and energy and love of life, everything that Peggy had believed in back then and still believed in now. The reason that she coached the powder-puff team. Because girls should have all of those qualities.

Lots of girls dreamed of being cheerleaders, and that was great. But the ones who dreamed of being part of the action on the field should be able to make it happen, too. All it did was expand their possibilities and their freedom to make choices.

Maybe Barrington was right, and the day a coed team accepted a female quarterback was the day they ice-skated in hell. Peggy considered that a whole different issue. Her girls shouldn’t have to put up with what she’d experienced. But that was a bridge they’d cross when they came to it. For right now, Peg would concentrate on step one: making sure a female team could exist, with a female quarterback, and without mockery or stereotypes.

Peggy got up, showered and made some calls.

The school had been careful in selecting the teams to be terminated. They weren’t all girls: the boys’ lacrosse team had been cut in addition to the girls’ softball and powder-puff football teams. Field hockey hadn’t been cut, just moved inside to the gym.

Peggy decided to be proactive before confronting school officials: better to find an alternative practice area first. The problem was that downtown Miami wasn’t exactly full of open, grassy fields.

She’d driven by a couple of areas with signs listing development companies, so she called those first. One guy laughed in her face; the other politely told her that building would commence in ten days and even if it didn’t, the liability issues were too overwhelming.

Stymied, she didn’t know whether to get into the Mini again and drive around, looking for other areas—or call the parks and rec department, maybe even a real estate agent who wouldn’t mind devoting an hour of his or her time to charity.

Across the apartment complex, Peggy saw a sweet-looking older woman locking her door. She wore a powder-blue suit and stockings in the heat, with cream T-strap summer shoes and a matching handbag. She looked as if she were going to church.

Church! Why hadn’t Peg thought of it before? There was a large Catholic church near the school, on a significant parcel of property. Maybe they could get permission to use the church grounds for practice and games.

She herself wasn’t Catholic, and didn’t want to think about how long it had been since she’d last sat in a pew on a Sunday, but maybe Troy and his family were, or one of the other girls on her puff team. Yes, now that she thought about it, Angela Flores belonged to that very church: there was a bumper sticker on her mother’s Range Rover.

Peggy jumped up and went to rummage in her tote for her Palm Pilot. She found it and called Angela’s home number.

“Hello, Mrs. Flores? This is Peggy Underwood….”

A WEEK LATER Troy joined Peggy, Sam, Derek, Danni and Laura at the Woodward School to make their case for the team. Mrs. Flores and another girl’s father came, too, with their children.

Peggy had gotten the appointment with difficulty, having to call three times and then go in person to secure it from the principal’s secretary. It was due to her making a pest of herself that they got a time slot at all. But Peg didn’t care if the school thought she was irritating—this was important.

The principal, a harried, ginger-haired woman named Mrs. DeMarco, extended only the barest courtesy as Peg introduced herself and the others. She looked at her watch. She capped her pen and folded her hands on the legal pad in front of her, as if willing them to go away.

Peggy began in a low-key manner and built her case systematically, bolstered by Troy’s support and the expectations of the rest. “In the fifth and sixth grades, as a tomboy, I learned to play football along with boys who were my friends. I had an aptitude for it and a love of the game that brought me freedom and a sense of power and a feeling that I could do anything in the world, after driving the length of the field and scoring a touchdown.”

Mrs. DeMarco’s polite expression didn’t change.

“That feeling continued in junior high and even high school, when I didn’t allow gender stereotypes to force me out of a traditionally all-male sport. Much as you didn’t allow them, Mrs. DeMarco, to stop you from pursuing a graduate degree in education, or dissuade you from taking the steps along your career until you became principal of the Woodward School. Who knows, you may become head of the school board next, or even a congresswoman. The point is, you kept pushing the boundaries for women. And you still do. I admire that, Mrs. DeMarco, and I ask that you foster the same courage in your female students at Woodward.”

Aha, the woman was now paying more attention. Peggy forged ahead.

“A girl who has faced down a team of opponents who outweigh and possibly outplay her, a girl who uses her brains and skill to bypass those opponents and show them she’s a worthy adversary—those are the girls you need at the Woodward School.