Polly. Freya North
partly because Miss Fenton was ‘cool’, ‘so, so nice’ and ‘just the best’ anyway.
Most of the male freshmen and seniors are in love with her. The sophomores and juniors in between simply adore her. She thinks of them as her seraphims and Junos. English lessons have swiftly become favourite; the homework prompt and pleasing. Powers Mateland is delighted. She’s had no need to holler for Jackson Thomas, nor has he succeeded in asking her for a date. She’s always busy, that Polly Fenton, skipping about smiling, eyes alive; chatting away to students, teachers, herself and who knows what.
Excluding the house raising, Polly has had only four days off and she has willingly filled every moment of these. She went to a lunch-time concert with Kate at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston, taking the seven-hour round trip in her stride like a native. She’s driven a laden minibus up to Hanover in New Hampshire to watch an Ivy League football game between Dartmouth College and Princeton, and she has spent the past two Sundays with Lorna, who she likes very much. Last week they browsed around Keene and found a lovely bistro for lunch where they whiled away the hours until it was suddenly time to order supper. Yesterday, Lorna and Polly took a trip to Manchester where they had an exhilarating day over-spending in the factory outlets, buying things they really didn’t need but at prices so good they’d have been mad not to. The notion that they’d probably like each other has been proven, and a friendship between the two has developed effortlessly.
Lorna now knows all about Max. She has a boyfriend back home in Ohio and it’s good to talk about the trials of long-distance love with one who knows. With one as fun as Polly. Polly has even called her Megan, absent-mindedly, once or twice, though she looks nothing like her, but Lorna was more than flattered.
‘Will you guys get married?’ she asked, having told Polly that she and Tom plan to. Sometime.
‘Maybe,’ guards Polly for the time being, ‘probably.’
Why am I being guarded?
Just because I haven’t found the neck-ring ring?
Or because maybe, for the first time, it’s nice to be known – and liked – just as Polly. You know, without the Maxand bit.
For his part, Max doesn’t really mind that she hasn’t said ‘yes’ formally, officially. He doesn’t need to hear it because he doesn’t doubt her feelings towards him, he has no need to.
It’s just her scatty, emotional disposition. Plus, she probably wants to say ‘yes’ to my face, with a deluge of kisses. Anyway, she has so much on her plate. She probably thinks she’s actually accepted already.
Because when you’re that committed, that sure, there’s no need to rush, isn’t that right, Max?
‘Miss Fenton, if it’s not Mountain Day today, can you coach us soccer?’
Though it had nothing to do with Hardy, the class had worked well through the double period and Polly was happy to ease off in these last ten minutes.
‘Hold on, Heidi – what’s Mountain Day?’
‘Mountain Day? Miss Fenton, it’s the best – the bell, like, sounds four times, everybody meets on the hockey field and we all, like, hit the mountains for the day – it’s just the best. Mr Jonson organizes it. No one knows when it’ll be – not even Mr Mateland. It’s so cool.’
Polly absorbed the detail, ignored the repetitious element of Heidi’s explanation, and nodded. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘but why footie?’
‘Hey?’
‘Soccer.’
‘You’re from England, right!’ Heidi announced as if Miss Fenton had lost her mind.
‘The home of the game?’ stressed AJ, perturbed by Miss Fenton’s blank expression.
Laurel’s hand shot up as she closed the lid of her lap-top.
‘Laurel?’
‘Bet you were born with your boots on!’
How ever am I going to let them down gently?
‘Yo!’ called curly-hair-snub-nose-Ben, his arm stretched, ‘Up the Arsenal! Is that right?’ he quickly added, with sincerity.
‘Come on you reds!’ chanted TC.
‘Scumming home, scumming home, football’s scumming home,’ sang TC, who presumed that to scum for home was particularly fancy footwork all players should aspire to.
‘You gonna coach us or what?’ asked Dick, slapping podgy hands down on the desk and fixing Miss Fenton with a look of hope mixed with exasperation.
‘I’m frightfully sorry to disappoint you,’ Polly said, wondering where on earth the adverb had come from, ‘but I’ve never kicked a football in my life.’
The class stared at her in disbelief. A further, conclusive shrug from Miss Fenton saw hurt and disappointment criss-cross the ten faces.
‘How about netball?’
Begrudgingly, the class said they’d meet her in the main gym at lunch-time, if there was a free court.
The main gym at lunch-time. It was free and Polly’s jaw dropped.
Look at it! And this is only the main gym – there’s another one too, and a weights room and a stretch studio as well.
Looking around at the superbly maintained hall, Polly couldn’t wait to describe it all to Megan. Suddenly, she had an overwhelming surge of sympathy for The Jen Carter Person as she recalled the BGS gym; its frayed ropes, plastic-covered mats that clung cruelly to sweaty legs, and the floor with the varnish chipped into tessellations by squadrons of nimble-fingered games-wary girls. And the ceiling that served to amplify their squawks and protestations. She also realized with some guilt that she had quite a lot to recount to Megan, having been most uncharacteristically lax in her correspondence.
‘Righty ho!’ called Polly, positioning her class and some bystanders who wanted to join in, into some semblance of two netball teams. ‘Blast, no bibs!’ Hastily, she scribbled capital letters on to paper and safety-pinned them to the students’ shirts.
‘What’s “ga”?’ asked blond-hair-Ben suspiciously.
‘Goal Attack,’ Polly explained, pinning a large ‘C’ to Laurel and deciding that Dick would be safest as ‘GD’. (‘Cool,’ he said, to her relief.)
The game lasted twelve and a half minutes before the players went on strike.
‘What?’ Heidi exclaimed, squinting at Miss Fenton to make double sure it was English she was speaking, ‘you can’t run? With the ball? You gotta stop and pass it on?’
Whistles of incredulity and snorts of disbelief ricochetted around the hall.
‘Hey Miss Fenton,’ Lauren called to save the day, ‘how about we teach you basketball?’
‘It’ll be the best twelve and a half minutes of your life,’ AJ assured her, flipping his cap round back to front.
‘Yes, siree,’ confirmed Forrest.
‘Game on!’ TC chanted and clapped.
After quarter of an hour, Polly had to admit that basketball was a ‘far superior’ game to netball (‘Does that mean she likes it?’ asked Lauren quietly. ‘I guess so,’ said Ed). ‘However,’ she continued, ‘my leg is killing me – so I shall bow out gracefully and watch from the sidelines.’
‘I sure am sorry ‘bout that,’ said AJ, who had collided with her at high speed and, being big for his age, had come off scot-free. Polly brushed away his apology while he shook his head gravely.
‘Stiff upper lip and all that!’ she explained, wondering how to make hers rigid because the