The Odd Ballerz by Ruthie Robinson Page A

maybe it could be great if we could somehow keep you upright. So yes to answer your question, I
am
wondering why? How? What? Maybe there is more to this than mere sucking, more than just clumsiness.”
    “Wow, all that, huh,” she said, chuckling.
    “Have you ever spoken to a professional?” he asked, ignoring her attempt to make light of all he’d said.
    “I thought you were a professional,” she said. He was silent, wearing such a look of infinite patience at her answer—so like her dad and the looks he used to give her after she said something equally as smart-mouthed. She was thirteen all over again. “I was a clumsy child, who grew into the clumsy adult. Alex is the athlete in our family, took every athletic gene, except maybe two or three, and our middle sister took those,” she said, serious now too.
    “That’s one theory,” he said, staring into her eyes, sensing extreme discomfort from her and that fear thing again
and
she hadn’t answered his question, which had not gone unnoticed. He smiled. “See you Friday, and don’t be late. You’re down to your last strike,” he said.
    “I do have a business to run, you know.”
    “No excuses, Jones,” he said, and then he was peeling away from her, leaving her alone with a few questions of her own.
    # # #
    Memphis was pulling into her driveway when her cell phone rang. It was Alex calling, of course.
    “Are you going to call me after every camp session?” Memphis said by way of greeting.
    “Are you going to be late to every session?”
    “What? Who told you I was late? Coach Z? I wasn’t late.”
    “No. He’s not the only person I know. I have other sources. You can’t keep showing up late, Memphis.”
    “Coach D, he’s the one telling on me then. He’s your age. I don’t believe Coach Harris would tell on me. He likes me, or he’s encouraging, at least.”
    “It might help if you weren’t late all the time.”
    “What’s all the time? Two practices does not all the time make, and if I make the rest, my average will be about, what, 78 percent, which isn’t that bad, considering I have a business to run. I told you it would take me a minute to reorganize my schedule, to fit in my visits to the camp of the little boys. I’d like to point out that I did, in fact, make it in time to run my laps.”
    “Barely?” Alex asked.
    “Yes, but barely counts,” Memphis said, somewhat mollified. “I’ll be on time from here on out. I promise.”
    “Thanks. So how was practice otherwise?” Alex asked.
    “Okay, I guess. It’s going to take me a while to get used to running two laps. I’m really only running the first one, the second is a fast walk at best. I’m still tripping over my feet, still can’t catch a cold, let alone a football. I did warn you. Did your informant coach tell you that?” Memphis asked.
    “Yes, I heard all of that. Your time in the forty is encouraging though, so the rest will take time perhaps. Do you think it might be nerves?”
    “And what would I have to be nervous about?”
    “Don’t know, maybe Z? I know you like him. You’re not the first, so don’t bother denying it. It affects your ability when he’s around.”
    “No… it does not. Is that what he thinks?” she asked.
    “I have no idea what he thinks and if that’s not it, then it’s not that important anyway, so moving on. Friday is assessment day. You know that, right? Campers will be divided into two groups, those that will play the line and those that could play the more skilled positions.”
    “I’m not sure I’m strong on what the difference is between the two, but where do you think I fit?”
    “Maybe skilled positions… your time in the forty puts you well into that group. We’ll see. Anyway, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later,” Alex said.
    “Yep, later,” Memphis said, disconnecting the call.

FIVE
    Thursday
    A ten o’clock appointment followed by a search for lunch put Memphis back at her office at about one in the