Therese and I signed up for summer weightlifting
at the high school before my freshman year.
The weightlifters were the varsity football team,
the women's volleyball squad, and Therese and I.

Coach Molnar gave everyone a gray t-shirt
with a black skull and crossbones
and the acronym GUTS, which stood for Growth, Understanding, Teamwork,
and something else, maybe Strength.

Most days we couldn't get a ride home.
Rather than taking the bus, we walked,
stopping by Therese's dad's restaurant for black cows
before going home.

We were actively encouraged to take the bus,
as the walk was along a busy street
in what my dad would call a hard area,
but you know how taking the bus is
when you're not quite in high school.

We counted honks.
A yell counted as a honk. We counted
how many men in pickup trucks honked
if Therese walked on the outside,
closer to the road, and how many honked if I walked outside.

I had long straight blonde hair.
Therese had brown wavy hair with natural blonde streaks.
We counted how many more assholes would honk
if our hair was down or up,
if we wore shorts or sweats.

We got the most honks when I walked on the outside
with my hair down
and we ate as we walked.
The record was 15 honks, a day I wore pink shorts.

Even if we covered our hair and wore sweats
in the summer heat, guys honked,
honked and wolf whistled, honked and shouted
what they wanted or a dollar amount.

Once a truck stopped, but we planned in advance
to split and run and meet the next block over, which we did.

I played four years on the St. Pat's girls basketball team

as a short bench-warmer guard

occasionally sent in to take a key player out of the game.

Our uniforms were dark green polyester double-knit short shorts

and matching v-neck short sleeve pullovers.

We had to wear tube socks.

I had Adidas-copy shoes with dark green stripes.

We practiced in the Presbyterian church basement.

The court was smaller than regulation.

When we played a tournament after Christmas break

in the high school gym, we came early to practice on a full size court.

There were a few small snowflakes, enough in the air to sting.

It was very cold: frost lay on the ground.

Across the gym parking lot, which was part asphalt,

part gravel, next to a transfer station,

a discount variety store had a food counter.

You could buy slices of thin once-frozen pizza

or hot dogs or candy. The better players went together.

Hungry, I put on my brand-new white rabbit fur jacket

over my uniform. I put my new walkman headphones

around my ponytails. I was listening to WLS,

the radio station out of Chicago, playing Babe by Styx,

which starts "Babe I'm leaving, I must be on my way,

the time is drawing near" as I left the gym

and started across the parking lot, walking past the asphalt.

A white Cadillac with a baby blue interior

entered the lot and rolled toward me slowly over the gravel.

The driver rolled down his window.

He said something I didn't hear.

I pushed the headphones back, still walking. He said,

"Wanna go for a ride? Twenty dollars. Twenty dollars if you get in."

© 2000 Catherine Daly