Running Barefoot

6. Impromptu



P.E. was mandatory in junior high. I had lived in fear of undressing in the locker room the entire summer leading up to seventh grade. I had horrible visions of having to shower in those open stalls, all of my skinny, prepubescent classmates staring at my private parts. I had nightmares of running through the locker room, bare naked, looking for a towel while everyone else stood fully clothed, gaping at me. Music by Wagner screamed through the dream.

Luckily, showering was not mandatory, and I brought a huge towel from home, kept it in my locker, and huddled behind it while I changed into my gym clothes every day. I had long legs and enjoyed running, but that was as far as my athletic prowess went. Organized sports were beyond me. I was more than slightly spastic. During our unit on basketball, I attempted to make a basket, throwing it as hard as I could at the hoop, only to have it rebound sharply off the backboard and smack me in the face, bloodying my nose and blackening my eyes. I hated dodgeball even worse, and jumping rope was an absolute joke. I usually ended up volunteering to turn the rope for everyone else or shag balls in order to avoid having to participate. I was consistently assigned to ‘work with’ the two mentally challenged girls that participated in gym class, not because I could actually help them athletically, but because I was nice. I have to say though, both of them could beat me hands down in dodgeball and basketball. They were better at jump rope, too.

That day in P.E. we were doing calisthenics-a fancy word for stretching, and fairly safe for those less coordinated, like myself. Ms. Swenson, my P.E. coach, had a student aid leading us in the stretches. Her aid was a high school cheerleader named Marla Painter, who was very beautiful and very…stretchy. Her kicks were so high she could hit herself in the side of the head with her kneecap. She was showing us all three splits as I unfolded myself and slunk over to where Ms. Swenson was sitting grading papers. I supposed they were from the health class she taught. I had never seen a single sheet of paper in P.E.

“Ms. Swenson?” I asked shyly. Ms. Swenson didn’t care much for me. She didn’t have a lot of patience for the Klutz club, of which I was president.

Ms. Swenson finished checking the paper she was on before lifting her eyes in exasperation from the page.

“Yes?” She answered impatiently.

“I have a friend who needs to learn how to swim...umm, how exactly could he go about doing that here at the school, preferably during school hours?” I finished in a rush, hoping she wouldn’t slap me down too quickly.

“What grade is he in?” She asked, her eyes back on her page, checking away.

“He’s a senior. He’s my neighbor in Levan, and transportation is a bit of a problem. He wants to join the Marines when he graduates, but he needs to learn to swim.” Again I rushed through my explanation, daring to hope, but not hoping too fervently.

“Why are you asking for him?” She said suspiciously.

“He’s new to the school, and a little shy - so I told his grandmother I would find out,” I lied, feeling my cheeks burn.

“Hmmmm. Go with Marla back up to the high school when she finishes. I’ll give you a note... you have lunch next right?”

All seventh graders had first lunch, and I nodded my head eagerly.

“Ask Coach Judd or Coach Jasperson about it. Maybe they can work something out for him. I have a brother who’s a Marine - gotta know how to swim.” She finished in an almost pleasant tone.

“Thank you very much, Ms. Swenson.” I waited while she scribbled me a note and signed it like she was in the medical profession.

Marla took me to the high school gym and snagged a boy who was heading into the locker room to see if either Coach Judd or Coach Jasperson was in his office inside. She bounced off after that, leaving me waiting outside the boy’s locker room for the messenger to return. I waited for a very long time. Either the coaches weren’t in there, or the boy had gotten distracted. I was about ready to give up in despair when the last person I wanted to see came walking through the gymnasium towards the boys locker room.

“Josie...what are you doing?” Samuel said, befuddled to see me lurking outside a place I had no business being.

“Ms. Swenson sent me up to speak with Coach Judd or Coach Jasperson. Marla Painter came with me, but she left and I can’t go in there!” My voice sounded a little like a wail, and I embarrassed myself with the sudden urge to cry. I wasn’t about to tell Samuel I was here for him.

“Just a minute,” he offered helpfully. “I’ll go see if there’s someone in there.”

At that moment, Coach Jasperson accompanied Marla’s messenger out of his inner sanctum. Coach Jasperson was eating a huge tuna sandwich with potato chips smashed in between the bread. Apparently he hadn’t wanted to give up any of his lunch break to chat with me. I breathed a sigh of relief and then shuddered in dread. This was going to embarrass me and embarrass Samuel. I knew he might never forgive me, but I did it anyway. As the messenger sauntered away I began to speak.

.“Coach Jasperson, Samuel here is my neighbor.” I gestured towards Samuel, not daring to look at him. “He wants to join the Marines when he graduates. The problem is he doesn’t know how to swim. He needs to be in a swim class or something here at the school, working with someone who can teach him.” I was talking so fast Coach Jasperson had stopped chewing in order to keep up. “He can’t come early to school, and he can’t stay late for transportation reasons so it would be a very good thing if you could make sure he gets the help he needs during school hours.” I sounded like one of those wind-up dolls, prattling along cheerfully.

I sneaked a look at Samuel. His face was like a cold, hard mask. I knew he would never speak to me again. My heart broke a little.

“I’m sure Samuel would be glad to speak to a guidance counselor to rearrange his schedule to make it work.” I’d done what I could do, and my voice trailed off nervously.

“The Marines, huh?” Coach Jasperson was chewing again. “I’m sure we could figure something out....it was Samuel, right? You speak English?”

I cringed. I could see why Coach Jasperson thought he might not. After all, I’d done all the talking for him.

“Yes I speak English.” Samuel’s reply was sharp, and I heard the outrage in his voice. He was furious with me. Still, I hoped Coach Jasperson didn’t hear it and misunderstand.

“Good, good!” Coach Jasperson was too busy enjoying his sandwich, and he missed the darts shooting from Samuel’s onyx eyes.

“Well, you and I will go see Mr. Whiting, the guidance counselor, and I will set you up with one of the guys from the swim team. I think Justin McPherson could help you during 2nd hour. He’s my aid, and I never have much for him to do. If we can free your schedule up during second hour, you should be set.”

Bless Coach Jasperson for being very helpful and a little oblivious at the same time. He put one arm around Samuel’s shoulders, pulling him along, talking to him while he licked the last of the tuna salad from his fingers. Samuel turned and looked at me over Coach Jasperson’s beefy shoulder. I bit my lip to keep from tearing up as he glared at me. He turned his head dismissively, and I left the gymnasium as quickly as I could.





I missed the bus on purpose that night and waited until almost 5:00 that afternoon to get a ride home with Johnny after wrestling practice. I was tired and hungry and more than a little distraught. I’d finished all my homework, including a book report not due for another two weeks. I’d tried to read but found myself too jittery to focus. I longed for my music books – at least I could have gone into the band room and practiced the piano. I’d called Sonja from the office to tell her I wouldn’t be at my lesson that afternoon. When it was finally time to go I had to sit crammed in between Johnny and another sweaty wrestler all the way home from Nephi. I should have just taken the bus, but I couldn’t face Samuel yet.

The next day I faked sick. My dad didn’t question me too hard. In fact, he didn’t question me at all. I never faked sick, so when I said I didn’t feel well and wasn’t going, he just shrugged his shoulders, felt my head, and asked me if I needed him to stay home from work to be with me.

“Ugh! Please no!” I thought desperately. Then I would have to fake sick all day. I told him I would just sleep and that I would be fine all by myself. He didn’t need much convincing. I spent the day playing the piano until my back and neck ached and my fingers kept playing even after I stopped.

At 3:30 the doorbell rang. I was back on the piano playing Fur Elise, my feet bare, wearing my favorite old jeans and the soft blue BYU sweatshirt Jared had given me for Christmas. I ran my fingers through my hair and walked to the door, expecting Tara.

Samuel stood on the porch, his hands pushed down into his pockets, his head uncovered, his silky black hair blowing in the cold January wind. He didn’t have his backpack, so I assumed he’d gone home first. I wondered what excuse he’d made in order to come see me. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could see it.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” His voice held no anger, but there was a tightness around his mouth that I hated.

I moved aside and opened the door wider, indicating that he should come inside. He seemed hesitant to enter but must have realized we couldn’t sit out on the porch in the cold for very long - plus, his grandpa or someone might drive by and explaining would be weird. People in small towns saw things and talked....if someone saw Samuel sitting on my front porch with me, tongues would start wagging and that would not be good.

Samuel stepped inside, and I shut the door behind him. He didn’t sit down but stood stiffly a few steps from the door. I resumed my perch on the piano bench. I curled one leg up under me and stared down at the black and white keys, waiting.

“Are you sick?” Samuel asked bluntly.

“No.” My voice was a whisper.

“Why didn’t you go to school today? And where were you yesterday after school?” His voice was flat.

I tried to speak around the giant lump in my throat and had to swallow a few times to get the words to come out. “I was afraid to see you.” He seemed surprised that I would just come right out and admit it.

“What did you think I would do?” He asked sharply.

“It’s not what you would do,” I answered miserably, the lump in my throat growing, choking me. “It’s how you would act. I can’t stand it - you being so mad at me. You looked at me yesterday like you wished I were dead, and I just couldn’t face you knowing how much you hated me!” I folded my arms around myself, willing the pain in my heart to subside.

“I was mad…but I could never hate you.” His voice was soft, and I felt the tightness in my chest ease just enough to make breathing easier.

“I wish you hadn’t done that, but a part of me was glad that you did; I think that makes me even more ticked off; I hate it that part of me is thankful for what you did. It’s weak to need or want someone to speak for me.” He paused for a minute, and I shifted on the piano bench so that I could face him. He glared down at me, his jaw set, his eyes wet. “You can’t do that again, Josie. I don’t want you to take care of me. I know you did it because you do care….but don’t take my pride from me.”

“Is pride more important than friendship?” I said sadly.

“Yes!” Samuel’s voice was harsh and emphatic.

“That is so ridiculous!” I threw my arms wide in frustration.

“Josie! You are just a little girl! You don’t know how helpless and weak and stupid it made me feel to stand there while you arranged my life like I was some kind of charity case!” Samuel fisted his hands in his hair and growling, turned towards the door.

“I am not a little girl! I haven’t been a little girl for years…forever! I don’t think like a little girl, I don’t act like a little girl. I don’t LOOK like a little girl, do I? Don’t you dare say I am a little girl!” I pounded down on the piano keys - playing a violent riff, reminiscent of Wagner himself. Now I knew what Sonja meant by letting out the beast! I wanted to throw something, or smash something, and scream at Samuel. He was so impossible! Such a stubborn, mule-headed jerk! I played hard for several minutes, and Samuel stood at the door, dumbfounded.

Suddenly Samuel sat down beside me on the piano bench and put his hands over the top of mine, bringing the din to a halt.

“I’m sorry, Josie,” Samuel said softly. I was crying, tears dripping down onto the keys, making them slippery. I was a terrible beast, not fierce at all - just a blubbering baby beast. Samuel seemed at a loss. He sat very still, his hands covering mine. Slowly, his hands rose to my face and gently wiped the tears from my cheeks.

“Will you play something else?” He requested softly, his voice remorseful. “Will you play something for me....please?”

I wiped my tears off of the piano keys with the bottom of my sweatshirt. He waited patiently beside me, letting me regain my composure. I was still hurt and frustrated, and I didn’t understand him at all. But I had never been able to hold onto anger very long ...and I forgave him immediately, giving in with a soggy sigh.

“You know I love ‘Ode to Joy’ but I don’t really want to play that right now…” My voice was a little gravely from crying, and I looked up at him. “Have you ever heard Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 23 in A Major?”

“Ummm, I really wouldn’t know if I had.” He smiled ruefully as he looked down at me, shaking his head and wiping a stray tear from my cheek.

“It’s my favorite song…today.” I smiled a little. “I have different favorites on different days. But today is a Mozart day.”

His hands fell to his lap as I began playing. I plucked out the lilting melody, trilling through the notes, fingers flying though the rolling chords, coaxing every last bit of aching sweetness from the wistful concerto. How I loved this music! How it healed me and filled me and soothed me.

The last musical phrases were so soft, so faint, that Samuel leaned in to hear the very last high, clear notes as my fingers grew still on the keys. I looked up at him then. He was staring down at my hands resting on the now silent keys.

“Play more,” Samuel urged softly. “Play the one you played at Christmas…the second one.”

I acquiesced immediately, my heart swelling at his response, his sincere enjoyment.

“Does it have a name?” He said reverently, when I finished.

“Ave Maria.” I smiled. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It was written by Franz Schubert. He was only 31-years-old when he died. He died completely broke, not knowing that his music would be treasured by people forever.”

“And you know this because….?” Samuel raised his eyes to mine in question.

“My piano teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, tells me all about the composers when I play their music. She says to be a great composer, I have to love the great composers, and if I don’t know them, how can I love them?”

“Which one do you love the most?”

I giggled a little. “It’s kind of like my favorite song. It changes all the time, depending on what kind of mood I’m in. Mrs. Grimaldi says I am a very mercurial musician.”

“I think I’m going to have to go look that word up.”

“The dictionary says it means active, sprightly, and full of vigor.” I laughed. “I had to look it up as soon as she said it, but I think Mrs. Grimaldi meant always changing, unpredictable.”

“So who is your favorite composer today?”

“Lately, I have been enamored with Frederick Chopin.”

“Does enamored mean in love with?”

I giggled again. “More like captivated by.”

“Why are you captivated by him?”

“He was handsome,” I answered promptly, and felt like a silly idiot when Samuel raised his eyebrows and smirked. “But mostly it was because he wrote mainly for the piano...more than any other composer in history. I am a pianist so....I like that. He was also very young when he died - only 39 years old. He died of Tuberculosis. He also had a torrid love affair with a famous writer. He was filled with guilt because he never married her, and he was certain he was going to go to hell because of it. He ended their relationship before he died, trying to repent of his sinful behavior, but it’s so romantic. He was such a tragic figure.”

“So play something by Chopin,” Samuel demanded.

I had the first portion of Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor memorized, and I loved the dramatic rhythm of the low - high, low - high pattern throughout the beginning. It was a moody piece, and it appealed to my romantic nature when suddenly it became sweet and melodic, full of nostalgia and tenderness. I had not memorized the incredible difficulty of the final movement, tying it all together in a triumphant and impressive finish, so I improvised a little to end it before I got there.

“I can see why you are enamored,” Samuel teased. He was relaxed and his mouth was curved in pleasure. “Now play me something you’ve written.”

I froze in discomfort. “I am not a composer, Samuel,” I said stiffly.

“You mean you haven’t made up any songs? Mozart was…how old did you say? Four or five...when he started making up…what are they called?”

“Minuets,” I supplied.

“You haven’t even tried to compose a little?” He prodded.

“A little,” I admitted, embarrassed.

“So...let me hear something.”

I remained unmoving, my hands in my lap.

“Josie....all I know about music, I’ve learned from you. You could play something by Beethoven, say it was yours, and I wouldn’t know better. I will think whatever you play is wonderful. You know that, right?” He urged me gently.

I had been working on something. A few months back, a melody had shivered its way into my subconscious, and I hadn’t been able to place it. It had lurked, pestering me, until finally I had hummed it for Sonja, fingering it on the piano, creating chords out of the single notes and embellishing the melody line. She had listened silently and then asked me to play it again and again. Each time I added more, layering and building until she stopped me, touching my shoulder softly. When I looked up at her from the piano, there was awe in her face, almost a spiritual glow.

“This is yours, Josie,” she had said.

“What do you mean?” I had asked, confused.

“I’ve never heard this music. This isn’t something you heard…this is something you created.” She had beamed, joyfully.

I thought of the music now as Samuel sat next to me, waiting patiently, hoping I’d concede. The music had come to me after we’d quarreled about Heathcliffe and the meaning of true love. When I thought of the music, I thought of Samuel.

I brought my hands to the keys and exhaled slowly, letting the music seep into my fingers. I played intently - there was a yearning in the melody that I recognized as my own loneliness. The music never became powerful, but moved me in its simplicity and in its clarity. I brushed the keys gently, coaxing the song from my timid soul. It was a humble offering, not nearly worthy yet of Mozart even at a young age, but it echoed with the passion of a sincere heart. When the last note faded and Samuel had still not spoken, I peered up at him apprehensively.

“What is it called?” He whispered, bringing his ebony eyes to hold mine.

“Samuel’s Song,” I whispered back, staring at him, suddenly brave and unapologetic.

He turned his face away from me abruptly, and he seemed unable to speak. He stood and walked to the door. He paused there, with his hand on the doorknob, his head bowed.

“I need to go now.” Samuel looked at me then, and there was a battle being waged in his eyes, turmoil on his face. “Your song…that is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” His voice was filled with emotion. And with that, he opened the door and walked out into the icy stillness, shutting the door softly behind him.