“Enough.” Coach Whit slid between us, but that wasn’t enough to stop what was coming. Because now I wasn’t shutting up.
“I don’t think I’m better than y’all. I think I’m better than you.” I jabbed a finger over Coach Whit’s shoulder right at Krystal. “And not because of no so-called white mother. But because I’m actually . . . better . . . than . . . you. I just am. You run like your feet made of oatmeal. Like your whole life is in slow-mo. I’m faster, because I work harder while you sit around and pout like some spoiled brat. Like somebody owe you ribbons. Like it’s our job to carry your lazy—”
“Patty! THAT’S ENOUGH!” Whit yelled, whirling around to face me.
“Better watch who you playin’ with,” I snarled at Krystal, last dig in.
“PATTY, I SAID THAT’S ENOUGH!” Coach Whit grabbed me by the arm and dragged me off the track to the gate. My heart was pounding so hard that my chest felt like it had stopped pumping blood and was pushing those red beads I put in Maddy’s hair through my veins instead. “Are you serious?” Whit asked when we were out of earshot. “What was that?”
I glared over at Krystal. Made sure she knew I wasn’t scared. But I didn’t answer Whit. Didn’t want to, because if I did I would’ve said that that was me offering Krystal a seat and that she better take it before I showed her what it meant to lay down. I was so mad. So mad. White mother? I’m the daughter of Bev Jones. And she don’t make no junk. Momly ain’t even my real mother, but even if she was . . . what? I lasered in on Krystal’s face. Her eyes, tearing up, her tough, tearing down. You don’t even know what you talkin’ about, over there about to cry. What you about to cry for? You started it. Why you even have to go there? Why?
“You hear me talking to you, Patty?”
I glanced at Coach Whit. “Yeah.” I closed my eyes for a second, told myself to get a grip. Deep breaths, Patty, my mad slowly mellowing. This temper ain’t a new temper. Breaking invisible teacups. Smashing them everywhere. No, this ain’t new. I just be keeping it pushed down, all the way down in my legs. See, there was this weird period between my dad’s passing and my mother losing her legs that my mom always calls “the funky zone” because I was acting, well . . . funky. Temper on a billion. As soon as somebody started with me—even if they looked like they wanted to start—I would finish it. Talk people down. Talk them out of whatever they thought they wanted with me. And I was just trying to let Krystal know, that’s all. But it had been a long time since I had to get funky. And now that I had—and now that I noticed Krystal was really hurt—the “funk” was fading.
“So then I need you to answer me,” Whit pressed, steely. “What was that?”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I said, feeling somewhere between embarrassed and satisfied. But then I looked over at Krystal pretending I ain’t cut her deep, doing her best to hold in her tears. Deja and Brit-Brat pretending like they minding their business but really they being nosy, watching us.
And . . . I felt bad. A little bit bad. I didn’t want to, but . . . I did.
“What’s going on here?” Coach had now made his way over to us.
“I’ll let Patty tell you,” Whit said, her voice still furious, stalking off to go talk to Krystal.
“It’s nothing,” I said quickly.
“Nothing?” Coach looked down at my hands. “Since when does ‘nothing’ make you look like you’re about to punch somebody?”
I guess the funk hadn’t completely faded yet.
I looked Coach in the eye but didn’t say nothing. He mumbled something like, I’m getting too old for this under his breath. Then he startled me by shouting, to everyone, “Y’know, I’m not your daddy. I’m not your teacher, or your principal, or even your friend. I’m your coach. Your coach! My job is to coach you, to hopefully make you all better runners, but more importantly, better people!” He closed his eyes. “Krystal, Deja, Brit-Brat, right here.” He pointed to the ground in front of him. When they all came over, he took the baton from Krystal.
“Take one end,” he ordered. I grabbed it, thinking this was going to be a revisit of the whole “energy of the team” speech. “Krystal, you take the other.” She took the other end of the baton, looking like it was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. “If either of you let go, you’re both off the team.” Then he looked at Deja and Brit-Brat. “If you two see either one of them let go, you tell me. And if I find out they did and you didn’t let me know, you’re gone as well. Now, fix it.”
“Coach—” I begged.
“Don’t try me,” he cut me off, his voice ice. “There are Patinas and Krystals all over the place, begging to be in your spot. Praying to form the bond that y’all are so determined to break. Fix it.”
Coach went back to the boys, who were practicing their blind handoff, leaving me and Krystal standing there, holding the metal stick, trying our best to not let our hands touch, which was pretty much impossible. Deja and Brit-Brat stood in front of us, awkward.
“Come on y’all, just squash it so we can get back to work,” Brit-Brat said. “We a team.”
“I ain’t start it. She came for me for no reason,” I pleaded my case.
“That’s because you were purposely trying to make me look bad,” Krystal said.
“Make you look bad? I was running. Running. This is a track team.”
“Yo, you think I don’t know that? I was on this team before you!”
“That’s the thing. You don’t think I know that!” Krystal didn’t say nothing back. She just looked at me with a screwface, then yanked the baton. I almost let go.
“Whoa, whoa! Chill,” Deja said, eyes wide, hands up.
“Yeah, y’all trippin’. Let’s just talk it out,” Brit-Brat said. “I’ve watched enough Iyanla Vanzant to know how to do this.”
“When do you have time to watch Iyanla Vanzant?” Deja asked. “I didn’t even know she still had a show.”
“I don’t think she do, but my mother recorded every single episode and uses it whenever she feels like she don’t understand me. I keep trying to tell her, I’m tall and skinny with big feet, and therefore a monster. And then she says, no baby, you’re beautiful, and I’m here for you, and what do you need from me to support you—which she steals from Iyanla—and then I say, a bag of Twizzlers, a trip to the mall, and a lock on my door, and then she says, how about a bag of Twizzlers, and then I say I hate everyone and everything.”
“Wait, so you don’t get the Twizzlers?” Deja asked, now laughing.
“What? Oh, of course I get the Twizzlers.”
“I love Twizzlers,” Krystal said, low. It was as if suddenly we were all just thinking about candy.
“Me too. My mother used to sell them,” I said after an uncertain pause. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to join in on this weird Twiz-fest that had suddenly broken out. Especially since I was just about to give Krystal a good old-fashioned Beverly Jones Funky Zone beat-down. But it seemed like it was happening, so . . .
“Your mother?” This from Krystal.
“Yeah, she used to be the candy lady in Barnaby Terrace.”