He could accept free ones, of course, along with T-shirts and shorts and gym bags and every other damn thing from one of the sneaker companies or some college coach or a shoe store. But he refuses to let himself become beholden—seduced by seemingly harmless favors into vague obligations toward this coach or this school or this pricey brand of shoes. It is bred in his dense and outsized bones, as his father’s son, and reinforced both by the experiences of his short life and his Bible-reading: there is no free lunch, so you better know who’s picking up the check and why.
Come the revolution, a mood of postcoital tristesse promptly follows, Sam discovers. His troops in the gym are fewer, some sullenly mutinous. Not only has Coach had his influence, the very fact of the world turned upside down, as it always does, undermines Sam’s authority as effectively as it has the old regime. Counterrevolution is in the air and along with fewer bodies, it makes the gym seem vaster and somehow colder. Sam has, of course, no authority to command their presence or discipline their absence. A few more AWOLs and he will be playing the babes by himself again.
The girls are out in force but are uneasy, struggling between theory and blood. Overnight has brought the first arguments with their boyfriends. The girls have been shocked to discover that what seemed a minor reinterpretation of their rights is perceived by many as a radical and extremist departure.
Sam deposits a couple of gallons of apple cider on a bleacher and opens two boxes of muffins he has promoted from his stepmother. The Mutant appears instantly at his side and helps herself. She’s in a new getup today. Over her spandex unitard and cutoff Levis, she has hung a series of interconnected chains around her waist and hips. One passes through her legs from back to front. She doesn’t speak to him.
“You’re welcome,” he teases.
She ignores him. Not even a thank-you finger.
The muffins and cider succeed in breaking a little ice among the others. In a few moments, the atmosphere is much looser. The holdout is the Mutant, hastily unchained, who grabs a ball while her mouth is still full and takes it to the floor to do ballhandling drills by herself.
Later, loosened up and feeling good, Sam takes himself to the sidelines to watch. He is not alone. Both coaches are there along with the assistant coaches. What he sees pleases him; the girls have left their doubts off court and are working their hearts out. He is reminded again these girls nearly won a state championship last season and it wasn’t all the Mutant’s doing. No fault to her today, though. Even as the boys repeatedly deny her the bucket and overreach her to score at their own, she never falters. Her doggedness infects the others. In the most recalcitrant of the boys, disbelief gives way to a grudging respect.
The Mutant rotates out to allow Billie Figueroa to take her place. In a kneeling crouch, she watches the unequal struggle. Outrun, outreached, outgunned, the girls score only when the boys make an error. The only strategy they have is to play smart, exploiting every mistake and accident and making opportunities for more.
One of the M & M’s—Melanie—falls out and collapses next to her. “This is insane,” Melanie gasps.
“Right. Basketball-fu, candypants.”
Melanie gives her a look of total disbelief. “You been smoking booberry already this morning?”
The Mutant starts to wipe her nose on the back of her hand and winces. She has forgotten the Band-Aid over the burn there.
“We even come close to shutting the door on these jackoffs, we can beat anybody,” the Mutant tells Melanie.
“You keep saying that,” Melanie complains.
The Mutant barely hears. She begins to hook herself into her chains, blessing the beauty and elegance of the pelican clasp, which makes life a lot easier in roundball season. When she stops playing ball, she’s going to make several of her chains permanent.
Her coach hustles over for a word. “Good workout, Gauthier. What’s wrong with the hand?”
“Cat scratch.”
Frowning, Coach warns her not to let it get infected.
Not a chance, the Mutant reflects, Judy fucking cauterized every hapless germ under her lit cigarette.
Toward the end of the second period in the weight room, Sam is spotting Rick when Chapin approaches. J.C. is pumped from his workout. His shirt issues a universal invitation: Sit On A Happy Face.
“Samson!” He grins. “That was real thoughtful of you, giving the Mutant a ride to my house the other night. You could make a business of it, delivering take-out pussy. I feel like I owe you a tip.”
At the word pussy, conversation around them quiets and ears prick up. On the bench, Rick exhales as he lowers the bar.
Sam reacts with an agreeable but slow and confused smile. “Come again, Chapin?”
“Once was enough,” Chapin quips.
The other guys laugh and Rick makes a strange noise in his throat.
Sam only seems more confused. A beat after Rick’s strangled snort, he manages a chuckle as if he has finally gotten the joke. Then he frowns in fierce concentration.
“Mutant—did you say Mutant?” Snaps his fingers. “Oh. You mean Gauthier? Right! I did give her a lift the other night. That was your house?”
Chapin laughs. “Yeah.”
Sam nods as if relieved to have a significant mystery cleared up. For an instant, he is pleased with himself but then his brow wrinkles again.
“Maybe you could tell me, Chapin, I always wondered—what does
