While Delacorte died, which I found unbearable to watch, I looked instead at Herm Hoyt, who seemed to be dying of both anger and empathy under the towel. Naturally, I advised Tom Atkins to keep his eyes on the old coach instead of enduring Delacorte's agonies, because Herm Hoyt knew before anyone else (including Delacorte) whether Delacorte would hang on and win or finish dying and lose.
This Saturday, following his near-death experience, Delacorte actually hung on and won. He came off the mat and collapsed into Herm Hoyt's arms. The old coach did as he always did with Delacorte--win or lose. Herm covered Delacorte's head with the towel, and Delacorte staggered to the team bench, where he sat sobbing and gasping for breath under the all-concealing mantle.
"For once, Delacorte isn't rinsing or spitting," Atkins sarcastically observed, but I was watching Miss Frost, who suddenly looked at me and smiled.
It was an unselfconscious smile--accompanied by a spontaneous little wave, just the wiggling of her fingers on one hand. I instantly knew: Miss Frost had known all along that I was there, and she'd expected that I would be.
I was so completely undone by her smile, and the wave, that I feared I would faint and slip under the railing; I foresaw myself falling from the wooden track to the wrestling room below. In all likelihood, it wouldn't have been a life-threatening fall; the running track was not at a great height above the gym floor. It just would have been humiliating to fall in a heap on the wrestling mat, or to land on one or more of the wrestlers.
"I don't feel well, Tom," I said to Atkins. "I'm a little dizzy."
"I've got you, Bill," Atkins said, putting his arm around me. "Just don't look down for a minute."
I kept looking at the far end of the gym, where the bleachers were, but Miss Frost had returned her attention to the wrestling; another match had started, while Delacorte was still wracked by sobs and gasps--his head was bobbing up and down under the consoling towel.
Coach Herm Hoyt had sat back down on the team bench next to the stack of clean towels. I saw Kittredge, who was beginning to loosen up; he was standing behind the bench, just bouncing on the balls of his feet and turning his head from side to side. Kittredge was stretching his neck, but he never stopped looking at Miss Frost.
"I'm okay, Tom," I said, but the weight of his arm rested on the back of my neck for a few seconds more; I counted to five to myself before Atkins took his arm from around my shoulders.
"We should think about going to Europe together," I told Atkins, but I still watched Kittredge, who was skipping rope. Kittredge couldn't take his eyes off Miss Frost; he continued to stare at her, skipping rhythmically, the speed of the jump rope never changing.
"Look who's captivated by her now, Bill," Atkins said petulantly.
"I know, Tom--I see him," I said. (Was it my worst fear, or was it secretly thrilling--to
imagine Kittredge and Miss Frost together?)
"We would go to Europe this summer--is that what you mean, Bill?" Atkins asked me.
"Why not?" I replied, as casually as I could--I was still watching Kittredge.
"If your parents approve, and mine do--we could ask them, couldn't we?" Atkins said.
"It's in our hands, Tom--we have to make them understand it's a priority," I told him.
"She's looking at you, Bill!" Atkins said breathlessly.
When I glanced (as casually as I could) at Miss Frost, she was smiling at me again. She put her index and middle fingers to her lips and kissed them. Before I could blow her a kiss, she was once more watching the wrestling.
"Boy, did that get Kittredge's attention!" Tom Atkins said excitedly. I kept looking at Miss Frost, but only for a moment; I didn't need Atkins to tell me in order to know that Kittredge was looking at me.
"Bill, Kittredge is--" Atkins began.
"I know, Tom," I told him. I let my gaze linger on Miss Frost a little longer, before I glanced--as if accidentally--at Kittredge. He'd stopped jumping rope and was staring at me. I just smiled at him, as unmeaningfully as I'd ever managed to smile at him, and Kittredge began to skip rope again; he had picked up the pace, either consciously or unconsciously, but he was once again staring at Miss Frost. I couldn't help wonder if Kittredge was reconsidering the disgusting word. Perhaps the everything that Kittredge imagined I'd done with Miss Frost didn't disgust him anymore, or was this wishful thinking?
The atmosphere in the wrestling room changed abruptly when Kittredge's match began. Both team benches viewed the mauling with a clinical appreciation. Kittredge usually beat up his opponents before he pinned them. It was confusing for a nonwrestler like myself to differentiate among the displays of Kittredge's technical expertise, his athleticism, and the brute force of his physical superiority; Kittredge thoroughly dominated an opponent before pinning him. There was always a moment in the third and final period when Kittredge glanced at the clock on the scorers' table; at that moment, the home crowd began chanting, "Pin! Pin! Pin!" By then, the torturing had gone on for so long that I imagined Kittredge's opponent was hoping to be pinned; moments later, when the referee signaled the fall, the pin seemed both overdue and merciful. I'd never seen Kittredge lose; I hadn't once seen him challenged.
I don't remember the remaining matches that Saturday afternoon, or which team won the dual meet. The rest of the competition is clouded in my memory by Kittredge's nearly constant staring at Miss Frost, which continued long after his match--Kittredge interrupting his fixed gaze only with cursory (and occasional) glances at me.
I, of course, continued to look back and forth between Kittredge and Miss Frost; it was the first time I could see both of them in the same place, and I admit I was deeply disturbed about that imagined split second when Miss Frost would look at Kittredge. She didn't--not once. She continued to watch the wrestling and, albeit briefly, to smile at me--while the entire time Tom Atkins kept asking, "Do you want to leave, Bill? If this is uncomfortable for you, we should just leave--I would go with you, you know."
"I'm fine, Tom--I want to stay," I kept telling him.
"Europe--well, I never imagined I would see Europe!" Atkins at one point exclaimed. "I wonder where in Europe, and how we would travel. By train, I suppose--by bus, maybe. I wish I knew what we would need for clothes--"
"It will be summer, Tom--we'll need summer clothes," I told him.
"Yes, but how formal, or not--that's what I mean, Bill. And how much money would we need? I truly have no idea!" Atkins said in a panicky voice.