able to cram herself into size 4 jeans when Dr. Glass makes her entrance. Suddenly, I start to panic—this woman is less than half my size, and without a “polite” or “compliant” chromosome in my DNA, I’m going to say something to screw this evaluation up.
“Marcie Mandlebaum, right?” she says, coming over to me and putting out her hand. I take her tiny hand in my fleshy paw and I’m afraid to squeeze too hard—it seems so fragile.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Glass,” I stammer.
Dr. Glass smiles and moves toward her side of the desk. She’s wearing a close-fitting
white
skirt, and it occurs to me that it’s not quite Memorial Day yet. An “unspeakable” fashion faux pas like this would provide Gran with enough idiot conversation fodder to last her a year.
Clamp it, Marcie
.
“Please call me Betsy,” Dr. Glass says. She sits pertly inher nine-hundred-dollar Herman Miller Aeron Chair (Ronny has one). Wouldn’t that money be better spent on a new couch? I somehow manage to clamp down on this thought too before it comes flying out, but my own worst enemy is hell-bent on sabotaging me.
“I guess you hear ‘Bitsy’ a lot,” it blurts. I freeze in horror, but, thankfully, Bitsy laughs.
“I wasn’t always this small, Marcie, so I kind of like it. Feel free.”
I let out a deep breath and relax. She’s not so bad. Maybe I can get through this without blowing it after all.
6
Taking out the Queen
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Bobby
“Betsy Glass. Nice to meet you, Bobby.” She holds out her hand but my palm is disgustingly sweaty, so I shake just her fingertips. They feel cool even though her office is boiling.
“Hi,” I say, fumbling toward the oversized chair by the open window, but she says, “Right there is good,” and directs me to the couch opposite her desk. She’d better not want me to lie on it.
She sits down behind her desk and picks up this stapled packet, holding it level with her boobs.
“Nice handwriting,” she says. “Did you fill this out?”
“My mom did. They’re completely my answers, though.”
“That’s fine.”
“We just went over them together.”
Betsy smiles. “Bobby, that’s fine. Tell me about—” She looks up from the paperwork and catches me staring. My eyes fly over to this football in a plastic display case on a shelf behind her, and she raises an eyebrow and swivels around.
“Oh. That’s my son’s from high school. They won the sectionals in 2006 and he was MVP.”
“Nice. What position?” I say as coolly as possible, but my balls are sweating and I’m already worried I’ve nuked my chances to get into this trial.
“Running back.”
He’s probably lean and mean like Craighead
.
“He’s at Michigan State now.”
Probably getting laid all the time
. I cross my arms over myself.
“I’m thinking about applying early decision to Notre Dame,” I mumble. Football is my best shot at a great school. Last year, a Notre Dame scout handed me his card in the locker room. Dad was pumped.
“What position do you play?” She’s facing me again, so I start examining the mesh patterns on the bottom of my jersey.
“Offensive lineman—right guard.”
Betsy frowns. “So your job is …” She stops and waits for me to finish her sentence.
“I create holes for the running play and protect the quarter back from tackles so he can make the pass,” I explain.
“Right. My son’s tried for years to get me to understand the game.” Betsy smiles. “I think about the quarterback as like the king in chess. The other players can’t let anyone get to him.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“So, as the lineman, you’re sort of like the queen.”
“Ye—no.” I say, but it comes out like a growl.
The queen is the only piece in chess with boobs
. I clear my throat. “I mean, I guess the pawns set the offensive line, but it’s not too much like chess.”
“Okay, the analogy doesn’t fit.” She smiles again. But I’m thinking that queen part does
“Marcie Mandlebaum, right?” she says, coming over to me and putting out her hand. I take her tiny hand in my fleshy paw and I’m afraid to squeeze too hard—it seems so fragile.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Glass,” I stammer.
Dr. Glass smiles and moves toward her side of the desk. She’s wearing a close-fitting
white
skirt, and it occurs to me that it’s not quite Memorial Day yet. An “unspeakable” fashion faux pas like this would provide Gran with enough idiot conversation fodder to last her a year.
Clamp it, Marcie
.
“Please call me Betsy,” Dr. Glass says. She sits pertly inher nine-hundred-dollar Herman Miller Aeron Chair (Ronny has one). Wouldn’t that money be better spent on a new couch? I somehow manage to clamp down on this thought too before it comes flying out, but my own worst enemy is hell-bent on sabotaging me.
“I guess you hear ‘Bitsy’ a lot,” it blurts. I freeze in horror, but, thankfully, Bitsy laughs.
“I wasn’t always this small, Marcie, so I kind of like it. Feel free.”
I let out a deep breath and relax. She’s not so bad. Maybe I can get through this without blowing it after all.
6
Taking out the Queen
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Bobby
“Betsy Glass. Nice to meet you, Bobby.” She holds out her hand but my palm is disgustingly sweaty, so I shake just her fingertips. They feel cool even though her office is boiling.
“Hi,” I say, fumbling toward the oversized chair by the open window, but she says, “Right there is good,” and directs me to the couch opposite her desk. She’d better not want me to lie on it.
She sits down behind her desk and picks up this stapled packet, holding it level with her boobs.
“Nice handwriting,” she says. “Did you fill this out?”
“My mom did. They’re completely my answers, though.”
“That’s fine.”
“We just went over them together.”
Betsy smiles. “Bobby, that’s fine. Tell me about—” She looks up from the paperwork and catches me staring. My eyes fly over to this football in a plastic display case on a shelf behind her, and she raises an eyebrow and swivels around.
“Oh. That’s my son’s from high school. They won the sectionals in 2006 and he was MVP.”
“Nice. What position?” I say as coolly as possible, but my balls are sweating and I’m already worried I’ve nuked my chances to get into this trial.
“Running back.”
He’s probably lean and mean like Craighead
.
“He’s at Michigan State now.”
Probably getting laid all the time
. I cross my arms over myself.
“I’m thinking about applying early decision to Notre Dame,” I mumble. Football is my best shot at a great school. Last year, a Notre Dame scout handed me his card in the locker room. Dad was pumped.
“What position do you play?” She’s facing me again, so I start examining the mesh patterns on the bottom of my jersey.
“Offensive lineman—right guard.”
Betsy frowns. “So your job is …” She stops and waits for me to finish her sentence.
“I create holes for the running play and protect the quarter back from tackles so he can make the pass,” I explain.
“Right. My son’s tried for years to get me to understand the game.” Betsy smiles. “I think about the quarterback as like the king in chess. The other players can’t let anyone get to him.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“So, as the lineman, you’re sort of like the queen.”
“Ye—no.” I say, but it comes out like a growl.
The queen is the only piece in chess with boobs
. I clear my throat. “I mean, I guess the pawns set the offensive line, but it’s not too much like chess.”
“Okay, the analogy doesn’t fit.” She smiles again. But I’m thinking that queen part does
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