When No One Was Looking by Rosemary Wells Page A

had left the room. Oh, God, she thought and wiped beads of sweat off her upper lip. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Diggins,” she began, but Mrs. Diggins interrupted her.
    “Growing up means doing things we don’t like at least passably well,” she said.
    With thanks to God for the dark upholstery Kathy listened attentively.
    “You are a wonderful athlete, Katherine, but you must do your schoolwork also. You will not pass freshman year unless you do. This will snowball into more failures. You cannot graduate from high school unless all your courses have been fulfilled.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Diggins.”
    Mrs. Diggins snapped on a lamp, as an intense shadow had covered the whole of her. “Your father said you must pass just in case. What do you suppose he meant by that?”
    “Well, I guess in case my tennis ... in case I don’t do well enough at tennis...
    “Exactly. And what you are doing, because you are young, Kathy, and think like all young people that nothing will ever really hurt you in life, is to coast. You are refusing to concentrate on algebra the way a baby refuses to eat spinach and throws it across the room when its mother’s back is turned. Math is not your enemy, Kathy. Math is a tool, and you can make it your friend.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Diggins.”
    “I understand that serious tennis matches require a great deal of strategy and calculation, sudden calculation.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Diggins.”
    “Well, then you can calculate as well in algebra.”
    “Yes, Mrs. Diggins.”
    “I understand also that there is a certain amount of petty cheating that goes on in the early stages of the tournaments when there are no umpires. Is that so?”
    “Sometimes, Mrs. Diggins.”
    “Do you ever cheat, Kathy?”
    “No!” Kathy answered scornfully.
    “But would you if you had to?”
    “Never.”
    Whether Mrs. Diggins believed this answer or not, she didn’t say. She took Kathy’s glass and her own into the kitchen. Instantly Kathy inspected the sofa cushion. The spot had been discovered and removed. When Mrs. Diggins returned, she found Kathy working feverishly on the evening’s lesson, her eyes wide and frantic like a guilty lawbreaker’s. Mrs. Diggins smiled.
    Oliver had become quite a fixture. Kathy’s mother quickly sensed he was more like a brother than a boyfriend, and so she tried to fatten him up. Oliver nursed his injured pride at losing set after set daily to Kathy by wolfing down huge amounts of meatloaf and corn. At first Kathy had been unsure whether his questionable background would appeal or not appeal to her parents, but after the first two or three evenings she could tell that they felt more at ease with him than they ever had with Julia—a fixture in the house for almost nine years. “Lose again, son?” Kathy’s father always greeted him at the door. This was a standard joke Oliver encouraged by pretending to laugh at it.
    “Math is a tool. Math is my friend,” said Kathy when Oliver walked into the kitchen. “I’m supposed to say that three times before I fall asleep at night.” Kathy’s father gave her a meaningful look, but he did not laugh as he had the night before when Kathy had told him about Mrs. Diggins and her positive thinking.
    “Hi! Mrs. B., everybody!” said Oliver, and he plunged both hands into the everyday silver drawer as if he had lived in the house for years. He set six place settings around the kitchen table and announced he had a surprise for Kathy.
    “What, what, tell me!” Kathy insisted.
    “Diamonds, I bet,” said Jody.
    “Nope, but just as rare. Tickets to tonight’s Yankee game at Fenway. Box seats!”
    “Oh, Oliver!” Kathy yelled, and she began to jump like a child.
    “No,” said Kathy’s father.
    “What do you mean, no, Daddy? Come on, please,” Kathy implored.
    “No. Mrs. Diggins came into the shop today. She says unless you study harder, you might fail your final in August. I want you to put in another hour on your algebra tonight.”
    “And I say no