Free Citrus County by John Brandon Page A

that was vaguely related to poison. Then everyone said they should’ve known because you were always a little strange; you’d seemed harmless, though. As careful as you were, there was always something when you used poison. No, what Mr. Hibma saw himself doing was parking in the lot of the nearest strip mall and, in the middle of the night, sneaking onto the Conner property and hiding himself away behind the shed or under the deck, waiting for the husband to leave in the morning, then knocking on the front door and allowing a confused Mrs. Conner to present herself, barging in and throwing her down and smothering her under all his weight with one of her own couch pillows. There would be no blood, no loud noises, no purchases Mr. Hibma would have to make. Most of all, Mrs. Conner would get no last words.
    “I’m not asking you,” Mrs. Conner said. She raked her rust-colored hair. “And I know about the vocab quizzes. Don’t try and legitimize your class by stealing from the English curriculum.”
    “Which kiss-ass is spying for you?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Let me tell you something,” Mr. Hibma said. “Your shoes are way too small. Your toes flop out onto the floor. Can’t you feel it?”
    Mrs. Conner had looked down her nose at Mr. Hibma, using the lower part of her bifocals, keeping her composure.
    The tryout. Twenty-one girls. Mr. Hibma started them out with stretching, putting them in a circle and having each choose one body part. He backed off and watched the unsteady things roll their necks, bend at the waist, perform jumping jacks. He was more an impostor in the gym than in the classroom. He didn’t even know where the locker rooms or the weight room or the coaches’ offices were. He’d never, as far as he knew, blown a whistle. He’d never yelled at anyone for that person’s own good.
    Mr. Hibma closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. He would fake his way through this. If he possessed a talent for anything, it was faking his way through things. This was his gym. He was a natural component of this environment. He had boundless energy. Weeks would pass; they had no choice but to pass. The games would come and go and no one would notice that Mr. Hibma wasn’t really a coach. As far as these stretching girls were concerned, he was the supreme sultan of basketball.
    He held their athletic futures in his hands. Mr. Hibma strode over and stared at the girls and they quit giggling and whispering. They eyed one another.
    Mr. Hibma guided himself through a lecture about boxing out. He set up a drill in which he launched errant shots and made the girls slam into each other trying to claim the rebounds. He tried his whistle and rapidly grew fond of it. Mr. Hibma could’ve picked the team already. It was obvious which girls were afraid of the ball and which weren’t. He would keep fifteen; he could keep the three cute girls and never have to play them in a real game. They’d be third-string, morale-boosters, something for the fans to look at.
    It occurred to Mr. Hibma to sit all the girls down and speak about the importance of their appearances. In middle school, he reminded them, ugly girls were intimidated by pretty girls. Hell, it was that way with adult women. A team could gain an advantage by keeping tan and having their nails done.
    “Do you know what active-length nails are?” he asked. “Spend your allowances on a good haircut, down in Pinellas County. Stop at Macy’s and learn a little about makeup.”
    Eventually Mr. Hibma had to let the girls scrimmage. The short twins with the big teeth could shoot three-pointers. A girl with muscular legs and no eyebrows beat everyone down court each time but was too jittery to complete a layup. One girl, extremely skinny with a bowl cut, could handle the ball. She dribbled between her legs and behind her back and whipped passes here and there. Scoring was at a premium, but the scrimmage had the look of a basketball game.
    Afterward, the girls huddled