Coach Jefferson (Chet, to his friends) stood nervously at the door to Jon Madison's house. He'd already performed his pre-date breath and pit check ritual and finding himself to be satisfactory. He made a mental note to buy the same type of deodorant next time since he liked it so much.
That was the kind of thing he did, making mental notes. His head was a library of these notes, with mental checkmarks next to mental lists on mental paper. Roberta, his ex-wife, had often commented that he was either a steel-trap for memory or obsessive-compulsive; by the end of their relationship, though, she had settled on asshole.
The doorbell was the kind that lit up with an orange light when depressed, allowing the presser to see that some action had been taken. While he waited for his date he went over a mental note that he'd made earlier, taking care to see that he had covered all his bases for the night.
- Make dinner reservations... check!
- Shave and shower... check!
- Wear a tie... check!
- Secure date with Jon... check...
How had he ended up on this date with Jon, anyway? He was pretty sure neither him nor Jon were gay. A wave of confusion hit him as he thought through his memories.
He remembered sitting in his office that morning, writing fitness evaluations for the senior class, listening to the radio, when a girl, Zoe he thought her name was, knocked on his door. He granted her admittance and waited for her to speak. She cleared her throat and...
"Coach Jefferson, I have a proposition for you."
He was intrigued. He leaned forward and placed the unfinished evaluations on a neat pile in the corner of his desk. His knuckles cracked as he folded his hands.
"Go on," he smiled.
"Well, I've seen how you've been looking at my friend Zelda lately. No, don't worry, I won't say anything. I'm not here to blackmail you, but I am here with a friendly wager."
Now if there was one thing that the Coach liked better than mental notes, it was betting. The obsessive side of his brain had somehow, over the years, slipped into the gambling side of the brain. When someone offered him a bet, it was a rare occasion that he would be able to resist.
"Go on," he said, feeling the sweat begin to form on his back.
"Well, as you know," Zoe had developed a sly tone to her voice. She couldn't know about his gambling problem, could she? "I'm not doing too well in your class. Normally I wouldn't give a shit, but if I don't pass gym, I don't pass the grade. So here's the deal: I'll take this basketball," she held up a ball she had taken from the school's stock, "and make five baskets in a row from the top of the key. If I miss, you get a date with my friend Zelda, and I repeat the grade. If I win, though, you give me an 'A' and I'll still get you a date, but not with Zelda... with the next best thing."
She snickered at that last remark, something that should have been a sign to him to inquire further. The fever, however, had already taken over. He had sealed his fate with an ill-advised handshake.
A bet was a bet, Chet told himself, feeling the cold air on his short cropped hair. Soon he'd be out on a date with Jon Madison, a kid from school. Sure, Jon would be dressed as a girl who the coach had lusted over all year, but he was sure that no amount of blue hair and latex skirts would change the fact that he was a boy.
No sense complaining about it now, he told himself, hearing the clumping of Jon's heeled boots as the approached the other side of the door. When it finally did open, he couldn't hide the expression on his face.
Karyn saw the look of disgust that Coach Jefferson gave Jon as the door was opened. She repressed a laugh and decided to add some more spice to the deal. She quickly wrote on the pad...
