EPISODE 1: STRESSES, SCHEDULES, SECRETS
		You're gonna love these people. Tomeka's not as bad as she seems. Julie's not as geeky as she seems. Coach Morissette's not as scary as he seems. Andy's not as driven - oh wait, Andy is as driven as he seems. And Tamar and Misty Robinson are just trying to get by ...
		The big yellow dog, as the kids called the school buses, pulled into the circular drive of Ansonborough High and squeaked to a lumbering halt, and the folding front door hissed open. Tomeka Taft was sitting in the front seat and she could feel the soon-to-be-searing heat of the Georgia day rush in. Only 8:00 a.m., and already 85 degrees. In October, yet.
		"So gotta go," Tomeka muttered into her cell phone, flip-folding it down, sticking it into her Prada backpack, and cutting off her father in mid-sentence. He'd been talking to his daughter from his car, stuck in morning rush-hour traffic on Roswell Road. That'll teach him to not drive me to school, Tomeka thought, self-satisfied, and more than a little spoiled.		If this were Los Angeles in 1985, you'd call her a Valley Girl. But it's not. It's Atlanta in 2000, and Tomeka is ... well, Tomeka is one of a kind. Is she a bad influence? Or is SHE the one who's being influenced? All will be revealed.
		"Girlfriend, can you believe we have first-period gym? Not into it!" Tomeka heard a singsong voice say as she approached the front door of the school. She turned around to see the annoyingly perky Julie Nguyen walking up behind her. "Julie," Tomeka said, stopping, turning around, and pulling her Ray-Ban Wayfarers down on her nose just enough for Julie to see her eyes, "Do not call me 'Girlfriend.' A, you are so not black. B, you're not a member of En Vogue. And C, we're not saying that anymore..." "Whatever," said Julie, brushing off the criticism, as they continued inside. "We're not saying that either," Tomeka mumbled, to no one.
		You gotta give Julie credit. She's way smart, but is determined not to be considered a geek. Or, as Tomeka would say, a Mavis. Sometimes she gets it right.		Julie Nguyen was two years behind Tomeka, in the 9th grade - but she was on an accelerated track that had her taking mostly 11th grade courses, a schedule which necessitated her also taking gym with the 11th grade girls. Julie tried hard to be cool, and seem older, but it almost never worked.
		"I'm blowing off gym anyway," Tomeka said, as they walked together, a striking pair - trying-to-be-cool Asian-American girl and so-cool-it-hurts African-American girl - past the wall-length trophy case of their huge, public school, bound for their respective homerooms. "You're blowing gym off? How?" asked Julie, naively. "What do you mean how? Just not going, duh," Tomeka dismissed. "I'm checking in at homeroom for attendance, then I'm out of here, 'til Calculus, 3rd period." "You're leaving school? But you came on the bus, I saw you..." "I know, I know. No car today. A friend of mine's picking me up at 8:15 out front. We'll be doing lattes at Starbucks by 8:30. I need a caffeine buzz way more than I need Coach Morissette's gymnastics workout, trust me. Wanna come?" Julie looked sheepish - and suspicious. "A friend's picking you up?" "No one you know," Tomeka said, dismissively. "It's someone that, if my Dad knew about it, he'd hang me from a chandelier."
		Julie could tell that Tomeka was pleased that she was "dating" someone of whom her father wouldn't approve, and, while Julie pretended to be cool about it, she desperately wanted to know more. "So," Tomeka asked again, as the homeroom warning bell rang. "You wanna blow off gym and come, or not?" "I better not," Julie answered, embarrassed, wishing herself more daring. Tomeka looked at her disparagingly, shaking her head and raising her eyes. "Julie, Julie, Julie," she repeated, condescendingly. "You are such a Mavis." Late that afternoon, Coach Morissette push-pinned the notice of the upcoming Ansonborough/ Lassiter game to the corkboard above his desk and stepped into the locker-room area, where the Varsity team was still getting dressed after practice.
		"Kinsella? Andy Kinsella?" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the metal lockers. "Over here, Coach," came the muffled answer. Andy was slipping a sweatshirt over his head and sliding his feet into his shoes at the same time. "Andy, stop in and see me before you take off," Coach continued, and went back into his office.		Sure, the Coach's concern for Andy is genuine. He really cares about the guy. But he also doesn't want Andy's over- committed schedule to wreak havoc with the team's chances of success. Call it healthy self-interest.
		Like I have time, Andy thought, lacing up a running shoe that had come undone and frantically tying a knot in the endless race against time that was his life. It was already 5:30 and he was supposed to have been at his job at Kinko's on Marietta Square at 5:00. He could picture the line of customers snaking out the door, and the Assistant Manager phoning Andy's mom at home, to ask where he was. Moments later, Andy sat in the metal folding chair next to Coach's desk. "What's up, Mr. Morissette?" he said, glancing down at his wrist? "Andy, stop looking at your watch for just five seconds, okay?" the Coach said, smiling. "I know you're late for work. You're always late for something. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." "I know," Andy said. "I mean, I had a feeling -" "Look, I know how good you are at juggling things. But I can't help feeling that even for you you're a little overcommitted." "Coach, don't worry, it's -" "I am worried, Andy. Worried not just about you, but about us. The team." "Huh?" Andy asked, genuinely puzzled. "What do you mean?" "Those two fumbles today in practice. Not only is that not like you ... they're the kind of mistakes we can't afford against Lassiter this season, or we're dead in the water." "Look, Coach, no way would I ever let -"
		What is it with some people? What's his drive for perfection and overachievement all about? Is it genetic? Is he trying to makeup for some perceived shortcoming? Is Coach right - is he headed for burnout?		"Andy, there's only so much one person can do. And I think you're on overload. I know how much pressure it is just being in a new school. But with the two part-time jobs, and football, and SAT prep courses, and ... well, I just think it's too much. Something's gotta give." Andy looked at the green and blue speckles in the shiny tile floor at his feet, and the Coach went on.
		"Andy, it's not like I don't know pressure, you know ... you're talking to someone who used to be a Marine, for Pete's sake. I know what the drive for perfection is all about, believe me. I know how impossible it is to BE perfect, and I know when to lighten up a little bit. I'm not sure you do."
		Andy wasn't sure what the Coach was suggesting - or if he was suggesting anything, and looked up at Morissette's concerned expression. "Are you gonna say I should give up football?"
		"What?? Heck no!" Coach Morissette laughed. "Are you kidding? "I'm just saying that I'm watching you operate on all four burners at once, and what I'm seeing is the potential for burnout."
		Andy laughed, relieved somewhat. For a split second he had the ominous feeling he was about to be benched.
		"I don't want you to implode, buddy, is all. Think about that, will you?" Andy stood up, once again compulsively looking at his watch. "I will. I promise. I really gotta go, okay?"
		At seven o'clock that night, Tamar Robinson was setting the table for supper - just her and her Mom, as usual. Their little family of two. A pot of bow-tie pasta boiled on the stove, and some leftover - but homemade - tomato - and - black - olive sauce bubbled in a saucepan next to it. Tamar walked over to the stove to stir.
		The radio blared Britney Spears, loud. But Tamar could still hear the door to her mom's VW van slam shut outside. Moments later, a beleaguered Misty Robinson walked in the door.
		"Hey hon," she said to her daughter, kissing her on the forehead without even taking off her coat. "Thanks for getting dinner ready. Once again. I'm exhausted." "That's okay, Mom," Tamar said. "But let's eat right away, okay? I want to go to the library for a couple of hours tonight." "Whatever," Misty Robinson said absently, washing her hands at the kitchen sink and drying them on a paper towel.
		Misty poured some iced tea from a pitcher into two tall tumblers of ice, while Tamar strained the pasta into a colander, plated it, ladled the tomato sauce on top, and placed the two plates on the macrame placemats she'd made herself at camp five summers earlier, and which were still among her mother's most prized possessions. They both sat down.		Tamar knew when she was a child - from personal experience, observing her own Mom - that not being able to read can be a cause for shame and embarrassment, especially among adults.
		"So what've we got today," Misty said, referring to the pile of papers next to Tamar, and picking up her fork. "Let's see," said Tamar, cheerfully, picking up the first envelope and opening it. As they ate dinner, Tamar proceeded to read the pieces of mail, one by one, to her mother, as she had since about the fourth grade. It was a secret that they shared, mother and daughter - Misty Robinson was herself unable to read. Catch a new episode next friday! © 2000, Gauthier & Gilden, Inc. and Media Management Services, Inc. All rights reserved. Characters, settings, and plots are fictional, and intended for entertainment and educational purposes. Any resemblance to actual settings, organizations, schools, or persons living or dead is unintended and coincidental.