Girl Meets Boy (3 page)

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, feeling the balance starting to return as I slid into my car. “Just know it won’t be your fault.”

“I do love you, Wanda,” he said. “I mean, I think I really do. You haven’t been off my mind for five minutes since I saw you last.”

I looked up at him, those warm brown eyes full of a tenderness I’d never understand. And for a fleeting moment, I almost believed him. Then I remembered all the dirt I’d unloaded five minutes earlier.
Get serious,
I told myself.
There is no friggin’ way.

I smiled weakly. “You couldn’t love me, Johnny,” I said, feeling naked to the soul. “Because there’s nothing about me good enough to love.”

I gunned my engine and nearly ripped Johnny’s arm off in the process. If he’d been another guy, burning rubber would
have been strictly for show. But being that honest left me feeling uneasy.

Johnny wasn’t having it. The guy drove like a NASCAR champion on acid. I tried to lose him. I drove past his house. I drove past mine. But he was relentless. I finally pulled over at the open spot by the river.

The little prick got out of his car and started knocking on my window.
Jesus,
I thought,
doesn’t this guy know when he’s been thrown clear of a runaway train? What could he possibly want from me now?

“I do love you, Wanda,” he said when I finally rolled down my window. “And I can prove it.”

I would have done Johnny Smith that night, even if he’d called me a worthless whore. But I couldn’t get enough of him when I let myself pretend we might be in love. I drove home in a daze. I drove home braced for a fall.

It didn’t come right away. At first we spent every moment together. Love for Johnny meant driving me to school and helping me cheat in Pre-Calc. Love for me was what happened on the way to school, during lunch, and even every once in a while, during class.

“What in the hell are you doing?” he’d said when I followed him into the boy’s room. “Did you miss the sign on the door?”

“There’s no mistaking that sign,” I said, unbuttoning my sweater. “But what I’m looking for is a man.”

Johnny zipped up his fly and bolted in about three seconds flat. Unfortunately, I was still refastening my top when Coach Bob Butler waltzed in for an R-rated view.

“Miss Wickham,” he said, “care to explain what you’re doing half naked in the boy’s restroom?”

“Looking for a real man?” I said, brushing against his PE teacher thighs. “Know any that might be interested?”

“I know one about to give you a Friday detention for being in the wrong bathroom without a pass,” he said.

“Oh, come on, Bobby,” I said, turning on the charm. “Aren’t you getting enough from your born-again wife?”

“Praise the Lord,” he said smiling. “I get plenty. And I’ll see you for thirty extra minutes this afternoon.” He laughed as he pushed me through the swinging door, but I wasn’t particularly amused.

Johnny wouldn’t talk to me on the way home from school that afternoon. He didn’t even want to come in when I told him my foster folks would be gone for at least another hour.

“You don’t want me,” I said. “I knew it would end. Guys always say they love you, then dump you as soon as you believe it’s true.”

“We’ve been over this,” he said, his voice laced with frustration. “I want you. But we can’t do it ALL the time. I mean a guy runs out of bodily fluids. And no matter how many times I tell you I love you, you never believe it’s true. So why should I waste my breath?”

“Because I’m supposed to matter to you,” I said, my temper rising. “I suppose you won’t answer your cell phone again, either,” I continued. “You didn’t answer it Wednesday, as I recall. Too busy screwing around with your new girlfriend? Isn’t that how we got together in the first place? Poor little Johnny didn’t want to blow it with another preppy girl? Except I’m not a preppy, am I, Johnny? I’m just your first stab at dating a whore.”

“We’re not going to go there today, Wanda,” he said. “I just don’t have time.” He leaned over to kiss me good-bye, but you better believe I turned my face away.

“I don’t need you,” I said in a panic. “There are plenty of guys who can take care of me if you’re not up for the job.”

“I’ll call you later tonight,” he said. “And I’ll pick you up tomorrow for school.”

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I could be dead by morning. So pick up your new preppy girlfriend instead.”

He wasn’t gone five minutes before I was sorry for losing my temper and I remembered I was late for detention with good old Coach Bob. But just as I predicted, Johnny wasn’t answering his phone—and I dialed every four minutes to be sure.

“Where are you?” I screamed into the receiver as I put my RAV4 in neutral and walked in fifteen minutes late for a half-hour detention. “You’re never there when I need you,” I hollered. “I’ve friggin’ had it with you, you worthless little boy.”

“Man trouble?” Coach Butler said as I walked into the media center, his feet on the librarian’s desk.

“Where are all the other convicts?” I said, throwing my cell phone into my purse.

“No one else was this late, Miss Wickham,” he said. “So I gave the others a friendly reprieve.”

“Then I’m free to go,” I said. “I mean, if the other little hellions were pardoned, shouldn’t that apply to me?”

“All the other hellions showed up for detention,” Butler said. “So for the next two hours, you’re stuck with me.”

“Two friggin’ hours?” I said. “Jesus, Bobby, won’t your little woman miss you when you don’t come home for chicken casserole and herbal tea?”

“The little woman is at her five-year college reunion,” he said in a husky, sexual tone. “We’ve got all the time that we need.”

Yeah, there was something familiar about all this, something I hadn’t noticed since Johnny stepped in to clutter my view. But now that Beaver Cleaver was history, I remembered how broad my options had always been. Coach Bob would do for now, I thought. And at least there was something I could count on. Nothing lasts forever, but when you get right down to it, some things never change.

You don’t have to fall down to see the moon.

That’s what I thought Sensei Dwight told me right after we bowed out on the foul line. I wasn’t happy. It seemed as if our class was over before it began.

The Green Grass Youth Drum was already taking over the gym floor, and there was a lot of noise. It didn’t matter one bit to the drum group that they were walking out onto what had been our sacred dojo space only seconds before. Where we had entered on reverent bare feet, they were all now stomping around in muddy sneakers. Well, nearly all of them. I can understand why they have got this multiple-use policy at the Tribal Rec Complex, but I wish the hell they wouldn’t schedule things so tightly. I mean the drum group not only has to pile in right after us, some
of them even come and sit in the bleachers bored and watching the last part of our class and wishing we’d move our little kung-fu asses out of there.

But, I reminded myself, I had to look at the bigger picture. Just last night I had complained to Gramma Otterlifter about the tight scheduling.

“Every time we start to do something, we have to stop.”

She looked up from her fingerweaving and chuckled. “Bobby,” she said, “that is probably the idea. It will remind you kids of our heritage. What it has always been like for us Indians to deal with government authority. Be prepared for removal or relocation at a moment’s notice.”

Maybe that was what Sensei Dwight had meant in that remark. Like that you have to learn from difficulty. He was good at quoting things that made you think. He gave us one of those words of wisdom at the end of every class. It was deep stuff from the ancient masters. People like Kung Fusion or Tao the Ching. I made it a point to remember exactly what he said and then write it down in my notebook as soon as I got home. Here are some of my favorites.

What is the sound of one foot stomping when there is no floor?

It is the hole in the wheel that makes the whirl go around.

You should never slip on the same banana peel twice.

The shape changes, but not the worm.

The tongue is mightier than the bored.

Be a real hole and all things will fall into you.

He who does not trust will be busted.

The other twenty students had already headed for the locker room to get changed. But I was still standing there, thinking
about the meaning of Sensei Dwight’s latest words of wisdom, as I watched Green Grass set up. Naturally, they had Nancy Whitepath, who was the only one who took her sneakers off, carrying all the chairs. That wasn’t fair, but she never complained. Then again, she was the biggest member of the group. Probably the strongest, too. With her size it was a wonder they didn’t all just ride on her back. I hadn’t thought of it before, but maybe it was just as hard for her being so big as it was for me being so small. Or at least like it used to be for me before I got into martial arts.

The rest of the Green Grassers were acting like they owned the floor, like they had more right to be there than we did. It started to piss me off. Then I shook my head. I had to remember the teachings. Anger makes the wise man act like a fish. Plus, I had the consolation of knowing that Green Grass would have to make an even quicker exit than we did. There was a Lady Warriors basketball game at eight p.m. Of course Nancy would be sticking around, being the star center on the team. She looked over my way, and I made it a point to study my fingernails. Have to keep them short when you’re doing martial arts, especially when you are a high belt and need to be a good example to the lower ranks.

“Bobby?”

I looked up. It was Sensei Dwight. I think Sensei was worried that his words of wisdom hadn’t reached my discouraged ears. He knows how I tend to drift off. So he said it again, a little louder because of all the noise the drum group was making. They were already deep into practicing one of their Honor Songs. Even above the sound of the drum, you could hear her voice as she stood there, shaking her rattle and singing.

“Bobby, repeat it back to me.”

I did, and Sensei Dwight laughed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Listen,” he said, “I actually may like it better your way. I mean, sometimes you do have to fall down, make a mistake, to learn something. But the saying is a little different than that. It’s that you do not have to be TALL to see the moon.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my face get red and hoping that Sensei Dwight’s deep voice wasn’t reaching the ears of any of the Green Grassers. “Cool. I gotta go get dressed now.”

After the basketball game, I rode my bike back home alone. It had been a great game. Just like everyone expected, our Lady Warriors had won. Also like everyone expected, she had scored more points than anyone else and also ruled the boards with fourteen rebounds. I’d embarrassed myself only once, being too loud. Even though I’m not the biggest kid around, I’ve got a voice like nobody else. Sensei Dwight says I can knock people down with my ki-yah when I attack. It was right after she stole the ball and took it the length of the court.

“All right, Whitepath!” I yelled.

A couple people next to me covered their ears, and my best friend, Neddy Coming, dropped his bag of popcorn. The worst part, though, is that she actually turned my way, cocked her finger, and pointed in my direction. Probably telling me to close my piehole. I was down fast and tried to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the game. She wasn’t about to forget my idiotic behavior, though. From then on, every time she made a basket she looked in my direction and did that pointing thing. I wanted to crawl under my seat and hide. But it was too good a game to miss, so I just stayed there.

After the game Neddy asked me if I wanted to go with him. Somebody’s older cousin was getting them some beer. They were meeting at the lake, and it’d be a blast. I shook my head. I was in training. When you’re in training you don’t abuse your body with beer or cigarettes or pot. Like Sensei Dwight says,
He who does not know when to stop will find his troubles doubled.

“Come on,” Neddy said. “Maybe your big old girl friend will be there.”

I didn’t answer that dumb remark. Even your best friends can be jerks. That’s not one of Sensei Dwight’s sayings. It’s just the painful truth. I grabbed my old bike and started pedaling the four miles back home. It was a warm autumn night, and the land around me was so wide and quiet that my mind just started to drift. I tried to steer it away from the game and the way Nancy Whitepath had pointed her finger at me. I thought again about what Gramma Otterlifter said last night about learning from being pushed aside. It was a joke, but there was more to it than that. Like the koans that Sensei Dwight gives us, there’s always more there under the surface. Like a fish in clear water. It may look small, but that’s just because it’s down so deep.

As I thought about that, I found myself wondering what Bruce Lee or someone trained like him would have done during those bad times, back when the Five Civilized Tribes were being forced to leave their homelands by greedy white people who wanted the gold that had been discovered in Georgia. I drifted off into this Hong Kong kung-fu fantasy about the white-haired Evil Master who is behind it all, hiding in his lair while his evil minions destroy the Shaolin Temple and murder the innocent monks. Only this time, the Evil Master is not some old Chinese
guy, it’s President Andrew Jackson, hiding out in the Hermitage. Even though he is no longer still president at the time of the Trail of Tears, he is still the Hidden Power behind this scheme. But just as he is gloating by the fire, the window smashes and in comes flying not Bruce Lee, but Bobby Wildcat, martial arts master on a mission to restore justice. Bobby Wildcat, a hundred pounds of fighting fury.

The Devil of the Indians is ready, though. Underneath his blanket the Evil Ex-President has two pistols, and he jumps up pointing them at me. He’s deadly with those guns. He’s killed men in duels.

“Hiiiii-eee-ah!” I leap forward in a perfect spinning back kick and knock both pistols out of his hands.

Oops. Shit! It’s not a good idea to close your eyes and do a spinning back kick when you’re on a bicycle. The bike and I went off into the ditch.

Fortunately, all my martial arts training served me well. I only got one little bruise on my leg and a torn pant leg. I didn’t jump right up. I stayed there on my back looking up at the full moon. It had just risen over the cotton field in front of me. Maybe the fall was worth it to see the moon like that.

My bike, though, wasn’t even a white belt. It had never learned how to fall without getting hurt. The front wheel was so bent out of shape that I ended up pushing it the rest of the way home. The only hard part about that was when I heard cars coming and had to get off the road and hide in the bushes so I wouldn’t be seen. It was lucky I did because I saw a familiar face in the front seat of the king cab Chevy, the third vehicle that went past. The moonlight reflected off those silver crescent moon earrings she always wears except when she’s on the court. She
probably doesn’t know I made those earrings. When she stopped by my dad’s booth at the Indian Arts Fair, she probably figured she was getting something made by Robert Wildcat, famous Indian jeweler, at a bargain price. She sure didn’t see me, because I ducked out the back of the tent as soon as I noticed her meandering our way. Of course I had signed those earrings, but the way I sign a piece of silver is the same way my dad does. A wildcat paw with an R in the middle. Except I always put in a tiny 2 that most people don’t notice. Robert Wildcat II. It always felt nice to see her wear those earrings. Like it made me glad she was in that truck going home with her mom and dad and not headed out to that lake party.

When I woke up the next day, I was stiff all over. It couldn’t have been the fall off the bike because I know I ducked my shoulder and rolled perfectly before I hit. It was more likely all the practice I did when I got back home on doing a flying spinning back kick just right. I was out in the backyard for hours jumping and spinning and thumping my heel against the old duffel bag I’d stuffed with rags and hung from the oak tree. I go for my brown belt in six weeks, and I have to get that kick just right. My parents called me in when it got so dark that the bats were flying around me as I practiced, so I don’t feel like I’ve got it yet.

That’s what was on my mind as I walked around the corner in the hallway of our school. I was lining it all up mentally. The right position for my arms, the proper breathing, lifting my knees high enough, all of that. And like it sometimes happens when I’m concentrating on something, I closed my eyes.
Whomp.
I walked right into what I thought was a wall. Until it cussed at me and threw me up against the lockers.

“Nosebug, you little shit. You stepped on my foot.”

I didn’t have to open my eyes to know who said those words. I recognized the sneering voice. It was the person who had given me that despicable nickname back in second grade. I didn’t deserve that.

Everybody picks their nose when they’re little kids. And that day in Mrs. Bootick’s art class, I had brought out a booger that was so black, so round and perfect, that it looked like a little beetle. When it fell off my fingertip and stuck on the paper on my desk, I did what I did automatically, without thinking. I drew six little legs coming out of the booger. I was being creative, just like Mrs. Bootick told us we should be. But Auley Crow Mocker was sitting next to me and saw what I’d done. “Hey,” he cawed, “Bobby made a nosebug. Is that your little brother, Bobby?”

Mrs. Bootick snatched my booger beetle paper, crumpled it up, and threw it in the basket. So much for my career as an artist. But not for my nickname.

That was all Auley Crow Mocker called me from then on. Nosebug. Then he beat me up. I tried running, but he would always catch me. I tried fighting, but he just beat me up worse. I couldn’t tell my parents. It was too embarrassing.

Neddy, who was my best friend back then, too, tried to make me feel better.

“Just wait,” Neddy said. “Auley is a big bully now, but he’s probably one of those kids who’s only big in grade school. Someone like that used to beat up my dad, but when they got to high school, Dad was twice his size.”

The thought that Auley Crow Mocker had gotten his growth too early and would probably turn out to be a pipsqueak was a consolation to me for a few years. Another minor consolation
was that beating me up wasn’t a big deal to Auley, not like his favorite sport. He just did it whenever he happened to notice me. He
who is not seen does not get hit in this scene.
So, over the next few years, I mostly succeeded—aside from a few bloody noses—in avoiding him. That was good. What wasn’t so good was that Neddy was wrong. Auley never stopped growing. We were in high school now, and he was still the biggest bully. He was one of the major reasons I joined Sensei Dwight’s karate classes two years ago. One day he’d discover that the little nosebug he’d been picking on all those years had finally turned into a deadly wasp.

But this wasn’t the day. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t even have my brown belt yet. Also, this was not the place. It wasn’t the big outdoor ring I’d pictured in my fantasies, like the one where Bruce Lee kicks ass big time in
Return of the Dragon.
It was a school hallway where a teacher could walk out of a classroom any minute. And there’d be one here soon, for sure. Like sharks drawn to blood, a crowd of kids gathered around us. If I got in a fight in the school hallway, I’d get suspended. That was school policy. Anyone caught fighting, even the kid getting the crap beat out of him, was out of school for two weeks. Sometimes it was only the kid who got pulped, since he was left on the floor, his mashed features evidence that he’d been in a brawl, while the one who smashed him slipped away in the crowd of kids. Suspended. That would disappoint everyone, my parents, my gramma, Sensei Dwight.

Especially Sensei Dwight. His words about how learning karate lays a special responsibility on you came back to me like a side kick to the stomach. “Never use your art when you are
angry,” he said. “The real master of martial arts never looks for a fight. Only use what you have learned when you are in a life- threatening situation or to come to the defense of someone else.”