grl2grl (5 page)

I keyed in one word.

“Okay.”

I
won’t sign the card, I decided. I’ll let her wonder who it’s from.

No. I wanted her to know. I wanted her to look at me every day and know.

There were so many cards to choose from. Christmas, New Year, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Birthday. None of them fit. Friendship?

Yes. Well, no. Not exactly.

Thank you?

No.

Love? Yes, that was the kind of card I wanted.

(Outside) I love you

(Inside) Every day/In every way

That was true. I loved her in every way. A little heavy on the sentiment, though. Smack her in the face.

(Outside) My day begins

(Inside) With you

It did. First period. I couldn’t wait to get to school to see her first period. Sometimes I’d catch her in the hallway before
class, talking to people and smiling. Always smiling. She was my happy, smiling sunshine.

There’s a song like that. Were there cards with song lyrics? I could make one.

(Outside) You are my sunshine

(Inside) My only sunshine

Dorky. What’s the rest? You make me happy, when skies are gray. She did. It could be raining or snowing outside and the sight
of her would light up the halls.

She dressed cool. Not sexy or provocative. Except this one time she’d worn a scoop-neck sweater and she was sitting on the
steps outside the cafeteria after lunch, and I remember she leaned back to tilt her face to the sun. I’d just come out the
door with my friends to head for the quad so they could check out guys. I was standing a couple of steps above her and she
inhaled a deep breath and her breasts heaved. I could see down her front, to the trim of her bra. I must’ve gasped or something
because her head lolled all the way back and she said, “Hi.” To all of us, yeah. But in particular to me. I was so startled
by the view I almost took a header down the steps.

That would’ve been a trip.

(Outside) You had me at

(Inside) Hi

I wondered if she’d get it; recall that day. And every other day she said hi to me.

(Outside) Imagine

(Inside) Us together

I did. All the time. I fantasized about us together. Standing under a trellis, ivy dripping down the sides. Her, in her white
wedding gown with scooped neck and lace-trimmed bra, and me, in my tuxedo. Black silk, black shirt, black tie. She’d be holding
a bouquet of red roses. Black and white and red. Those would be our colors. We’d vow eternal love and consummate it with a
kiss. Our first kiss.

(Outside) Your lips on mine

(Inside) I shiver

Oh wow. I liked that one. It was simple, yet strong. Boldly suggestive.

As the guy at the counter rang up my sale, he said, “I got that same one for my girlfriend.”

“Yeah?” I’m getting it for mine, I didn’t say. My 2B GF.

I had a red glitter pen and a green Flair, but decided to go with black gel. Sophistication. I wanted her to think of me that
way. Red, white, and black.

Your lips

On mine

I shiver

Hoo. This card made me hot. Print or write my message? Write, I decided. On a sheet of notebook paper, I practiced the lettering:
L L L L L L
.

Three lines of
L
’s.

Commit, I thought.

Love
, I wrote. I wrote it again.

Love
.

Love, Logan
.

I closed the card and kissed the red foil heart on front. I’d leave her my lip print. My hands were clammy as I slid the card
into the envelope, sealed it, and wrote her name on the front. My finest writing. It’d be hard, but I’d force myself to wait
until Friday to give it to her. Last day before winter break. Give her something to think about during those two weeks. Someone
to think about.

Maybe I should’ve put my phone number under my name.

Right, Logan. Don’t be too obvious.

She could look me up. Or ask me for it when we got back from break. It’d sustain me to know she was thinking about me.

She snapped to attention when I approached her desk, like she’d been lost in thought. I’d waited until after class. Until
she’d begun to gather her stuff. Her face lit up. “Hi, Logan.”

“Hi.”

She smiled. Her smile extended to her eyes. From your eyes to my heart, I thought. Without even knowing her that well, I could
see she had a beautiful soul. Before I lost my nerve, I pulled the card from my math book and handed it to her.

She read the front. “For me?”

Did she blush? She flipped over the envelope and stuck a fingernail under the flap.

“Youcanopenitlater,” I said in a rush.

She paused. “All right.” She smiled again. “Are you taking AP English next term?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I’m glad.” She dropped her eyes.

The late bell rang.

“Oops, better fly.” She slipped my card into her shoulder bag.

“Yeah, me too,” I said. Fly.

She hurried toward the door. “Have a happy holiday, Logan,” she called over her shoulder.

“Yeah.” I stood in her afterglow, warm as the sun. I called to her back, “You too, Ms. Winger.”

M
y butt smacked the floor and I slid backward over the foul line. The whistle shrilled. Did Number 14 reach down to assist?
Hell no. I would’ve been surprised if she had.

Right in my face, she exaggerated a grin. Baited me. Then she swaggered back to her team’s bench. Girl, I thought, streaking
a silent message across court, watch your ass tonight. Someone extended a hand and yanked me up.

Her team, the Wombats, was already in foul trouble. Thanks to her. Ref flipped me the ball. I dribbled once, then rotated
the skin around between my open palms. It was second skin to me. I’d been shooting hoops with my brothers since I could walk.
By the time I was ten, I was beating the crap out of them. It was height, yeah, but instinct too. I was born to it.

My toe caps leveled the foul line. I shadowed the stripe.
Microscopic advantage, if anyone dared to measure. I sighted the net, then rocked back on my right heel and gripped the ball;
squared my elbows, gentled the leather, talked the ball in; made love to it; released.

Hahhhh… An owl swooping through the forest at night. It sights the prey, dives in for the KILL.

Muffled cheering from the crowd.

Barracudas up by three.

I glanced sideways to my left, to check her reaction. She bent over her haunches and tugged at the hem of her shorts. Long,
sculptured legs. Hard, like mine. 14 flexed, and her quads rippled sweat.

At the catch in my lower stomach I exhaled a swift breath. Focus. Don’t get distracted.

Bonus shot. I dribbled once and spun the ball around in my hands. Calloused palms. Tentacled fingers. As I loaded for release,
urging my baby on, 14 straightened suddenly in her stance and twisted her head to bore eyes into me. I couldn’t help looking.
She smiled big white teeth.

My shot sailed left.
Chunk
. It clipped the rim. Damn. Damn her. It bounced up and out.

The Wombats rebounded and thundered down the court. 14 scudded to a squeaky halt outside the three-point line and reached
both hands up for an incoming pass. I cut in front of her and lunged for the ball. My fingertips nicked skin, but she anticipated
my move and jockeyed her body sideways into perfect position, snagging the throw. An inch
and I would’ve had it. She spun to shoot, but I planted my feet and mirrored her moves.

She seesawed. I rocked. I windmilled my arms. She passed off over my head to one of her guards, then bumped me hard on the
hip, hooking my ankle and tripping me up.

I maintained my balance; stayed with her. We closed in on the basket. In the paint, I muscled under her arm and clipped her
in the chest. Wicked elbow. She chuffed. She was taller than me, but I took advantage by seeking out her vulnerable spots
— gut, throat, ear. Breasts were off limits, much as I wanted to go there. We played physical, contact. Hard, but not dirty.

She slammed her shoulder into mine and knocked me off point again. The ball arced into her waiting hands. As she laid up her
shot, I sprang like a cat and clawed it off course. We both watched it spike in the air and plummet, tipping the backboard.
She dove for the rebound, but I got there first and shagged the ball. Squeezing, I caressed the solid mass to my chest.

Charging up the court, lungs filling, feet pounding, sweat spraying, hair flying, ball, skin, heat, friction, driving, diving,
dribble, racing down, down. Ball. Up. In.

The game. Play. Bodies clashing, gliding, sliding against each other. Grunting, groaning, crying out. Keening, squealing,
primitive animal sounds. The pungent smell, the odor of exertion and exhilaration. The salty taste of sweat — mine and hers.
Slick, sticky neck, arms, hands. And always the
breathing, huffing, chests expanding. Gorging, groping, cutting, jostling for position. For place, for power. Down, down,
deeper, farther. Onto her, into her. Rush.

The rush. We were on. Giving all.

For the game. For play.

We hurtled the space between us; clashing full frontal, we collided and crunched to the floor. We rolled onto each other like
wrestlers, soles screeching, stabbing, scrabbling for the ball, knocking arms, heads, bones. Then the ball trickling away
out of bounds. The whistle shrilling.

Ref called, “Jump ball.” We — 14 and me — we looked at each other and smiled.

Killer smile. She knew the effect.

I got up fast and thrust out a hand.
SLAP
, she grasped it. I yanked.

For a moment she balanced against me, her arm fused to mine. Sizzling skin. Muscle twitch, contraction.

A slit-eyed sideways glance from her.

Yeah, girl. Later. You know it.

We’d meet up, usual spot. Her court. Or mine.

In the darkness we’d play out the game. We’d thrash in the heat and sweat and rush. Didn’t matter who won or lost tonight.
We were taking this game into overtime.

“S
eriously?” J.J. arched her eyebrows. “You want to go completely bald?”

“Shear it off.”

Maybe the transformation wouldn’t require excessive mutilation. “Okay, leave some stubble,” I said. “Quarter of an inch.”

She held up her dog trimmers to my face. “Still time to change your mind.”

“Have I ever changed my mind about anything?”

J.J. said, “Could be that’s your problem.”

“Who says I got a problem?” I snapped at her. “Just shave.”

She didn’t need to know about my
problem
. There was nothing she could do about my
problem
. Nothing anyone could do. Not J.J., not me, not Taunia.

Taunia.

What did she see in me anyway? I was ugly. Obscene.
Eventually I’d drive her away. I’d have to. I watched in the mirror as J.J. buzzed an arc over my ear. I was hideous. The
blotchy skin and zits, my lumpy nose from being broken in a fight, my ears, I noticed at this moment, crooked. There wasn’t
anything in this mirror, in this person, that Taunia could want.

So why? “Why?” I’d asked her. That day in the hall, after school. After I stomped out of Thatcher’s class — bastard — when
he refused to give me credit for my project. Because he couldn’t understand why I’d chosen to film hunger in America rather
than write a report. A boring report on some inconsequential topic. Oh, excuse me. A topic that affected us directly. Hunger
affected me, okay. It
affected
me. No, he meant things like the increase in school violence over the last decade. Maybe not inconsequential, but easily
explained. It was the anger. Thatcher was the reason for the anger, if you ask me. His indifference. He wouldn’t listen. He
pissed me off. I didn’t want to write my report down because it wasn’t about the numbers, facts, words on paper, charts and
graphs. You can’t understand hunger unless you see it. Unless you feel the weakness and the gnaw in your gut.

“Why what?” Taunia had frowned.

I’d tuned into her voice — her creamy voice — still reeling
from the sting of an F in Sociology. I needed to graduate. Needed to get away from here. “Why would you ask me out?” I sniped
at her.

She smiled. “Gee, I don’t know. Because I like you?”

Get real. What was there to like?