Like Jazz (6 page)

“Kip, I’d hate to be a wet blanket. You should take someone who’s into it.”

His smile evaporated. “You don’t want to go, or you don’t want to go with me?”

Both, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “If I was going, I’d love to go with you. Honestly, it’s just not my kind of thing.”

“It’s Homecoming. I thought girls lived for this kind of thing.”

I chuckled. “Wearing fancy gowns and pretending to be Cinderella?”

His smile returned. “It does sound kind of dorky when you put it that way.”

A car pulled into the parking lot and we glanced over. “My mom,” I said, rising.

“Tell you what. Think about it over the weekend and let me know Monday. Deal?”

What a sweet boy. I’m sure it’s hard enough to ask a girl out, let alone leave the door open after being turned down. “Deal.” My mom pulled the car around about ten feet away, and I started toward it.

“Cazz.”

I turned back to Kip.

“It wouldn’t be right for the prettiest girl at Claiborne to sit home on Homecoming.”

I tilted my head and furrowed my eyebrows in confusion.
She isn’t. She’s going with Dirk and will probably be crowned Queen.

“So say yes on Monday.” He grinned.

I quickly closed the final steps to the passenger door and shut it behind me, securing my escape.

During the ride home, my incipient frustration with Kip’s tenacity grew into full-blown annoyance. Until that last bit about the prettiest girl, I actually thought I’d give his proposal some meaningful consideration. After all, going to the Homecoming dance wouldn’t kill me. It might even turn out to be somewhat enjoyable, depending on the company and the entertainment. But as with most compliments, his struck me as being insincere. A calculated thing designed to manipulate me. Like many of the recruits I’d met during the numerous events my father took us to or held at our various houses, Kip’s compliment was aimed at taking something from me.

The young army recruits wanted sex. Period. And they were very persuasive in trying to get it. In the past three years rotating through school after school, the one constant when it came to my interactions with them was the sheer volume of compliments heaped on me.
You’re so pretty. You’re so beautiful. Your eyes are incredible.
And so on.

Twice, once at fifteen and once at sixteen, I’d made the mistake of believing the sincerity of the boys wielding those words, wanting so much to feel special. Toward the end of my date with the first boy, he drove us to a scenic point that overlooked the city lights below. He kissed me brutally, shoving his tongue into my mouth and pushing me hard against the door. No tenderness, no gentle words. He grabbed my breast and squeezed until it was painful. I wanted to cry out but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging I’d felt his touch. I fought him off and was able to grab hold of the door handle behind me. Since he’d been leaning heavily against me, I fell backward onto the ground as the door opened. He told me to get in, saying he’d take me home, but I refused. I didn’t want to go anywhere with him. He got out of the car and forced me against the door.

“Look, you fucking tease, you’re going to get in and I’m going to take you home, because if I don’t, your father will have my ass in a sling. Now get in the goddamn car, you little bitch, or I’ll give you more than you bargained for.”

I climbed into the backseat and he took me home.

I fared no better with the second boy. He seemed sweet, telling me I had the prettiest green eyes he’d ever seen. He took me to dinner, followed by an R-rated movie at a small theater. He was twenty, and by then I looked eighteen, so it was easy to get in. Toward the start of the film, he took my hand and held it. About an hour in, during a raunchy sex scene, he put my hand between his legs. As he held it firmly in one of his, I felt something warm, firm yet soft, and couldn’t immediately place that I was holding his penis until he forced my hand up and down his shaft. I recoiled and ran into the ladies’ room. I cried for a long time, unable to understand what I’d done, how it had happened.

When an employee made her rounds to clean the bathroom, I asked her if there was a rear exit. There was. I darted into the street, saw a tall building that had the name of some hotel, ran to it, and took a cab home.

Although repulsed by the behavior of those boys, I’d been more disgusted with myself for having been so stupid and naïve as to believe their lies. Keeping my distance from people was my surefire method of preventing repeat performances, and aside from those earlier mistakes, I was good at it. In reminding myself that I needed to remain so, my mind inexplicably settled on Sarah’s face instead of Kip’s, and my resolve momentarily faltered.

Saturday morning, the phone rang. “Cazz, it’s for you,” my mom called to me upstairs. I was reading and not particularly enjoying
Catch-22
; the contradictions were giving me whiplash. I reached for the phone near my bed.

“Hello?”

“Get changed and meet me outside your house in half an hour. We’re going to work on that serve of yours,” Sarah said. She was one of many seniors at Claiborne with a car. I wasn’t, since we moved so much. Even during our
Othello
preparations, we hadn’t shared phone numbers, so she must have gotten my home number from the tennis-team roster.

“That’s very nice of you, Sarah, but it’s not necessary.”

Unfazed, Sarah pressed on. “Bring a change of clothes, too. What’s your address?” I gave it to her and started getting ready. As I looked in the mirror to put my hair in a ponytail, I noticed I was smiling.

Once we got to the courts, Sarah popped the trunk of her black Jetta and pulled out a cage of balls. “Coach let me borrow it.” We warmed up by hitting some rallies, and then she jogged over to my side of the net and met me at the baseline. “Take a few practice serves to loosen up.”

I did.

“Show me your normal service grip.”

I showed her my hand as it held the base of my racket.

“All right. Now move your grip counterclockwise a quarter of an inch and choke up on the racket.”

I did.

“Hold the ball out to where you’d normally hit it.”

I held it out as if preparing to serve.

“Now.” She stepped behind me and reached around my left shoulder, lightly grabbing my forearm. I stiffened involuntarily. “Instead of hitting it there, you want to toss it closer to here, kind of like eleven o’clock.” She pulled my arm up, back, and to the left, then reached around me for my right arm. “Pull your racket back like you’re about to serve.”

I moved my racket behind me as she’d instructed. She put her right hand around mine, lifted my left arm, and pushed the racket head from just above my head to the top of my reach.

“Pretend you’re hitting from six o’clock to twelve o’clock on the ball, like this,” she said with her arms around me.

Focused on the tingling heat where she was touching me on my arms, hands and back, I had trouble concentrating on what she was saying. I could feel her breasts against my back, her breath on my neck, and my shoulders tightened slightly upward, as if I was bracing myself for possible injury. It was anything but painful, yet somehow frightening.

“Jesus, Cazz, breathe, will you?” She stepped back and I blew out my breath, unaware I’d been holding it. While I kept my eyes forward, she walked around me and into my field of vision. Without looking at her, I could tell she was studying me.

“You really hate to be touched, don’t you?” she asked.

I stared at the net, trying to even my breathing, not wanting to have this conversation. I couldn’t tell her what her touch did to me and couldn’t admit to the reasons why—except for her—she was right.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Cazz.”

“I know.” I still couldn’t face her.

She continued staring at me for what seemed like forever but was probably a few seconds. “You don’t like being touched, and you don’t like compliments.” She spoke her next words softly, with a tenderness that made me ache. “Somebody really hurt you.”

I looked at the soccer field in the distance and silently cursed myself for my weakness as my eyes pooled with tears.
Don’t you dare cry right now. Do not fucking cry.

“Sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she said with the same tenderness and compassion. That endearment did me in, and a tear slid down my cheek. I took a staggered breath, my mouth quivering.

“I know you don’t want this, but I can’t not hug you right now.” She closed the gap between us and I shook my head, trying to dissuade her from embracing me, even though part of me wanted her and only her to hold me. She paused, seeming to contemplate whether to abide by my wishes or leave me alone, then threw her arms around my neck. “I can’t stand seeing you like this,” she said softly. A few moments passed. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” She was so gentle, so loving, that I couldn’t stop the flood of emotion and yielded to my need to cry. She held me tightly, rocked me gently, and whispered words of comfort.

I felt safe in her arms and warmed by her compassion. I felt cared for. It was a feeling so different than any I’d known. But I couldn’t trust myself to know the difference between being cared for and being manipulated toward some endgame unknown to me and not in my best interest. Nothing in Sarah’s behavior made me think she was anything but genuine, and I couldn’t imagine any hidden agenda she should harbor against me. Yet however unfair it was of me not to trust her, I couldn’t. Because of my startling realization that I desperately wanted to, I was disappointed in myself for not giving her the chance she deserved.

As my private storm finally passed, my sadness dovetailed into mammoth embarrassment at being so needy. I pulled away and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Can we go?” I asked with averted eyes. She agreed and jogged away to field the balls on the court, allowing me time to pull myself together.

Later, as she finished stowing the ball cage in the trunk, I felt compelled to say something, still feeling exposed and abashed. “Sorry about that, back there. You caught me a little off guard.”

She closed the trunk and her eyes registered dismay. She shook her head, looked past my shoulder into the distance, then back to me. Her frown slowly turned into a mischievous grin, as if she were preparing for a duel that only she knew the rules of. “We’ll have to work on that then.”

I wasn’t following. “What?”

“Your guard. Get in.”

Aside from the radio blasting alternative rock, we rode in silence as Sarah drove us to the mall. We entered it, slammed with the usual overkill of air-conditioning, and made a beeline for the public restroom where we changed clothes in separate stalls. We threw our tennis clothes and shoes in a tote bag I carried, and after exiting the restroom I followed in step behind Sarah, who seemed intent on a particular destination. The three-foot-tall lettering above the wide store entrance said N
ORDSTROM
. We passed the makeup and perfume counters as we made our way to the escalator and walk-rode up four floors. Formal dresses.

“What’s the plan?” I asked.

“You’re going to help me shop for my Homecoming dress.”

“I’m not much of a shopper.”

“Trust me, I’m enough for both of us.” She smiled and winked at me. My stomach did a little cartwheel, but I blew out an exasperated breath as if in for a long bout of torture.

Sarah methodically picked through rack after rack of dresses, seeming to opt more for the long, traditional gown than the short sexy type. In her wake, I’d occasionally pick out a horrid dress merely to get a rise out of her. One particularly awful number was a short black thing with a white leaf print. I wasn’t sure whether the designer was irreverent or clueless, but the leaves were shaped like those of a marijuana plant. I pulled it off the rack and pushed it toward her.

“Perfect,” I said.

She glimpsed it and snickered before raising her eyebrows in question.

“Very high society.”

Sarah barked a laugh that caused a couple patrons to glance up from their shopping.

Four gowns were resting over her arm by the time she stopped at a rack that held cocktail dresses. Rifling through the options, she shoved hanger against hanger until she saw one she liked. After she pulled out her selection, she looked at me then back at the dress. She waved me closer. “Here, try this one on. Don’t peek at the price tag. We’re trying, not buying.”

I eyed the one-shoulder black dress with the sweetheart neckline on the fitted bodice. Crisscross ruching would wrap around the wearer until bottoming out at the hem of the dress, mid-thigh. “Why? I’m not going to Homecoming, and even if I was, this certainly isn’t a Homecoming dress.”

“I’m testing out a theory,” she said vaguely.

“I would never wear something like this.”

“Humor me.” She continued holding out the dress to me, and I reluctantly relented, taking it from her. She pointed with her chin. “The fitting room’s over there. I’m not quite through here, so come find me when you’re done.”

In the fitting room, stripped down to my bra and panties, I held out the dress, trying to divine Sarah’s purpose in my wearing it. “Ugh.” I slid the tight-fitting garment over my body and looked in the mirror.

It was a perfect fit.

I turned around several times, examining myself from the front, sides, and over my shoulder to my back. Though I’d never wear such a thing in public, I had to admit it wasn’t a bad look. I had enough leg and height to get away with the modest length, enough cleavage to fill out the bust material, enough definition in my arms to get away with the sleeveless aspect of the left shoulder, and just enough hip to accentuate my flat stomach. The dress lent me an almost seductive air.

I became hugely self-conscious that I’d cause a stir if I left the fitting room—the kind that often made me the object of my father’s recruits—and decided I didn’t want the attention. It had been my experience that the less notice I received, the better. I grabbed the lowest part of the dress and was starting to remove it, when I heard Sarah.