to use your workout equipment.” Why pay
for a gym when the O’Connells have
state-of-the-art stuff in their basement?
Wade doesn’t hesitate. You can use
it. But only if you let me watch. Pervert
freshman. But, hey, what do I care
if he gets off on watching me sweat?
By The Time I Get There
Wade has rounded up a friend. They follow me
downstairs, stare as I program the elliptical
to level five. Cardio first. Weights after.
The guys stand there, gawking. Might as well
give ’em a good show. I strip down to a sports
bra and Lycra pants. “Can you turn on the TV,
maybe find a music channel?” Wade obliges,
and I climb on the machine, tune into the music,
find my zone. Breathe in. Breathe out. Lose
track of time. Push myself harder. Forget about
freshman eyes and banter. Breathe deeper
as sweat trickles turn to rivulets, carry away
toxins. One tomato, two turkey slices. Fat.
Breathe. Burn fat. Forget about the taunts
of the mirror and too many hours tangled in sleep,
deep woods perfume, and the arms of a ghost.
Sean
Arms
Worked to the max.
Pumped to capacity.
Muscles bathing in lactic
acid. Slow build to
burning.
Lift. Rest. Stretch.
Push to the edge
of “can’t,” knowing
the only way to leave
your mark
is sheer devotion to
the power of “can.”
Focus. Empty every
negative thought
into
a box labeled “not
allowed.” Embrace
the pain, now electric.
Brand your name into
the skin of history.
Bulking Up
I look in the mirror, like what
I see—triceps building. Pecs,
and flexors, too. The last,
hugely important to sending
a baseball over the fence.
But it’s not just my upper
body I work. Core muscles.
Leg muscles. All must sync
to become the best I can be,
and the best hitter in Grizzlies
history. Scratch that. Nevada
state high school history.
No lesser goal will do, and
to help me attain it, I have
resorted to help-in-a-bottle.
No more over-the-counter stuff.
No, this is the real steroidal
deal, brought to me courtesy
of Thailand, through a trusted
source. It isn’t cheap. I had to
dip into my savings account,
but hey, what else is that
money for, if not helping
me get into college? Might
be a warped way of looking
at it, although any seriously
ambitious athlete would
probably understand.
Yeah, I’m taking a chance,
but not a big one because,
despite what I told Bobby,
tests for steroids are really
expensive. Without solid
suspicion, most coaches
won’t ask for random ones.
And my guess is that if
a team is winning games
by breaking home run
records, most coaches
will close their eyes.
Case In Point
Uncle Jeff, who is definitely
closing his eyes, but whether
it’s on purpose or just because,
I really don’t know. Today
we are in the basement, lifting
together. He wants to be
buff too. Take it easy, son.
You can use the heavier weights
for your legs, but don’t risk
injuring your arm muscles.
I know he means well, but it
isn’t the first time he’s told
me the very same thing. I’m
not fricking stupid. But I say,
“Okay, dude.” Three more reps.
You know, push-ups are good
for your baseball groove too.
Did he really just say baseball
groove? I nod and do another
set while he starts in on squats.
The fatherly advice is really
starting to bug me, so when
he asks about Cara, my face
prickles irritation. But I say,
“I think she’s mad at me.”
Women. Give ’em an inch
and they’ll want the whole
yardstick.
Huff. Puff. Did
you get her something nice
for Valentine’s Day, I hope?
“Val—Shit. Is that today?”
I forgot all about it. Well, at
least it gives me the excuse
to say, “I have to run into Reno.
Thanks for the workout, Jeff.”
Showered And Dressed
I call Cara’s cell, half expecting
her not to pick up. But she does.
“Hey, you. It’s Friday. We’re going
to get together tonight, right?
You’re not mad, are you?”
She is quiet for a few seconds.
I’m not mad at you, Sean. But
I’m busy tonight. It’s Galena’s
last basketball game and
I have to cheer, remember?
“But it’s Valentine’s Day
and I have something
special for you.…” God,
I’m such a liar. “Please?
I know you’re going to love
it.” Whatever “it” ends up
being. She agrees to meet
me after the game, but her
voice is tinted with reluctance.
Why, if she’s not mad at me?
My Hand
Is on the front doorknob,
just starting to turn it, when
Uncle Jeff comes down the hall
from the kitchen. Wait. You
might take a look at this.
He hands me a shiny ad
from Zales Jewelers.
GIFTS FOR YOUR
VALENTINE, it says
at the top. FROM $39.99.
They’re at Meadowood Mall.
One word of advice, though.
If you really think she’s mad
at you, I’d spend more than
thirty-nine ninety-nine.
Then he really surprises
me, handing me a crisp
C-note. That’s the minimum
necessary to make an angry
woman not angry anymore.
I stand, hundred between
thumb and forefinger, not
quite graspinn this sudden
generosity. “But… why?”
I try to give the money back.
He shakes his head. I want
you to have it. There’s more
to life than baseball. Before
you and Cara started dating,
I was worried you’d never
figure that out. I want you
to succeed at your sport,
but not at the expense of
your happiness. She makes
you happy. Make her happy too.
I Want To Make Her Happy
I really do. But I’m not
sure jewelry is enough.
Cara is a riddle with no
evident clues. Sometimes
she just fills the whole space
around me with light. Other
times, s
he covers me with
shadow. And I’m not sure
why. She’s beautiful. Talented.
Brilliant. Rich. She has it all.
I think about her all the way
to the mall. Zales is crowded
with last-minute shoppers
like me. Mostly men. Trying
to make their women happy.
A glitter of diamond chips
catches my eye. The old-
fashioned necklace is three
hundred dollars, and worth
every dime if it makes her smile.
It Is Past Ten
By the time Cara is finished
cheering. She exits the gym
with Kendra and Shantell,
all three looking pretty hot
in their short black skirts.
Comparing the three, Shantell
is on the short side, round,
big boobs. Kendra is the flip
side of that—thin as a twig
and almost as tall as I am.
And Cara? Cara is perfect—
all taut, muscular curves
wrapped in kid-leather skin,
with hair like waves of summer
wheat and golden eyes that
remind me of autumn leaves.
I want to eat her up, keep
her a part of me always.
I wave, and she peels from
the group, heads my way.
A winter-clipped breeze
blows through her sweat-
dampened hair. She shivers,
and when I open my arms,
she leans into me gratefully.
Thanks for being so patient,
she says, head against my chest.
I don’t know what’s wrong
with me. She looks up, smiles,
and the world rights itself,
shimmers with her glow.
“Ah, you know, we all get
a little crazy sometimes.
Anyway, tonight is about
what’s right.” I find the red
velvet box in my pocket.
“I knew this was you as
soon as I saw it. Happy
Valentine’s Day. I love you,
Cara.” So much it hurts.
I Wait For Her
To tell me she loves me, too.
She doesn’t, but she does
open the box, and when she
sees the heart-shaped diamond
pendant inside, she gasps.
Oh, Sean. It’s beautiful, but
you shouldn’t have spent so
much.… I mean, I love it, but…
But? I don’t like the sound
of “but.” I take the necklace
from her hands. “Turn around.”
I wrap the chain gently around
her neck, fumbling the clasp
like a dork. “This isn’t even close
to what I’d give you if I could.”
Cara lifts onto her tiptoes,
looks deep into my eyes.
Thank you. And now she kisses
me like I want to be kissed. So why
does my body refuse to respond?
Andre
To Be Kissed
Like they do in movies—
glossy lips parting
in bold invitation,
hungry mouths
meeting,
igniting the blistering
passion most can only
dream of. To be kissed
like they do in books,
some exotic
setting beguiling two
ordinary people, bewitching
them with its subtle
perfumes until,
stranger
inextricably linked to
stranger, their lives
are forever changed.
I am only kissed like this
in dreams.
Academically
The Zephyr Academy is a fine school.
Great, engaging
teachers. All advanced placement classes,
no more than twelve students to a classroom.
You can’t ask
for a better environment if you want to learn
the things you need to get into an Ivy League
college. (I gave up on
that idea years ago, though I kept that decision
to myself until I absolutely had to confess it.)
As far as a thriving social
scene goes, though… uh, there isn’t one.
Oh, there are a couple of campus romances
happening. But
face it, two hundred sixteen kids, grades
seven through twelve, most of them much
more focused on
academics than dating, the odds of hooking
up with someone special here are slim.
Probably why so many
Zephyr students actually get into their chosen
colleges. Easy to focus on your work.
That’s not to say
that there aren’t any cute girls here.
There are a few, and yeah, I’ve had some
casual sex with one
or two. (Okay, maybe three.) But mostly
I go looking elsewhere. Never expected
to find someone
sister to get out of a pre-op counseling
session. Jenna is a one-
of-a-kind piece of… art. Kind of stuck
on herself, but who isn’t? And yeah,
I’m a couple of years
older. Something to keep in mind.
Still, I Don’t Plan
To marry her. Don’t even know about
getting in deep.
Mostly, I like how we look together.
Okay, and I like the way she smells.
And the way she feels
when she rubs up against me, purring.
Hmm. I guess I like her. We’ve only gone
out a couple of times.
Tonight will be the third. I’m picking her
up at four thirty. Reno, Friday night, if you
want a decent restaurant,
you get there early or wait for hours.
Almost time to go, I notice Dad is home.
I can hear his poor excuse
for music leaking out from behind his office
door. I should probably say hello. We don’t
see much of each other
lately. Two knocks. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
He pulls his eyes away from his computer.
Doing some research.
He gives me a once-over. You going out?
Like I always dress in a button-up shirt
and leather jacket. But
I say, “Yeah. Going to dinner and a game.”
Now he looks at me as if he’s seeing
a complete stranger.
Really? You have a girlfriend or what?
Or what. “She’s not really my girlfriend.
We’ve been out a few
times. But it’s not anything serious.”
Why must he take such an interest in
my uninteresting life?
Oh yeah. Control. Tell me about her.
I shrug. Give a brief description, omitting
the age difference
thing. Mention she goes to Galena.
He absorbs the information. Blinks twice.
Finally comments, Blond,
huh? Which means, “So she’s white?”
“Yes, Dad, she’s white. But don’t worry.
Like I said, it’s not serious.
Not even close. We’re just friends.”
I know what he’s going to say, and he does.
You really should date
black girls. Are you ashamed of your race?
He goes on to talk about artificial beauty
standards, European
&
nbsp; versus African, etc. All stuff I’ve heard
before. And more than once. But… “Look,
Dad. It’s not like there
are a whole lot of African Americans in Reno,
anyway. Running into the exact right
black girl won’t happen
that easily. And this is just a date. Okay?”
He Says Okay
And we leave it there, though I could
have said a whole
lot more. Like how his own wife
(my toffee-skinned mom) skews
way toward the Anglo
ideal. Like how she has made a fair
amount of money altering the features
of her African American
sisters, all to make them more “beautiful.”
Like, right, wrong, or who fucking cares,
I happen to think
Jenna is pretty and enjoy spending time
with her. Like maybe tonight I might
even kiss her, just to
try it on for size. And if that works out,
well, who knows how much further
we might go? If she
feels the same way about me, of course.
On My Way To Jenna’s
The conversation with Dad replays.
If I were to be honest
with myself, the truth is I have always
been more attracted to girls who reflect
the European standard.
Not that there aren’t gorgeous black women.
But the ones who I’d label beautiful are
models—Tyra Banks,
Naomi Campbell. Selita Ebanks. Tall.
Thin. Long, straight hair. Fairer skinned.
Am I wrong to feel
this way? Does it make me a stereotype?
Or does it in some weird way make me
racist? If it does, would
I be less racist if I were only attracted
to black women? It’s hard enough to
find someone you want
to be with. Why worry about color at all?
It’s A Little Before Five
When we reach Red Lobster. Already
the place is busy.