Evil Eye by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

require great talent. So don’t use that as an excuse—you aren’t talented. Of course you aren’t talented —that’s beside the point.” He spoke as if explaining something self-evident that only obstinacy prevented me from accepting.
    â€œWe could play together. Each with a violin. We could have a recital—people would applaud! But it requires patience.”
    The scraping noises of the violin, and Desmond’s abrasive voice, caused Rollo to glance up at us from a few feet away, worriedly.
    Desmond was wholly focused upon “instructing” me. This was a side of him I hadn’t seen before—there was nothing tender about him now, only an air of determination. A smell of perspiration lifted from his underarms, there was an oily ooze on his forehead. He breathed quickly, audibly. Our nearness wasn’t a comfort but intimidating. It was beginning to be upsetting that I couldn’t seem to explain to this adamant young man that I really didn’t want to take violin instructions from him, or from anyone.
    When I tried to squirm away he squeezed my hand, hard—he was looming over me and his smile didn’t seem so friendly now.
    â€œ You’re not even trying for God’s sake. Why do you just give up .”
    Hearing Desmond’s voice, my mother appeared in the doorway.
    Quickly then Desmond stammered an apology, took back the gleaming little violin from me, and left.
    Mom and I stared after him, shaken.
    â€œThat voice I heard, Lizbeth—I’d swear, it wasn’t Desmond.”
    Following this, something seemed to have altered between Desmond and me.
    He didn’t call. He began to appear in places I would not expect. He’d never made any effort to see me before school, only after school, once or twice a week at the most, but now I began to see him watching me from across the street when I entered school at about 8 a.m . If I waved shyly to him he didn’t wave back but turned away as if he hadn’t seen me.
    â€œIs that your boyfriend over there? What’s he doing there?”—my girlfriends would ask.
    â€œWe had a disagreement. He wants to make up. I think.”
    I tried to speak casually. I hoped the tremor in my voice wasn’t detectable.
    This was the sort of thing a girl would say, wasn’t it?—a girl in my circumstances, with a boyfrien d ?
    I realized that I had no idea what it meant, to have a boyfriend .
    Still more, had a disagreement.
    And after school, Desmond began to appear closer to the building. He didn’t seem to mind, as he’d initially minded, mingling with high school students as they moved past him in an erratic stream—Desmond a fixed point, like a rock. Waiting for me, then staring at me, not smiling, with a curt little wave of his hand as I approached—as if I might not have recognized him otherwise.
    I’d gotten into the habit of hurrying from school on those days I didn’t have a meeting or field hockey. It seemed urgent to get outside soon after the final bell. I didn’t always want to be explaining Desmond to my friends. I didn’t want always to be telling them that I had to hurry, my boyfriend wanted to see me alone.
    Where Desmond hadn’t shown any interest in watching me play field hockey now he might turn up at a game, or even at practice, not sitting in the bleachers with our (usually few) spectators; he preferred to remain aloof, standing at the edge of the playing field where he could stroll off unobserved at any time—except of course Desmond was observed, especially by me.
    â€œWhen are you going to introduce Desmond to us, Lizbeth?”
    â€œIs he kind of—the jealous type?”
    â€œHe looks like a preppy! He looks rich.”
    â€œHe looks a little older like—a college guy, at least?”
    It was thrilling to me that my friends and teammates knew that the tall lanky boy who kept his distance was my boyfriend