it. “And if I hear the word
God
again, you won’t know what hit you.”
“There’s pizza afterward!”
God.
She reads and smokes, turns a page. “Eleven,” she says finally.
Friday afternoon detention. Smile, fudge, game. Smile, fudge, game. I tried to do it yesterday but couldn’t get started. Now
the fudge is on its last legs when I carry it in and hand it to him, frozen faced.
He looks at me first, then at the fudge, resting on a brown paper towel. The buzzer goes off and I make my way back to my
seat. When Felicia asked hers if he was going to the game, he pointed at her and then mimed laughing, holding his stomach.
For some reason, we’ve taken this as a positive sign.
After class, Mr. Prentiss waits instead of racing out. I collect my things slowly and then walk up the aisle.
“That was good,” he says.
I nod.
“You got any more?”
I shake my head.
We walk out together and stand waiting to see which way the other will turn. His green army jacket is slung over his shoulder,
held by one crooked finger.
“Game?” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“Tomorrow night’s game,” I say.
“Oh,” he answers, nodding.
We look down the hall in opposite directions. In my direction, Felicia stands at a respectful distance, staring at the floor.
In his direction is the door whose crash bar he likes to kick.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping on his own sneaker, where a piece of rubber is coming loose. He pulls the stepped-on shoe out from
under the other shoe, thereby tearing off the strip of loose rubber. He kicks it thoughtfully into the center of the clean,
empty hall. “I’m usually either sitting in C or standing under it.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yep,” he answers, looking at the crash bar.
“Well,” I say, looking at Felicia.
“Finally get to go home,” he says.
“Yep,” I say.
He shifts his jacket to the other finger and I shift my books to the other arm. His free hand is six inches away from my free
hand. I feel breathless and unstable, like we’re standing on the wing of an airplane.
Felicia clears her throat, still staring at the floor.
“She’s waiting for me,” I say.
“See you, then,” he says.
Once outside, he jumps all the way down the steps, landingin a crouch. We watch him through the door as he lopes across the lawn, dodges a car, waves at the driver, and disappears
down the street.
We’re speechless.
“That was a million times better than somebody holding their stomach and laughing,” Felicia says finally.
My sister will let me wear her peacoat to the game only if I tell her what’s going on. After an hour or so, I give in.
“There’s a guy I might talk to,” I tell her. She stares at me for a full minute. I try to stare back but I can’t.
“And are we thinking our sister’s peacoat will make him fall in love with us?” she asks gently.
“No,” I say miserably. Why did I even start this? “I like it, is all. And I get so cold, I’m just sitting there shivering.”
“And what about our CPO jacket that we thought was the way to go?”
During our family coat-buying expedition, instead of a peacoat, I asked for what is known as a CPO jacket, which is styled
like a shirt and made of heavy plaid wool, to be worn over a hooded sweatshirt. I have no idea what CPO stands for, but cold
has to be the first word. My mother let me get it because I already had the sweatshirt and she was broke, walking around the
store staring at price tags and getting more and more upset.
“I’m sick over this!” she said at one point, looking at Raymond in a warm zip-up jacket with padding and attached mittens.
She took it off him and hung it back up. “Half the price of this is the mittens, and we don’t even want them.”
“I want them,” Ray admitted.
“You do?” she cried. She stood there in the little-kid aisle and we stood there with her.
“No,” Ray said.
“He doesn’t,” I said.
“He liked the other one,” Meg
God
again, you won’t know what hit you.”
“There’s pizza afterward!”
God.
She reads and smokes, turns a page. “Eleven,” she says finally.
Friday afternoon detention. Smile, fudge, game. Smile, fudge, game. I tried to do it yesterday but couldn’t get started. Now
the fudge is on its last legs when I carry it in and hand it to him, frozen faced.
He looks at me first, then at the fudge, resting on a brown paper towel. The buzzer goes off and I make my way back to my
seat. When Felicia asked hers if he was going to the game, he pointed at her and then mimed laughing, holding his stomach.
For some reason, we’ve taken this as a positive sign.
After class, Mr. Prentiss waits instead of racing out. I collect my things slowly and then walk up the aisle.
“That was good,” he says.
I nod.
“You got any more?”
I shake my head.
We walk out together and stand waiting to see which way the other will turn. His green army jacket is slung over his shoulder,
held by one crooked finger.
“Game?” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“Tomorrow night’s game,” I say.
“Oh,” he answers, nodding.
We look down the hall in opposite directions. In my direction, Felicia stands at a respectful distance, staring at the floor.
In his direction is the door whose crash bar he likes to kick.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping on his own sneaker, where a piece of rubber is coming loose. He pulls the stepped-on shoe out from
under the other shoe, thereby tearing off the strip of loose rubber. He kicks it thoughtfully into the center of the clean,
empty hall. “I’m usually either sitting in C or standing under it.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Yep,” he answers, looking at the crash bar.
“Well,” I say, looking at Felicia.
“Finally get to go home,” he says.
“Yep,” I say.
He shifts his jacket to the other finger and I shift my books to the other arm. His free hand is six inches away from my free
hand. I feel breathless and unstable, like we’re standing on the wing of an airplane.
Felicia clears her throat, still staring at the floor.
“She’s waiting for me,” I say.
“See you, then,” he says.
Once outside, he jumps all the way down the steps, landingin a crouch. We watch him through the door as he lopes across the lawn, dodges a car, waves at the driver, and disappears
down the street.
We’re speechless.
“That was a million times better than somebody holding their stomach and laughing,” Felicia says finally.
My sister will let me wear her peacoat to the game only if I tell her what’s going on. After an hour or so, I give in.
“There’s a guy I might talk to,” I tell her. She stares at me for a full minute. I try to stare back but I can’t.
“And are we thinking our sister’s peacoat will make him fall in love with us?” she asks gently.
“No,” I say miserably. Why did I even start this? “I like it, is all. And I get so cold, I’m just sitting there shivering.”
“And what about our CPO jacket that we thought was the way to go?”
During our family coat-buying expedition, instead of a peacoat, I asked for what is known as a CPO jacket, which is styled
like a shirt and made of heavy plaid wool, to be worn over a hooded sweatshirt. I have no idea what CPO stands for, but cold
has to be the first word. My mother let me get it because I already had the sweatshirt and she was broke, walking around the
store staring at price tags and getting more and more upset.
“I’m sick over this!” she said at one point, looking at Raymond in a warm zip-up jacket with padding and attached mittens.
She took it off him and hung it back up. “Half the price of this is the mittens, and we don’t even want them.”
“I want them,” Ray admitted.
“You do?” she cried. She stood there in the little-kid aisle and we stood there with her.
“No,” Ray said.
“He doesn’t,” I said.
“He liked the other one,” Meg
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