The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

  He laughed a little. "Well, I like being in high school too. Obviously, I guess, since I work in one. But the future is out there waiting, Nancy. All you've got to do is go and meet it. And kids like you and Raina, you're in a wonderful position. I would love to have had the opportunities that you have."

  I shook my head. "It's not that simple, Dad."

  "Listen," he said, "I know that this time seems really confusing, with all of these people coming at you from all different directions. But once you make your choice, everything else is going to look a lot simpler. And all of this stuff you're going through now, you're not even going to remember it. Once you get to college and then out in the real world, you're going to be so glad to have your own life that you'll probably never want to come back to this place. And frankly, I'll feel a hell of a lot better when you're out of here, especially after what happened on New Year's." He paused. "I know you're really attached to your friends and everything, but you're going to make new friends soon, and those will be the ones that'll last. Your real life hasn't even begun yet, Nancy. Up to now, it's just been practice."

  I finally glanced up at him, and he looked so earnest. My father was a wonderful man. He'd made sacrifices for me, he'd accommodated all my needs, and one of the appeals of getting a scholarship to college was that I'd spare him from having to pay. He was a popular teacher at his school, and related well with kids. But as I sat there at the dinner table, I was struck by two things—how much he loved me, and how little he knew me. I couldn't have said who was responsible for this. It was true I didn't tell him much, but more and more, as I got older, I wondered if he was making a conscious effort not to ask me anything for fear of learning things he didn't want to know. It wouldn't occur to me until years later how well my father did actually know me—or, at least, how familiar he was with my strategies for protection. We were so similar in the ways we dealt with the world. We each kept it at arm's length—he with humor, me with the illusion that it didn't really trouble me—each of us affecting a detachment we did not really feel; each afraid to go out and enter the world because every part of it we touched made us bleed.

  I wasn't sure what to say to him now. How could I explain to my father that in high school, despite the dangers, I was safe? I'd made a place for myself there over the last four years; I knew where I stood, and what my status was. I could walk through my school, or through the 'hood, with confidence and pride, knowing that people knew and respected me. But all that was going to change by the end of the school year. In a few months, I would have nowhere to belong.

  It was even larger than that, though. I knew that Raina, for one, felt a sense of responsibility, felt the weight of other people's expectations. And I felt it too—every high five I got from a local store clerk, every word of encouragement from neighbors or folks at the park, every starry-eyed gaze from some young kid in the 'hood, made me realize how much people were counting on me. I loved my community, and I wanted to do well by it, make it proud—but I wasn't completely comfortable with the burden of its hopes. For one thing, I wasn't sure I had a right to them. But also, more simply, so many other young stars had reached the point where Raina and I were now, only to be shot down by injuries or SAT scores or some problem at college; the proof of their failures was all around us. And it was terrible, in those instances, to see the collective disappointment in the 'hood, to see that the redemption which people had hoped for had not been achieved. I did not want to contribute to that pain. And at that point, halfway through my senior year, all my possibilities were still ahead of me. As long as I didn't act, I couldn't make a wrong move. The future was still wide open, full of promise and potential, and trying anything, anything, could mean disaster. It seemed better, therefore, to do nothing. If I stayed still, and made no choices, and committed myself to no course of action, at least I was staving off any chance that I could fail. At least I wasn't letting anybody down.

  * * *

  The next night I had a stressful conversation of a completely different nature. This one was with Stacy, in our living room. The parents had gone down to San Diego for the weekend, so I'd invited several people over, but Q and Telisa had other plans already, and Raina had gone to spend the night with Toni. Stacy came over in time to watch the Laker game at seven thirty, bringing two forty-ounce bottles of Miller that she'd stolen from 7-Eleven for her mother. Mrs. Gatling didn't want them—she preferred Colt 45—but Miller was my favorite beer at the time, and I was happy to have it. The Lakers looked unstoppable that night, and killed the other team. In June, they'd beat the Celtics to win their fourth championship of the eighties, the perfect gift for our graduation.

  After the game was over, Stacy filled me in on her social life. She was recently single again, after having spent a month with a girl named Cynthia, a pretty but duplicitous girls' basketball groupie from Lakewood. Typically, Stacy had been very caught up in her—writing her sweet letters all the time, giving her flowers and little presents I knew she couldn't afford. Finally, though, she'd gotten sick of being lied to, and had managed to break it off. She said it was strange to be unattached again, although she knew that Cynthia had been all wrong for her. Then she turned, gave me a serious look, and started in on one of her favorite topics.

  "You gotta get out there, girl," she said. "You gotta get out there and . . . circulate."

  "Circulate?" I repeated, amused.

  "Yeah, girl," she said. "No one knows about you. I mean, people know about you, but they don't know nothin about you, you know what I'm sayin?"

  I smiled. "Why would I want them to know anything about me?"

  Stacy looked exasperated. "So you can get a girlfriend, stupid! Shit!"

  "I've had a girlfriend," I said. "I've had a couple of 'em. And I ain't exactly desperate for another."

  Stacy shook her head. "That's ancient history, girl. You need somethin now. I mean, when's the last time you got some play?"

  I counted backward. "A little over two years."

  Stacy pressed all her fingers to her head, as if she were adjusting the way it fit onto her neck. "Two years? Holy shit! Why?"

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  Stacy wiped her hands on her shorts and shook her head again. "You missin out, girl. Sex is good."

  I laughed. "I wouldn't remember."

  "Well, don't you miss it?"

  "Yeah, sure. But there are other ways to keep yourself . . . satisfied."

  "That's right," she said. "You have a dog."

  I threw a pillow at her. "Fuck you!"

  She deflected the pillow away and laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. But shit, two years." She thought about this. "Well, you got strong, pretty hands, girl. I hope you been usin 'em."

  I smiled and wiggled my fingers. "You know how good I am with my hands."

  She rolled her eyes. "But still, that shit's so lonely. It's a lot more fun when you with someone else. You know, like they say in the Bible—Do unto others as you would like to be done."

  "That sounds great," I said, "but it just ain't happenin right now."

  "But it could be happenin, Nance. You just gotta get a girlfriend."

  I decided to humor her: "And how would I go about doin that?"

  "It's easy. Gettin a woman, it ain't that complicated. You spot some fine woman at a club, right? Or at a game. And you come on real strong at first—maybe ask her to dance, get her number, just hang out and talk to her a bit. You do this a few times, whenever you see her around. You give her all this attention, till she gets used to it, and then suddenly, you just lay off and ignore her. And then, bam! She'll come runnin. I promise."

  "It's that simple, huh?"

  "It's just that simple. And for you it'd be even easier. You look good, girl. You got that curl goin on, and those sweet brown eyes, and that smile that light up your face. You got that pretty tan skin, and you a kick-ass motherfuckin basketball player. If you just put yourself out there, Nancy, women would be linin up!"

  I laughed. "If it's so easy, how
come you ain't got a new girlfriend yet?"

  "Me? I don't want one, girl. They hurt you."

  This was true. Stacy had ended up with a series of bad people—people who'd cheated on her, left her, and generally treated her like shit—of which Cynthia was just the latest incarnation. I knew a lot of Stacy's tough-girl act was meant to cover all the sore spots underneath. She didn't like people to know how softhearted she was, but her softness was part of why I liked her so much. It was unexpected; it made her vulnerable and complex.

  "So girlfriends hurt," I commented now, "but you still think I should try to get one?"

  She shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe it'd be different for you, girl. Things always seem to work out good for you. It's just that I hate to see you sittin around and wastin your youth like this, waitin for somethin that ain't never gonna happen."

  I glanced at her. We hadn't talked about Raina this way in a long time. "What makes you think I'm waitin? Or wastin?" I asked.

  She took a gulp of her beer and set the bottle down, hard. "Nancy, I know you still like Raina. It's like all your energy, or somethin, is pointed toward her. I mean, you can almost see it. And listen—I know Raina's great and shit. She's a great fuckin person, and I love her to death. But she don't like you, girl. You gotta let it go. You gotta put it in the past and move on."

  I finished off my own beer and set it down on the coffee table. "Does she ever talk to you about me?" I asked.

  Stacy shook her head. "Naw. You know Raina, she don't talk about shit. Only time she ever talked about you was a couple years ago, when you was followin her around all the time. We was drivin home from the UCLA-USC game, you know, that time the Bruins won? She asked if I thought you liked her, and I said yes. And she said she couldn't believe it, she didn't know why, she didn't understand what you saw in her."

  I looked down, amazed at the possibility that Raina did not see, in herself, what I saw.

  "But that was the only time," she said. "I guess she just ain't thinkin about it now, and neither should you. You gotta find somebody else, Nance."

  "But I just ain't interested in nobody else."

  Stacy leaned toward me. "Of course you ain't interested in nobody else. You don't see nobody else. You ain't givin no one else a chance." She retreated a bit. "Listen, there's other possibilities out there. There's other people that like you. But you? Shit. You wouldn't know that someone liked you if she came and waved a fuckin banner in your face."

  She sounded disgusted, and I wondered why she cared so much about the state of my love life. I didn't want to talk about it anymore. I got us another round of beers and a bag of pretzels and suggested that we turn on the television. Stacy seemed to have finished her diatribe. She didn't bring up Raina again, and became rather quiet, only speaking occasionally to comment on something funny Arsenio said. Finally, around one, I announced that I was tired. I fixed Stacy up on the couch with a blanket and pillow, and then went on up to my bedroom with Ann. Raina did not come home that night. I lay awake for a long time—angry at Toni, and at Raina for not wanting me, and at our parents for being gone so that she could stay with her lover. At the same time, though, I knew that the situation was not as bad as it could have been—I don't know what I would have done if Toni had spent the night at our place. I thought, for a long time, about what Stacy had said. She was right, I knew—I should have been getting out there. And at certain times, like that night, when my feelings for Raina seemed unbearable, I actually half-wished that I were drawn to other people. But I wasn't, and it was hopeless; I was trapped by my own doing. And I couldn't see how it was ever going to change.

  CHAPTER 14

  The next Tuesday, after we'd been back at school for a week, our team played—and won—its first league game. I got a ride home from Telisa because it was raining, the water coming down on our roof so hard that I found Ann hiding under my bed. Raina came home right after me—her team had won its game too—and the parents got in a little later. Because the parents were feeling too tired to cook, we ordered a couple of pizzas. After dinner, Claudia stayed at the kitchen table to work on her speech, and my father went upstairs to grade some homework. Toni called, and so Raina disappeared into her room; I flopped on the couch downstairs and read Sports Illustrated. It had been a long day and a tiring game. I was just starting to nod off when the doorbell rang.

  Ann rushed toward the door and made a huge racket, and because she didn't let up after a few obligatory barks, I knew that whoever was out on the stoop was not someone familiar. I dragged myself up off the couch and made my way to the door. Through the peephole I saw two middle-aged white men. One I recognized as Larry Henderson. He had the same tall, squarish body and sandy crew cut as his son, and he wore what seemed like the standard outfit for a football coach—casual gray slacks, white sneakers, yellow windbreaker over a white polo shirt. The man standing next to him was smaller, balding, and dressed in a gray suit; his pale forehead was shiny and he appeared to be sweating, despite the chilly air. Although I'd never seen this man before, I realized immediately that he was Dr. Shelton, the principal of my father's school.

  I held Ann back by her collar and opened the door. The rain was coming down in torrents now; it sounded like the pavement was sizzling.

  "Is your father home?" Larry Henderson asked without saying hello. "We'd like to have a word with him."

  He didn't really seem to see me, but I felt Dr. Shelton's cold, scrutinizing glare, and it made me shiver with discomfort. "Yeah, just a minute," I said. "Let me go get him."

  I went upstairs and into the parents' room, found my father leaning over his desk. "Dad," I said, "Larry Henderson's here. And I think Dr. Shelton's with him."

  He'd been writing a comment on one of the homework papers, and his pen stopped moving in midsentence. He stared down at his desk for what seemed like a long time. "Thank you," he finally said. My father stood up then, not looking at me, and walked quickly out of the room. I followed a few steps behind, and stayed halfway up the stairs while he opened the door. "Hello, Larry," I heard my father say. "Hello, Bob."

  "We need to speak with you, Wendell," I heard Larry Henderson say.

  "Well, come on in."

  "No, I think you should come outside."

  My father didn't answer for a moment, and I could hear the rain through the open doorway. "Since you drove all the way over here," he finally said, "you might as well come in."

  "No, we really need to speak to you privately."

  When my father answered this time, his voice sounded like frozen steel. "If you have something to tell me," he said to the men, "then you can do it in my house, in front of my family."

  Dr. Shelton spoke now, his voice higher and more disdainful than Larry Henderson's. "This is business, Wendell," he said. "This is between you and us. Now you just step out here on the driveway so we can talk."

  "No," my father said. "If you want to talk to me, then you can do it inside. And I'd recommend that you come in here, anyway. If some bored gangbanger rolls by here and sees you on the stoop, he might think you're a couple of cops and shoot your ass."

  There was silence for a moment, and then the sound of the two men, my father's superiors, stepping up into the house. I retreated up the staircase to get out of their sight, and perched in the same spot I'd staked out four months before in order to listen to the coaches talk to Raina. All three of them sat down in the living room. Claudia didn't appear and I wondered if she was still in the kitchen, being quiet, and listening, like me.

  "So what is it you want to discuss?" my father asked.

  Larry Henderson took a deep breath and then exhaled sharply. "Well," he said, "something is going on here we don't like. We think you're trying to undercut the team."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "We think you have some kind of vendetta against my son, and that you're giving him unreasonably low grades in your class."

  My father laughed, sounding almost—but not quite—amused. "That's ridiculous,"
he said. "Eric hardly ever comes to class, and he doesn't really do his homework, and the homework he does bother to do is crappy. I'm just giving him what he deserves, and actually, I'm giving him better. A harsher grader would flunk him without a second thought."

  "I disagree," Larry said. "I think you're letting your feelings cloud your judgment." He paused. "It's pretty obvious that you're determined to make Eddie Nuñez the quarterback next year."

  My father was silent for a moment. "That has nothing to do with it," he said. "That has no relation whatsoever to Eric's grades."

  "I think it does," Larry countered. "I think it has everything to do with them. It's no secret that you and some of the more . . . misguided . . . of the players believe that Eddie is better than Eric. But team decisions are not made by committee. You're all wrong, and Eric's the starter, and Eddie will stay on the second string. And you, Wendell, need to get with the program."

  "If Eric keeps doing what he's been doing, he is going to fail my class. And then it won't matter who you think is better, because he won't be able to play."

  "Listen, Wendell, you—"

  "Hold it, Larry," said Dr. Shelton, who'd been silent so far. Then his voice changed a little, and I knew he was speaking to my father. "Star athletes do not flunk classes at my school."

  My father half-laughed, and then stopped. "Well, Eric Henderson just might be the first."

  "He will not fail," Dr. Shelton said, "as long as I am the principal." He paused. "I know the players love you and look up to you, Wendell. It would be a shame if you weren't with us next year."

  My father took a moment to answer. "What are you trying to say?"

  "We're not trying to say anything," Larry replied. "We just want you to think about what you're doing. Think hard. Because there's a lot more at stake for you here than what grade you give my son. You know, I could swear—and Dr. Shelton agrees with me—that the boys on the line pulled their blocks a few times this year and let Eric get hit pretty bad. Knowing how you feel about the quarterback situation, some people might wonder if you had anything to do with it."