Dodging Trains

by Sunniva Dee

  “You’re drunk!” I slur, no better myself. He angles his gaze sideways, squints to focus on me, and laughs when he can’t do it.

  “Iz okay. We’ll be fine in the morning,” he slurs back. “Dad’s out of town, and Ma won’t be home until late,” he reminds us both yet again, sits up, and lifts a finger high as if he’s about to start in on a speech.

  Oh looky, he’s all clownish, I think, which makes me giggle.

  “You know what I’d do?” he asks.

  “Nope. What?” I reply from my slouched position in the office chair.

  “I’d do you!” He laughs so hard he almost falls off the desk.

  “You’re being a baby. Stop it,” I say, sobering.

  “Because you’re reallyyyyy cute.”

  “Stop it!”

  He sits up straight on the desktop and forces his eyes to swim on me instead of around the room or to the ceiling. His face falls in exaggerated folds, like he’s in a school play that requires a very stern-looking expression. Which I’d laugh at if I weren’t mad about what he just said.

  Keyon is my friend.

  People who do other people are enemies.

  “I don’t know why you’re mad at me,” he manages by enunciating each word with his entire mouth. “I just like you. Iz not a crime. I’d kiss you at least.” He sits up even straighter and crosses super-skinny arms over his concave chest. “And I might do that one day.”

  “Nuh-uh, you won’t.”

  “Ha!” A haughty expression takes over Keyon’s girl-pretty face. “Watchame. One day when imma grown-up, imma kiss you so much you gonna ask for more.”

  I toss my empty glass to the floor. Unfortunately, no witch’s brew or shattered glass explodes from it. The surface is carpeted, so it just bounces and falls to rest, but I still say, “Whatever, Keyon. S’never gonna happen.”

  Half a year later, Keyon kissed me. Unknowingly, he taught me about tenderness and adoration and how men and train stations did not necessarily combine. Keyon didn’t kiss me a lot, but it left a candied trace on my palate that converted into a film clip.

  The day at Markeston’s place moseys on. Keyon doesn’t make a move for the exit, which I’m happy about. I want him there, with us, so I don’t ask him about his workout schedule again.

  Before we know what hits us, the three of us are howlingly drunk and Markeston is swiping through his Tivo for EFC highlights.

  “Gotta show you this one!” he yells to Keyon, because apparently, Markeston is a yeller when he’s sloshed. “It’s the headlock, man! If it weren’t for the headlock, what’s-his-face would’ve won!”

  “But he took forever to tap out, see, and there are faster ways to do that shiiit.” I recognize the way Keyon drawls certain words. It gives me a soft feeling in my stomach now that I just relived a drunken film clip starring him.

  By the time the sun sets, the maid has served us canapés piled high with all sorts of meats and vegetables and cheeses, and now she’s making a big pasta dinner.

  I’m tired. Very tired. And still hammered because Markeston “wouldn’t dream of leaving his guests with dry whistles.”

  I lift my finger, suddenly remembering. “Lights! Imma measure lighting now. Iz sundown.” Wow. I have got to go easy. Can I even take accurate measurements in this state?

  Keyon stands, hardly swaying, unlike me. He grabs me when I’m about to topple over, and we both giggle like the kids we used to be.

  “Remember your dad’s bar?” I say on the way to the ballroom.

  “Yeah.” He raises a smile. “Remember what I told you? You were pissed.”

  “I’m still pissed about that,” I joke. “Well, you sorta did ya mission. Or no. Cuz I nevah begged for more.”

  “Right, kisses aren’t whatcha beg for. You usually moan staffz, like, ‘Please, deepah, Keyon.’ and ‘Ah so goooood.’”

  “Shaddap,” I say, my cheeks heating despite the alcohol in my blood.

  “Got what you need?” Markeston calls from the doorway.

  “Shore do,” Keyon says. He’s not eyeing the colorimeter I’m fidgeting with or the photometer on its stand. Keyon is looking at me.

  PAISLEE

  A pale moon tips backwards on the sky over the beach we’re at a few blocks from Keyon’s house. After our pasta dinner at Markeston’s, we were still in no shape to drive, so he offered us a room at his super-mansion to sleep it off.

  “You’ll be back tomorrow morning for your light thing, right?” he asked, eyebrows raised on his forehead when we graciously declined the offer. I’d nodded and explained that we didn’t want poor Simon to be alone at Keyon’s place all night.

  Of course Markeston has a long, black, shiny car and a driver with a hat. He insisted, and we accepted. Good thing too, because a taxi back to Tampa would have been expensive.

  Keyon is sprawled out on the sand, eyes glittering in the reflection from the moon, and I’m on my side, a cheek in my hand, just staring at him. I brush a finger across his cheekbone. Move it up his temple and circle down over his nose.

  “You don’t let anyone hit you in the face, huh?” I murmur. “Too vain?”

  He snorts and sends me a side-glance. “Right. That and I’m a momma’s boy. Momma doesn’t want her son’s handsome features ruined.” He trails a crybaby whine after the statement and smirks.

  “Naw. Once they hit you in the head, your brain gets shaken and stirred and anything can happen, and I do my best to keep that from happening. If your skull’s been rattled, you’re either fine or not fine, and my favorite techniques make it hard for them to get to my face. They gotta be fast—faster than me. So far so good, but a broken nose and all that jazz? Is in my future, for sure.”

  “I’m with your mother on this one,” I say, making him open his eyes fully to watch me. His mouth purses in another small smile.

  “You are?” He’s playful, accepting my statement for what it is: wishful thinking.

  “Yes, because you’re so pretty.”

  His features still into the immobile mask he uses to protect his thoughts. It doesn’t matter that I’m stroking his face—I just lost access to him. Keyon’s pupils are swelling, taking space from his irises.

  “Keyon.” I bend over him and kiss his lips. They pucker automatically against mine but don’t open. I’m not insisting. “Did I do something?”

  He shakes his head almost imperceptibly on the ground. “Naw, it’s not you, babe. But girls are pretty, not men.”

  “Okay?”

  His head shifts to the side so he can stare into my eyes. “You know the term ‘trigger?’”

  “I do.”

  “I think I have one. Not sure if you remember, but in high school, Aaron and Tyler and their posse used to call me ‘pretty.’ I was too weak to do anything about their bullying for so long, and even now, I hate the word.” His attention rocks back to the sky. “Then, there was the train trip I told you about. The creep who broke into my restroom called me pretty too. Over and over, he talked about how pretty I was.”

  “I thought you ran off right away?”

  “I did leave right away. It wasn’t easy though. He was strong and tried to pull my pants down, but I got out of there.”

  I don’t want him to work himself up, but he does. I’m never using the word “pretty” again. “Right, he probably just repeated himself a lot while you fought and took off,” I say, making things worse.

  “Are you insinuating that I stayed in there with him? That he raped me or something, Paislee? In the ass?” Keyon laughs hard as he sits up. “No, I’ll tell you exactly how it went down.”

  “You don’t have to,” I whisper at his shadow looming above me and obscuring the moon. “It was traumatic. It’s all I need to know.”

  “No, you don’t get it; the guy’s, like, big and burly. Fucking gross, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The bathroom is tiny as shit, and as dirty as the guy shoving himself into it. I’m mid-pee and spray the toilet ring I’m
so startled. Then he starts going, ‘Look at that pretty boy. God, you’re so pretty. I saw you at the train station and hoped you’d need to take a leak on the train. Fuck yeah, it’s my lucky day.’

  “I swing around, but I’m slow, because I’m trying to get my junk back into my pants and zip it closed. ‘Bathroom’s taken,’ I say. Smart, right, when he just told me he’d come for me on purpose.”

  Keyon gets on his feet. Tips up on his toes, stance wide with his hands in his pockets. He blows his chest up like he’s steeling himself against the memories. I stand too, and take the few steps over to him. He exudes don’t touch me, so I don’t. I’ve been there. I remember it well.

  “He kept saying it, over and over, how pretty I was. I think he was high on something, because his eyes were bloodshot and he just seemed crazy.”

  I nod. Look away to give him space and retreat toward the ocean. Keyon trudges behind me. I’m relieved when he hooks a finger into my belt loop and tugs. I wait, but I don’t swing to face him. I know. I know what he’s going through.

  “I’m half zipped, but he’s all the way unzipped, his fucking schlong bigger than anything I’ve seen. It’s this prehistoric monster. I—”

  Keyon pulls in air, and it sounds like a gasp behind me. Then, he regulates his emotions with a long, calming breath. “Anyway, the creeper makes me touch it. He tells me to take my pants off. Of course I refuse, call him a fucking lunatic. I’ve never fought harder in my life. I get out of there with my pants halfway down. People stare, and on the next station I jump off. Done deal. Never saw him again.”

  “I’m so sorry, Keyon.”

  The breeze is balmy by the water’s edge. I stuff my hands in my pockets and close my eyes so I can draw in the scents. This paradise hosts Keyon and palm trees and flowers. A sun that’s warm in the dead of winter and nights that aren’t even cold.

  I feel Keyon’s presence behind me before he folds his arms over my stomach. He nuzzles against my hair. It makes me sigh.

  “Sorry you had to watch me freak out, there. I’m not usually such a pussy.”

  “Keyon, that wasn’t being a pussy,” I murmur. “To react to a traumatic incident is called ‘being human.’”

  “I didn’t dare to stop him when he pulled my pants down. And I shouldn’t have obeyed and touched him. Shit, I can’t even…”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “You,” he says, softer.

  “And so, so, so many more, Keyon. Every day. Everywhere. Right now it’s happening to someone.”

  He’s quiet, chest warm and still against my back.

  “Let’s go back to Simon,” he whispers.

  “Yeah. Let’s.”

  KEYON

  Zeke’s being an ass. He’s doing small kickboxer hops backwards against the gym mirror, flexing his pecs and smirking at Paislee through his sales pitch. “Not kidding. Fifteen wins in a row, and I’m not going down any time soon.”

  Paislee’s amused. I’m glad she sees through him, and I’m immensely relieved she’s not donning her vixen persona. I’d have flattened my buddy before he got to the best part, about how he obliterated a sort-of-big opponent in Miami.

  “You gotta realize, honey”—I’m using the endearment to show my teammate she’s mine to protect—“that Zeke the Mauler, here, or the Mower as I call him because he’s a gardener, he—”

  “In my spare time I’m a gardener, which is no time at all. No more mowing, baby, because I’m so spoken for, all I have time for is fights for money—tons of money.” He unclenches a fist in front of her and rubs imaginary green between his fingers, which is all Paislee needs to burst out laughing.

  I drop my crossed arms, my tension slipping with another bout of her laughter. The urge to interject, to mention that a thousand dollars isn’t a whopping prize for his services, wanes.

  “What, you’re laughing at my old job? My dad owns the company. We’ve got, like, half a dozen—”

  “Lawn mowers?” I can’t help suggesting.

  “Dude! Branches in different suburbs of Tampa with loads of employees under us. Your friend?” Zeke jabs a finger in my direction with his eyes on Paislee. “Is a complete moron. Let me know when you’re sick of him, because I promise you: Zeke the Mauler can show you a much better time than that weakling.”

  The guy is even funnier than Jaden sometimes. Although if I let myself think about it, Zeke’s a menace when his intentions are half decent. He likes Paislee. Like-likes her. No wonder either, because the girl is fucking special.

  Paislee proffers no pretenses, no gold-digging or obsessed fangirling. She’s gorgeous without being vain. She’s approachable, simple, sweet. Between her parents’ rough divorce and losing her virginity so violently, she has lived through more than most in her short life, and even so she’s more down-to-earth, more normal, than anyone I’ve met.

  Zeke’s a handsome dude who draws chicks like flypaper at Stripes, and damn am I thankful he made Paislee laugh at him right away.

  “Okay, asshole,” I say affectionately. “Ready to get wiped out in front of my girl?”

  He stares me right in the eye, not missing the last two words. Hey, what can I say? I’ve got no patience with guys wanting in her panties.

  “Oh I’m ready. You’ll look like a total wimp by the time I’m done with you. I’m sorry beforehand, Paislee. Your boy will be crying for his mamita.”

  “I’ll kiss his boo-boos once you’re done,” Paislee promises Zeke and lowers her lashes at me in the sexiest stare.

  I snort out loud, loving that she takes part in our ribbing. “We’ll need to renegotiate the target of those kisses, babe,” I say, “because the Mower doesn’t have it in him to inflict boo-boos.”

  “Guys, let’s get you started,” Dawson interrupts, scissoring his hands toward the cage. Then he turns to Paislee. “Anything to drink?”

  She smiles. Wiggles her water bottle in the air. “I’m good. Thank you though.”

  “Would you like some snacks? I’ve got peanuts,” someone says. Marty. Really? The entire gym is catering to Paislee? With the exception of Zeke, there’s no cussing in here either, I realize. I send Jaden a can-you-believe-this look. He shrugs and mouths a non-irony for once. “She’s pretty.”

  “Got my ringside cashew nuts,” Paislee replies to Marty. She sends me a side-glance as I drop my hoodie and tee on the bench. Her gaze travels up my bare chest. I pucker my lips in an air kiss, and she responds with two dainty fingertips tapping her mouth.

  “Cool chick.” Robbie nods as he accompanies me to the cage. “A keeper?”

  “Fuck off,” I mutter, holding back a smile.

  He smacks a bear paw over my neck and performs one of his quick, jovial shakes of other people’s shoulders. “Get ’im good. Show ’er what you’re made of, a’ight?”

  “No worries.”

  Once I’m in the ring, I forget my surroundings. It’s always like this. I am tunnel-visioned, seeing only my contender, and I’m here to demolish. In the distance, I hear Dawson warn me. “Easy, Keyon. You’re sparring.”

  “No, man, full fight!” Zeke exclaims, worked up by Paislee’s presence too, I’m sure. Dick.

  Red dots.

  No, I’m not allowing them. Red dots ruin shit. I blink hard to lose them. With my team, I’m not usually overcome by red; we’re in this together, and when we spar, we do it to push each other to the limit. Most of us want to live off our blood sport, art, whatever we like to call it.

  Sanchez’s at fault; it’s been a fucking challenge to concentrate on strategy since I started preparing for the fight against him. I can’t explain it, but the guy fucking rubs me the wrong way.

  Paislee emits a small Whoop! from the sideline. She’s popping cashew nuts into her mouth, completely at ease with what’s about to unfold, and the dots before my eyes decrease to pinpricks.

  Dawson grabs the mesh separating us from the walkway, small eyes peering between Zeke and me. The man never misses a thing. He tips his he
ad up and yells to Robbie: “Full sparring gear.”

  Robbie trots off to comply, while Zeke and I groan with frustration.

  “Listen up,” Dawson says, voice low as he waves me over. His mouth goes to my ear, so close he’s muffling his demand into my ear canal: “You’re gearing up for blood right now, but there won’t be a hospital visit today. You, Keyon, have only five weeks left before the biggest chance in your professional career, and you’re not blowing it on whatever’s going on between Zeke and you.”

  I bob in acknowledgment. Then I straighten to accept the protective gear Robbie hands me. “Mouth guard?” Dawson looks to my hand, and I unlock my fist, showing him. “Groin protector?”

  “For the love of God,” I mutter. “Of course.”

  “Just checking. Your head hasn’t been in the game for weeks. You have five weeks left to prepare,” he repeats as if I could forget.

  I rush Zeke immediately. I’m fast as fuck when I ram a left hook into the side of his head, the force making his melon shake like I’m playing him in slow motion. Before he can recuperate, I do it again, a jab with my right, then left—right again. I ram a straight-footed push-kick into his body protector, so hard he stumbles backwards. Then I pivot and twist my body into a thigh kick before double-striking his head.

  Dawson mumbles, “Beautiful,” behind me. Zeke’s arms go up in a halfhearted block, but he doesn’t have a chance in hell and slams to the ground.

  “Enough, Keyon.”

  I pound him like we’re fighting to the death.

  “Keyon, stop!”

  I stand up straight, breathing hard and with my arms taut along my thighs. Once my need for blood, lots of blood, subsides, I go down on my knees and grab the side of my buddy’s head. “You all right?”

  “Sure. Taking a breather’s all.” He grins, woozy despite the protective gear. “Damn, dude. Just pull that on fucking Sanchez and you’ll be golden.”

  Dawson is mildly annoyed with the way I ended the fight. “Arias, that’s the last show we’re putting on before the real deal.”