It Looks Like This

by Rafi Mittlefehldt

  I say, Okay.

  Mom says, What kind of magazine are you going to do?

  I told her about the project yesterday.

  I say, A travel magazine.

  She says, Oh, that sounds fun.

  I nod and pick at my mashed potatoes, and no one else says anything. Toby and Mom and Dad eat their dinner without looking up, and I do the same.

  I think about Sean’s open window, feeling the breeze on the back of my neck while I sat next to him.

  Victor starts paying attention to me again a couple days later.

  I’m in one of the main hallways walking to Biology. There are always tons of kids in this hallway because it connects most parts of the school.

  I don’t even see him when he passes by. He’s walking in the opposite direction, probably to his locker. My mind is somewhere else.

  I feel a jarring thump on my left shoulder, hard enough to turn me around a bit and make me drop my book.

  I look back and I know my eyes are wide; I’m still not really sure what’s just happened, and then Victor turns casually over his shoulder, smirking, and I understand. Tristan and Fuller are with him like always, both grinning.

  I stare at him for a second, collecting myself, and then look down at my book lying open, facedown and askew on the ground. I reach down and pick it up, and turn in the direction I was walking without looking back at Victor and his friends.

  My shoulder throbs and I’m clenching and unclenching my right fist, but there’s a part of me that almost feels relieved.

  Like I’m glad he’s back to normal or something.

  It’s Friday and warmer than it should be.

  The last couple weeks it’s been getting noticeably cooler. Jacket weather. One day was just plain cold.

  But today it’s back in the upper seventies, one of the last few bits of nice weather before winter comes.

  I pick Toby up after school, still thinking about Victor and how weird it is to suddenly have him care enough again to shove me in the hallway.

  Toby and I are walking along the main road by the school when I hear a car horn, three quick bursts.

  I turn around and it’s a pale blue Ford Bronco. Sean’s.

  He pulls over and leans across to roll down the passenger-side window. He has to do it by hand because they’re not power windows but the old-fashioned kind of hand-roll ones.

  He says, Hey!

  Toby looks at him and then at me.

  I say, Hey, Sean.

  He says, Want a ride?

  Toby raises her eyebrows.

  She says to me, My feet are killing me.

  I look at Sean through the window and say, Sure, thanks.

  He motions for us to get in.

  The inside of the Bronco smells dusty but it’s comfortable. There’s junk all over the floors, especially in the backseat, where Toby gets in. I sit shotgun.

  Sean drives fast but not wildly, his right hand flying smoothly from the steering wheel to the gear shift with each turn and acceleration. It’s a manual shift, which I didn’t even know kids our age knew how to drive.

  Mom and Dad both have automatics, and Dad’s already told me he’s going to teach me on the Corolla next year.

  Sean’s quiet as he drives. I listen to the sound of the motor, the click of the turn signal, the drum of his fingers on the steering wheel.

  Then he says, What are you doing tonight?

  I shrug.

  I say, Nothing, I guess.

  He nods and hangs his left arm out the window. The air rushes up his sleeve.

  He says, Wanna play basketball at the park?

  Now I nod.

  I say, Sure.

  From the backseat, I hear Toby giggle a bit.

  I turn around to look at her. She catches my eye, then looks away innocently, grinning.

  Dad’s watching me, not saying anything. I can feel his stare.

  The TV’s on and he’s sitting on the couch, but he watches me as I leave the living room and come back wearing shorts and a T-shirt. I sit down on the carpet to put on my shoes, and he finally speaks.

  He says, Where are you going?

  Toby says, He’s playing basketball.

  She says the last word like it’s something gross. I give her a look.

  Dad looks at Toby, then back at me.

  Still glaring at Toby, I say, In the park. Gonna play basketball with Sean.

  Toby says, It’s his favorite sport now.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Dad raise his eyebrows.

  He says, The one you’re doing the French magazine with?

  I say, Yeah.

  He looks at me a little longer and I can tell he’s sort of surprised.

  He says, What about your homework?

  I stop tying my shoes. I say, I can do it tomorrow. It’s just Algebra and Bio.

  Dad doesn’t say anything for a couple seconds. I can tell he’s torn between wanting me to do homework now and wanting me to play sports.

  Finally he says, Well, all right. Have fun. Don’t be out too late.

  I say, I won’t.

  And I walk out.

  It’s warm, still light out, but about to turn to dusk.

  Dad says there are big Jewish neighborhoods in New York City that have loud outdoor alarms that go off Friday evenings to mark sunset. They sound like air-raid sirens. It’s to let the Jewish people know that the Sabbath is starting, and they better get home because they’re not allowed to work anymore. I try to picture those neighborhoods now, with the sirens going off and people running home to make it in time.

  I have my sneakers and baggy shorts and an old T-shirt and Charlie on a leash. I brought him because he loves going out and he’s fun to have around.

  He wags his tail this time when he sees Sean instead of howling at him.

  Sean squats down to pet him like he did last time.

  He says, Guy’s got a good memory.

  Charlie wags his tail harder, ears flopping from side to side while Sean pets him. He lifts one paw onto Sean’s knee and licks his hand, which makes Sean laugh.

  Sean looks up.

  There are already a couple strong lights shining on the court to keep drug dealers away, so even when it gets dark later, it’ll still be pretty well lit. Sean’s grinning up at me while Charlie wags and licks and whines in excitement. He’s wearing white basketball shorts and a blue Wizards jersey.

  He stands up, bringing the ball with him, and now he’s eye level.

  We’re a foot or two apart, Charlie between us. Sean spins the ball in front of his chest with both hands.

  He says, Let’s play.

  We get in place to run the play for the fifth time.

  I’m standing at the free-throw line. The basket is behind me.

  In front of me, at half-court, Sean dribbles the ball once, twice.

  Then he starts toward me.

  He drifts to the left, and I follow, keeping him in front. He gets closer and closer, and now I raise my arms in a block like he showed me.

  When he’s a couple feet away, he turns suddenly to the right. I’m expecting this. He’s done it before. I move with him, keeping on him like I’m supposed to, and now he turns around so his back is to me and he’s edging backward toward the basket.

  My arms are outstretched, keeping him from moving around me.

  Sean is inches away. The bit of hair on the back of his head is damp with his sweat, dripping down to his shirt. I can smell it; I can smell him.

  He moves the basketball in his own outstretched arm from one side to the other like a crane, looking over his shoulder, looking for a way out.

  He finds it like I knew he would, banking hard to the left. Suddenly his hair and his sweat and his arms are gone, and I’m chasing him as he runs toward the basket, dribbling in a steady rhythm without watching the ball.

  Sean shoots the ball when he’s only feet away, and I have no chance.

  He turns, grinning, while the ball bounces hard on the pav
ement and then lands in the grass. There’s a V shape of sweat on the front of his shirt.

  My own stain is bigger. I’m doubled over, hands resting on knees. My breathing comes in loud messy gasps while I wait for my heart to stop pounding. Sean doesn’t even look winded.

  He says, Your left side’s always unguarded.

  But in a patient way, like a teacher. Kind of like Miss Rayner, actually.

  Charlie watches with ears perked, one paw frozen in the air.

  I think about how much I like Miss Rayner.

  I say, Yeah. For some reason I always think you’re gonna go right.

  He nods.

  He says, Guy with the ball is always gonna go whichever side is easier. You have more control than I do over which way I go, if you guard one side less than the other. Comes in handy if you wanna trap the guy, like lead him to a spot where another teammate can sneak up on him.

  Sean looks at Charlie and grins again.

  He says, Like a herding dog with sheep.

  I don’t think beagles are herders, but I get what he’s saying.

  He walks over to where Charlie is tied to one of the legs of the picnic table. Charlie watches him the whole way, tail wagging faster as Sean approaches.

  Sean bends down to give him a quick pat, and Charlie licks his hand. Then he takes his jersey off.

  In the mix of pink twilight and yellow court lights, I can see the muscles on his back moving as he pulls first one arm and then the other over his head to get the shirt off.

  Drops of sweat fly off his head. He tosses the jersey on the picnic table. Charlie watches it land on the tabletop. Then he blinks and turns back to Sean, who is now walking back toward me.

  I’ve never seen him with his shirt off. He’s lean and defined and looks somehow taller. I glance at his abs and then look away quickly, at Charlie. My heart is pounding.

  He says, Wanna go again?

  I look at Charlie some more, breathing hard through my nose. I can feel my nostrils flaring. It’s weird and uncomfortable to feel this nervous suddenly, but a part of me likes it.

  I nod.

  This time I’m better.

  A little.

  Sean comes at me the same way and I wonder if this is what he does in his games, like if it’s his signature move or something.

  He has his back to me again and he’s trying to creep around left then right, but I switch my focus each time I see him move.

  My arms are outstretched. He’s inches away, his shoulder blades right in front of my face.

  He backs up more and now we’re touching, my forearm grazing his rib cage.

  Then he bolts right.

  But I’m ready, just barely. I move with him and his right side goes into my chest, not expecting me. The ball is outstretched and I make a swing for it, but I’m clumsy and I miss.

  He moves it easily but we’re pressing against each other more.

  Then he breaks left again and he’s gone.

  I watch him dribble the ball after the shot, both of us catching our breath. I can feel his sweat on my chest, on my face. My heart is pounding in that same weird nervous way, but I’m smiling just a little, smiling because I can’t help it.

  Sean passes the ball to me and I go half-court.

  And then we do it again.

  We hang out at Sean’s house after. I was worried about bringing Charlie over, but he said it would be fine.

  His dad gave Charlie a weird look when we walked in, but all he said was,

  Hi, Mike.

  I said hi back.

  We head into Sean’s room. He closes the door after me, walks over to his bed, and slumps backward into it.

  He’s still shirtless. He stretches while half lying in his bed, his muscles elongating. The bottom of his rib cage presses against his skin. Then he relaxes, hands behind his head, and looks at me, smiling in a kind of sleepy way.

  He says, I’m beat.

  I’m still soaked. I think about this, about the cool air sweeping over my face, my arms, my legs. I let it wash over me, feel my skin break out in goose bumps, the hairs on my arms standing up. It feels cold, but so nice.

  I say, I am too,

  and I slide into his desk chair. Charlie jumps up on my lap right away, but I push him back down, wanting to cool off.

  But Sean says, Dude, lie on the bed, it’s a lot more comfortable. There’s room.

  I look over at the sliver of bed next to him.

  I say, I’m all sweaty.

  He chuckles and his stomach clenches, the lines between the muscles growing deeper, abs moving quickly up and down with his laugh.

  He says, So am I. Kinda too late to worry about that now.

  I look at the beads of sweat on his forehead and temples, the few remaining drops on the light brown skin of his chest. Then I get up slowly, walk over to the bed, and ease myself down next to him. I keep my arms at my side. There’s really not that much room. I have to scoot next to him so my left arm doesn’t fall off the edge of the bed, which means my right arm is pressing against his side a bit. His skin there is still a little damp but drying. His elbow is touching my head.

  I settle in but realize I’m not really relaxing; I’m staying very still and tense and trying not to move. My heart’s beating fast now, and I wonder if he can hear it. I can feel his ribs move against my right arm as he breathes, his leg against my leg, the warmth of his skin. There’s a bit of a sweaty smell coming from him, but I don’t mind.

  I try to breathe slowly.

  By accident, I just barely move my finger. It grazes the middle of his thigh. I freeze even more, holding my breath. I think I sense him tense too, but then the moment passes.

  Then he groans. It startles me.

  He says, We gotta find a lot of pictures for this magazine.

  I relax a bit. He’s talking about the project.

  I say, That’ll be easy. We can find stuff online.

  He says, Yeah, but the cover photo has to be something better than just some random thing from Flickr or whatever. Girard said the cover’s fifteen percent of the grade.

  I think about this for a little, and then about some of the magazines we looked at. Then it comes to me.

  I say, I could draw it.

  Sean doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he turns his head toward me.

  He says, You can draw?

  I say, Yeah.

  He pauses again.

  He says, Draw me.

  Now I turn to look at him.

  I say, Draw you?

  He moves his body suddenly, turning so that he’s lying on his side facing me, head propped up on his hand, elbow on the bed. His other hand traces a line on his leg.

  He says, Draw me like one of your French girls.

  I blink.

  I say, French girls?

  None of the girls in our French class are actually French, I think.

  Sean laughs and pushes me lightly on the shoulder. I grab the mattress with my left hand to keep from falling off.

  He says, It’s from a movie. You’ve never seen Titanic?

  I say, Oh. No. That came out before I was born.

  He laughs again, but not in a mean way.

  He says, So did Star Wars. So did Pulp Fiction. So did, um . . .

  I say, Duck Soup.

  Sean blinks.

  He says, Duck Soup?

  I say, Yeah, it’s one of the Marx Brothers’ movies.

  Sean looks at me for a long time.

  Then he reaches behind him, grabs a pillow, and swings it into my face. It surprises me and I almost fall off the bed, but for just a tiny moment I catch his smell on the pillow.

  He laughs and says, You’ve seen Marx Brothers movies but not Titanic?

  I’m grinning now. I say, Yeah, because they don’t spend three hours on some dumb love story.

  Sean laughs again, harder now. I try not to watch his abs clench again.

  His laugh turns into a chuckle, and his chuckle turns into a smile.

&nbs
p; Then he says,

  Seriously, though. You should draw me.

  Sean’s sitting in the desk chair now, but in a relaxed kind of way, reclining just a bit. I’m on the bed.

  He says, How much longer do I have to sit here?

  I look at the paper, then at him, measuring in my mind how much there is left to do. It’s dark outside the window behind me.

  I say, You wanted me to do this.

  He smiles again. I think about how easy his smiles come.

  I look over my drawing again. It’s just pencil on paper. I’m mostly adding shading now. A little on his jawline, his neck, some under his collarbone. Some around his biceps, in the crook of his elbow. The muscles on his chest, his left side, his belly button. He has just a little bit of hair on the lower part of his stomach, right above the waistband. I move down, adding shading around his legs, between them. My mouth feels dry.

  He says, What part are you drawing now?

  My ears get hot.

  I say, Um.

  He giggles a bit and says, What, my crotch?

  My ears get hotter.

  Sean throws his head back and laughs, and says, I should’ve had you draw me naked.

  My ears are burning.

  He laughs again, then stands and walks over.

  He says, Lemme see it,

  and snatches it from my hands.

  His smile fades away as he looks it over. He slowly sinks down onto the bed next to me, then puts the paper down in front of us.

  He says, Damn.

  I stare at the paper, mentally comparing it to the real-life Sean sitting next to me.

  He says, This is great,

  and puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes a bit. The spot where he touches gets warm so quick.

  He keeps the hand there for a little while, then brings his other hand up, and massages my shoulders. My neck gets so warm. It feels like stepping into a hot shower on a cold morning. My eyes are fixed on the drawing. I watch a shadow version of Sean massage a shadow version of me on top of the paper.

  He says, Jesus, you have some knots up here. You’re gonna be real sore tomorrow, bud.

  Then he stops massaging and gives my shoulders a little pat.

  He says, Can I keep the drawing?

  I look up at him and say,

  Yeah.

  I’m smelly when I get home. But dry now.

  There’s some World War II special on the History Channel, one of Dad’s favorite things to watch. He’s looking over his shoulder at me.