Damage

by A. M. Jenkins

  Dobie’s only concern is food. You’re forcing yourself to eat; you take a bite and chew and swallow and take another bite. Curtis is quiet like always. But Brett had some kind of private talk with Coach this morning before school, and he’s all fired up. As far as he’s concerned, Coach is second only to God.

  Brett’s been talking all the way over, on and on about getting to state, about how to light a fire under the team this year. His mouth is still running like a faucet with the handle broken off, and you notice without really caring that Curtis is starting to throw glances of irritation his way. He always says Brett’s mind is about three years behind his body, and Brett’s mouth is another couple of years behind that.

  “…that’s what Coach told me,” Brett’s saying. “He said how back when he was in high school the whole team would dogpile on the guy who screwed up the worst. And I thought: Now there’s an idea. We could do that. Come on,” he urges. “Y’all know it’d work, team spirit and all that. We could take state this year. You’d go for it, wouldn’t you, Dobe, if you were playing?”

  Dobie looks up from his half-eaten burger, still chewing. “Hmph?”

  But Brett is a man with a mission. His voice gets louder and louder. “I know you got to agree, Hightower,” he says, squirting ketchup in a puddle next to his fries. “Right? Whoever’s got his head up his ass, the rest of us get to pound it out for him?”

  “It’s a stupid idea,” Curtis says in a flat voice.

  That turns Brett’s faucet off. He drops the ketchup packet. In the sudden silence, Curtis adds, “That’s where they came up with the phrase ‘dumb jock’—because of ideas like that.” He takes a bite of steak finger as Brett’s face goes from tanned to white to red.

  You’re tired inside, but not too tired to see that things are heading downhill fast. Brett’s got a temper like a firecracker. And Curtis couldn’t care less that Brett’s built like a Mack truck.

  So, once again, it’s up to you. You’re going to have to click on that button. Only it won’t quite click yet. “Don’t be shy,” you tell Curtis, trying to lighten the mood even though your smile’s not working. “Tell us how you really feel.”

  “What’s the matter?” Brett sneers at Curtis. “You scared you might be the one to get pounded?”

  Curtis looks at Brett like he’s a mosquito that’s landed on his arm one too many times. “You really want to help us get to state, Stargill? Stop screwing around at practice.”

  Across the table, Dobie winces.

  Brett’s eyes narrow. “I don’t screw around at practice.”

  “What do you call spitting ice chips at everybody? Mooning Dobie? Yelling at girls walking the track?”

  “I call it none of your goddamn business.”

  “You’re a distraction,” says Curtis, as if he doesn’t even see the way Brett’s hands are starting to clench. “If anybody needs to have his head poun—”

  Click. “I haven’t seen any girls out there lately,” you say, a little too loud. “Have you, Dobie?”

  “Mrs. Hoskins,” Dobie answers, shooting a worried glance from Curtis to Brett.

  Not very helpful; Mrs. Hoskins is one of the PE teachers. Still, you take it and run with it. “Yeah, wearing those same old flappy shorts she’s had for the past four years. But she sure did something different today,” you add. “She flashed me when I walked past the bleachers.”

  It has the desired effect. Curtis, Brett, and Dobie all turn to look at you.

  “She did not,” Brett says.

  “I swear. The top half, anyway. Just lifted up her blouse and showed me everything.”

  “Don’t say that, Austin.” Dobie looks horrified. “She’s old. She could be your grandmother.”

  “You were dreaming, Reid.” Brett makes an obscene gesture in his lap.

  “Believe me,” you say straight-faced, “it was no dream.”

  “Cut it out, Austin,” Dobie insists. “She must be ninety years old.”

  Curtis just watches and listens. Doesn’t say a word.

  “Hey, I swear,” you tell them. “The closest I can come to describing it is two watermelons bouncing in a rubber hammock.”

  Stargill splutters and starts laughing. Dobie’s face is about the color of a tomato.

  You grin. The corners of Curtis’s mouth are trying to rise up, but he won’t let them.

  “You lie,” he finally says.

  “Yeah,” you agree.

  Curtis’s smile slips all the way out. He picks up an onion ring, shaking his head like he can’t believe he calls you his best friend.

  “Good thing she didn’t flash you,” Brett remarks, swooping a handful of fries in his ketchup. “You’d be scarred for life. Don’t you know everything under there’s got to be hanging like a used-up feed bag.”

  “I can’t believe y’all are making fun of some old lady’s private parts,” Dobie says.

  “Then why are you laughing?” Curtis asks.

  “I didn’t laugh.”

  “You smiled,” Brett says through a mouthful of fries. “I saw you.”

  Now they’re arguing about whether Dobie smiled or not, and you are no longer needed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Apparently God was trying to tell you something, the other night at the Dairy Queen. Because He says it again—and louder—that very afternoon.

  Everybody sees Heather when she shows up at the very end of practice; everybody except Coach and Dobie. Dobie’s got his head down; he’s pounding equipment into a duffel bag at one end of the bleachers. Coach has his back to her as she comes down the hill toward the track; he’s ending the session.

  “Four more days till our first game,” he’s saying. Everybody’s gathered in a bunch facing him—and Heather. “I like what I saw this afternoon. You keep it up to this level Friday, we’ll stomp Burlington.”

  Heather walks past Dobie, who doesn’t notice at first when she sits down at the other end of the bleachers, on the bottom row. She’s wearing a skirt slit up the middle, and when she crosses her legs you’re not the only player who turns to watch.

  “…no distractions,” Coach is saying, while Heather lifts her arms to pull her hair up, away from her neck. She holds it there with one hand, back arched, fanning herself with the other hand. Her skintight sleeveless top pays a proper tribute to those gravity-defying breasts.

  “I’m counting on you all to keep your head in it, "Coach says.

  Heather lets her hair fall back down around her shoulders, and recrosses her legs in the other direction Both sides of the slit fall away.

  Curtis is the only player who isn’t looking at her now. Even Dobie has noticed. He stands stock-still, bent over the duffel bag, staring slack jawed down the bleachers at Heather as if he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing.

  “Keep up the good work,” says Coach, holding out his hand, palm down. Everybody gathers around him in a circle, piling hands onto his. “Panthers…Go!” everybody shouts, and the huddle breaks up. Short and sweet.

  Heather stands up.

  Brett Stargill perks up as she steps out onto the field. “Watching practice?” he asks, strolling toward her.

  “Not really,” she says, not missing a beat as she passes him by and comes straight to you. “Hi, Austin.”

  Her eyes are locked onto yours. Your clothes are soaked, your face streaming with sweat. You know you smell to high heaven.

  “Melissa had to leave early today, and I don’t have a ride. I was hoping you could give me one?”

  Automatically, you flash her a grin. “Sure, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes. I kinda need to get cleaned up.”

  “You look fine to me.” Her eyes flick up and down your sweat-soaked, grass-and-dirt-stained practice uniform; it reminds you of the way your mother used to check out the stance of a horse she wanted to buy. “Just fine. I really do appreciate this.”

  “Give me a couple minutes, and I’ll be right out,” you tell her easily—after all, this is Austin Rei
d’s home territory.

  “I’ll just wait by your truck,” she says, and gives you a smile before she turns away.

  You watch her walk for a few moments, until you realize you’re admiring the way her rear end sways and swings, the way her hair switches back and forth like a palomino’s tail. And suddenly you feel like laughing, just when you thought you were completely shriveled up inside.

  You turn around and go straight to the field house to get cleaned up, quick as you can.

  “You’re really thinking about asking her out, aren’t you?” Curtis’s voice is muffled by the T-shirt he’s pulling on. “Even though she’s got a heart about the size of a pea.”

  His head reappears out of the neck hole; he pulls the shirt all the way down and reaches for the belt hanging in his locker. He doesn’t know that his words are like shotgun pellets trying to puncture you. And you hadn’t understood exactly how light you were feeling, till he said that.

  You shake out a slightly used sock, the one you wore to school, and start pulling it over your foot. “She’s not that bad,” you say in a low voice. “You don’t really know her.”

  “Neither do you.” Curtis threads his belt through the loops of his jeans.

  “Nobody does,” says Dobie from the other end of the lockers. He scoops up one damp towel from the floor and reaches for another. “Nobody under the age of eighteen, anyway. She only likes them college boys.”

  “I know her enough,” Curtis says. “Every year she gets more and more picky about who she smiles at and who she speaks to. Except the week before the Homecoming Court gets elected. Then all of a sudden she’s Miss Congeniality.”

  It’s true, Heather’s not real outgoing. True, too, that she can really turn it on when she wants something.

  Today, it looks like she wants you.

  “I’m not saying she doesn’t look good,” Curtis continues. “If you want to try to lay her, that’s your choice. All I’m saying is, don’t get all wrapped up in it.”

  Silence. Dobie reaches for another towel.

  “Do I ever get wrapped up in it?” you hear yourself say, feel that grin flash across your face.

  “No,” says Curtis, his tone neither approving nor disapproving. “Look out, Dobe,” he adds drily. “Here comes notch number twenty-seven.”

  “More like three hundred thirty-three,” you kid, bending to tie your shoe. Actually it’s more like number four—or five, depending on how you count.

  “Notch?” Dobie asks.

  “On his belt,” Curtis explains. “He’s exaggerating.”

  “Not by much,” you say, and turn around and walk out to meet Heather.

  “Don’t worry, it’ll cool down in here pretty soon,” you tell her as you’re easing the pickup out of the parking lot. “This old truck may not look like much, but it’s got a good air conditioner.”

  Not exactly a sparkling topic. You try to think of something else, something that will at least open up a conversation. “So. You like football?”

  “Yeah. Well, it’s okay,” she says doubtfully. “I mean, the actual game is just about the most boring thing in the universe. But I like the clothes. Like, the pads make you look all huge? And I like the way the pants fit.” She says it so frankly that for a second you think you’ve heard wrong. “I can really tell who’s in shape and who’s not. I’ll bet I can even tell who’s a good player and who’s not. Like that guy with the red hair you were standing next to—”

  “Rhinehart?”

  “Whatever. It’s like, his pants are really saggy in the behind, which means he’s probably real slow and clumsy.”

  “Well—”

  “Whereas your pants fit nice and you’ve got good muscle tone, so I’m guessing you could really move out there, if you got hold of the ball. Am I right?”

  She’s right about Rhinehart. You think about her sitting on the bench, watching so intently when Coach gave his talk. Only it wasn’t Coach she was watching.

  “Are you blushing? Don’t tell me; you thought only guys check out bodies. And you probably think only guys talk about them, too.”

  “I never really thought about it.”

  “Well, girls check out, and girls talk. Are you curious what we say about you?”

  She’s watching you with a little smile. Your fingers are gripping the steering wheel too tight; you flex them a little. “Not really,” you tell her.

  “Yes, you are. It’s only human. Well, I’ll tell you. The feeling around school is that you should model jeans or underwear or something.”

  Your face is hot. “Thanks for the info,” you say, still able to make it come out casual.

  “You’re welcome.” She doesn’t seem to notice that the sides of her slit skirt just dropped open again, showing smooth, slender legs stretching clear up to Idaho. “On the other hand,” she adds, “you’re also known for not getting serious. Like you’re working your way down a list?”

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard,” you begin, trying to watch the road instead of her legs.

  “Oh, I’ve heard enough. Now, tell me, how is practice going? It must be horrible out there in the sun.”

  “It’s not so bad. Not like two-a-days.”

  “Two-a-days?”

  “A couple of weeks before school starts, we work out twice a day. It’s like cramming a month of workouts into two weeks. So we’re out there pretty much all day.”

  “My goodness. Doing what?”

  “Warm-ups. Lots of sprints—Coach is real big on speed. All kinds of drills. And we run plays, of course.”

  “Poor thing.” Heather scrunches up her face in a sympathetic expression. “It must wear you out.”

  “Not too bad—not like last year,” you add.

  “Was it worse last year?”

  “I could hardly walk the first couple of days. Felt like somebody’d beat on me with a two-by-four.”

  “Ooh. Sounds painful.”

  “It was. The morning after that first practice, I swear I couldn’t even lift my feet off the floor.” You don’t add what Curtis said at the time, that he felt like an old man the way he had to ease out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom to pee.

  “Wow,” says Heather. “But not this year?”

  “No. We’ve been doing all right. Curtis talked me into lifting weights over the summer, and that probably kept us in shape some.”

  “Over the summer? You are so dedicated.”

  “Plus, I worked all summer. Maybe that helped.”

  “You’ve always looked in shape to me,” Heather says. “Where did you work?”

  “Winn-Dixie. I was a night stocker.”

  She asks about what night stockers do, about your family. You even find yourself telling her how Becky raises calves for 4-H, and she asks for more details.

  It pumps you up a little, just having her here. You hardly ever talk about yourself—your friends already know all about you, and your girlfriends have always tended to talk about themselves.

  Not to mention her legs, her body, her smile. It is a fact, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. The most beautiful girl in town, all ears and hell-bent on getting to know you.

  Heather’s house is small, a painted white brick set far back from the street. The windows are shuttered from the inside. A long driveway edges past the house to an unattached garage at the back of the lot. You park in front and walk beside her up the sidewalk, boots clomping in time with the faint slap of her sandals.

  On the concrete porch flanked by bushes on either side, you ask her. “Listen, I was wondering. Would you be interested in going out after the game Friday? If you don’t mind meeting me at the field house. I could in and run get cleaned up real quick, after the bus brings us back.”

  “Hmm,” she says. “I’ve got plans already. But the next Friday’s open.”

  “Sure, that sounds good. Or this Saturday?” An extra week suddenly sounds awful long. Too long. “Saturday night, I mean. Unless you’re busy then, too.”

  “No,
Saturday sounds good.”

  So it’s settled. “Well,” you say, clicking on a smile—don’t want to look like some loser hanging around, hoping for a kiss—“I guess I’ll see you Saturday night then.”

  She steps closer, and somehow—almost before all the words are out—she’s sliding her arms around your neck at the same moment you’re leaning forward, and you’re in the middle of a kiss. And then your arms are pulling her even closer, and gradually it becomes a full-length, hip-pressing, tonsil-toucher of a kiss that wakes up all your nerve endings from the roots of your hair clear down to your toenails.

  You can’t help it, your hands slide down to her rear—and that’s when she pulls away just enough to touch her lips—or is it her tongue?—to your ear. “I’ve always liked you, Austin.” Her whisper sends prickles down your neck, and then she steps back, peeling off your arms like she’s shedding old clothes.

  She starts digging in her purse for her keys. “It took you long enough to ask me out,” she says. “I thought was going to have to hit you over the head or something.”

  She pulls out a huge key ring, almost big enough to drive your pickup through, and when she turns her back to open the door, you stuff your hands into your pockets just to make absolutely sure you keep them to yourself. Your eyes, however, take a long slow trip all over her.

  Heather opens the door, but instead of going straight in like you expect, she hesitates. Then she squares her shoulders, turns around, and looks you straight in the eye. “It’s going to be a good year,” she informs you, then turns and walks inside.

  All at once, you believe it.

  The only sound is the turn of the deadbolt. The front door has a glass panel in the center, etched with designs. Just for a moment, you can see Heather behind the scrolls and curlicues. The next second, she disappears through a doorway to the right, and then all that’s left is a living room—wooden floor, a couch, rugs scattered here and there, an armchair, pictures on the wall. Just a living room, like any other—but this one is Heather’s, and down that hall to the right must be Heather’s room, where she sleeps. In a bed. Mmm.