Mike shakes his head as he pulls on a shirt. He’s a big guy for being white, but he’s still got a bit of baby fat on him that he can’t seem to shake. In twenty years he’ll be that chunky guy in an office selling life insurance. But these abs of mine are a little preventative medicine for my own mid-life crisis.
“Save it for your girlfriend, buddy.”
I go over to my own locker and start getting dressed, letting my boxers hang out just enough to tease over the belt of my Hollister jeans. I grab my tee-shirt, even though it seems a shame to cover up this magnificent stomach.
Mike catches me rubbing my abs in admiration.
“Do you need to get yourself a room?”
Maybe.
chapter 3
On the way home, my phone launches into “Pumped Up Kicks” by Foster The People. It’s my girlfriend, Sheri. She’s on the track team and she’s fun and easy-going, so the ringtone suits her. She’s sent me a picture on Snapchat, one of those image apps that self-destructs, of her holding a photo of me. Her eyes are shut tight and she’s got the biggest pucker. She’s adorable and goofy and I can never figure out why this combination makes her the hottest damn girl.
I let out a quiet laugh and a little shudder runs up my spine. The image disappears. I should have taken a screenshot.
Send another.
A moment later, and Sheri’s ringtone plays again: run baby run, faster than my bullet. I open it and she’s holding her hands in the shape of a heart, and I feel lucky and happy. This time I’m ready and save it to my collection.
A split second later, my phone vibrates.
You screenshot that didn’t you?
Maybe? :-P
I move across Albert Street, ankles nearly skinned by an impatient asshole in a car turning north. I step onto the curb, look over my shoulder, and see he’s already half a block away. I adjust my gym bag on my shoulder and text back:
How’d the test go?
Good enough.
And the track meet?
The typing indicator bubbles away. This reply is longer, because she loves being competitive.
It went well. Made great time. Need to pace myself better but I don’t think Broadhill will be real competition. Track isn’t their thing. Coach said there may be some university scouts at the next race.
I’m so proud of her.
That’s great babe.
You?
I want to reply in my cheeky way, but I hesitate. She deserves a real answer once in a while.
Practice was hard, but good.
No pain. No gain.
With all the texting, I don’t realize how far I’ve walked. Though I’m already in my neighbourhood, I want to chat more. But like me, Sheri is busy, and I know she’s likely itching to get to her run. She’s not one of those needy girls always looking for her boyfriend’s attention, and I love her for it.
Bzzz—another text.
Hanging out with Brody tonight, maybe help him with science. You?
Sheri’s the oldest in her family and Brody is her younger brother. Since I’m the youngest in mine, they (whoever they are) say that this is a good match for a couple. Just one in a long list of reasons why we’re a good match, in my opinion.
Almost home. Supposed to be reading a couple chapters of Catcher in the Rye for English, but have science test coming up.
Send me a pic?
I smile. I suppose I owe her one. I turn my hat around and duck face the shit out of the camera.
Bzzz.
BAHAHAHAHA! Get yourself home babe. We’ll talk later.
I text her back quickly:
Let’s make plans for the weekend?
It’s only Wednesday, but it’s good to plan ahead. I send it and slide the phone into my pocket.
chapter 4
I cross the street to my house. We’re west of the school and the neighbourhood always gets nicer. Although the area was developed at the turn of the last century, our house is one of the newer ones on the block. It’s a white two-storey, constructed to blend in with the older homes around it. It has the big pillars and the porch, but not the dark, leaky basements all our neighbours have.
I run up the steps and go inside to find Dad on the couch. He smiles as he puts down the book he’s reading.
“You’re late for supper.”
I pull out my phone and look. “Almost late.”
“Tell that to your mother.”
Mom hollers from the kitchen, “Is that Anthony? Tell him he’s late for supper.”
Dad yells back at her, “Geesh, woman, you in my kitchen? Leave my food alone. You’re the breadwinner and I’m the cook.”
We are traditional in a lot of ways, but Mom and Dad carved their own path a long time ago, back when they started dating in college. Grampa was from Jamaica and freaked out when he learned Mom’s new boyfriend was white. Dad tried to cook every holiday meal for three years—including Grampa’s favourites of ackee and saltfish, which is a little challenging to get the ingredients for in a city like this. But Dad wanted to prove to him that family and tradition were something special to him, too. The two of them still laugh about it, Grampa admitting he liked Dad after the first year but didn’t want to lose out on all that good food. Back then, interracial relationships were a big deal, but now that label is mostly gone—Mom and Dad are just a couple and my mocha skin is a blessing.
Dad looks at me and wrinkles his nose. “You stink.”
Mom calls again, “Tell him to change his shirt. He probably stinks.”
“How do you guys do that?”
Dad holds up his ring finger with a knowing nod. “Gives you magic powers, son.”
I know a little interest in my parents goes a long way, so I nod at the book spread open on Dad’s chest. “What are you reading today?”
“Le Carré.”
“Ah.” I nod but don’t really know who that is.
“How was practice?”
Seems Dad uses my tricks too.
“Good.”
“What’d you do?”
“Lay-ups.”
“Coach work you hard?”
I nod.
He picks up his book again. “Go get changed before your mom gets a real whiff of you.”
“You just want to finish your chapter.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t debate that with your mom.”
My sister Heather comes out of her room as I head up the stairs. “Did you listen to that download I shared?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah. It’s good. Your taste in music is improving, College Girl.”
I think all those pre-law classes have got her thinking differently. One day, she’ll end up working for some high-priced firm far away, and I’ll miss her when she does.
“Shouldn’t you be at some sorority thing?”
Heather’s two years older than me and we’re finally starting to click as siblings. The banter is fun—way better than the cat and dog fights we used to have, and I’m sure Mom and Dad are grateful too.
“That’s just in the movies, smart ass.”
“Easy or I’ll give your number to Mike.” All my friends think she’s hot, and I’m grateful that this didn’t happen until after she graduated—no guy wants to deal with that growing up. Just way too weird.
Mom yells up the stairs, “Are you two ever going to make it down here?”
Heather turns back to me. “I think supper’s ready.”
“A magnificent feat of deduction. You’ll make a great lawyer someday.”
Heather winks and goes downstairs.
In my room there’s a laundry basket full of fresh, clean shirts on the chair next to my desk. Nice—Dad makes a good housewife.
I pull out both a red tee-shirt and a yellow tee-shirt, trying to decide.
Mom
yells from downstairs, “White.”
How the hell does she do it?
“You heard your dad. Magic powers.”
Damn.
I dig a little deeper and, sure enough, there’s a white tee. I take off my pit-smelly school shirt and pull it over my head, then check my messages. One from Mike and a couple from Sheri.
“Anthony!”
Ah, yes, the call of a mom telling you to get your ass in gear.
The texts can wait. I toss my phone on the desk and head downstairs for supper.
chapter 5
Standing on the path, Sheri folds into a forward bend. With very little effort, her face is nearly against her legs, her palms reaching around her Asics runners to grasp her calves as she pushes into the pose. It’s the end of a beautiful fall day. The leaves haven’t started to turn and she wants to take advantage of the warm weather to practise her race strategy before the next cross-country meet.
She comes up, feeling the stretch along her straightening back. She wears short, black spandex running shorts that hug her long, strong legs, and a white sports bra peeks out from beneath the shoulders of her loose, grey tank top. She is fit, firm, and naturally athletic.
She pulls her long hair back into a ponytail at the top of her head and ties it with a white bandana. She snuck it from Tony’s drawer because he’s a boy and a slob and probably won’t notice it missing, and she likes to keep him close. Besides, it helps hold back the little hairs that tickle and annoy her, and keeps the sweat out of her eyes when the run is long and concentration is crucial. Today is all about focus and she doesn’t want anything to distract her.
Two older men jog by and give her a wave. She smiles. It’s a lovely courtesy to acknowledge other runners and keeps her going when the distance is long. Today her goal is six miles. It’s a little farther than a regular practice run, but she wants to push herself all the way to the tracks outside the city. Her goal is to finish in fifty-one minutes. After all, she is still training.
She hopes that when she gets back to the car, there’ll be a text message from Tony. That’d be perfect. What she doesn’t want is a text from her ex, Dillon, who keeps trying to rekindle things. It’s irritating but she hasn’t figured how to cut him out completely.
She clears both boys from her mind and presses into long lunges until her hams stretch and she feels a surge of blood in her veins. She comes up, slips earbuds into her ears, and hits play. Green Day’s “Jesus of Suburbia” starts up as she takes the first few strides. It’s easy and smooth and she quickly puts distance between herself and her starting point.
She jogs past a woman in her forties who keeps a good pace. Sheri imagines she’ll be like her later in life, still running, still happily taking care of herself—maybe with a special someone like Tony. As she travels along the golf course, she passes the Ferguson memorial bench, her personal reminder that her warm-up is done and now the serious workout begins. The creek twists away from the city and she picks up the pace.
A Tiesto mix of the love song “All Of Me” by John Legend plays and she smiles inwardly as thoughts of Tony slip between the thup-thup rhythm of her feet on the pavement. He hates her choice of music, dismissing anything even slightly mainstream as crap. He likes hip-hop and anything that’s never graced the top twenty. He’s a music snob, and his strong opinions put people off, but it was his manners that drew her in.
They’d met at the gravel pits; a bunch of people from different schools hanging out to party. He didn’t use any cheesy pick-up lines and didn’t try to get her drunk. He swept in while Ross from her English class was attempting to ply her with drinks and absolutely no good intentions. Then this guy had appeared out of the crowd and grabbed the bottle out of Ross’s hand before he’d even known what was going on.
“Hey, it’s Mr. Unsportsmanlike Behaviour!”
“Back off, Shepherd.”
Ross had gone for the bottle but Tony towered over him—he was tall for a sophomore.
“Oops! Sorry! Was this for her? Did I break up your thang?”
That’s when Tony had looked at Sheri, and she realized he had the sexiest eyes.
“Was this yours?”
She’d been about to answer but Ross reached for the bottle again and Tony didn’t even look at him, just raised it higher beyond his reach. He kept looking at her. She’d felt her drunken face smile and shook out a wobbly “no,” but she was spinning into those hazel depths.
“You sure?”
That time, she’d nodded, and Tony turned back to Ross.
“Doesn’t seem like she wants your drink.”
Then Tony, always the cocky one, let the bottle slip out of his hand. It shattered on the gravel. “Whoops.”
Ross looked Tony in the eyes. “Screw you!” But he’d known he was outmatched and walked away.
“Well, that was close,” Tony had said. “I would seriously have hated to break a nail.”
The two of them had just clicked and they spent the rest of the night side-by-side near the fire, watching the drunken antics of their friends. Near dawn, he’d driven her home and said good night, but hadn’t tried anything.
She’d been a little stunned.
After that, they texted back and forth. Their conversations were fun but brief, and she never thought he was going anywhere with his flirting—since they went to different schools, it wasn’t like they saw each other often.
Until things unexpectedly heated up. She had gone to a post-game backyard party and saw him playing the guitar, commanding an audience as Tony so often did. He was singing a parody of Taylor Swift’s “22,” changing it to be about teachers and their apparent love of shaved genitals. When he was done, he had moved out of the crowd toward her and taken her hand.
They were sitting on some lawn chairs by the pool when a shooting star fell across the sky.
“Should we make a wish?” Cliché, but why not?
“Why? It’s only space garbage burning up in the atmosphere.” Tony’s response had made her regret the suggestion.
“Well, aren’t you romantic?” was the only comeback she could think of.
“Oh, I have my ways.”
He’d leaned close and raised a hand to her cheek. She had felt his warmth against her skin and thought he was going to kiss her. He hadn’t.
When she opened her eyes, he was holding an eyelash on the tip of his finger. “Wish on this.” He leaned closer, whispering in her ear, “Wish for something special.”
She shook her head at the mushiness of it all, but closed her eyes anyway and blew. She figured he must be going to kiss her now, so she waited for a long time, but when she opened her eyes, he was gone. Vanished. WTF?
She’d asked around the party, but her friends Katie and Jessica hadn’t seen him. She was feeling mighty pissed off when she’d turned around and suddenly there he was.
“Where the hell did you go?”
He’d wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her in front of all those people. It was bold and confident, and he seemed so sure that she’d let him.
And he’d been right.
“What? Wasn’t that what you wished for?”
She grinned, completely pleased by his game, but unwilling to let him know—wouldn’t do to make things too easy for him. “You’re such a weird asshole.”
He’d smiled. She’d smiled. And she knew he was the boy for her. That had been eight months ago.
He kept her guessing and always on her toes. He challenged her to be her best. He came to every one of her meets but gave her space to be her own person. Now, the only real issue they faced was that they planned to attend different colleges after grad. Oh, couples did it all the time, but long-distance is never easy—unless it’s a run.
Sheri shakes the thought away. She’s let her focus slide. Time enough later to think of the drama in h
er life—at the moment she needs to concentrate on her goal.
She starts to sweat just as a slight breeze picks up. Perfect. Maybe a good run has as much to do with luck as training. She follows the road to the path that takes her to the old tracks, pushing herself up the small incline. The next mile is the part she likes most. It’s a series of gentle rolling slopes—a challenge that pushes her hard—and on the last rise she gets to really dig in.
She moves easily through each dip toward the picnic area by the pines. In summer, people come here to get out of the city and relax in the grass while their kids climb on the play structure. But at this time of year, even in the warm afternoon, the place is quiet, abandoned.
She glances at her watch. She’s making excellent time—better than expected. If she continues without stopping, she’ll crush her best time, but she only needs to prepare for the upcoming meet, not the Boston qualifier. She’s done well and there’s only a mile left before she can turn back. She recalculates. Even if she stops for a quick bathroom break, she’ll still finish strong.
She jogs across the grass to the tree-shaded washroom near the playground. Winding down, she takes a breath, rolls her neck, and stretches her legs. “The Kids Aren’t Alright” by The Offspring starts up and she can just hear Tony getting riled up by it. It makes her laugh. After her run, she’ll take a long shower and drop by his house to see him.
She pushes open the door to the public washroom and goes in.
chapter 6
He first spotted her three weeks ago.
He’d started when he was young with cats and small dogs. When the attempt in Grade 8 had failed, he’d scaled back his efforts but his training had been interrupted. Once the family had settled in this new city—a move brought on by his idiot brother—he had rededicated himself to his practice, learning to suffocate larger and larger dogs. It was while burying a neighbourhood dog by some pines outside the city, that he’d seen her running. She was strong and lithe—a solid challenge. If he were to finally be successful, he needed to take his time and prepare.
She had the agile glide of someone confident in the steady movement of her body; he admired her determination. He had returned the next day at the same time, sitting by the edge of the play structure, but she didn’t appear. Although disheartened, he vowed to return. He could be persistent too.
Along Comes a Wolfe Page 2