Hoodie

by S. Walden

  Emma went back to her work, hearing the low murmur of voices in the living room. Suddenly a head appeared in the bedroom doorway.

  “Oh, you wasn’t jokin’,” a boy said. He wore a red bandana around his head and sported a small gold stud in his left nostril.

  Anton pushed past him into the room.

  “Emma, this is Nate,” he said, sitting back down on the floor. Nate remained in the doorway.

  “Hi,” Emma said, placing the novel on the floor.

  “Hey,” Nate replied disinterested. He looked over the papers and binders surrounding Anton and Emma. “So you ain’t comin’ then?” He directed the question to Anton.

  “Man, I told you I can’t,” Anton replied. “And anyway, it’s a school night.”

  Nate burst out laughing. “So when that make a difference?”

  “Look, I ain’t even tryin’ to screw anything up right now. I’m about to graduate, man. And so are you, by the way,” Anton said.

  “You so dumb, Anton. There gonna be college girls there!” Nate said. “And liquor. Free liquor. And if we lucky, maybe some weed.”

  “I don’t care. I got work to do.”

  “Man, fuck you. How you gonna be worryin’ about school so much? You turnin’ into a damn goody-goody,” Nate replied glancing at Emma.

  “Don’t give me shit, Nate. Nobody tellin’ you you can’t go. Go. You don’t need me there,” Anton said.

  He picked up his book and started reading. It was a clear message that the conversation was over.

  “Fine man. Whateva,” Nate said and trudged out of the room.

  Anton waited for the front door to close before he spoke.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” he said shaking his head slightly.

  “Do you want to wrap this up? I mean, if you want to go to the party or whatever it is,” Emma offered.

  “Girl, you crazy. We just got started. And no, I don’t wanna go to some lame ass party. I know where this party is and I know who throwin’ it, and lemme tell you somethin’: there ain’t gonna be one college girl there or any weed neither. And the only liquor gonna be some cheap ass shit that make you sick after one swallow. I kept tryin’ to tell him that, but he don’t listen. Dumb nigga.”

  Emma was taken aback. It was the only other time she heard him use that word. The first time he said it he was referring to himself and was terribly angry. Now he said it with nonchalance.

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “What? Nothing.”

  There was a moment of silence in which they both pretended to read. Anton used the time to figure out how best to broach the touchy subject of the “n” word with Emma.

  “Look, I’m black if you hadn’t noticed,” he said finally.

  “Where did that come from?” Emma asked.

  “You gotta stop makin’ them big eyes every time you hear me say things like ‘nigga.’ You be lookin’ like a deer in headlights all the time.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just hard to hear. It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Why? You ain’t the one bein’ called a nigga,” Anton pointed out.

  Emma cringed.

  “See! There you go again,” he said.

  “I’m uncomfortable because I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react to it. I mean, I don’t get it. It was used as a derogatory remark. I don’t understand why you call each other something that racist white people used to call you,” she said, and then after a thought added, “Actually, some still call you that.”

  Anton considered her remarks.

  “Well, it’s like this. We could either keep lettin’ racist white people use it in a mean way, or we could take the word away from ‘em. So we took it and we turned it into somethin’ different. Now we use it to show solidarity.”

  Emma’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Oh, you think ‘cause I’m poor and black I don’t know words like ‘solidarity’?” Anton asked teasingly.

  “I didn’t think that. I thought you as Anton wouldn’t know words like ‘solidarity’,” she replied. She smiled at her cleverness.

  “Oh, you funny,” he said running his forefinger up the sole of her naked foot. She had taken her flip flops off at the front door when she arrived and was now sitting Indian style on his bedroom floor. She jerked her foot away.

  “Don’t you dare,” she warned.

  “Oh, you ticklish?” he asked, putting his novel down and moving towards her.

  She drew her knees up to her chest planting her feet firmly on the floor.

  “It won’t be my fault if you get hurt,” Emma said. “I’m serious. Don’t tickle me.”

  He ignored her, wrapping his large hand around her right calf and tugging gently on her leg. She remained stiff, using all her might to keep her foot planted.

  “So you like to joke,” Anton said. “But you don’t like when the joke’s on you.”

  “That’s not true,” she argued.

  He gave up pulling on her leg and instead put one arm under her knees and the other around her back picking her up swiftly and neatly depositing her on his bed. He trapped her feet in the crook of his arm and watched her squirm wildly. Her toenails were painted a bright cherry red, he observed, and her feet were soft and callus free.

  “How you have such pretty feet? You not do nothin’ like exercise or run or play no sports?”

  “I just got a pedicure,” she said, still trying to free herself from his grasp.

  “Of course you did. Why didn’t I think of that,” he said amused.

  He flashed her a devilish grin.

  “Please, I’ll do anything. Do not tickle my feet. I’ll die. I will die,” she pleaded.

  “You’ll do anything?” Anton asked, unable to hide the sexual excitement in his voice. He had her trapped on his bed, vulnerable to him, and he knew the game was becoming a little too dangerous.

  “Anything,” she said, not noticing the lust in his tone. “Just please don’t.”

  He ran his fingers softly over her sole and listened with delight as she screamed.

  “I want you to say I’m fine,” he said. “That I’m the flyest brotha you ever seen.”

  “I’m not saying that!” she said, and then squealed when he assaulted her foot once more. “Okay, okay! You’re the flyest guy I’ve ever seen!”

  “See now, I don’t believe you,” he teased. “I want you to look at my face and tell me that.”

  “Okay,” she said defeated. She looked him in the eyes. “Anton, you are the flyest guy I’ve ever seen.”

  He smiled at her, feeling the rush of something warm and electric in his heart, and released her feet. She punched his stomach with one, and he doubled over.

  “Shit, girl! That hurt!”

  “Serves you right, you butthead,” she snapped, getting out of his bed and returning to the floor.

  “You right, you right.”

  He rubbed his stomach while watching her resume her work.

  “Butthead,” he mumbled chuckling, and went to sit beside her.

  They worked for several hours before she left. He never thought he could have so much fun doing a school assignment. He had given no thought to the time, his friends, what he would be doing had she not been there. It was as if the world outside of his bedroom disappeared. Nothing was important apart from sitting on the floor with her, talking about a novel, getting to know each other, teasing her.

  He couldn’t believe with what ease he was beginning to open up to her, sharing everything about himself—everything from his favorite music to his spirituality. She found his beliefs surprisingly incongruous with the way he acted. He described his diet to her; most of the foods she’d never tasted. He couldn’t believe she’d never had fried okra. He would have to remedy that. She would stay for dinner one night, and he’d get his mama to make it. He was sure she’d never want to eat another thing in her life after tasting his mama’s fried okra.

  The sun was setting, and he was reluctant to see her out. He wondered what kind o
f bedroom she went home to. He imagined that it was very large. He was sure she probably had her own T.V. and computer. That was a given. He wondered if she kept it organized, or if she just tossed her panties wherever. He shook his head to rid the thought, but once the image entered his mind, he could think of nothing else. He watched her pull out of the parking space thinking all the while of the panties she wore and where she would take them off and toss them when she got home. He went back to his bedroom and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 6

  THURSDAY, APRIL 22

  Anton watched her during history. He had given up caring about that class months ago. She appeared to be listening. She wrote things in her notebook. Did she really care about this shit, he thought? His friend leaned over and whispered something to him. He stifled a laugh, and it drew her attention. She looked at him and then his friend. They both smiled at her—enormous grins—and she was uncertain if the joke was on her. She smoothed her hair and looked down to make sure none of her shirt buttons had come undone. She wiped at her face thinking that perhaps she had something on it.

  They laughed again, and this time the teacher spoke.

  “I had no idea that the judicial system was so funny, boys,” Mr. Cantinori said. “Do share. We all want to be in on the joke.”

  “Sorry Mr. Cantinori. It ain’t about the class,” Anton’s friend replied. “We was reminiscin’ about the old days, you know? Being seniors and all, we just realize how much we gonna miss this place.”

  Emma couldn’t help but think how full of shit he was.

  “Well, Kareem, you haven’t graduated yet,” Mr. Cantinori pointed out.

  “You right, you right. I feel what you sayin’.”

  “Do you?” Mr. Cantinori replied. “Then be quiet.” And he resumed his lecture.

  Kareem closed his mouth and sunk down in his seat. He didn’t appear phased by being corrected in front of the entire class, but then he was usually reprimanded that way.

  Emma grinned, her face buried in her notebook, but Anton saw. He wondered how she got to be such a good girl. She probably never got in trouble once in her life, at least not at school. He imagined what she would do if a teacher scolded her in front of the whole class, and concluded that she would probably melt into the floor from sheer embarrassment and disappear forever. He smiled to himself. To be that good, he thought.

  Class ended and he walked with Kareem to his locker. It was lunch time, and the students moved slowly throughout the hallway, taking their time at their lockers. He wanted to ask Emma if they were still on for Friday afternoon, but just as he was about to approach her, he noticed a boy conversing with her. His heart went tight with jealousy. It was instant and unsettling, and he tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t, and he stood watching the boy look at Emma as though he knew something secretive about her that no one else did. Who was this guy? Emma never mentioned him.

  He thought it absurd that he expected to know everything about her in less than a week. Regardless of the amount of time they had already spent together and the amount she had shared with him about her life, he still knew very little. Evidently she had a boyfriend, and he felt like an idiot. What did he actually think would happen between them? She was nice to him, even played along with his flirting, because she knew she had to work with him. She was just being nice, he thought bitterly. There was never anything more and could never be anything more.

  The misery pervaded his body, and he thought how easy it would be to walk up to the boy and punch him in the face. A nice, strong right jab, he thought. Break a tooth in his fucking mouth. Take him to the floor and make him bleed. Make him swear to never talk to Emma again or he would kill him. The thoughts pacified him, and he felt the anger within him dissipate.

  “Ugh, he gets on my nerves,” he heard Emma say after the boy walked away. She was talking to her friend with the long blonde hair.

  “That’s mean, Emma,” Morgan replied.

  “I know, and I feel awful for feeling that way. How can you date someone in the past and feel like you loved them, and then you break up and you don’t want to be anywhere near them? Like they disgust you? It’s a horrible feeling to have, and I feel like a horrible person,” Emma said.

  Anton’s heart sprouted wings.

  “Well, I guess you shouldn’t have let him go up your shirt,” replied Morgan matter-of-factly.

  Anton scowled.

  “Thanks, Morgan. You’re helpful.”

  He smiled at Emma’s sarcasm. He could imagine her face to match.

  “You know he wants to get back together with you. He’s dying to,” Morgan pointed out.

  Anton curled his hands into fists.

  “So not happening. As mean as this sounds, he just doesn’t do it for me,” Emma replied.

  I can do it for you, Anton thought.

  “Really? You aren’t attracted to him anymore in the slightest?” Morgan asked.

  What was this girl trying to do, he thought? Ruin his chances?

  “No, I’m really not. It was tenth grade. It’s over. I’m done with it,” Emma said.

  That’s right, girl, move on. Right on over to me, Anton thought.

  “So who are you attracted to?” Morgan asked. “Anyone? You haven’t mentioned a guy in a long time.”

  He knew she would never say it, but he stood there hoping she would.

  “I don’t know,” Emma replied. “I’m not sure I want to get attached to anyone before starting college.”

  His heart splintered into a million pieces.

  “That wasn’t my question. I asked if you thought anyone around here was cute,” Morgan said.

  Say it Emma. Say it, he thought desperately.

  “I don’t know,” Emma said blushing.

  “Oh my God, you like someone! Spill it!” Morgan squealed.

  Anton began tentatively piecing his heart back together.

  “I never said that, Morgan,” Emma replied, but her flushed face betrayed her.

  “Well, I think I know someone who likes you,” Morgan said.

  His heart fell to pieces all over again.

  “Who?” Emma asked.

  “Your partner,” Morgan said boldly, and he could feel her eyes on him.

  He shoved his face deeper into his locker.

  “What are you talking about?” Emma asked quietly, looking in Anton’s direction.

  “That guy you’re working with on that stupid English paper. I think he likes you. I’ve been watching him for the past few days. He’s always looking at you,” Morgan said.

  Somebody push me into this locker and close the door, Anton thought. And never let me out again.

  “You’re crazy,” Emma said.

  No she isn’t, he thought sullenly.

  “No, you’re crazy. Or you would be if you did anything with him,” Morgan said. Her tone held a note of warning.

  Fuckin’ bitch, Anton thought. Shut your fuckin’ mouth.

  “Morgan, there is nothing between us like that. I don’t even think we’re friends. You see we don’t talk at school,” Emma argued.

  Anton’s body went rigid. His heart had already died, so he wondered how he could still feel it ache.

  “Good,” Morgan replied. “Are we going to lunch?”

  “Yes,” Emma said quietly.

  She glanced in Anton’s direction once more. His head was hidden behind his locker door. She entertained the idea for only a moment that he actually liked her. It was ludicrous, she thought. He flirted with her, yes, but she had come to discover that he was a flirty guy by nature. She knew not to read too much into it. But she couldn’t deny how it made her feel when he teased her and looked at her in certain ways—like she was the only person on the planet, the only person in his world. Like he built his world around her, and she was the golden statue in the center of it that he worshipped every day.

  She wondered how some people had the ability to do that, to make others feel like they were the only ones. Sanguines, she thought smiling, rem
embering learning about the four temperaments in psychology. Sanguines had the special gift. And then her heart stiffened. She remembered something else about Sanguines. When they’re through with you, they’re through.

  She followed her friend to the cafeteria.

  ***

  He was waiting to board the bus home when she approached him. She made sure his friends weren’t around; otherwise, she would not have extended the invitation.

  “Wanna ride home?” she offered approaching him as he sat on a metal bench.

  “We didn’t plan on working on our project today, did we?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “So then why you wanna give me a ride home?”

  “To be friendly,” she said. She moved her school bag to the other shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”

  She started walking towards the parking lot, and as much as he didn’t want to follow her, he knew he had no choice. It bothered him that he would do anything to spend just a little bit of time with her, even if that meant riding in her car for a mere five minutes.

  Emma chatted happily as they made their way to West Highland Park. He wanted to be in a sullen mood; after eavesdropping on her conversation with Morgan he felt utterly hopeless about any romantic future with her. But her cheerfulness affected him despite his resolve to stay glum.

  “What are we listenin’ to?” he asked after a time.

  “Hey now. I listened to your music,” Emma replied, glancing at his face. It was screwed up as though he had just eaten something sour.

  “I know you did. I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ bad about it,” he replied.

  “Well, you look like you hate it.”

  “How you gonna know what I look like? You starin’ at me? You need to be watchin’ the road.”

  Emma ignored him and turned the volume up on the stereo. The mournful melody filled the car.

  “This gonna make me cry. We gotta change it,” he said, reaching for the dial on the stereo.

  “Don’t touch it,” she commanded.