PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Billy leans back and crosses his legs, clearly refusing to stretch a minute longer. He pulls his trucker hat down low so it shades his eyes from the sun.

  “Hey you, Slacker Boy, get back to it!” shouts Kirby. “No losers on the track team.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Billy mutters under his breath. I know he doesn’t dare let Kirby Cahill hear him. I suspect beneath Billy’s weasely bravado lurks a coward.

  Coach Ted strides over to Billy. “You heard the captain. Stretch!”

  Billy begrudgingly unfolds his legs. Kirby walks through the throng of students, studying their form. He’s handsome in a square-faced, mop-of-curly-hair sort of way. He’s big, about six feet tall, with large shoulders and an even larger personality. Everyone is a little scared of him because he has the ultra-confident presence of both a star athlete and a popular student. He won the national championship in the long jump last year, and it’s rumored that top colleges are looking at him for full scholarships.

  He seems even cockier this year, I note. As if reading my thoughts, he glances over and catches my eye, then arrogantly winks. He struts over and gently pushes me toward the ground so I’m maximizing my stretch. His hands on my back feel steady, almost seductive, as they press on my shoulder blades. His fingers make little circles on my shirt, as if he’s massaging me. I feel the muscles in my legs slowly giving in, painfully, as they expand against the stretch. I don’t like this guy’s hands on me and am glad when he stops.

  “Good job,” says Kirby. Then he does the same thing to Miranda. She looks over and gives me a raised-eyebrow look that says, What’s the deal with this jock-ass? Jock-ass is our favorite term for Kirby and his athlete friends. Billy sits on the grass cross-legged, watching with a scowl.

  Kirby gives Billy a sidelong glance and leans in closer to Miranda, pressing his lower body into her back. Billy huffs angrily but does nothing, unless he wants his head pounded against the lockers by Kirby and his jock buddies.

  Kirby smirks. “Why you just sitting there, Loser Boy? We’re here to work, not groom our pussy hair. Get back into position!”

  Billy reluctantly goes back to stretching while throwing dagger glares. Kirby sidles up behind Billy then pushes him abruptly down toward the ground with both hands, hard. Billy yelps in pain. Kirby grins and presses harder.

  “No pain, no gain, bro. The girls can handle it, why can’t you?”

  Billy’s face is purple with pain. He gasps as he reaches out with both hands, forced to stretch from Kirby’s full weight on him. Everyone on the team is watching and snickering. I’m embarrassed for Billy. He’s usually so cocky, but with Kirby straddling him he looks like a skinny little ferret with a pathetic, oversized cap.

  Kirby lets off the pressure and walks off. Billy curses him under his breath. “Fuckwad!”

  Miranda’s brow crinkles and her eyes flash with worry. “You okay, Billy?”

  “I’m fine. Leave it,” he snaps. He glares at Kirby who is now gently pushing the new girl forward in her stretch, saying coaxing words into her ear. Annika’s big doe eyes glance up nervously at this presumptuous jock who is applying subtle pressure to her shoulder blades. His hands rove ever so slightly over her skin, just as they’d done with me and Miranda.

  “Bet the prick won’t help the fat ugly chicks,” mutters Billy.

  “Shh,” says Miranda. “He’ll hear you.”

  “I don’t give a shit. If he touches you again, I’m going to break his face.”

  Billy’s all talk. No one in their right mind would challenge Kirby Cahill. Half the football team and wrestlers are his best friends.

  “Time to run laps!” calls the coach. “Five around, now.”

  The team gathers itself and strolls toward the dirt track that encircles the field. As I walk with Miranda, a deep voice calls out on my left, “Sorry I’m late, Coach!”

  A tall guy passes me, jogging toward the track. He’s absolutely gorgeous, about 6’4, with floppy brown hair that falls over his eyes and an athletic, tanned body. He has nice biceps and the outline of a firm, well-built chest under the team shirt. His tight round butt makes even those hideous polyester shorts look undeniably sexy.

  Who is that? I don’t remember seeing him at school before, though he does look vaguely familiar. Just as I’m appraising him, he turns and says, “Hi, Winter.”

  I almost fall over. I have no idea who this gorgeous guy is, but he obviously knows me. But how? He jogs ahead of us slowly on the track, conversing amiably with the new girl.

  I ask Miranda who he is. She shrugs. Normally she would gush over a cute guy like that and go on about his body, but Billy is plodding along next to us in a dark funk so she keeps quiet. Even though I can’t see Miranda’s eyes behind her sunglasses, I know she’s wondering the same thing: Who is this studly guy who knows Winter?

  “Dude, don’t you know?” Billy says. “That’s Stumblemeyer.” I trip over Miranda’s shoe and grab on to her to keep from falling.

  “What?” I startle myself with my own shriek. People turn to look. I lower my voice. “Stumblemeyer? It can’t be. He moved away.”

  There is just no possible way this gorgeous guy is the same Stumblemeyer who asked me to the homecoming dance two years ago, the nerd with the gangly grasshopper limbs and clumsy skis for feet. This stud looks like the polar opposite of the skinny, pimply dork who, when I’d said I couldn’t go to the dance with him, had seemed so crestfallen.

  “Can’t you clean your grandmother’s garage another night?” he’d asked, his large orbs blinking dejectedly behind the thick lenses that were supposed to, presumably, help him see better. Unfortunately, they hadn’t much improved his balance.

  I shook my head. “I’m really sorry. It can’t be helped. The garage is filled with rats and has to be cleaned right away. You know, plague and all that stuff.”

  “Oh,” he replied, looking doubtful. Then he walked off, banging into the trashcans with a clatter as he went. Later, of course, he’d asked someone else to the dance and stepped on her dress . . . and the rest is nude-on-the-dance-floor history. Glad it wasn’t me.

  “I heard he moved back for good,” says Billy, huffing alongside us with a grimace, barely keeping up. Pot-smoker’s lungs, I think.

  “Stumblemeyer’s parents got a divorce or something,” Billy says. “Dude looks a lot different than he used to. Been working out, I guess.” There’s a whiff of jealousy in his tone. He looks pointedly at Miranda, but she keeps her eyes focused down, her ponytail bobbing as she trots along.

  I stare at the guy ahead of us, this well-built hottie with the thick, floppy hair. It’s hard to believe, but he is indeed Stumblemeyer. He’s changed dramatically in two years. He used to be the biggest dork this side of town, and now he’s the most gorgeous guy I have ever seen. How is it possible?

  “He doesn’t wear glasses anymore. That’s why I didn’t recognize him,” I say, half to myself.

  “Didn’t you turn him down for the homecoming dance freshman year?” asks Miranda, a wisp of a smile on her lips. She knows full well I did.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “Uh huh,” says Miranda. “Like you forgot the ranch dressing episode? I’m sure.”

  “Oh yeah,” Billy says, chortling. “I remember that. Stumblemeyer was the clumsiest dork I’ve ever seen. He once tripped over the power cord during science class and brought Mr. Johnson’s laptop crashing to the floor. The screen cracked like a baby’s skull, and the keys went flying everywhere. The guy’s a walking disaster.”

  “Well, he looks like he’s got it together now,” notes Miranda. Billy snorts, a scowl spreading across his face. Miranda looks away, subdued. She’s always a different person around Billy.

  Stumblemeyer continues to converse with the new girl as they jog together in front of us. Annika looks slender and waifish beside him. I wonder if tall guys prefer small, child-like girls who bring out their protective instincts. Annika looks up at him wi
th her big soft eyes as they run side-by-side. Smiling and laughing, she’s clearly enamored of him.

  She didn’t know the old Stumblemeyer or she wouldn’t be so eager to give him the time of day, I think. Still . . . an envious flutter niggles at my heart.

  On our next turn around the track, I spot Kirby Cahill standing off to the side, watching the runners. He does a few quick jumping jacks, clearly showing off, then eases onto the track and joins the pack of runners. He catches up with Stumblemeyer and Annika, jogging alongside them. His square head and torso are block-shaped next to Stumblemeyer’s lean, chiseled body, and suddenly I realize Kirby Cahill is no longer the cutest guy in school. Kirby, as if also aware of this, sprints ahead competitively, showing off. He looks like a silly fatheaded moose thundering along, all puffed up in arrogance and acting like he’s the hottest, fastest thing around. He’s obviously trying to outshine Stumblemeyer. Miranda and I exchange a look. I can tell she’s rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses, and I respond in kind.

  I can’t help it; I find myself watching Stumblemeyer like a stalker for the rest of the period as the track team works through a variety of drills: jumping jacks, sit-ups, sprints, hurdles. His muscles ripple in the late afternoon light while he does pushups, and sweat glistens on his back. I find myself overcome with an urge to run over and lick him.

  He stands around chatting between drills, pushing his thick hair out of his eyes with a casual hand. Girls flock near him, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t pay attention. He treats everyone the same, in a normal way. So different than the usual high school guys. He seems so mature and together. And yet, he’s having fun, too, horsing around with the other guys and pretending to fall over the hurdles while they laugh.

  I keep hoping he’ll look in my direction, just once. He did say hi to me, after all. That must mean something. But he doesn’t notice me. I try to shrug off the welling frustration that builds in my chest as Stumblemeyer talks to Annika and other people on the team, interested in everyone but me. When he starts doing sit-ups with Annika, counting in unison with her, acute pangs of jealousy stab my chest.

  What is wrong with this picture? I try to shake off these stupid feelings. Just because Stumblemeyer has changed on the outside doesn’t mean he’s not still the goofy, clumsy, annoying nerd I could never see myself going to a dance with. Just wait until Annika finds out about how Stumblemeyer’s poor homecoming date ended up on the dance floor in nothing but her granny undies. That might change the new girl’s opinion of him!

  They’re clearly interested in each other, though. Annika is very pretty, and I find myself swallowing waves of jealousy as I watch her interacting with him. Her blonde hair glistens in the sun as she balances on one foot and attempts to pull her other leg up behind her in a scorpion stretch. She tips forward and Stumblemeyer catches her, steadying her with his hand. Klutzy just like him.

  As if reading my thoughts, Miranda sidles up to me and says, “The new girl looks like his type.” We snicker.

  Secretly, though, I continue to observe Stumblemeyer. I’m intrigued. His eyes are something else: brown and warm in an intelligent, chiseled face. I wish those eyes would glance over at me, just once, but they never do.

  After practice, Billy and Miranda stroll off ahead, holding hands. I follow them dejectedly to the locker room. Someone comes up next to me. It’s Stumblemeyer.

  “How are you, Winter?” he asks.

  My heart stops then skips a beat. Butterflies do flip-flops in my stomach. I try hard not to let on.

  “Hi, Stumblemeyer,” I say. Then I realize I’ve just called him by the name he must despise.

  His eyes narrow. “Jason.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he replies curtly. He looks straight ahead as we walk together.

  I feel like an idiot.

  “That was really dumb,” I say. “You must hate that name.”

  “You think?” He glances over at me. I must look chagrined because his face breaks into a reluctant half-smile.

  “You look like a whipped puppy dog,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Really. But just call me Jason from now on, okay? Even if I trip over something.”

  Relieved, I force a laugh.

  “You’ve changed a lot,” I say.

  “So have you,” he replies.

  “I have?”

  “Well, your hair is longer. You’re taller now and more . . . uh . . . filled out. ”

  You mean my butt’s bigger. Great.

  “You were a skinny stick figure the last time I saw you,” he says.

  “So were you,” I say. “I guess we’ve grown up.”

  “Yeah.” We smile at each other. I see a glimpse of the former Stumblemeyer in his face and wonder why I ever thought he was unattractive. It was there all along, what he was going to become. I was just too dumb to see it. I wonder what he must think of me. He probably thinks I’m a judgmental snob or something. We walk together in silence then stop in front of the locker rooms as kids smelling of grass, dirt, and sweat push past us.

  “Well, good to see you,” he says, his face distant. He playfully slaps a teammate’s shoulder in passing.

  “You too,” I say awkwardly. I pause, clear my throat. “Jason, I’m sorry about . . . you know. The homecoming dance freshman year. I wish I’d gone with you.” As soon as I say the words, I regret them. I sound ridiculous.

  “No big. See ya’ around,” he says, and he abruptly disappears into the locker room. I’m left standing on the sidewalk, wondering what the hell just happened.

  Inside the girl’s locker room, the air is thick with deodorant, perfume, and hair spray. Girls are blow-drying their hair while others apply make-up. Miranda, having already changed out of her gym clothes, is brushing her glossy blonde hair.

  “Come on, let’s get going,” she says. “Hurry and change.”

  I’m giving her a ride home after school since her car is in the shop getting the convertible top fixed.

  I quickly splash water on my hot face, still stinging from my interaction with Stumblemeyer. Annika stands by the sink, applying lip balm. She smiles shyly at me in the mirror. She’s pretty in a Scandinavian way with a turned up nose, large dark eyes, and a full mouth. I can see why Jason is attracted to her. Jealousy pings at my chest wall, and I wonder if she likes him, too. A thought flashes across my mind: I could kiss her and find out. I instantly shrug it off in disgust. What the hell is wrong with me? This power has taken over my brain like a worm in an apple. Can’t I meet anyone now without wondering what’s in their thoughts?

  “You were the only girl who wasn’t afraid of the hurdles,” Annika says in a friendly tone.

  Miranda laughs. “Would you be if you had Winter’s long legs? I’m probably going to end up crotch-skewered on those things. I’m way too short to be doing hurdles.”

  “Me also,” says Annika. I detect a slight accent in her voice. “I had to get up my courage to jump over the lower ones. I cannot imagine doing the tall ones. I would probably fall flat on my face.” She smiles.

  “Just like Stumblemeyer,” says Miranda, giggling as she elbows me. I don’t laugh. It hurts to remember my conversation with Jason and how the nickname obviously still bothers him.

  “Who?” asks Annika, a confused look on her face.

  “You know, the guy you were running with,” says Miranda. “His name is Stumblemeyer because he’s the clumsiest, dorkiest guy in the school.”

  “I think you must be mistaken,” Annika replies in clear, distinct foreigner’s English. “The guy I was running with is named Jason. He is new to the school like I am. He does not seem clumsy at all.”

  “Trust me, he’s a klutz,” replies Miranda tartly. “And he used to go to this school freshman year. So technically he’s not new.”’

  “Okay, whatever,” says Annika, looking from Miranda to me with wary eyes. I can tell she wonders what we’re up to, if we’re trying to sabotage her friend
ship with Jason. She turns back to the mirror and sweeps some mascara over her unfairly long eyelashes.

  Miranda and I exchange a glance. I give her a look—“Cut it out”—with a slight shake of my head. I feel sorry for this new girl who seems so eager for a friend. Besides, I’m dying to know what Jason finds so interesting about her.

  “Do you have a ride home?” I ask Annika. Miranda elbows me. She’s not as open to bringing friends in as I am. It’s clear she doesn’t like Annika. Then again, Miranda doesn’t like anyone who challenges or rebuffs her. Anyone who threatens her, for that matter. I’m the opposite. I would rather be friends than enemies. Or at least keep enemies close.

  Annika fixes me with a dark-eyed stare. “Why, are you offering me a ride?”

  I nod.

  Annika sizes me up then breaks into a smile. “I’d love one. I hate taking the school bus. My parents both work full time, and I don’t have a car yet.”

  Miranda sighs loudly as I go to change my clothes.

  6

  I’m sitting on the beige-carpeted floor of Annika’s living room as we polish our nails. I’ve decided to kiss her after all. I’m not a lesbian. I simply need to find out what her deal is, where she comes from, and who she is. Most of all, I want to know if she’s interested in Jason Brackmeyer.

  Luckily, a quick peck is all it’ll take. My power has been getting more efficient. When I’d kissed Victor, it was just for the briefest of seconds and yet I saw so much. Besides immediate thoughts, I now experience both feelings and memories, all in a fraction of a second. Just a mind blast from theirs to mine—with one swift peck.

  Annika hovers over my fingernails with the nail polish bottle, her small face and round eyes giving her an elfin look. We’ve been carefully working on each other’s nails, trying not to spill any of the bright purple color, “Bruise,” on the carpet. She has no idea that I’m here with an ulterior motive. I have this psychic ability and might as well use it. Even if it’s for selfish reasons. Now I just have to wait for the right opportunity, although it might be hard to find one without it being too weird. I’m glad her parents are at work. It’s awkward enough without them buzzing around.