The Line Below

by Ali Dean

  “True. Except maybe my sister. That girl takes her rest days seriously. We don’t get them very much and based on how we left things last night, I’m guessing she was out late.”

  “Yeah, you noticed that? What’s up with her and Kingston?”

  “Don’t know, but it’s something. I think they hooked up after his concert, but I’m not really sure. Kick likes guys and hooks up with a lot of them. Sometimes she likes to convince herself she’s in love with them for a few days, maybe even a few weeks, but usually, she doesn’t talk much about it. She didn’t mention Jack Kingston so I figured that was that.”

  I glance up at Jett as he backs away from testing the water temperature and glances behind him at me sitting on the toilet. My mouth waters for him again already. He stands tall and totally naked, all six feet four inches of him crowding the tiny space, muscles cut in all the right places and emanating power.

  Sighing, I tell him exactly what I’m thinking. “You’re really hot.”

  He shoots me a cocky smirk. “Back at you, baby. Now hop in with me so we can clean up before brunch. We need to stop by your place to get you a change of clothes too.”

  “Oh yeah,” I agree, mesmerized by his body as he steps inside. That butt. Damn.

  He peeks around the shower curtain and catches me biting my lip and staring at his backside. “Shay, baby. Shower.”

  “‘Kay,” I agree easily, liking the demanding tone. “Your voice is hot too.”

  I can hear him chuckling from the other side of the shower curtain before I step in behind him. “You get real cute after morning sex, don’t you? Real sweet. I’ll have to remember that.”

  I shrug because he’s right. I guess. Jett’s got one bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap in the shower, and when I use them, I smell all spicy and manly like him. It takes a lot of discipline not to start something again, but I don’t want to start off on a bad foot with his family by being extra late. Jett’s body tells me he’s struggling not to take me again too, and we exchange a few steamy glances in silence before toweling off. I’ve never wanted anyone like this before, and each moment I only sink deeper, feel his presence more intensely. I can’t believe I used to think that feelings in a relationship only dwindle with time.

  Jett tosses me a pair of sweatpants that I have to roll over five times and they still practically fall off, and I slip on the tee shirt I slept in before we jump in his pickup and drive to my apartment to grab clothes. He’s dressed casually in athletic shorts and flip flops, but I want to err on the side of overdressed and go with a cotton summer dress and sandals.

  Jett waits in the car while I change and when I return, he stares at me for a long time, his expression unreadable. “Next time, grab a bag with some stuff you can keep at my place.”

  He turns to look at the road and pulls out, leaving me to process that he just said what no college guy in his right mind ever says to a girl he’s slept with a couple times. Or, like, ever. Especially not a guy like Jett Decker who no doubt can get with any girl on campus if he wants to. Shouldn’t he want to sow his wild oats or whatever like Julian? My heart jumps and stutters a few times, uncertain whether this is all too good to be true. Nothing about Jett Decker or the way he’s been with me has been anything like a normal college guy, so why should I be surprised by this newest comment? Somehow, he said so damn much with that one sentence.

  And I didn’t even respond, not that he left room for argument. Maybe I’ll tell him to leave stuff at my place too… nah, not quite ready for that. Besides, I’d rather he just do it if he wants to. That feels like the way it should go down anyway.

  It’s a comfortable silence between us – or not silence, exactly, with hip-hop pumping a steady beat over the wind swishing outside our rolled-down windows. I’ll have to really focus on homework this afternoon since I’ve put it off all weekend. It’s been worth it, but I can’t get away with this every weekend or I’ll fall behind. I’m making a to-do list in my head for schoolwork, still feeling pretty chilled out, until we pull up in front of a house with several cars already in the driveway.

  “Is there anything I should know before I go in?” I’m gazing out the window as I ask, trying to prepare for a Sunday brunch that I have a sneaking suspicion will be way out of my comfort zone. Put me in a banquet hall with white tablecloths and senators, and I’m cool as a cucumber. A meal with a normal family at a normal-looking house with normal-looking cars parked in front? I’m not sure how to do normal.

  Jett’s hand captures my chin and turns my face to look at him. “Just be yourself. And relax. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Jett follows the noise to the backyard, leading me through a gate in a chain-link fence next to the one-story home. I’m trying not to think about how four kids fit in a house that size, or what it says about me that I didn’t know anyone who shared bedrooms with their siblings growing up.

  “Uncle Jett!” a little girl shrieks the moment we come into her line of vision. Wearing a bathing suit and pigtails she runs at us, barreling into Jett, who lifts her in the air and swings her around.

  “Jade. What’s new? You driving your ma crazy?”

  She giggles and then frowns. “I have to be good if I want a bouncy castle at my birfday party.”

  Jett speaks quietly. “Don’t tell your ma but if she doesn’t pull through for ya on the castle, Uncle Jett will hook you up.”

  She whoops, pumping her fist in the air. “You’re the best, Uncle Jett.”

  “I know it.”

  “Who she?” Jade suddenly asks, turning her head to me. I wasn’t sure she’d noticed me yet.

  “That’s Shay.”

  “Hi Jade,” I tell her with a smile. “When’s your birthday?”

  “October 28. When’s yours?”

  I laugh and tell her mine. “Let me guess how old you’re turning. Thirteen?”

  “No, silly! I’m not even in double digits yet.”

  “Oh, right. Okay, eight?” I’m guessing the girl is six or seven but I’d be on her shit list if I guessed too low.

  “Six!” she screams so loud that Jett cringes. Wow, the girl has serious vocal cords.

  I’m telling her how much older she looks when a group of women come around the corner.

  The oldest, who can only be Jett’s mother, immediately scolds him. “Jett, get yourself into the backyard. You’re already late and food’s getting cold.” Her eyes barely dart my way before she admonishes, “And introduce your guest.”

  “Ma, this is Shay Spark. Shay, this is my mother, Maria, and my sisters – Mia, Brianna, and Hailey.”

  Maria Decker doesn’t leave time for further greetings. As soon as names are exchanged, she orders us to the back porch, where two tables are pushed together with chairs and high chairs crowded around them.

  I follow them inside with Jett, who has Jade glued to his side. The countertops in the small kitchen are covered with plates of food, and I can hear men’s voices, babies’ babble, and a sports channel playing from another room.

  “Guests first,” one of Jett’s sisters says with a hand gesture in the general direction of the food. Another sister practically shoves a paper plate in my hands.

  “Thanks.” The food looks and smells amazing and I want to load my plate, but can’t decide if it’s more polite to eat a lot or eat like a lady. Apparently, my stomach makes the choice for me because my paper plate is bending from the weight by the time I get through serving from each dish – egg casserole, bacon, ham, hash browns, and some sort of French toast casserole with fruit topping.

  Maria looks at my plate, nods in approval, and points outside, presumably to tell me to sit down at the table. She then asks me if I want pineapple or orange juice and how I take my coffee. Yikes, I can’t even imagine my mother making me breakfast cereal. I try to insist on getting the drinks myself but she practically pushes me into my chair as she tells me to sit.

  The sisters put plates with chopped-up food in front of the high chairs
and don’t say anything even as they blatantly size me up. I’ve got no idea what kind of conclusions they’re drawing about me. When Jade takes the seat next to me, she isn’t shy about sharing what everyone else must be thinking.

  “So, are you Uncle Jett’s girl?”

  “His girl? Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Hmmm.” She hums with indecision about me as she takes me in. “You on the track team?”

  “No. The swim team.”

  She nods. “You’re all right, I guess.”

  “You’re all right too,” I say, trying to hide my amusement.

  Men and babies join the table next, and I lose track of who goes with whom and everyone’s names. When the women finally sit down with food, I think it’s safe to pick up my fork, but then Jett’s dad, whose name I’m pretty sure is David, puts his hands out to the sides, palms up, and everyone at the table copies him, holding hands in a giant circle. Jade and Jett grasp mine as we bow our heads and David says a blessing. And there’s silence while everyone digs in. Jade’s the first to break it when she relays our conversation.

  “Did you know that Shay is Jett’s girl? And she’s on the swim team.”

  I’ve just shoved a mouthful of French toast into my mouth when all eyes at the table turn to me. Even the cute baby boy in the high chair across from me is giving me a funny look.

  Then one of the sisters, the pregnant one who I think is Hailey, says, “A white girl? Really, Jett?”

  The French toast sticks to the inside of my mouth and I have to take a sip of juice to get it down. The silence at the table is thicker than syrup as her words rattle around in my chest. Emotions battle inside of me, bouncing back and forth between anger, shock, disappointment, and embarrassment.

  When no one at the table immediately admonishes her or jumps to my defense, I look her straight in the eye and ask, “Is that a problem?”

  Jett takes my hand. “Don’t answer that, Hailey.” His command slices through the room. “I’m going to pretend like you didn’t just say that because you’re pregnant,” he tells her.

  “What’s wrong with her being white?” Jade asks. “I think she’s pretty.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Jade’s mom, Mia, I think, agrees. “And a swimmer at Cal U? Wow. Don’t they have one of the best swim teams in the nation?”

  “We placed fourth at Nationals last year,” I tell her, happy for the change of subject. The rest of the family seems to take Mia’s cue and asks me questions about swimming, then my twin sister, where I grew up, and all the general questions before conversations break off and people talk about other stuff like the kids, Jett’s training, the hair salon, and baseball.

  The food is awesome but I don’t taste much as Hailey’s hostility rattles around me. What is the deal? Am I naïve to think skin color shouldn’t matter in a relationship? Maybe I’m clueless. Maybe for people like me who grow up with privilege, I’m incapable of understanding why someone like Hailey wouldn’t want her brother with a white girl. But I don’t get that. Mia’s husband is white. Does Hailey have a problem with him too?

  The drive back to campus is a quiet one. I want to ask Jett these questions, but I don’t know if I can. If I should. There’s this gap between us and I can’t cross it. It seems to me that Jett is hiding his mood from me, and I don’t like it.

  The ache in the pit of my stomach surprises me. It’s one I recognize as helplessness. At least, I think that’s what it is. It’s a really awful sensation, and I’ve only ever had it before when Kick has been down in the dumps. She gets like that sometimes.

  Jett pulls up in front of the condo. “I’m sorry about Hailey. She’s always been really protective of me. That was rude and stupid, and I don’t know what to say.” Jett’s eyes finally meet mine.

  “I don’t know what to say either. Tabby seemed to have a problem with me too.” I’ve never thought I come across as snobby or anything, but now I’m wondering if I give off a certain vibe. I’m suddenly exhausted.

  Jett looks tired too. “Look, I wasn’t gonna say anything. Maybe I thought you knew or you’d figure it out, but there’s kind of this mentality that successful black dudes should be with black women. There’s gonna be haters out there who think now I made it in track or whatever, I’m doing what all the black dudes do once they make it by going with a white girl. And it’s whack, ‘cause my sisters dated white guys with no pushback. Hell, Mia married a white dude, but it is what it is.”

  A ball of tension forms in my chest. I should know this, right? I shouldn’t be so oblivious?

  All I can force out from my mouth is a lame, “Oh.”

  When I peek at him, it looks like he’s going to say more about it but he shakes his head like he just wants to shake it all off. “It doesn’t matter though, Shay. This is between you and me. There are gonna be people with certain ideas and judgments, but they don’t know us.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I nod like it’s all really simple.

  He leans forward to kiss me on the cheek and tuck some hair behind my ear. “Hailey will come around. And the rest of my family doesn’t think like her, all right?”

  “All right. Thanks for inviting me.” I want to close my eyes; it sounds so stupid after talking about something so heavy. “I’ve got a ton of homework. Maybe see you tomorrow?”

  “Can we get dinner tomorrow after practice?”

  “Yeah.” I’m grateful for his assertiveness. It’s our first bout of true awkwardness with each other. The only moment I second-guessed if the way we’ve clicked so far has been some fluke that will reveal itself fraudulent at any moment. But with his assurance I’ll see him tomorrow, I know it’ll be okay.

  Jett and I fall into a rhythm the next couple of weeks, seeing each other at least every day, whenever we can squeeze in the time. By the second week, we’re sleeping over at one of our places almost every night. He’s on a tight workout and homework schedule just like me, and knowing we’re in it together, that neither of us is waiting around all day for the other, makes our time together better.

  The first meet of the season arrives and just like every first meet of the season, it’s full of contradictions. Nerves are the dominant sentiment. Will this season start out how it’s supposed to? Am I in the same kind of shape I was in last year at this time? Do I still have it? It being, of course, the fire or pizzazz or whatever it is that makes swimmers bolt from the blocks and push their bodies to the limits. Maybe it’s not nerves but self-doubt. Or maybe the two are one and the same. In any case, I know everyone on the team feels it as we make our way out of the locker room and to the pool for warm-ups. There’s excitement too, anticipation, the thrill of competition buzzing all around.

  But then the first meet of the season is also a bit of a let-down too. It’s just Nevada, who we know we’ll destroy on a point basis. Unless it’s against our biggest rival, Texas, dual meets aren’t a big deal, and our personal times and finishes in each event really have little importance for the rest of the season. Sure, we could hit a qualifying time for one of the bigger championship meets later in the season, but all of us are only going to get faster through the season and drop our times anyway, so hitting a qualifying time early is either unlikely – if it’s a reach in the first place – or not a big deal – if it’s a given we’ll qualify at some point anyway. So, all the buzzing is kind of anticlimactic.

  We jump in one by one, the cold water hitting with that familiar shock before the limbs stretch out and hit a rhythm. After a few laps getting the blood flowing, I stop to stretch out and regroup with the team for the portion of the warm-up we do together. Beatrice and Kick are already at the end of the lane, exchanging words in low voices. I huddle closer. Conversation halts.

  “What’s up?”

  Kick gives Bea a warning look and Bea purses her lips.

  I look closer at Kick. Something’s not right.

  “Lyd, you feeling okay?” I ask cautiously.

  She shakes her head and pushes off the wall, ducking underwate
r without a word my way.

  My eyes dart to Bea again. “Is she hungover?” I whisper the question, not wanting to be overheard.

  Beatrice’s face is solemn, her arms crossed in disapproval. “Worse.”

  My eyebrows shoot to my forehead. “You mean...”

  Beatrice winces before quietly admitting, “Pretty sure she’s still drunk.”

  “It’s eight in the morning,” I point out incredulously, looking around to see if anyone can overhear us.

  “She got back this morning at four.”

  Alarm tears through me as I take this in. I was at Jett’s place last night.

  “What was she doing?” What was she thinking?

  “I don’t know. She’s not like stumbling around drunk, but she was when she got in and that was only four hours ago so there’s no way it’s out of her system. I didn’t know what to do, Shay. I thought about covering for her, pretending she was sick, but that wouldn’t fly. People talk, they’d find out she was out and the coaches would kick her off the team. Besides, I don’t even know if they’d believe me anyway.” That’s the thing with having a reputation for being wild.

  That feeling of helplessness? This is worse. Because this time, I also want to scream with frustration. Or cry in a corner. I can’t decide.

  I do know this: it isn’t Kick being irresponsible or careless. It’s something darker. Maybe even a cry for help, maybe not.

  She comes back in the other direction but doesn’t stop at the wall with me and Beatrice. Instead, she does a quick flip turn and pushes hard off the wall, like she’s trying to get away from us. Not a cry for help then.

  I want to sprint after her, grab her foot like we do when we’re messing around. But instead of laughing, I want to shake her. Hard. Until I get through to whatever demon is inside of her. Something isn’t right. I know it as well as I’ve known anything. It’s like a dark cloud just swept in and soaked into my body, weighing me down with its shadow.