Love Edy

by Shewanda Pugh

  Love Edy

  by Shewanda Pugh

  Copyright 2014 Shewanda Pugh

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  For Caleb, who renews me daily

  “Whatever our souls are made of,

  his and mine are the same.”

  Emily Brontë

  One

  Friday night. The sky hung heavy, seamless, with heaven’s stars blotted out by overbearing skyscrapers. Shrieks and a cacophony of cheers rang out, hysteria supreme in a microscopic stadium rocking on the edge of Boston’s South End. Thin and buckling bleachers rattled with the stomps of impending mania, shrill whistles and hefty shouts: those were the true sounds of redemption. Fourteen years and not a single touchdown against Madison High; fourteen years, but no more.

  It had come at the hands of a freshman running back who couldn’t stop moving, a last-minute, fidgeting substitution. To others, his appearance must have seemed a concession, but Edy Phelps knew better. Edy Phelps knew him better.

  He was hunger and discipline, jittery and ravenous, so rattled that nerves kept him shifting and stretching and pacing along the sidelines. Obsession fueled him, and kept him keen on an opportunity unwilling to come. Except that night, chance came to Hassan Pradhan. His chance. Finally.

  It happened in a breath. A snap of the ball. A fake pass and Hassan thundered downfield at a speed only fear could sustain. His moment. His only moment. Take it. Take it. Run. Fly.

  He could hear her thoughts—no, feel her thoughts. Edy was sure of it. They’d always had a connection. And it was in that way she aided him. Fists pressed to her lips, teeth slammed together, screaming with her soul. Soar. I know you can do it.

  Just as the clock whittled to nothing, Hassan vaulted into the end zone.

  A collective roar swallowed Edy and the crowd leapt as one. A win. Few would recall the last.

  On her left, Hassan’s parents cheered: mother in a starched linen suit and pumps too prim for a game, father in a white button-up, belly pressing the fabric, sleeves rolled to the elbow. His mother, Rani, was without the brilliant red bindi she couldn’t do without, giving her forehead that naked look. On Edy’s opposite end were her parents, their absolute best friends, in the long-sleeved alumni tees reserved for football season, mother free of the skirt suits that dictated her days. Edy abandoned them all for the sidelines, for Hassan. She weaved round patches of shrieking upperclassmen, hopped over rows of empty benches, apologized to the fat man whose cocoa she sloshed, and ignored the slice of a sudden, early winter wind.

  He’d done it.

  All those nights, all those talks, round and round about the possibility of getting in a game, the two of them in bedroom shadows, careful to keep their voices low. Some nights he thought a chance would never come; others, he insisted it had to. Either way, he always said that if it did, when it did, he would do something worth remembering. And he had.

  At the sidelines, Edy’s gaze swept a team clustered so thick, so honeyed together with the sweetness of victory, that she worried she might never find her neighbor, her best friend.

  Ice cut the air, and the glare of stadium lights had her like an ant under a magnifying glass in the noonday sun. She remembered the way the Dyson twins would burn insects and snicker, and she thought no, she’d be hot if she were a tortured ant, not cold. The fog of her breath seconded her motion.

  She spotted him.

  Edy had come to hug someone already occupied, someone surrounded by sweeping blonde curls, dark curtains of perfect hair, nestled by an endless supply of short skirts. Hassan draped an easy arm around a cheerleader with shimmering flaxen locks, mouth curling into a grin when a brunette of with pouty lips cried foul and claimed him as her own. Soft tans and the curves of certain womanhood donned them both. Edy looked from them to her own angular body and knew what she would find: all edges and sharpness, slender, muscles sculpted from a life of dance. The baggy jeans, football jersey, and sloppy poof of a ponytail she wore didn’t give her much to run with either. That hair used to be the brunt of Hassan’s endless jokes. Big enough to tip you back,” he’d say, before tugging it in absentminded affection. She fingered that hair with the same sort of absent- -mindedness, before looking up to see a blonde plant rosy lips on Hassan’s cheek.

  Ugh.

  Edy didn’t care about the movies, the books, the popular culture that insisted football player and cheerleader, jock and pretty girl, were a natural sort of fit. It wasn’t. They weren’t. It absolutely couldn’t be.

  A girl like that couldn’t understand what made him him. So what if he was . . . obscenely gorgeous, with sun-licked bronze skin, silken black locks, and eyes an ever-glimmering, gold-flecked green. He had a quiet sort of beauty, made for old Greek sculptures and timeless works of art. Not that he was quiet. He was explosive, with good looks and athleticism. But beyond that were pleasures and disappointments, what he loved and could not bear. Imprinted on Edy’s mind were the crinkles at the corner of Hassan’s eyes when he smiled, the clench of his jaw when irritation set in, the rich and sonorous laugh that had slipped octaves lower in recent years. A girl like that blonde could be nothing to him—could know nothing of him. She knew a moment and a touchdown. That was it.

  Edy’s hands made fists.

  The blonde moved in to kiss his cheek again, just as a teammate shouted his name. Hassan jerked back, only to be caught at the corner of his mouth by her lips.

  A whoop rang out from the guys.

  Heat flushed Edy’s veins and her fingernails dug, digging, digging, until tears blurred her vision.

  Wait.

  He was her best friend, family really, if you considered the way they were brought up. So, she really had no reason to—

  The blonde threw her arms around Hassan. The team swarmed and the two disappeared from sight.

  They were kissing, weren’t they?

  Edy closed her eyes, forcing back the hottest tears and the bitterest taste of sudden envy.

  She loved him. Dear God, she loved her best friend.

  It fell down on her at once, uncompromising truth and the weight of reality like a cloak too heavy to bear.

  The boy that had grown by her side, promised to another in a tradition as old as marriage itself, another girl of his ethnicity, religion, beliefs: that’s the boy she loved. A single line existed between Edy’s family and his, between the Pradhans and Phelps, who otherwise acted as one.

  But Edy loved him.

  And, of course, there was no recourse for that.

  Two

  Friday night. Three weeks since the Madison win, two hours since annihilating Charlestown. Another victory at Hassan’s hands. Time to celebrate, Edy supposed.

  Edy slipped the door of her home library closed behind her, tucked their oversized family medical guide under her arm, and gripped the front of her fuzzy pink terry robe in a fist. Her gaze swept left, then right, before dashing straight to her bedroom—a short scurry down the hall and up the stairs. She had minutes to spare before the party, maybe less.

  Once inside, she locked the door and tossed the book onto her bed, joining it with a bounce. Edy flipped to Chapter Sixteen, “Sexual Development and Puberty,” and took a deep breath, then another.

  Moments ago, she thought she’d felt a small, tender lump while thumbing around
in the shower. It should have been the first sign of breast development, but at fourteen, she’d jetted a full four years past the average age for debut. So she aimed to look now, with a pseudo instruction manual in sight. Edy patted her chest; thumbed, jabbed, grunted, and let her arms drop in defeat.

  Nothing. Flat as a freaking tortilla.

  Seven signs of puberty existed, six of them absent in her. Edy’s chocolate skin ran smooth and hairless, her body curve-less and acne-free. She had no period to speak of and were it not for her distinct need to double up on Secret antiperspirant before ballet, she’d swear herself relegated to childhood forever.

  Edy sat up and folded her legs Indian style—Native American style?— on her bed, frowning at a diagram claiming to be her insides. Since ten, she’d been squinting at books like this, books that told her first to be patient and later that something had to be wrong. Girls began puberty at ten or twelve, finishing at sixteen, seventeen at the latest. Even if she did begin that year, the year she’d turn fifteen, it would mean she’d still be developing at twenty or twenty-one according to the pace of these charts. Was it possible? Or was she broken, faulty in some way?

  Edy took a peek at her body. Stuffing her bra could be an option. If she didn’t move around much, it might hold. Chloe Castillo had stuffed her bra for close to a year, stopping only when breasts grew instead. In doing so, she’d left Edy as the only girl in the ninth grade with a washboard chest and hips as attractive as a spine. When coupled with owlish brown eyes and only the slightest swell of a bottom, she wasn’t exactly runway material.

  The bedroom door rattled and Edy started. Heart athump, she chucked the book under her bed, turned a circle in search of clothes and squeaked at the sound of Hassan Pradhan’s bark.

  “You walk in four minutes! Twins said it, so you know it means three.”

  Edy jumped into matchstick jeans, struggled into an unassuming white turtleneck, and cracked the door open with forced indifference. Hassan raised a brow at the creak she made, paused, and then nudged the door further with two fingers.

  “We lock doors now?” he said.

  No. Yes. Definitely yes.

  He pointed a finger at her chest.

  “Something on your shirt,” he said.

  Edy shook her head, slow. No way. She knew the trick. Knew it well.

  “Really,” he insisted. “It’s right there.”

  She refused to look down. Nothing could be there and both of them knew what would happen if she did hazard a glance.

  “Fine.” He laughed. “Go out looking like that. Don’t stand near me.”

  And he turned for the stairs, giving her an inkling of opportunity.

  She looked and Hassan snapped back, faster than the thought that followed, the one telling her she knew better. Even as the laugh burst from her, his finger snapped up, zipping over her chin, mouth, and nose before flicking the space between her eyes with its dampness.

  He whirled for the stairs, dismissing her as a non-threat, only to have her foot plow squarely into his backside. Hassan stumbled for a stair or two, grabbed the railing, and broke his fall.

  He turned back to face her. “You lock the door on me again and I’ll tell you kicked me.”

  With Edy’s pacifist father the threat had serious consequences—if he meant it, which he didn’t. Never mind that Hassan elected to take pummelings on the football field far more severe than any her dancer’s foot could render. Telling her father she’d hit him meant enduring hours of him reading aloud about the philosophical beliefs of Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther, Jesus, and Henry David Thoreau.

  Satisfied at having reprimanded her, Hassan bounded downstairs, down stairs he’d chased her endlessly on, everyday, since learning to walk. His shoulders were broader than she ever thought possible, back straight, waist wasp narrow. At fifteen, he stood eye-to-eye with his father and a head above her, body hard, and kept by the assurance of athletic grace.

  He ran a hand through limp black hair, damp and clinging to perfect skin.

  Edy exhaled and hurried after him.

  Downstairs, they threw her father a pair of cursory hand waves. He rose from his favorite arm chair to hurl an avalanche of restrictions meant for them both. They ranged from returning home at a respectable time to resisting the urge to sample ecstasy, heroin, and cocaine. When Hassan scoffed at the latter, her father followed them, all the while citing a recent Columbia University study that said one in three teens would have the opportunity to sample drugs at a party.

  “Well then,” Hassan mumbled, low enough for Edy’s ears only. “I’ll be sure not to miss my chance.”

  She grinned.

  Outside, a gleaming black Land Rover inched forward, slowing past Edy’s house. When they stopped, it stopped. When they started, it started again. Finally, Hassan let out a snort, grabbed Edy by the wrist, and hurried down the walkway.

  The Land Rover continued its creep, moving slow enough for Hassan to throw open the back door and wave Edy in. The moment she lifted her foot, however, the Rover shot forward, only to jerk to a halt. When she tried again, it did the same. Edy couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Would you stop before she falls?” Hassan yelled. “Friggin’ clowns.”

  The front window slid down and a pair of snickers greeted him. The driver’s head emerged.

  “If all the beer’s gone, Sawn, you’d better morph into Sam Adams and brew more,” Mason Dyson warned.

  Mason, one half of the Dyson twin freight train that lived two blocks away, swiped a swath of perfectly managed dreadlocks from his eyes and grinned. Edy seized the opportunity to jump into the SUV. Once inside, she mumbled hellos to Mason and his identical, Matthew, who thumped her on the forehead in greeting. Edy settled in next to their younger brother Lawrence. Hassan climbed in behind her and slammed a palm into the driver’s side headrest, jarring Mason before settling in behind him. Mason, seemingly oblivious to the assault, adjusted the low rumble of hip hop drifting from the speakers, let up his window, eased off the brake of the factory-fresh Land Rover, and tossed a wave to Edy’s father, who stood in the doorway. He, in turn, lifted his hand absentmindedly, thoughts no doubt far and away on some strand of research. She didn’t know why she expected any different, but it would have been nice for her dad to pretend his daughter was the least bit . . . desirable and therefore worthy of serious distrust.

  Oh well.

  In the front, the twins broke out into a hand slap tournament over the radio. Mason wanted Pitbull and Matt, Justin Timberlake, thinking it would “entice the girls.” Though Edy’s father had ventured to the door to see them off, he’d been distracted enough to bring a newspaper. A lift of his head froze the action. In the end, Pitbull reigned victorious.

  Edy sighed. There she sat, seconds from the “it” party of the moment, with not one or two but four of the school’s star football players. The Dyson twins were upperclassmen, defensive teammates that had shown talent even in South End’s worst days. Their younger brother, Lawrence, was a wide receiver just beginning to come into his own. Then there was Hassan, of course, the Boy Who Beat Madison, an accomplishment that sprouted legs and run away of its own accord, growing with every step it took. Since then, there had been more wins and more touchdowns. At school, in the corridors, these were the boys to know. These were the boys that girls whispered about, watched, and wanted. There were times when she overheard one girl or another, spazzing out on fantasies and trysts that involved Matt and Mason. Edy warmed, pushing back thoroughly unwanted images. Everyone knew not only what the Dyson boys did, but that they did it often and well. Nonetheless, Edy’s father stood in the doorway, waving as his lone and virginal daughter made off with a car full of jocks.

  She was safe. Woefully, painfully, unquestionably safe; as secure as a Victorian-era maiden out for a stroll with her beau, watchful chaperones at the ready. With the Dysons, with Hassan, she was but one of the boys—or worse, a little sister suffered out of obligation.

  As if to illus
trate, Matt thumped her on the forehead once more as Lawrence elbowed her over, claiming to need more space. There could be no doubt that Edy Phelps was safe from the clutches of male temptation, even if she wanted it any other way.

  As if on cue, the Land Rover tracked backwards.

  “What’s wrong?” Matt said.

  “Castillo. Six o’clock.” Mason shot a look in the rearview mirror.

  Six o’clock, just over Edy’s shoulder. Chestnut curls sweeping in the wind, makeup runway dramatic, glamour girl Chloe Castillo—in no need of bra stuffing these days—had the attention of three Dysons, Hassan, and, to her own dismay, Edy.

  “Party?” Mason wondered aloud.

  “Gotta be,” Matt said.

  “Well, then. We certainly can’t have her out here all alone. Not in the mean streets of Boston.”

  There were mean streets in Boston. Edy’s mother, the district attorney, could attest to as much. But those streets never pierced the tree-lined affluence of their posh enclave.

  “Gonna give her a ride, Lil’ Dyson,” Mason said to Lawrence. “Try not to pitch a tent.”

  Lawrence winced, ears reddening at their snickers. Edy looked from one to the next for clarification. Only when Matt flicked his pointer finger skyward that she could make sense of the comment.

  Aroused. Try not to get aroused.

  Warmth crept over Edy’s cheeks. She ducked her head, wishing herself away.

  “Matt—” Hassan warned.

  “What? I didn’t say it! And anyway, she’s a big girl. She knows what we’re talking about.” Matt shot Edy a mockingly suspicious look. “Somehow.”

  Suddenly she, instead of Chloe Castillo, had the attention of the entire car. They were so full of crap that way. Still, Edy stiffened under their looks and took an interest in the back of her eyelids instead. Long seconds passed where her heart simmered down to a slow beat. She stole a peek at Hassan, who glared back at her, foul as a bare mouth mule gumming on thumb tacks.