by James Fuerst
“What in holy hell was that!” Coach Rose bellowed as he dashed over blowing his whistle. “Goddamn it, Orlando! Bump and wrap! Bump and wrap! Goddamn it! You tryin’ to kill somebody? Goddamn it!”
Coach Rose ran up and grabbed Orlando by the shoulder pads and started shaking him, screaming in his face and slapping the sides of his helmet. The words came out of his mouth so loud and so fast and I was still so woozy that I didn’t get most of it, but he was laying into Orlando like he’d knocked Coach’s mom out instead of some kid he didn’t give a wet fart about anyway. The only part I caught was “gonna run till you puke,” and then he pushed Orlando away. Before he started off on the torture that was supposed to teach him a lesson, Orlando leaned over to me.
“I… I’m sorry, G,” he whispered, his voice thick and breaking. “I didn’t… I mean, I wouldn’t…”
There was a sound like distant waves crashing in my head and my thoughts were patchy and loose, but somehow I knew what he was going to say. “No, I know you wouldn’t,” I stammered, trying to prop myself up on my elbows. “So who made you do it?”
Orlando’s teary eyes grew tense and frightened.
“Who put you up to it, O?”
“Orlando!” roared Coach Rose from halfway across the field. “Why in the hell aren’t you running? You want twenty more laps? Answer me, boy!”
“No, sir.”
“Then get your ass moving this second!”
“Just a name,” I asked as Orlando stepped back nervously, “that’s all I need.”
“I’m sorry, G … I can’t.” He turned and sprinted off.
Yeah, it was just what I’d thought. Somebody had gotten to him, forced him to send a message, and this was it. I’d only just started and already I was too close.
Coach Rose sent the trainer over to have a look at me, and he must’ve trusted the diagnosis completely, because he never checked on me himself.
FOUR
By the time I got home, I was soaked. The heavy slates of green-gray sky had cracked and burst, tossing streaks of light and biblical floods down on the Cruiser and me. My head was pounding, and all I wanted was a shower, dry clothes, something to eat, and a little time in front of the tube to clear my thoughts before Thrash and I got back to work. But as the old man told me before he split, the less you wanted, the harder it was to get. And the way things had gone so far, I should’ve known I was in for another surprise.
My mom, sister, and I lived in a two-story, three-bedroom house with meager lawns in front and back. Slapdash construction, aluminum siding, neighbors right up in your face, close to the trailer park, the Circle, and the crappy strip mall. In other words, a place cheap enough for my mother to afford on the tips she made waiting tables at the diner in the day and tending bar at night. It wasn’t the best part of town, but it wasn’t the worst either, and it sure as hell wasn’t a dump like some people said. It was home, and I was lucky enough to have one, so I wasn’t complaining.
As I pulled up out front, I couldn’t help noticing the moped parked in the back, a red Puch that looked brand-new. My first thought was, What kind of jerk-off would leave a brand-new moped out in a downpour like this? But I didn’t have to wonder about it for long. I hopped off the Cruiser and started walking it toward the back of the house when the jerk-off came rushing out, helmet on, visor down. He jumped on, cranked the pedals, revved the engine, and drove off. Ray “the Razor” Tuffalo had just been at my house, and the way he avoided looking at me made me fear the worst about what he’d been doing there. I chained the Cruiser underneath the sheet of tin hanging over the concrete slab that we called the back porch and went inside to see if I was right.
Like I’d thought, the water was running in the upstairs bathroom and Led Zeppelin was rumbling the walls. Neecey was so predictable it was almost funny. Whenever she got laid, she’d crank “Kashmir” on the stereo and jump in the shower, like punching a clock after work. I should’ve been used to it by now, but it still annoyed the shit out of me. Even though her boyfriend Gary hadn’t been around for a while and Darren only came over now and then, that song was starting to feel played out. Not that I had anything against Zeppelin; they rocked all ass and I had a patch with their logo on my backpack to prove it. But I was worried about my sister and what people might say, and although she was playing “Fool in the Rain” now and not “Kashmir,” so I couldn’t be sure about what, if anything, she’d done with Razor, it still bothered me, not only because it was a Cro-Magnon like Razor, but because I didn’t know how much Zeppelin was too much.
I went upstairs, tossed my backpack in my bedroom closet, and then banged on the bathroom door.
“I’m in the shower,” Neecey called.
“I need to get in,” I shouted back, though I knew it was pointless.
“What?” she replied. “I can’t hear you.”
Typical. “I said I have to get in there.” I yelled that time.
“Whadyasay? I can’t hear you. Just open the door.”
I hated this fucking game. Whenever she was in the shower, she pretended she couldn’t hear me through the door, even though I knew she could. If I wanted to tell her something or ask her a question, I either had to wait until she got out, which could take forever, or I had to go in. She wouldn’t just let me open the door a crack and talk through it, I had to step all the way inside, so I had to turn my head or keep my eyes down to avoid seeing her through the clear plastic shower curtain. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d gotten the timing down so perfect that no matter how long I was in there, even if it was just a second or two, she’d already be finished, have the water turned off, and her hand out waiting for a towel. Then she’d keep talking to me as she dried off behind the curtain, real casual, taking her time.
The point of this fucking farce was to force me to be in the room with her while she was naked, and she’d started doing it a little over two years ago when she started filling out. She wasn’t quite fourteen at the time, and mom said that while Neecey had been slow to get going, she was quick to catch up. In a few months she’d gone from being a flat, ugly stick that guys didn’t notice to the kind of teenage girl that made men and boys mutter curses beneath their breath. She had long brown hair, glossy and straight, huge, sad eyes so dark brown they were practically black, a wide, pouting mouth with full lips, curves all up and down her figure, and breasts that would’ve been totally killer if they’d been on someone else.
Yeah, I knew it was completely twisted that I’d seen her naked or half-naked as much as I had, and I was worried that it was just a matter of time before I turned into a pervert. But that’s why she made me come into the bathroom, or called me into her room from time to time when she was wearing only a bra and underwear, which she said was no different from a bikini. I never really said anything to her about it, but she must’ve realized it made me feel weird and gross, because she told me she didn’t want me to feel embarrassed or ashamed about nudity the way she had when she was my age, and that if we couldn’t be comfortable in front of each other, then how would we ever be comfortable in front of anyone else? Even though Neecey got that kind of crap from all the books on puberty, self-esteem, and sex she read, it still sounded flimsy to me. I thought it was just another way of torturing her younger brother, of showing me how grown up she was and making me aware that there were some things in this world I wasn’t ready to handle. As if I needed to be reminded that she was hot, or that she probably didn’t put up much of a fight for the few guys she’d liked. Shit, I knew that. And even if the whole town found out and started saying my sister was a slut, I still wouldn’t want it rubbed in my face all the fucking time.
I stepped into the bathroom and said, “I just got back from football. It’s pouring. I’m soaked. I need a shower. Get out.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Jump in,” she said.
“Neecey, I’m not in the mood for your crap, really.”
“Don’t be such a fairy. Like I’d let you shower with me, you
little perv. There, I’m done anyway, hand me a towel,” she said, turning off the water and sticking out her hand.
I handed her the towel but kept my eyes on the floor.
“Look, Genie, I have something to show you.”
“No,” I said. I wasn’t going to fall for that one again.
“Come on, sissy, I had my bikini line done, check it out.”
“Jesus Christ, Neecey!” She was un-fucking-believable. “I don’t give a shit what you do with your bikini line, and I sure as hell don’t wanna see it.”
“Chill out, Genie, I totally wouldn’t show you anyway. And stop being such a wuss, okay,” she went on, “because it’s not like you’ve never seen a vagina before.” She sang the word like it was part of a witch’s spell instead of the female body. “I bet you wouldn’t be such a chicken if Cynthia was here and you were in my closet.”
Cynthia was Neecey’s best friend—she was every bit as smoking as Neecey, and because she didn’t have a boyfriend, there were lots of rumors about her. Everybody called them the Twins because they looked so much alike—same color hair, same height, similar facial features, same kind of figure—and it freaked me out a little, actually. Anyway, they were always together, so Cynthia was at our place all the time and slept over a lot. About a year ago, Cynthia was spending the night and they had an argument, a nasty one. To get back at her, Neecey hid me in her closet while Cynthia was in the shower and told me to stay there until Cynthia returned, and then jump out and scare her. Neecey’s closet door had horizontal wood slats, and if you were inside with the door shut, you could see out, but nobody could see in. Well, Cynthia came in all right—shiny-wet, soapy-smelling, wearing only a towel—and I could definitely see her strolling back and forth between the bed and the vanity, drying her hair, inspecting herself, but as I was about to make my move, her towel hit the floor. Everything went from PG to Porky’s so goddamn fast that I didn’t know where the hell I was or what was going on, but I couldn’t jump out because Cynthia was completely naked just a few feet away and I suddenly felt kind of warm and rigid all over. All I could do was wait for her to get dressed and try to make the best of it until she did. After Cynthia went downstairs, Neecey came in to see why I didn’t frighten her, and I told her what happened—most of it anyway. She smiled at me, gave me a hug, said she was sorry, and told me to forget about it. But after that I couldn’t look at Cynthia or be in the same room with her. It was like I knew something about her that I wasn’t supposed to know, and if I looked at her, she’d be able to tell and then she’d crack me one.
When Neecey noticed how I was avoiding Cynthia, she pulled me aside and said what happened wasn’t my fault and that I had to stop feeling bad about it, and the only way to stop feeling bad about it was to do it again. She’d read that in one of her books, too. So the next time Cynthia slept over, Neecey hid me in the closet when she was in the shower, and told me it didn’t matter if I jumped out to frighten her or not, I just had to try to relax so I wouldn’t be freaked or act all weird around Cynthia anymore. Cynthia came in, and I watched her change. No, I didn’t jump out, but it wasn’t because I was caught off guard, like the first time. Maybe knowing what to expect made the situation easier to handle, because I sure as hell handled it.
The next day, Neecey asked me if I was still freaked, and I said no, and she asked me why didn’t I jump out, then. I didn’t answer her. She smiled and said it was fine if I liked it; it was perfectly natural for me to want to look at Cynthia, who was totally gorgeous. She said my liking it was probably the only normal thing about me, and I should feel good about being normal in something, and that it would be our secret. After that, when I was having problems in school or feeling really down, Neecey tried to cheer me up with some closet time. We called it Manning the Lookout because that’s what I did: I looked out. For a few months, I guessed Cynthia didn’t know anything about it, but I supposed she must have found out the time I was Manning the Lookout and mom came home early from work, because Neecey rushed into the room and made Cynthia get dressed real fast and go downstairs, and pushed me into my room while Cynthia was still in the stairwell. I was convinced she’d seen me, and I was totally embarrassed and couldn’t talk to her or look at her or be in the same room with her again, and everything stopped for a few weeks. But about two months ago, Cynthia was staying over and mom was working at the bar and Neecey said it was all clear to Man the Lookout again, if I wanted to. Since then, I’d been doing it pretty regularly, about once a week, all through the summer, and the only thing different was that Neecey had started teasing me about it, and I’d started to wonder if Cynthia knew.
“Cynthia’s not my fucking sister,” I pointed out.
“No duh, dipshit. But you’re not such a total horn dog that you can’t see me in a towel without getting all freaky, are you? Because that’s like way gross.”
“No,” I said.
“Then what’s your damage?”
My damage was I didn’t know if she was right or wrong about any of these things, and I was starting to resent being the guinea pig in her experiments. Plus, I’d had a rough day and felt like she was really riding me for some reason, and I wanted her off my back. So I broke the silence I’d always kept about her business, because I usually didn’t want any part of it. “Why don’t you get Razor back in here and make him look at it? Or has he seen it already?”
That got her. Her face went flush. She wrapped the towel tighter around herself and said, “So, you saw him leaving?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Why? You thought you could hide it from me? Fat fucking chance,” I added, realizing I was suddenly much angrier than I’d thought, maybe because thinking of Neecey and Razor reminded me of seeing him with Stacy earlier. “So, tell me Neecey, did you show him your snatch? How’d Razor like playing ball on a field with fresh-cut grass?”
“Stop it, Genie,” she said calmly. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”
“Or did he trim it for you? Is that it? And then you thanked him by banging him silly on my bed, right?” My face was hot and my hands were shaking.
“Calm down, Genie,” she soothed. “You’re scary when you get like this.”
“Oh, so now who’s scared? Who’s the fucking chicken now?” The anger was running on its own steam, racing forward, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. “I’ll show you who’s the fucking chicken!” I pulled my shorts down to my ankles and whipped off my shirt.
Neecey let out a shriek, jumped back, and covered her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Genie!” she barked. “Put your shorts back on right now and like get a grip!”
Yeah, sometimes I had problems with self-control. I bent over and quickly hiked up my shorts. “They’re on,” I mumbled.
“You are so majorly deranged sometimes, it’s like, I don’t even know what.”
As I stood back up, my heart was still racing, but my wits were coming back; they were telling me I should feel like an idiot. My cheeks reddened and my chin drooped toward my chest. “Neecey, I…” I began, but didn’t finish.
She sighed loudly, calming herself. “Seriously, Genie? Don’t ever do any shit like that again, I totally mean it.”
I couldn’t look at her, so I nodded at the floor.
“Let’s just like forget it now, okay?”
I nodded again.
“Except…”
“Except?” I asked.
“Except,” she snickered.
“Except what?” I cringed, panting, edgy like a madman.
“Except those big-ass balls of yours! Holy shit, Genie!” she said, and burst out laughing.
“Shut up, Neecey. They’re not so big.”
“Shit, yeah, they are. They’re like sideshow big, and you’re not even thirteen yet.”
“Two more months,” I said.
“And you’ll still be a dork.” Her laughter trailed off and she shook her head. “But you never know, you could have a decent little pecker when you get older, so maybe you won’t
always be like a total waste of humanity.”
“You think?” I’d never thought about that before, that when I got bigger I’d get bigger all over.
“I hate to say it, but yeah. It reminds me of Murray’s. Remember Murray? He moved like two years ago?”
“You mind sparing me the details, Neece?”
“God, you’re like such a little priss sometimes, Genie. Get over it already.” She flipped her hair back over her shoulders. She was starting to relax again, and all of a sudden she was excited, clapping her hands together and bouncing up and down. “Ohmigod. I so can’t wait to tell Cynthia! She thinks you’re totally cute. Weird as shit, but cute. That’s why she keeps letting you Man the Lookout even though she knows about it. You know that, right?”
“I kind of figured that.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Anyway, she totally knows. She was kind of mad at first, because she’s like scared of boys, and that’s why she doesn’t have a boyfriend. She’s totally curious and won’t ever stop talking about it, but she’s like, I don’t know. Whatever. Anyway, I told her she shouldn’t be mad because it happened by mistake, but you got really excited seeing her, and it was like one of the only things that made you happy, with you being a miniature Holden Caulfield and all.”
“Who?”