Pinned (9780545469845)

by Flake, Sharon

  I love wrestling. It’s like playing chess with your body. You have to be mentally tough, able to predict your opponent’s next move. Lazy thinkers do not stand a chance. That is one reason why Autumn perplexes me.

  For a second, it looks as if Randy will get a pin. A few moves later and he’s under Autumn again. Trembling, he tries to keep his shoulders up, while her hands and body work to hold them down.

  The ref drops to his knees and counts. Coach eyes his stopwatch. She pins him.

  Patricia stands and chants, “Whose house? Autumn’s house. Whose house …”

  When Randy shakes Autumn’s hand to congratulate her, his grandmother grumbles and packs up her things. “She shouldn’t even be out there with them boys,” she says. “They let her win, you know. Would hurt her if they used their full strength.”

  LJ from our team is making his way toward the mat.

  “All of those boys on her team help her cheat,” Randy’s grandmother says, finally moving on.

  Wrestling is not like other sports. There’s no one to help you win. No one to blame if you lose. She’s wrong about Autumn. She accomplished this on her own.

  “Night, Adonis.” Coach shuts his car door. “I can depend on ya, yeah?”

  Autumn scoots over, to be closer to me. I promise not to leave before her parents arrive.

  Crossing her legs, Autumn rubs her thighs. I do not answer when she asks if I think a girl’s muscles can ever be too large.

  It’s a clear, crisp night. I can see Mars if I focus.

  She brings up the match. How can I not say that she did an excellent job? The problem is, it will only encourage her if I do. But our team won tonight also, not just her.

  Autumn asks if I like being a manager. I share the position with someone else. He sanitizes the mats, picks up gear, and videotapes the matches. I tabulate stats, keep score, and help Ma wash and fold the uniforms. “I love being a team manager,” I tell Autumn. “It will look good on my college application.”

  She looks up at the sky. “Ain’t it nice out?” She tracks the Big Dipper with her finger. “My mother taught me how to find the little one, too.”

  I concentrate on ignoring her, looking over at the grove of trees just past the parking lot. Students who want careers in horticulture, and such, grow food near there. They pick and sell pinecones during the holidays; and mulch leaves and sell those as well.

  Autumn jumps up. “A shooting star!” Facing in my direction, she says, “I got my wish already.”

  Her parents’ car pulls into the parking lot. Putting her wrestling bag on her shoulder, she steps back into her sneakers. “I could wait —”

  “My mother is on her way.”

  Walking backward, her eyes twinkling, she tells me her wish. “A perfect season. A boyfriend —”

  Their car horn blares, covering up her words. Her mother is insistent. “Hurry up, Autumn.”

  When they speed from the lot, rolling over a car block, sparks fly.

  Mom and Dad done gone crazy. They got this idea. Read. For one hour every night. Together, as a family.

  Improving my reading gonna be a top priority, Mom say, handing me a book. Even more important than wrestling.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, my bare feet up, I’m wondering, Why? Why they wanna do this now? After a match — I’m tired. Don’t want to read. Do homework. Or nothing.

  Mom pull out a copy of the same book she just gave me. The same one my father is carrying into the kitchen. He sits down beside me, staring at the blister on my big toe. “Your mom and I don’t read good as we should.” He turn to the title page. “But we reading better than we used to.” He rubbing the back of his bald head. Smelling his fingers. “We making you a promise. You gonna catch up … to where you supposed to be. In reading and everything else.”

  Mom backs him up. “We promise.”

  “Miss Baker called y’all?”

  They both shaking their heads no.

  “Mr. Epperson?” Me and Dad scratch our foreheads at the same time. “The principal?” Coach comes to my head next. But he would never think up something like this.

  Mom was separating recyclables when she found some of my papers, she say. Math quizzes. Reading tests. Crumpled up in balls. She called Miss Baker, who reminded her that my midterm grades wasn’t good, either. Dad talked to Mr. Epperson. Both teachers say the same thing. I ain’t stupid. I need to work harder. But they not sure I want to.

  Mom and Dad didn’t have time for stuff like this before. They was always too tired when I was little. Now I’m too far behind to catch up. Anyhow, I just wanna do things I’m good at.

  They apologizing. It’s mostly their fault that I’m behind, they saying. But this the year they gonna turn all that around.

  They dropped out in tenth grade, she worked at McDonald’s, cooking. Quit there to clean hotels. Soiled sheets and wet towels is heavier than people think, she always say. Dad was a dishwasher. Plus he sold blood so him and Mom could go on nice dates. After I came, they moved to another city. Kept moving. Trying to find good jobs with benefits. And not let the landlords know they couldn’t pay.

  Last year, they got their GEDs. It took ’em two years going to school at night. But soon as they got in the program, we quit moving. Now Dad’s got a job threading pipes. Mom’s working the register at Kohl’s. Right before school started, they told me things was gonna be different. Now I see. They serious.

  Mom lays her hand over mine. “You gonna read good enough to get into college.” She been believing that since she met Peaches’s mother over the summer.

  I don’t wanna go to college. I wanna be a chef. Run my own restaurant. We got the name: Pinned. Peaches drew the symbol. It’s a peach with a diamond safety pin stuck in it. She made us up a saying, too. Pinned: Food so delectable, it sticks to your soul.

  Opening her book, giving me more bad news, Mom say I’m off the team if my reading don’t improve. “By report-card time.”

  Jumping outta my seat. My voice louder than a siren. I’m telling them they wrong. “September … y’all shoulda said something back then.”

  My father swears if I yell once more, he gonna let what I’m thinking really be true. Mom saying it didn’t come out right. “November’s report card comes out soon. You got till your January report card to get yourself together.”

  “But —”

  Dad’s opening his book, advising me to do the same. Mumbling, I’m doing what I’m told.

  The story is about a boy and his dog. Dad was supposed to read it in seventh grade. He threw it in the trash so he ain’t have to. It was too hard for him back then.

  Tiny words. Old, yellow pages. That’s what I’m seeing. One page even falls out when I touch it.

  He went to three different libraries, he say, in three different parts of town to get the books. Mom reads the title. I go to the fridge for grape juice. “Can we do this later?” I take a shot glass full at first. Then I fill up a juice glass. My insides still shaking.

  “Autumn.” Mom sits a bag of peanuts in front of Dad. “You paying attention?”

  I sit down. Reaching for peanuts. Drinking more juice.

  Dad goes first. He been thinking about this book since middle school, he say, letting out a big breath. Mom squeezing his hand. Then she give a cheer, like he about to step on the mat or a football field to wrestle or tackle somebody.

  When I hear him read, I hear myself. Skipping words. Stopping in the middle of a sentence like a car at a red light. Looking ahead to see what’s coming. A big word? One with too many syllables? Words that ain’t pronounced the way they spelled?

  He smashing a peanut with his fist saying he gotta stop in a minute ’cause he hungry and dinner ain’t for a while. His book closes. He walks over to the sink, asking Mom if she want to read.

  “He wasn’t the kind of boy to get into trouble. It’s just … trouble always seemed to find him. Serundididy.” She put the book to her nose like she need glasses. “That how you say that?”r />
  Dad’s looking over her shoulder. “Sirin … searin …”

  I try to sound out the word for them. Miss Baker say that’s what good readers do. “Sirin …” I pause. “Dip …”

  “Diddy.” Mom smiles. “Sirindiddity … tity …”

  She pointing to another word. “What’s that?” Sliding her fingernail underneath it, she spells out loud. S-P-UM-E. We don’t know what it means, how to exactly say it.

  “Firstly?” Dad asks if we ever heard of that word. It’s on page twenty-two.

  I find another one. “H-A-R-A-N-G-U-E,” That makes me think of lemon meringue pie.

  Dumping more peanuts on the table, Mom ask Dad if he sure this a seventh-grade book. Dad smashes peanuts with his fist, leaving brown skins on the table.

  When my turn come to read, I excuse myself. On the toilet. Watching wallpaper birds fly across the ceiling, I wonder what they trying to do to me. Then Mom comes knocking. Dad and her been thinking. Maybe this ain’t the right book. Too many big words makes it so you don’t know what you reading, she thinks. “He going to the library next week or maybe the week after. Who knows … for another one.”

  I knew it. They don’t like reading, neither. I’ll get to stay on the team. Finish the season in March.

  I’m celebrating, when that word pops in my head. Firstly. Don’t know why. Maybe ’cause it’s got the word first stuck inside it. I like being first. Number one. Winning.

  From the moment I was born, Ma told me I was brilliant, handsome, and strong.

  She named me after Adonis, a Greek god. Stephen was to be my name. But when the doctor delivered me, I hadn’t any knees, calves, or feet. Birth defects still happen.

  “A boy without legs needs a strong name to stand on.” Ma said it right in the delivery room. Then she changed my name. When I was young, I would pretend that I ruled the world: All the presidents reported to me. You do not need legs to dream big. You need to be determined; convinced that it is within you to accomplish great things.

  I shave in the mornings, so I get to look at myself a lot. My ears are a bit lopsided. That is my only imperfection.

  Muscled arms. Wavy brown hair. Eyes so big and black, they glow. They all add up to me. Perfect.

  When I get to the breakfast table, Ma says how handsome I am. She picked out my hunter-green sweater. I chose the jeans. Looking good is a top priority of mine. I try never to give people a reason to doubt my integrity.

  I butter her wheat toast while she pours oatmeal into our bowls. Drinking from the orange juice carton, I remind her that I am going to the movies on Saturday with a girl.

  She smirks. “Autumn, right?”

  Since last week I have been telling her about Raven. I met her at our last wrestling match. She introduced herself to me. I’d never noticed her before then. We have honors biology together.

  Raven is short. I like tall, statuesque girls. Her hair is short as well. Long hair is prettier. But she is intelligent. A gifted and talented student. Attractive, too. “Her name is Raven, Ma. She’s French and African American. Remember?”

  Sitting her chair closer to mine, Ma passes me the sugar. “When you dream about her, then I’ll know you like her.”

  It’s unfair. I’ve talked in my sleep since I was very young. Ma gets to hear what I think. When I was in fourth grade, they bullied me. Students at my school called me iron legs, no legs, wheelie boy, stumps, Disability Don, and other things I care not to remember. I never told Ma. She listened in on my dreams. She called a meeting with the principal as well as the bullies and their parents. I began to watch wrestling on TV after that. Last summer I learned to box a bit, as well. If I hit you, it will hurt. I am disabled. I am not weak.

  “Raven. Does she wrestle?” Ma and I watched WWE every Saturday night for years. She knows a few moves, so she is impressed with Autumn. She has never met her. But a girl wrestler seems cool to Ma. Besides, she doesn’t think I pick the best girls. She said Emily would get me into trouble. She did. Emily told her brother that I was the snitch. Before then, she cheated on me. Raven is a good girl. Very quiet. I dislike girls who talk too much. I hate the loud, obnoxious ones, especially Patricia (i.e., Peaches).

  Ma sits our dishes in the sink. “When you dream about a girl every night —”

  “Not every night,” I correct her.

  “She has gotten under your skin.” Ma read an old newspaper article about Autumn. She is determined to go to one of her matches. “She just seems sweet,” Ma whispers.

  She splashes her uniform, rinsing out the glasses.

  I get a text from Raven.

  “See, Ma. She’s studying while she’s eating breakfast. Autumn, on the other hand, is a bad student.”

  Ma asks what sort of grades Autumn gets. I earned a C once in third grade and cried. I’ve only gotten As since. Autumn’s parents would probably throw her a party if she came home with a C. “I bet she’ll have to repeat ninth grade.”

  “Well — I do believe in doing well at school.” She walks over and kisses me on the forehead. “I also believe that we all have gifts. Things that separate us from the crowd.”

  I’ve got tons of gifts. I name a few. Ma laughs. “Humility, however, is not one of your gifts.”

  That’s correct. I know who I am. I know what I am capable of accomplishing. I do not dull my light so other people will feel better about themselves.

  Sweaty. Stank. Ain’t got time to freshen up. Gotta hurry and catch him. Wednesdays he got chess club. He runs it. They had one disabled kid before he took over. Now they got four. Two girls, even.

  I take the shortcut ’cross the walkway on the third floor, running into Jaxxon, who shoves me, telling me to watch where I’m going. Miss Baker standing beside him, reminding me to take home my book and do the assignment on page thirty. Then she congratulates me. My picture’s in the paper. I had five pins — shutouts — in a row: 5-0 (twice), 8-0 (twice), 7-0. They say I got a good chance of making it to regionals. Qualifying for states.

  “Our superstar.” Mr. Epperson locking the door to the teachers’ lounge across the hall. Holding up his grade book, he say, “C minus. You can do better.” When I pass him, he ask me to have Peaches come see him before class starts. Bet it’s about her last quiz. She got another C. Cried in front of the whole class.

  I rush up the hall. Run down the steps. Catch my breath on the first floor. Chill at the elevator, waiting on him. I’m smiling like I’m getting my picture taken when he roll up. “Hey.”

  He pushes the elevator button. His fingernails clipped and clean. The watch he never take off needs a new band.

  I bring up practice. Hook and rolls, knee bars. And Melvin moving up in weight class. All of us happy, ’cause anybody wrestling 195 gonna wish they wasn’t.

  I tell Adonis how much I miss him when he not at practice. Pulling up my pant leg, I say for him to look.

  He’s staring.

  “At what, Autumn?”

  “Check out my muscles.”

  I got beautiful legs. Nice muscles. Smooth brown skin. I’m hoping he’s noticing — but not the brush burn I got on the mat at practice.

  He presses the button again. I’m rehearsing in my head what I came to ask. Wanna go to the movies this weekend? No. That’s not right. Adonis, you seen that movie they been advertising? The one where the guy’s head gets chopped off. Wanna see it with me? Crap. That ain’t right, either.

  “Autumn.”

  I can’t help it. He the smartest, cutest boy ever.

  “You’re talking to yourself. Muttering.” Then he starts talking to the elevator. “I’m in a hurry. Come on.” Holding down the button, he looks at the floor instead of me.

  I lean against the wall, one foot up, thinking. I love smart boys.

  Fixing his blue tie. Tightening the knot. He looking like a teacher. Not no kid. “Quit staring,” he say, taking off cuff links, digging his fingers into his chair handles.

  I can’t ask him. He gonna say no. I bring up something
educational, instead. I always get more words from him then. “What do the word firstly mean?” I can’t get that word out of my head. It’s stuck there like a seed in the ground.

  He a human dictionary. Giving it to me as a adverb. “Firstly. It’s another way to say in the first place.” Then I get a sentence.

  I wonder about his brain more than about his legs: how a boy can be so smart, holding things in his head the way sugar holds sweet, making people think they know him when they don’t. Just like Peaches. I want my kids to be born that way. Smarter than everyone else.

  “On the mat, I got skills. Nobody can touch me. But math, reading, I hate ’em.” Mom say I shouldn’t talk like that. He probably know anyhow. Everyone do. “It’s easy for you and Peaches.”

  “Nothing … is easy. I study.”

  “I mean —”

  He turns so I’m facing his back.

  In wrestling you learn to ignore stuff. Like when your opponent uses body language to put you in your place. I’d cry if I paid attention to stuff like that. So I walk around till we face-to-face, in neutral position. Sorta like in wrestling. Then I come out and say it. “School is my worst subject.”

  Maybe I should quit the team, he saying, and study more. He telling me education ought to be my primary concern. I’m sorry I brought up the subject. No one understands.

  Moving closer. My knees touching the edge of his chair. I try to make him see. “When I wrestle … I, I feel smart. Like I know the answer to every problem every time.”

  That’s why my parents can’t kick me off the team.

  He looking up at me. Like he getting what I’m talking about. I tell him a little more, my eyes never letting go of his. “I know what my opponents gonna do ’fore they know what they gonna do. But reading —” I quit talking. And think how when I grow up, it’s gonna be different. I’ll make my kids read while they little. Young as the babies in that television commercial.

  Pushing his sleeves up, he tells me how many books he read over the summer. “Thirty-five. A hundred twenty-five books this year already.” He naming titles. “Only one had less than four hundred pages.”