Pinned (9780545469845)

by Flake, Sharon

  “Adonis. I —”

  “Shhh.” Making her wait, I read to the bottom of the page. I’ve read The Diary of Anne Frank before. It’s one of my favorite books.

  “But —”

  Autumn gets so close to my face, her pink lips almost touch the corner of my mouth. The feather in her hair tickles me. “Quit that, Autumn.” I’m at the front desk. It’s slow. I’m reading. But she only cares about what’s important to her.

  “I brought you something. Be nice.” An envelope sits in both her hands. “Open it.” She drew the smiley faces on herself, she explains. The envelope is blue. The smiley faces are lime green. The exact same color as her dress.

  Thank you for you know what. I appreciate it. I wouldn’t have figured her to have nice handwriting. I pull out a movie ticket. There’s a smiley face drawn on it, too. The first gift a girl has ever given me.

  “I ain’t have the money for two tickets. But give your mom one of these, okay?” She reminds me that Ma hasn’t made it to another one of her matches yet.

  She sits a cupcake in her palm, pointing to the gummy rabbit on top. “I made ’em. They called Red Velveteen Rabbit Surprise Cupcakes. Peaches made up the name.” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Don’t not eat them because of her, though.”

  Ma makes red velvet cakes. But these are different. Red cupcakes with buttercream icing, and white-chocolate curls on top. The gummy rabbit, sitting in the middle, holds a toothpick with a tiny piece of paper attached to it, like a flag. “That writing really says something.” She picks one up and reads. “You are a winner.” She says she made that one up. “Dreams do come true.” Patricia came up with that one. Autumn wanted to write things like be my boo or let’s go to the movies, but Patricia wouldn’t go along. She bites into one. “Look.” There’s white filling inside and another rabbit.

  When Mrs. Carolyn walks up, Autumn asks if I wouldn’t mind sharing my cupcakes with her. I haven’t accepted them yet. I am a gentleman, so I tell her yes. Otherwise, what would Mrs. Carolyn think of me?

  “Have you tasted these, Adonis?” Mrs. Carolyn asks. Her fingertip has icing on it. Licking it off, she apologizes, because a little falls onto my book.

  “No, ma’am.” I pick up a cupcake, putting it aside for later. Autumn has icing on her nose. Laughing, she tries to lick it off with her tongue.

  Miss Baker takes a shortcut through the media center. Mrs. Carolyn offers her a cupcake, asking if she knows how good a cook Autumn is. Autumn takes tiny bites. Her eyes looking at me even when Miss Baker is talking to her. I’d skip to the gas chambers if they weren’t here.

  Our library feels like the cafeteria sometimes. People talking. Eating. Laughing. If I were a librarian, nothing like this would be allowed.

  “Oh my goodness.” Miss Baker closes her eyes. Swallowing, she congratulates Autumn on her culinary skills. “I get red velvet cupcakes at the bakery.” She eats her cupcake in four big bites. Picking crumbs from the paper, she asks Autumn if she will make two dozen for her daughter’s birthday. It’s at the end of the month. Autumn’s bare arms rub up against me. “I been working at the library ’cause of Adonis. I made these to say thank you. I’m liking it here.” She sits on the desk, swinging her legs.

  “That is so sweet, Autumn.” Mrs. Carolyn looks at me, approving of what she just said.

  “Autumn … see, libraries can be fun.” Miss Baker rubs her back.

  When we go upstairs to put sensors on the books, Autumn keeps to herself. She is working, but not talking very much. Then out of the blue she says, “You should tell me something about you. Something nobody else knows.”

  Answering her would only upset me. I keep working, instead. I pull the plastic strip off the sensor and press it along the spine of the book where no one will notice.

  “You know everything about me.” She picks fuzz off the brown rug. “I ain’t too good of a student. I wrestle, bake.” Taking a deep breath, she finishes, “Still hate libraries. Shhh.” She smiles. “Wish you could graduate school and never read a book.” She gets really quiet. Then she asks if I ever wish I had legs.

  “Huh?”

  “I was just wondering. I wonder sometimes lots of things.” She tilts her head toward the window. The sun finds her face, lighting it. “Like if I didn’t have legs, would I still wrestle or if I didn’t have arms, would I cook?” She reminds herself to get a book for her dad. “I wonder if I was disabled, would I still be me way deep down inside?”

  I’m thinking, watching shadows cover part of the rug and my wheel. “I never wonder anything like that. I never had them. I don’t miss them.” I pull up the sensor I just put down, ripping the page. “And I’m me no matter what. That’s a stupid thought you had.”

  She sticks her legs out and kicks her feet like she’s swimming. “You never miss ’em, ever?” Before I answer she says if she were disabled, she’d miss them. “Like people with no teeth must miss them sometimes.”

  Regulars are the disabled ones. They don’t think logically. I tolerate them. But it’s hard. They say whatever comes into their heads. Like her. Never thinking they might be hurting someone else’s feelings. I stare at her legs. Muscled. Strong and pretty. “You don’t miss what you never had.”

  Her skirt moves up when she kicks again. Her thighs — I’ve seen them a zillion times. Today, I don’t know, they catch my eyes.

  “I’m just saying. I’d miss ’em, I think. But I wouldn’t let that stop me or keep me from doing things or make me cry. You know what I mean?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s dumb.” I almost say, you’re dumb.

  She stands up, leaning over me, holding tight to my chair handles. “Do you think I’m perfect?”

  She smells … like roses. I swallow.

  “Or do you think I’m sort of disabled?”

  See, this is what I mean. You can’t even talk to a girl like her. “You —”

  She moves in a little closer. “If I was in special ed, would I be disabled, or is disabled only for people like you, whose bodies don’t —?”

  I try to back up. “We’re supposed to be … working.”

  She says she likes talking to me. “You make me think about important things.” Changing the subject, she asks if I wear shorts in the summer.

  My hands go up. I almost shove her. “You are absolutely the rudest girl ever.”

  I’m backing up. She’s walking toward me. “I mean, if I was disabled, I’d just let people ask any question they wanted.”

  She turns and walks in the opposite direction. Following her, I try to give her a piece of my mind. She’s still talking.

  “I’d say, just give me all your questions at one time.” She kneels down, writing on a tiny piece of paper. “You know why I’d do that? ’Cause people always thinking anyhow. They wonder why I read so bad. I tell ’em before they even ask. Teachers get your last year’s grades before you walk in class anyhow. So the first day I just tell ’em we gonna have a hard year.” She slaps her hands. “Math don’t like me. Reading ain’t my friend.”

  “It’s not the same, Autumn.”

  She turns, looking at me. I think she has on eye shadow. And liner. Navy blue. “I like talking to you. Do you like talking to me?”

  It takes me a while to answer. “I don’t want to talk about my legs.”

  Scratching her nose, she says, “We can talk about my legs.” She kicks one out. “You like ’em?”

  “No … I mean —” She gets me all confused. That’s why I don’t like her.

  She looks out the window, up at the sun. Closing her eyes, she says, “I think you like me, Adonis Miller.”

  I punch my hand over and over. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Peaches —”

  I warn her. “I hate her. Don’t you ever mention her name to me again.”

  Autumn jumps from one subject to another.

  “You don’t make sense.” I said that too loud. “You talk too much.” She says everyone says that,
even her parents. “And —” I don’t like you, so quit antagonizing me. I’m all set to say that. But that day in the caf, she was supermad at me. Really hurt. I went too far, saying what I thought.

  Finally she says she has to go. She’ll see me at practice. Then, while she’s passing by me, a note falls in my lap. And she’s gone.

  After I’ve finished volunteering, I open it.

  Disabled is me not being able to read. And you with out legs. So (u + me) = perfect. Right?

  Mr. Epperson up there winking at me. Asking ’bout my opponent and how well I did against him. Only I ain’t sure which one he talking about. The boy I wrestled last night or algebra? Or someone in this class? Then he stick my last test paper in my hand.

  Peaches jumping up and down, screaming, after she get her paper. “Nice job. A hundred percent,” Mr. E. say, loosening her arms from around his neck. “Autumn. Finish handing these out.”

  Calling out names, sitting papers on desks or sticking ’em in hands, I get to see how everybody else did.

  If grades was trees, mine would be the root. At the bottom, way down low. Nobody did worse on this test than me.

  December got a ninety-two. A’Destiny got a seventy-six. When I take my seat, she turn around, asking what I got. I make a D in the air with my finger. Sitting at his desk, Mr. E. saying maybe now Peaches’s mom will get off his case. He smiling. But I know what he mean.

  The whole period Peaches leave her A paper sitting out like a prize she won. She and me. We talk about everything. Our periods. Cute teachers we wish we could date. Miss Pattie and the PTA president arguing the other night. But cheating … on the test. She ain’t mentioned it yet.

  Picking up my paper, I shake my head. ’Cause today really sucks. This morning Miss Baker say she calling my mother. And report cards come out soon.

  Mr. E. ask to see me when class ends. Jaxxon and a couple of more people get called up, too. He concerned we don’t understand the material. If we get any further behind, he afraid we never gonna catch up. The six of us crowd around him, hoping people walking out the room can’t hear.

  “You six. You’re all in competition with one another.” He points to us one by one. “For last place.”

  Markey takes his eyes off the floor. And looks at me.

  Mr. E. lets everyone hear what my grade average is so far. I get to hear theirs.

  “Is this legal?” Markey wanna know.

  Mr. E.’s eyes smile. “Miss Knight. If this were a wrestling match … you would win against them. You’re an A-plus wrestler. So tell me. How can you be a D student?”

  Mr. E. looking at Michelle from Mrs. Carolyn’s book club. Her average almost as low as mine. He asking how many books she read this month. “Three.” He ask Markey if he belong to any clubs or teams. He don’t. “Go to church?” Markey says yes. Mr. E. closing his grade book. “Out there”— he’s pointing toward the window — “you all do your best. In here … the bottom is good enough for you. I need to know, why?”

  Markey’s hands, deep in his pockets. He saying he gonna be honest. “I can’t do it. I quit trying.”

  Jaxxon laughs, listening to all of us say the same sorta thing. Mr. E., holding on to his suspenders. He want to know if Jaxxon got something to contribute to the conversation.

  We need to get to class, we saying.

  He ask Jaxxon to stay. “Tutoring, folks. Tomorrow. Or else.”

  On the way out, I’m listening to Mr. E. apologizing for yelling at Jaxxon again the other day.

  In the hall, running fast as I can, I think about Peaches happy with a A she didn’t earn. Taking the steps down to the first floor, I’m trying not to think of nothing to do with school. Got practice later today. Gonna get a A in that.

  All summer I did drills. Sprints. Leg lifts. Back hops. Knee ups. Sweating in a hundred-degree heat. Lost two pounds a week sometimes. Quit getting perms. I ain’t pass my reading tests when I got back to school. But I passed Coach’s test. “Condition. Lift. Run. Wrestle. Strategize.” That was my summer homework.

  It doesn’t seem to bother Autumn that puddles are underneath my wheels. She is still kissing me. Her lips are as warm as July at high noon. Firecrackers heat up my body. Her smile fills up the sky.

  I sit up, wondering about that dream. Lying back down, I can still hear her say it: “I love you.” I reach over to my nightstand, reading her note again. How many times have I read it? Every day. Three times a day, sometimes: (u + me) = perfect.

  At night in my dreams, it is worse than ever. She won’t quit saying it. Or showing up.

  Smashing pillows over my head, putting two more between my thighs, I close my eyes. I have been thinking that I might quit the library. Work isn’t getting done. I like everything in order. I want to know what to expect every day. Autumn means that nothing is the way it’s supposed to be. Chaos should be her name.

  Closing my eyes, I remember her cupcakes. Ma texted her to say they were exceptional. Now a seven-layer coconut cake is sitting on our table. Ma paid Autumn to bake it. I had a slice before I fell asleep. It was the best I’ve ever tasted.

  I can make myself dream whenever I like. Or stop my dreams like they’re wheels at a high curb. This time when I hear her laughing, I do not try to run. Watching her sit on my lap again, it occurs to me: I’ve never had a girl love me before. Even when they’ve liked me, something felt wrong. Cuddling Autumn, I remember I do not really have any friends. Just people I do things for. Those girls, they wanted things, too. Raven asked if I would tutor her right before the movie lights went down.

  Autumn is talking a mile a minute, so I kiss her. When I stand up, she hits the floor. Girls always want something, I think. I hold on to my dream, even though Ma is calling, trying to wake me up. And Autumn is back on my lap, asking again if I’d like more of her cupcake kisses.

  “Coconut cake for breakfast, Ma?” I take ham from the fridge. Yesterday’s dinner, fried up with eggs, is what I’ll eat.

  Ma does not have a slice of coconut cake on her plate. It’s a hunk. “She’s just a kid,” she says. “How does she bake so well? Like a professional?” Her fork slides slowly into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she sits back, enjoying every bite. She makes me wish I had a slice.

  We are going over our schedules. It will be a busy day with wrestling, and her double shift. Lately I’ve been asleep before she’s gotten in. Coach offered me a ride.

  I’m not talking much after a while. I am planning out my day in my mind. But Autumn keeps popping up. Ma will say her name or I will remember something she did in the library to upset me. The funny thing is, sometimes when I come off the van, I’m expecting her. When she is late for school or absent, it feels weird. Then she comes, and I am really, really angry that she’s there. At the library she pesters me; in the hallway she follows me, I’m telling Ma. She says that I am smart about so many things. However, this time, I’ll need more than my brain to figure things out.

  Slow, like something deep inside him is broke, my father gets off the couch. Stopping in front of me, lifting my chin up, he make sure we seeing eye to eye.

  “Your grades don’t surprise us none. But … well … we not gonna help hold your head underwater no more, and cry about you drowning.”

  I bring up Friday’s match. “Y’all coming? Bancock High is three blocks from here.” I’m staring at the floor when I say it.

  He look at Mom. She looking at me, holding her hand out for my jacket.

  I can’t walk. Not one more inch. Six guys came to practice late. Every time one walked in, Coach made us do another lap. Someone mouthed off. That meant extra drills later on. Coach was in a bad mood. “Mom. Can you get me a towel?”

  Sitting on the floor, pulling off my sneakers and wet socks, I bring up my ranking. Eighth in the city. Number one girl in the state. I can do better.

  “You listening?” Mom’s reading off grades. I only did a little bit worse than last quarter. It’s hard doing sports and being a good student, I’m saying. She sit o
n the floor beside me, tucking her skirt between her long legs. “No more wrestling. This season anyhow.”

  “I got a two-point-zero. They let you wrestle with that.”

  “You gonna be …” She looking down at the rug. “Like me …”

  He swallows. “And me,” he says, sitting beside her.

  I stand up over them like the flag outside our school, my arms and hands waving. Pointing at them, I say it’s their fault. Moving like trains all the time. Pulling me outta schools. “Kids called me stupid, because of y’all.”

  “We —” Mom stops herself.

  Walking in circles with them in the middle, I tell ’em what I never told nobody. “Wrestling was all I had when y’all ain’t care.”

  Dad’s tired eyes following me. His fingers lying over Mom’s hand, scratching her nail polish. “We always cared,” he whispers.

  “Not about reading.”

  All I had when I went to a new school was wrestling. When teachers gave me Ds and notes for home saying maybe I should be tested for special ed, I had WWE and two old mattresses that moved whenever we did.

  In sixth grade, when the moving stopped, I got on the team. Even though I wasn’t no A student or grade-level reader, it was me shining for once. Like wrestlers on TV.

  Yelling. My voice filling the room like ragweed in spring, I tell ’em, “I ain’t quitting!”

  Mom tiptoeing into the kitchen. Coach is on speakerphone when she get back.

  “Tell ’em, Coach. I gotta wrestle!”

  Dad saying he got bad news. Today is my last day on the team. Until maybe next year.

  Screaming at the top of my lungs. Turning over the coffee table. Throwing magazines. I threaten ’em. “If you don’t let me wrestle —”

  Coach tries to look out for me. “Autumn! What’s going on over there?”

  “Y’all can’t stop me!” I push my mother. “Regionals … the state championship … they starting in a couple of weeks.”

  Dad steps in front of me. He asks Coach if he seen my grades.