The You I've Never Known(42)

for Gabe, too. Is there such a thing as promiscuous love, or does it only apply to sex?





My Brain’s Relentless


It really needs to stop processing anything other than basketball drills at the moment, and all it does is argue with me. Earth to Pearson! yells Coach Booker, echoing Mr. Santos, only in English. You’ve made that shot a hundred times. Yank your head out of your butt, would you, please?

It takes force of will, but I do as she so bluntly requests, managing to land a three-pointer, not that those count in practice. “How’s that for an apology?” I shout back.

But I’m so busy being a smart-ass that I don’t notice Syrah right in front of me. I crash into her at decent speed and we both hit

the floor. Jesus freaking Buddha!

Syrah screeches, using the Spanish Hey-suess pronunciation. That makes everyone laugh, including Syrah and me, despite what

I’m sure will become awesome

bruises on both our rear ends.





Monica Sprints Over


Holds out her hands,

offering to help me

up from the floor.

When they connect

with mine, the subsequent electric arcs almost make me pull away. Instead, I let her tug me to my feet.

That had to hurt, she says. You should pay better attention.

I’ve got plans for you later.

Her words are sinking in, seeking meaning, when

Syrah, who’s still splayed on the court, complains, Hey, what about me?

Sorry, I got no plans for you, jokes Monica, letting go of my hands so she can pull Syrah off the hardwood, too.

Coach Booker tells us to hit the locker room, and as I limp from the gym, I try not to think too much about what Monica’s got in mind.





I Also Do My Damn Best


Not to gawk at her in the shower, hot water coursing through her waist-length dark hair and down

over her suede skin.

She wouldn’t care, of course. But, while most of the girls must suspect the gravitational pull between Monica and me, I’d rather keep them guessing, at least until I’ve eliminated all personal doubt.

The temptation to stare has become harder and harder, however, and now she turns to face me, a soft soap lather barely disguising the sinews of her breasts and black curls beneath her belly button, and I have to close my eyes, pretending shampoo is what I’m worried about getting inside them.





Something Shifts


Inside me, something elemental, as if

the earth has tilted, barely perceptibly, on its axis, bringing it right again.

Don’t know what this means, but the motion tips me

slightly

off-kilter.

I inhale boldly, exhale slowly, then, just as I regain balance she brushes by and the cartwheeling inside is like

dropping

from a high dive.

Thrilling. Electrifying.

Borderline terrifying.

Not sure

I’ll ever be vertical again.





The Whole Time


We get dressed, I keep my eyes

turned away from her. I don’t want to tumble off that cliff again, despite enjoying the strange, precipitous fall.

Clean panties and bra on, I take

a few seconds to brush through

my tangled hair before buttoning

into an oversize plaid flannel shirt.

I manage to catch a glimpse of Syrah, sliding into her jeans. “Whoa. Tell me my butt doesn’t look like that! Yours looks like grape jelly. The color, that is.”

She snorts. Thanks for clarifying.

Anyway, whose fault is that? She shuts her locker. I’ll meet you guys outside.

Most of the other girls have gone, and the couple remaining are not close by, something Monica notes before coming over. Turn around. Let me see. When I do, her hand slithers down my thigh. Feo.

“Hey. Who’re you calling ugly?” I force my voice light, hoping she doesn’t notice the way I’m trembling at her touch.

But when I turn to face her, her smile tells me she’s seen it. Now I’m staring at her lips, and it’s all I can do not to kiss them. No. Not here. This is not the time. This is not the place.

I clear my throat. “Syrah’s waiting.

We’d better go or we’ll lose our ride.”

She nods, but is reluctant to move, and I dare to whisper, “Later.”

Her eyes widen, and her smile

deepens. Sí, novia. Más tarde.

At the far end of the row, Darla

slams her locker door shut,

a reminder that we’ve almost

completely blown our cover.

Monica goes to put on her shoes

and I finish dressing, too.

I believe I just gave her a promise, wrapped in a single five-letter

word. I hope it’s not more

than I’m truly willing to deliver.





On Our Way


To the parking lot, we walk so close to each other

her jeans whisper

against mine, promising much more to come

más tarde.

The obvious energy

exchange makes me dizzy with anticipation.

I’m so focused

on imagining what that

might mean I barely notice the knot of people