The Necessary Hunger

by Nina Revoyr

Telisa took her eyes off of Shavon long enough to look at them. "I'm sure we've played against 'em," she said, scratching her neck. "Ain't they from Mira Costa?"

  "Yeah, I think you're right," I said. I remembered them more clearly now; they were on the team we had scrimmaged against. The tallest one, who was about my height, was their center—the girl with the deadly ponytail—and the shortest one, who was about 5'5", was their point guard and leading scorer, the girl who'd asked Telisa how much money her father made. The two others were also starters, but they weren't very good; they basically supported the other two, acted as filler. All of them were wearing Guess? jeans, and high-top Reebok aerobic shoes. The three smaller ones wore light sweaters in pastel colors. The center had on a crimson Harvard sweatshirt.

  They were staring at us so openly that finally Stacy raised a hand and yelled, "Wassup?"

  Their faces registered surprise momentarily; then the little point guard whispered something and they all began to laugh. I was suddenly aware of the holes in my no-name jeans, of my cheap sweater and scuffed-up shoes.

  "Fuckin prissy white girls," said Telisa.

  Then two boys walked up and joined the girls. One of the boys, a tall, streaked-blond surfer type in a green-and-red striped polo shirt, put his arm around the center. The other, a shorter, bulkier guy with dark hair and thick eyebrows, hugged one of the ineffective starters, a girl with the broad pink face and upturned nose of a pig. The girls began to chatter to the guys, and pointed in our direction. The boys turned and looked over at us, and there was disdain in the blond boy's eyes, and also annoyance, as if we were a pile of garbage that had been left on his lawn. Then all six of them closed in and formed a little circle, drawing their wagons together.

  "Well excuse the fuck out of us for livin," said Shavon, shaking her head in disbelief.

  Stacy tried to talk more about going out to a club sometime, but she didn't get much of a response. We were all feeling a little deflated. Because we'd just faced some overt hostility, we'd suddenly become more conscious of ourselves as a little island of color in a huge sea of white—even more so than we'd been when we'd first arrived. And my personal discomfort had another dimension. I was also more aware than I normally was of the difference between me and my friends. It's not that I ever forgot who I was, or that I wanted to. But I had no history yet—or rather, no sense of the history that I had. I was trying hard to be accepted, which meant trying to be black; I didn't know, yet, what it meant to be Japanese.

  Because the people in my own 'hood were so used to me by then, it was only when we ventured out into other areas—whatever the racial makeup—that I became uncomfortably aware of how out of place I must have seemed. I wondered, that night, how we looked in those white people's eyes—like a unified group of kids of color, or like five black girls and one random Asian kid. Q was half-Vietnamese, but her Asian features—her roundish face, flat nose, and slightly narrow eyes—were only apparent if you really looked, and she was darker than many people with two black parents. These subtleties were lost on most white people, anyway—I'd heard them call her a nigger but I'd never heard anyone call her a gook.

  When we were finally let in, we went to the left side of the theater and the Mira Costa kids, thankfully, to the right. I tried to maneuver myself so I could sit next to Raina, but my attempts to get close to her failed. Stacy sat between us, and I paid more attention, at times, to her and Raina than I did to what Whoopi Goldberg was doing on the screen. I situated myself so that my shoulder was leaning in Raina's direction. Some part of me—an ear, a leg, a shoulder, a hip—was always leaning toward her, as if pulled by some magnetic force; I couldn't manage to hold myself completely upright when Raina was anywhere close. Stacy and Raina whispered to each other every few minutes, and although I strained to hear, nothing reached me but an occasional chuckle. I wanted to be in on the conversation too, and found myself annoyed at Stacy for not including me, for sitting between us, for talking to Raina at all.

  After the movie was over, we all stumbled out into the lobby. I felt groggy, uncertain, like I'd just woken up from a dream. We stood in front of the snack counter for a while, discussing the scene where Whoopi's sparkling blue dress got eaten by the paper shredder. Finally, Stacy looked at her watch.

  "It's still early," she said. "Y'all wanna go out?"

  "Naw," Telisa said, putting her arm around Shavon and grinning. "Shavon's dad's out of town this weekend and she's supposed to dog-sit, so we're gonna go chill at his place."

  Shavon raised her eyebrows at Telisa and smiled. "What makes you think I'm gonna take you?"

  We laughed.

  "I don't wanna go out, either," said Raina. "I gotta go meet up with Toni." I just looked at her; I couldn't believe that she was seeing Toni that night after the fight I'd overheard.

  Telisa turned to her. "Hey, Toni's place ain't that far from where we're goin. You want us to give you a ride?"

  "Sure."

  I was disappointed that Raina was leaving, but Telisa couldn't have known not to offer. Then I thought that maybe it was better the way that things had turned out—I certainly didn't want to deliver Raina to her girlfriend.

  After the rest of us had also declined the offer to go out, Stacy, Telisa, and I went into the bathroom. Stacy and Telisa grabbed the two empty stalls, and I waited for a moment until one of the others freed up. A few seconds later, just as I had gotten into a stall, I heard the voices of the Mira Costa girls. I peered out through the crack in the door and saw all four of them enter the bathroom. The point guard went up to the sink and looked at herself in the mirror; the center stood to the right of her and the two others to the left. They'd been talking about the movie, but then the center shook her head as she pulled a compact out of her purse.

  "I can't believe those Inglewood players are here," she said.

  The pig-faced girl leaned toward the mirror, mascara in hand. "Yeah, it is a coincidence, huh?"

  "No, I mean I can't believe they're in Manhattan Beach, " the center said. "If you ask me, they shouldn't even be allowed to come here."

  The pig-faced girl turned to her. "Who cares, Kristi? Relax."

  "Yeah, really," said the fourth girl, who was Stacy's height, and skinny. "What's your problem? This is a movie theater, not a private club or something."

  "I'm with Kristi," said the point guard, who'd just applied some rose-colored blush. "You don't see us going to Inglewood, do you? So why should people from Inglewood come here?"

  The pig-faced girl shook her head. "That's stupid, Dana."

  "No, it's not," said the point guard. "If those girls want to see a movie, they should see it in their own damn neighborhood." She smirked. "Except they probably don't even have theaters in Ingle-watts."

  With that, I burst out of my stall. Telisa came out of her stall too. The four Mira Costa girls spun around and looked at us, wide-eyed. There were a couple of older women in the bathroom, standing at other sinks, and when they saw us they scooted out quickly.

  Telisa went right up to Dana, the point guard. "You know," she said calmly, "maybe if you didn't spend so much time in front of the mirror, you'd be a better basketball player."

  Dana stood her ground and considered Telisa distastefully. "Well, maybe if you didn't spend so much time playing basketball, you'd be a better student."

  I laughed out loud. "She couldn't be a better student," I said. "She's probably gonna be first in our class this year."

  The center, Kristi, snorted. "That's not saying much."

  Stacy threw open the door to her stall and charged over to the sinks. She pulled Kristi away from the mirror, and pointed her finger like a sword in the girl's face. "You wanna take this outside?"she asked.

  Kristi backed off, looking scared. The three others just stood there. Telisa and I each grabbed one of Stacy's arms and pulled her out of the bathroom. "Forget it, Stace," I said. "She ain't even worth it."

  Raina, Shavon, and Q were all standing by the popcorn machine, and they looked a
t us quizzically as we approached. "What happened?" Raina asked.

  "We kinda got into it with those Mira Costa girls," I said.

  "Did you kick their asses?"

  "Yeah," Telisa said. "We flushed their heads down the toilet."

  "Good for you," said Shavon, as we all moved toward the door.

  My car and Telisa's car were in the same section of the parking lot, so we all walked out together. There were even more cars now, driving back and forth, people trying to find spaces for the ten o'clock shows. It was cloudy that night, but the breeze was warm and pleasant, and we walked along slowly, talking about some of the other movies we'd like to see. Telisa had her arm around Shavon, and I was keeping pace with Raina, thinking I'd give anything to walk along with her like that.

  Just as we turned the corner to the row where our cars were parked, we heard a loud male voice yell, "Hey!" We all turned, and saw the two boys who were with the Mira Costa girls. The blond one was walking toward us purposefully, one step ahead of the dark-haired boy, who looked more reluctant. The girls themselves were a few feet behind.

  The guys stopped just short of us, and the blond one glared at each of us, one by one. "I heard you punks were threatening the girls here."

  Telisa put her hands on her hips and thrust her chin out. "We weren't threatening 'em. Shit. We were just havin a conversation. If we'd of threatened 'em, they'd be runnin by now."

  "I don't care what you call it," the boy said, narrowing his eyes. "You just don't talk to them like that."

  The other boy, who was standing a couple of feet behind him, reached out and tugged his arm. "Brent, come on," he said. "Forget it."

  "Yeah, c'mon y'all," said Raina, to us. "Let's leave these fools alone."

  The blond boy, Brent, shook his friend's hand off. "I don't want to forget it, Rick," he said. Then he turned to us. "Now why don't you just get the fuck out of here and go back to where you came from?"

  Telisa crossed her arms and looked back at him. "Free country," she said.

  Brent looked her up and down, and then crossed his own arms. "Yeah, well some people were never meant to be free."

  Shock and anger bubbled up in my throat.

  "Jesus, Brent," said Rick.

  We all took a step toward Brent, as if by agreement; our shoulders tightened and we clenched our fists. "You say something like that again," Telisa hissed, eyes narrowed, "and I'm gonna have to fuck you up."

  Brent laughed. "You can't scare me, you bitch. Don't you know where you are?" He gestured to his friends and then pointed at me, smiling. "Look, it's a Japanese nigger."

  My breath caught, and I wasn't sure which aspect of his epithet most enraged me, but I knew that I wanted to kill him. I tried to yell or swear, but my mouth would not work.

  Telisa spat out, "Fuck you, motherfucka."

  Behind the boys, the pig-faced girl looked angry. "Come on, Brent," she said. "Stop being such an asshole. Let's just get out of here and leave them alone."

  Brent turned and looked at her. "Just stay out of this, okay?" Then he turned back to us. "Ooohh," he said, grinning and pretending to shake, "I'm scared."

  "You should be," Telisa said. "You really think you got a chance against the six of us?"

  "No problem," he said. "Maybe if you were a real man, we'd think twice before we messed with you, but you're not, you're just a weak imitation." I wondered if he meant what I thought he did, and if so, why he had singled out Telisa. Then I realized that she and Shavon, the affectionate couple, were the only ones who were obviously gay. He turned to Shavon. "Hey, baby, you're pretty cute," he said, in an oily voice that made my skin crawl. "You need to get fucked by a real man instead of some imitation man like her."

  Shavon crossed her arms and glared at him. "She's imitation nothin," she said. "And she knows how to please a woman better than a fake-macho, perfume-sweatin, surfboard-ridin, trust-fund-livin, limp-dicked glass of lukewarm milk like you ever will."

  Brent looked like he'd been slapped. "What did you say?"

  Telisa smiled, but there was no humor in her face. "You heard her, motherfucka," she said.

  He took a step forward, and so did she, and we all moved in closer, getting ready to fight. Then we heard a car pull up behind us. We turned to look at it, and stepped away from each other: it was the Manhattan Beach police.

  "Problem, kids?" asked the cop on the passenger side, a beefy blond guy in his thirties.

  "Yeah, there is," Brent answered, looking annoyed. "These bitches have been harassing our girlfriends." The four girls, who'd been standing well behind the two boys, slowly drew up closer to them now; Rick and all of the girls looked relieved.

  "Aw, man, give it up," Telisa said, and I grabbed her arm, telling her with my touch to keep quiet.

  The two cops got out of the car, and the driver, who was older and graying, came around to the passenger side. "Do you want to tell me how this started?" he said.

  He'd been addressing Telisa, but it was Brent who answered. "They were all in the bathroom together, and these people," he said, gesturing at us, "these goddamn hoodlums started threatening the girls here."

  "That's bullshit!" Telisa insisted, half to him, and half to the cops. "We were just in there usin the bathroom, and they started sayin a bunch of fucked-up shit about us!"

  The younger cop, the beefy one, turned toward her slowly, and it was like watching a mountain move. "You need to clean up your language, missy."

  Telisa's mouth dropped. "What you talkin about? That asshole just swore," she said, pointing at Brent, who was sneering.

  The young cop moved his arm slightly, rested his hand on his billy club. "I don't like your attitude," he said. "Maybe you could use a night in jail to cool down." He looked at us, smiled slightly, and I caught a glimpse of his white teeth. "We've got lots of room in the slammer," he said. "Maybe you could all spend the night."

  Brent began to snicker, as did Kristi and Dana. Dana stuck her tongue out at us, and it took a great effort not to go over and punch her. We all stood there silently for a moment, until finally the older cop, who'd been looking at me the whole time, stepped forward and addressed me.

  "Hey, aren't you Nancy Takahiro?" he asked.

  Everyone, including his partner, stopped and stared at him.

  I looked at him uncertainly. "Yes."

  The older cop smiled, and took a few more steps in my direction. He had a stern face with blunt features, but his eyes were warm and friendly. "My daughter plays for South Torrance," he said. "I saw you play in their tournament last year. You had thirty-four points against Long Beach Poly in the final. It was a beautiful thing to see."

  I smiled a little, and felt relief wash through my chest like spring rain. "Thanks," I said. "Yeah, I really like that tournament."

  The older cop threw his head back and laughed. "I'll bet you do," he said. "You guys win it every year. Pretty soon they're going to have to stop inviting you back. I'm Michael Donaghy by the way," he said.

  The younger cop, his partner, just glared at him and didn't say anything. Brent, Dana, and Kristi all looked furious.

  "Nice to meet you," I said, shaking Donaghy's hand. Then I pointed toward my teammates. "That's Telisa Coles, our point guard, and Q . . . I mean . . . Shaundra Murray, our center."

  "Oh, right," Donaghy said, nodding. "I recognize you now. Nice to meet you."

  They looked at him a little suspiciously, mumbled, "Nice to meet you too."

  I gave Donaghy a big smile. I wasn't sure whether he was reacting simply to my basketball status, or to the fact that I was Asian and not black—after all, almost everyone else in our group, including Raina, another star, had also played in that particular tournament. This was not the time to ponder these issues, though. My more immediate concern was getting us out of there as fast as possible, so I decided to press whatever advantage I had. I smiled even more widely now, and pointed toward the others. "And that's Shavon Stevens, our buddy, and Raina Webber and Stacy Gatling, who play for Le
uzinger."

  He greeted them too, and they nodded. "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry about this misunderstanding here tonight." He made a sweeping gesture that included the Mira Costa kids. "I know you young people have got a lot of steam to blow off. But have some fun, for God's sake. Don't waste your energy on being mad at each other. Go on home, now, all of you, and don't let me catch you causing a big ruckus like this again." He'd addressed this last part to Brent, sternly, and now he turned to me. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Nancy," he said. "Good luck in college next year."

  CHAPTER 10

  At nine o'clock the following Monday, Raina and I threw on our workout clothes and headed out into the night. We ran hundred-yard sprints up and down the street, gasping painfully at times but never stopping. We did defensive slides and jump shot drills, shot hundreds of layups and free throws. The air was cool, and fresh because it was winter; if you breathed in deeply and closed your eyes, you could almost smell the ocean. There were a few stars in the grayish black night, but they seemed blurred or diluted, as if we were looking at them through wax. I loved playing at night. The darkness made it seem as if the rest of the world had fallen away; as if we were taking part in some private ritual. The gusts of wind felt cool and refreshing, like wet towels running over my body. We stayed close to the house, in case something happened and we needed to rush inside, but we didn't really think about the possible danger because our attention was focused on the workout. We were dead serious about our task. And I worked harder than usual because I was out there with Raina, who never gave less than a total effort. She needed to achieve and to shine and to have her accomplishments acknowledged; it was as if she feared that if she stopped playing well and receiving recognition, she would somehow cease to exist. This kind of need made her hard to live up to, but it was pushing me to improve. On the previous nights, despite our parents' concern for our safety, we'd gone on like this until ten thirty or eleven, not speaking except to say "nice shot," or "come on, now," between sprints, drills, baskets.

  I often wondered if anyone else—Stacy, Toni—was aware that Raina spent so much time working on her game. How well did her teammates know her? To them, Raina was the usually low-key star who occasionally lapsed into total silliness. After that first time I'd seen her play at my high school, she'd trudged up into the stands with her teammates to watch the next game, the look of intense concentration that had so struck me before completely absent now from her face. She was wearing a red cycling cap, and I saw it bob up and down every few minutes as she threw her head back in laughter. She was the center of attention that afternoon, as she often was when she chose to be, telling stories and cracking everyone up. I liked watching her with her friends, and saw no contradiction between her game-time single-mindedness and her postgame clowning. And that day, she was acting for her teammates, entertaining them, as if it were part of her role, inherent in being team captain. I understood what she was doing, because I did it sometimes myself. But the difference was that her confident comedic act, just like her game-time determination, convinced me, while my own did not.