Cornered

by Rhoda Belleza

  The slap must have unlocked something in your frustrated brain because you realized the answer: you’d been overthinking things. While this was a weekend party, it was also a hazing party and therefore a soccer-related event. Of course, it went unspoken that you should wear your varsity soccer uniform to differentiate yourself from the frosh players, who surely would be wearing their crappy blue freshman team jerseys. So you donned the varsity jersey, pulled on your pair of dark jeans and left, shouting good-bye to your parents.

  You could hear the thump of bass from the speakers in Luke’s basement as you walked up the driveway. The lights were off in most of the house, but through the garden hedges you could see the basement was filled with students. Even though it was a moot point, you knocked lightly on the front door and waited for a minute for someone to open it. Nothing happened. You rang the doorbell, flinching as you did, imagining the music suddenly stopping and a dozen faces pressing up sideways against the basement windows to investigate the disturbance. Still nothing. Finally you took a deep breath, turned the knob, and headed inside.

  The last time you’d been inside was back in fifth grade. It looked exactly the same, at least in the dark. You knew the basement door was off the kitchen and made your way over to it. Standing there with your hand on the knob, you heard the laughter and shouting from below and pictured the music stopping as you descended the stairs, a hundred people staring at you. Part of you just wanted to head home without anyone seeing you, but you shook the image out of your head and turned the knob.

  The basement was filled with your classmates. A few heads turned and noticed you before looking away. In school you found this kind of disregard depressing, but you were grateful for it in this instance. You didn’t want to attract attention since you felt like an imposter still, even if you had been personally invited by Luke. In the far corner of the basement you spotted Luke and threaded your way through the mass of sweaty bodies. Everyone was holding a red plastic cup, and the room smelled like a mixture of sweat and sour honey.

  “Hey, man,” Luke said when he saw you, clapping you on the back. You had to focus really hard not break down in happy tears at the inclusion. The rest of the sophomore guys started to nod, but then stopped and stared at you. Luke’s face changed too. “Why are you wearing your jersey?”

  You mentally froze as you realized none of the soccer guys, not even the frosh, were wearing their jerseys. But Luke slung a heavy arm around your shoulder and said, “Nevermind,” as he shook his head. You realized how drunk he was as he slurred his words, recounting the evening’s events so far. Frosh guys forced to down shots; frosh guys made to ride in a tricycle around the perimeter of the basement as everyone chanted, “Go, speed racer, go!” Frosh singing Christmas carols while the music was paused; frosh guys forced to play patty-cake, shouting the words in front of everyone.

  “You know, man,” he mumbled in your ear. “The usual stuff.”

  “Yeah, mannnnn,” you replied, stretching out the word so he’d think you were drunk too. It sounded fake, but luckily he didn’t seem to notice. Luke was smiling creepily at the freshmen girls behind you.

  The basement was filled with some seniors, juniors, fellow sophomores, but mostly freshman girls. You’d seen them in the halls and made sure to look down as they passed, even though they were younger than you. Fact is, you still looked like a frosh yourself.

  For twenty minutes, you hung out with the sophomore soccer guys, but really you just kind of stood against the wall, trying to look casual and pretending to sip from a red plastic cup full of warm beer. You felt it was important to be seen as part of the sophomore crew, and hoped that attending this party would make it unspoken that you’d attend future, nonhazing-related parties at Luke’s house. But as the minutes passed, you felt increasingly uncomfortable standing there; trying to appear bored and relaxed was turning out to be harder than you’d imagined, so you slipped away, up the stairs and into the darkened first floor. You went over to the living room and sat down in the dark, resting the plastic cup on the piano bench beside you. You exhaled, your voice shivering as you did so.

  “Hi?” a soft voice said, and you literally jumped in your seat. “Sorry!” she added, as you flicked the light switch of the lamp by your head.

  There was a freshman girl sitting cross-legged in the puffy chair in the corner. Her long brown hair pooled in her lap, and she absentmindedly played with a strand as she sat there. She was about as cute a girl you’d ever seen, and for a moment you wondered why you’d never seen her before. Then you realized the answer: you didn’t make eye contact with anyone in school, usually.

  “I didn’t know anyone was up here,” you said.

  “Just me,” she replied. “I was about to go back down in a minute.”

  The girl stood up, and so you stood up. She smiled, and you wondered if it was because she noticed your varsity soccer jersey. You were surprised when she took your right hand as she walked past, pulling you along with her. The two of you held hands all the way down the basement steps and into the near corner of the basement by the speakers, where it was too loud to really talk, but she smiled at you. You tried to smile back but managed more of a disinterested grin as you pretended something really fascinating was happening on the wall just behind her.

  For almost an hour, the two of you just stood there, not talking. By this point, you weren’t holding hands, but it was clear that you were hanging out, both of you watching as the frosh soccer players stumbled around drunk. You still couldn’t shake that feeling of being an imposter, but with the girl next to you, it felt better. At one point, she leaned in and shouted in your ear, “You’re nice,” which you had no idea how to interpret, given the fact that you hadn’t exchanged more then ten words to each other since first meeting upstairs. You nodded stupidly and leaned in to shout, “Thanks,” over the music. She laughed, unaware that you meant it.

  You wanted to add, “So are you,” but weren’t sure if, even though she said it first, she’d think it was a weird thing to tell her. Before you could figure out what to say next, a hand clapped you on the shoulder. It was Jason, the lone senior, and his eyes were red, but he smiled earnestly at you and said hi. You were reminded you’d always liked him, wanted to turn out like him someday. Since you didn’t know the girl’s name, even though you’d spent an hour together and it had clearly been established that she considered you nice, you didn’t want to ruin things by finally asking her name. Instead you shouted, “This is Jason,” to her, and the two shook hands and said hello. She said her name to him, but you didn’t catch it, so you leaned in and shouted, “What did you just tell him?” and she replied, “I just told him my name.”

  “It’s good to see you out, bro,” Jason added, clapping you on the back a second time before heading back into the thicket of limbs.

  The girl smiled at you and, encouraged, you leaned in and shouted, “He’s nice.” She nodded really enthusiastically, and you felt pleased, this being your first time hanging out with a girl and technically having an hour-long conversation with her. You had even established verbally she thought you were nice, and occasionally you saw her glancing at your varsity jersey. You could tell she was impressed that you were a soccer guy, and even better, at one point Luke came over and looked elated that you were standing with the girl.

  “So this is where you been,” he said, eyeballing her.

  “This is Luke,” you shouted to the girl, adding, “You guys are both nice,” and amazingly, rather than finally pegging you as an utter weirdo who couldn’t talk to girls, she thought you were teasing her—as if you were actually a charismatic guy.

  “Stop it,” she said, playfully punching you in the shoulder.

  You marveled at how your theories had been correct all along. Just being a soccer guy meant you didn’t even have to try and girls would think you were cool. Luke handed you a fresh cup filled with beer, and you pretended to be dying of thirst and took a mini sip. Still gross.

  “I’ll
leave you to it,” Luke whispered in your ear, patting you on the back.

  All this patting on your back felt good, coupled with hanging out with the girl, and for the rest of the night you noticed Luke pointing at you from a distance. The other sophomore soccer guys, who hadn’t considered you a friend for years, shot you the thumbs-up. You shot it back, even in front of the girl, who smiled.

  “Everyone’s nice,” you couldn’t help but tell her, but luckily she didn’t catch it because of the noise. When she asked you to repeat yourself, you at least had the wherewithal to recognize how cavemanish you were at conversing with a girl. “Nevermind,” you said.

  You took a sip of beer, and it still tasted horrible, but you didn’t care, still amazed at how things had turned out. So suddenly, you were who you’d wanted to be all this time. You could also tell, the way Luke and the rest of the cool soccer guys were looking at you, that they finally thought you were cool too. You were talking to a pretty girl, and you’d be going to parties in the future. Already you imagined hanging out with the girl in the hallways at school and visiting her locker between classes. You couldn’t wait.

  Your cell phone vibrated in your pocket, and without even checking you realized two things: that it was your parents on the other end, and that it must have been past 11 p.m. You pulled out your cell and immediately confirmed both theories: it was your mom, and it was a quarter to midnight.

  You felt nervous that you would get in trouble, and at the same time angry with your parents that you had to leave her. The girl looked at you funny.

  “I forgot,” you explained. “I have to go.”

  She nodded, clearly disappointed, and suddenly it felt like the energy in the room changed, like the hot air was suddenly sucked out of the basement. Should you kiss her goodnight? In your head you wondered what one did in situations like this; you couldn’t decide if you should lean in or punch her in the shoulder or ask for her number, but then she giggled and wrapped her arms around you for a hug. You squeezed her back, counting the seconds as they passed—almost fifteen seconds, twelve more than what would fall into the category of friendly. This was something else, and it was you who eventually parted first, initiating the end of the hug. She definitely blushed when you made eye contact afterward and instead of saying anything, she very cutely waved at you from point blank, mouthing the word, “Bye.”

  You wanted to say something cool, especially because you felt shaky inside, like your heart was going to explode, and without thinking you patted her on the shoulder and shouted in her ear, “I’ll leave you to it,” and walked off, feeling smooth.

  You stood for a minute outside Luke’s darkened house, listening to the music and laughter. You wanted to peek through the basement window to see if the girl looked sad, but you didn’t want to get caught acting like a total weirdo. The cell phone vibrated again, and you sprinted across the road and up your driveway.

  “Why didn’t you call back?” your mother shouted the second you entered the living room. “I almost went over to get you.”

  “The phone was on ‘silence all,’” you replied sheepishly. Her tone immediately softened as she realized you were now home safe. She asked how the party was and if you met some new people, but you weren’t really listening because you were now trying to remember what the girl looked like. You’d stood with her for over an hour, but in the bright white light of your living room it was like you’d accidentally misplaced the image of her face. You wanted to sneak back over just to see her again.

  You left your parents and made your way up the stairs with a bright smile on your face, thinking about seeing the girl on Monday. You imagined the soccer guys teasing you about her, and you hanging out with her during study hall or visiting her table—no, gracing her freshman girl table with your varsity soccer playing presence—and her friends swooning.

  You started giggling, uncontrollably, and opened up the window by your bed. That old habit again, but instead of listening for the party you just laughed freely out the window, watching your breath puff out in clouds. Things were different. You could feel it.

  • • •

  On Monday at school you didn’t see her all morning. Where did she hang out? Would she be keeping her eye out for you? Between every class you practically raced up and down the halls, seeking her out, ready to pretend casually bumping into her. But to no avail; she was nowhere in sight. Luke and Co. nodded dully at you in classes, and at lunch it seemed like you could have sat with them if you’d wanted. Instead you opted to sit at the “randoms” table by the entrance, with students who were busy studying for tests in the afternoon and barely nibbling their square pizzas. Again, the freshman girl was nowhere in sight.

  You just wanted to see her. Maybe she’d be shy around you, which would be adorable, but you wanted to make sure you’d made a connection. Friday night had been the start of something, hadn’t it? Finally, you spotted her at the end of the day. She was immediately friendly when she saw you. Her eyes lit up for a moment, and she kind of leaned forward a bit before pulling back, as if she thought about hugging you. This meant she definitely remembered you, and your heart felt like it would explode again.

  “I can’t talk right now. My ride is waiting,” she said.

  “That’s fine,” you replied. “I have soccer practice anyway.” You barely recognized the sound of your own voice.

  “I was looking for you all day,” she added. And that’s all you needed to hear. It was something. There was a future for the two of you, after all. You could barely breathe as she said goodbye and went over to talk with her friends. At that point, Luke playfully crashed into you and together you headed for the cluster of soccer players standing in a corner by the exit doors, like old chums.

  The roving crowd of soccer guys, you included, moved down to the locker room and you changed into your soccer clothes. Greg and Robbie were messing with the freshmen, but your thoughts were on the girl. You wished you were hanging out with her. You slung cleats over your shoulders by the laces and headed out the back door to do a little juggling with the guys in the back parking lot. Greg was kicking a ball against the brick wall. Luke was lacing up his cleats and yelled over to Jason, “Later, man.”

  Jason had sprained his ankle a week earlier and was out for another week from practice and games. He gave Luke a nod as he slid into his red Beamer. In the passenger seat was the freshman girl. Your freshman girl. You did a double take. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. They smiled warmly at each other before he drove off. It was a surreal, sunny day nightmare. You stared at the empty parking spot where his car had once been, unable to blink even when your eyes started itching.

  Amazing how in an instant you hated the freshman girl. Your eyes saw red. Your hands were fists. In fact, your hands stayed in fists the entire bus ride to the practice soccer fields, which is where you found yourself grabbing Warren Feldman during a water break and pushing him back onto the field. You lined him up against the goalpost so his legs wouldn’t buckle, and there’d be no room to cushion the blow when you would deliver the world’s most thumping toe job directly against his shin.

  Robbie and Greg are giggling, thinking you’re just scaring Warren, since you’ve never shown any real interest in torturing the frosh guys like they do. They follow suit and shove other freshmen against the other goalpost and pretend to shoot them.

  You think of Frankie—who manages to sneak into your head as if your brain is pleading with you to stop—and for a moment you remember the fear you’d felt the previous fall. But the image of the freshman girl in Jason’s Beamer pops in your head again, and you shove it out by shutting your eyes hard. You glare at Jason as he dissolves in your brain. That he watched over you during practice a year earlier—it was all bullshit. He wasn’t a friend.

  With your eyes still shut, the only thing you can see is Warren Feldman.

  He looks as if he’s made of wood, the way his features are sculpted. He looks like a fucking marionette. His defenseless righ
t shin looks invitingly weak, like balsa. Warren can’t kick lefty, can’t trap a square pass to save his life, is always last when the coach makes everyone run around the lake next to the soccer fields.

  You block everything out and start your run from the eighteen-yard line. You can’t see your teammates’ expressions, but instinctively, you know it changes from bemusement to horror. You can barely see at all because of the red clouding your vision, except to notice Warren is stiff as a board and clearly scared shitless—and for a flicker you almost feel the guilt for what you’re about to do before you do it.

  Defense Mechanisms

  BY ELIZABETH MILES

  IT’S GETTING WORSE. Even when they’re not behind me, they’re following me. I hear them in the bathroom at home, at night when I am brushing my teeth. I feel them around me in the hallways at school, near my locker, and by the water fountain. Sometimes when I’m biking home, I do this paranoid thing where I have to look over each of my shoulders three times before I’m convinced that no one is behind me.

  My best friend, Erin, an old teammate from all those years in the swimmers’ youth league, laughs at me—but at the same time I think she’s starting to get worried. And you know what? She’s not the only one.

  It’s not like I hear voices in my head or anything crazy like that. It’s just that Brian Doyle and his posse will not leave me alone. Like now, on the second-to-last day of school before Spring Break. As I bike away from Cornwall High there’s a loud POP and then something sharp sails past me, nicking my arm before it falls to the road. A tiny BB pellet. There’s a car a few paces behind me, and before I even hear their macho warchanting, I know it’s them. They’re shooting an air gun at me. I don’t stop, or even slow down.

  Instead I pedal harder, faster, with my head down and my hands clenched. They’re speeding up, trying to run me off the paved road and into the gravel ditch. Their insults and catcalls get lost in the wind. A hard, hot lump sits at the top of my throat, waiting to come out as a sob. Faster, I whisper to myself. Go, go, faster. My curly brown hair whips at my face and gets stuck in my mouth and eyes. Eventually I cut up onto the bike path, where the car cannot follow. And as I hear the engine and their whooping fade into the distance, I slow, stop, lean over the handlebars, and cry.