by Kevin Lucia
I frowned at him. “Lanky? Really? You think she’s lanky?”
“What? She's tall and has long arms and legs. Lanky, dude.”
“No way. Mark Buchoyski is lanky. She is most definitely not lanky.”
“So what is she?”
I thought for a moment, searching for the right word. Willowy wouldn't mean much to Gary; hell, I'd only seen it used in novels, never heard it used in real life. After a moment, I settled on the best words I could come up with. “Elegant. Graceful. Definitely not lanky.”
Gary shook his head, smiling. “Elegant. This is what I get for hanging with a book nerd. Elegant.”
“A book nerd who can dunk on your ass. Elegantly, I might add.”
He snorted, offered me a sidelong grin. “Whatever. You. Got it. Bad.”
I punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Naw. She's kinda hot and funny. We talked. That's all.”
I turned back to the darkness, trying to ignore the slight twist in my guts whispering it was all a fluke and I'd never see her again. “That's all,” I whispered.
* * *
I didn't realize how much I was mooning over the mysterious Michelle Titchner until Wednesday afternoon, when Corey Thorton and I were playing hoops at the Commons Trailer Park. Ten years ago the owners of the Commons put in a regulation-sized, full-court asphalt basketball court. I guess the plan had been to follow up with a playground, but for some reason those plans fell through, leaving only the basketball court.
No one ever played on it. I'm not sure why. The court was beautifully level and smooth, practically begging for players, but no one ever showed up. Maybe it was too far away from the school, where people (myself included) played every night of the week over the summer. Why travel to the edge of town to play on a nice enough asphalt court when all the real action was always in town at the high school?
For me, living on the town's outskirts, the Commons basketball court was only a bike ride away. Since I first discovered it the summer of my seventh grade year, I'd biked there daily over the summers to shoot around or work out with my best friend and teammate, Corey.
It was during my afternoon workout with Corey when I realized how preoccupied I’d become with a girl I'd only met once. Though things had felt normal Monday and Tuesday, nothing felt right that Wednesday. I'd drifted in a fog all day. Sleepwalked my way through chopping firewood in the morning, took forever to bike up to the Commons (I had my driver’s license, but both cars were in use that day), and for two hours squaring off against Cory, I couldn't buy a basket. I felt slow, my legs heavy and my hands clumsy. I had fallen one-step behind Corey on nearly every play.
My last jump shot had just bricked off the front of the rim out of bounds. Corey checked the ball at the top of the key, but when I checked it back to him, he caught it and held it on his hip, asking, “Dude. You okay? You're like in space or something.”
I frowned, pretending I didn't understand. Amazing how willing we are to engage in the futile efforts of self-deception. “What? I'm fine. Having an off day is all.”
Corey raised his eyebrows, tossing the ball lightly from one hand to the other. “An off day. You call missing every jump shot and losing three games in a row by five or six points each an ‘'off day?’”'“ He shook his head. “I'm as confident as the next guy, but no way I'm beating you that bad. You're not here, Kev.”
I grinned with false bravado. “Check-it, Nancy Boy. You're about to see the greatest comeback in the history of basketball since the '83 Celtics/Lakers series.”
He rolled his eyes as I hunkered down into a defensive stance, rechecking the ball. I flipped the ball back to him, he rocked left, and I...
saw Michelle’s bright green eyes
her flowing black hair, and her smile
...stood still as Corey exploded right, leaving me in the dust.
It was painfully apparent, no denying it after that: I was somewhere else. Corey had always been faster than me, but I’d had quick feet, I was long and - —hell, lanky - —and usually played better defense than that. I barely recovered and cut him off on the wing as he pulled back, eyes narrowing, shoulders set, preparing to launch one of his deadly accurate jump shots...
I totally swallowed it.
Hook, line and sinker.
Instead of gathering the ball in from his dribble and jacking a jumper in my face, he stutter-stepped and blew right by me. He coasted to the hoop and laid the ball off the metal backboard with a light metallic ping, followed by the hissing-snap of the ball popping through the net.
He grabbed the ball out of the net and stared at me. “Greatest comeback ever, huh?”
I settled at the top of the key and motioned him to the check me ball. “It’'s coming, baby. You wait. It’'s coming.”
Corey shook his head but said nothing, checking me the ball. Three missed jump shots, a turnover, a botched lay-up and five straight buckets by Corey later and I’'d lost every single game to him for the first time since we'd started working out together five years ago.
After his winning jump shot swished through the net, Corey smacked my shoulder on his way to retrieve the ball. “Like I said, mi amigo: In space. Out near Jupiter, man.”
I chuckled, caught between amusement and unease. Back then, writing was merely a secret hobby I told no one about. Teaching high school English was a vague “career goal” to satisfy my guidance counselors. Basketball was my thing. Had been since fifth grade. Corey was good and fast and quick, his jump shots machine-like in their precision. He’d beaten me plenty of times before, but we usually split our wins and losses down the middle. He was right. I felt miles away from the court.
Because of her.
Michelle Titchner. A girl I'd met once. At an Old Webb party, of all things. Regardless of her lustrous black hair, burning green eyes and ethereal presence, thinking a girl could throw me off my game so bad...it was disconcerting, to say the least.
I trudged over to the grassy bank on the far end of the court, which sat in the shade provided by the tree line. Feeling as cumbersome as I'd played, I flopped onto my back and closed my eyes. Corey retrieved the ball, jogged over and sat next to me.
“Twitter-pated is the word, my friend. Twitter-pated. Bad.”
I snorted, my eyes still closed. “Dude. Really? Bambi? What are we? Five years old?”
“Bambi is a timeless classic loved by all.”
“This coming from the guy who cried when Bambi's mother got shot.”
He grabbed his sports bottle from his backpack, nodded and added before taking a swig, “Also the same guy who laughed when ET died. A cinematic event you didn't take so lightly, my friend.”
“Bite me.”
“Only if you shower first, precious.”
This brought a round of laughter. I loosened up inside, feeling better instantly. I trained year round - —running and lifting weights when I wasn't playing - —and I was due a bad game now and then. So what if I was a little preoccupied? At least it was over a girl as impressive and...as intriguing as Michelle.
As if sensing my thoughts, Corey fist-bumped my shoulder and said, “Don't worry about it. I didn't get a good look at her, but if she was half as hot as she seemed from where I sat, I totally get it. I'd be in a fog, too. Besides. You're Mr. Basketball. You deserve a little time off, right?”
Second time I'd heard that in less than a week. “Yeah. I suppose.”
Corey sipped from his water bottle again. “So. Talk to her since then?”
The question took me aback. I shook my head, because no. How could I? I...
“Never got her number,” I muttered with a sinking feeling in my gut, instantly knowing how lame I sounded, and what it probably meant.
Corey sputtered a little, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered me an incredulous smile. “You spent the whole night talking to this girl and you didn't manage to get her number? How'd that happen?”
I glanced away, feeling embarrassed, as if somehow I'd violated som
e important “guy-code” titled: always get her number. Or at least try. Which I hadn't at all.
I shrugged, still staring at my feet. “I dunno. We talked the whole time, then we ended up walking to Gary's car, she said goodnight...”
I shrugged again, abashed, glancing at Corey sidelong. “I dunno. Never got it.”
He appeared sympathetic, which made me feel worse. “Ah, dude. Hope you didn't get played. Maybe she's got a boyfriend. Hell, if she's a little older, a fiancé. Maybe she was slumming it and didn't want to give you her number so you wouldn't go screwing things up with her man.”
Unable to help it, I bristled. “She didn't say anything about a boyfriend.”
I nearly winced soon as those words left my mouth.
“Of course she wouldn't tell you. Didn't want to scare you off. Maybe she wanted to chill with someone other than her man, wanted to feel single again, so she crashed Old Web alone, and then you came along, chatting her up. She was more than happy to play along, and hey: maybe she dug you a little, too. Maybe her boyfriend's possessive or whatever, so she liked you and liked pretending you guys were working the mojo. But really, she was playing you. Probably didn't mean to hurt you or anything, but at the end of the night, she was going back to her man, no matter how cool you were.”
He shrugged. “Sucks, man. But it happens all the time.”
I looked away without saying anything because, of course, it was all very plausible. Even if I felt Michelle and I had connected on some deep level, Corey's explanation sounded credible. More than likely it had happened to plenty of guys, probably right there at Old Webb.
Stubborn, I shook my head. “I dunno.”
Corey lurched to his feet andkicked mine. “C'mon. Stand me one more game, then we'll head into town and grab some subs at Dooley's. Sound good?”
I nodded slowly and stood. We stretched a bit, warmed back up, and shot for possession. Corey bricked his three.
Mine hit nothing but net.
It depressed me, in a way, that our little talk had blown my pleasant haze away. I didn't enjoy beating him nearly as much as usual. As much as I'd won, I felt like maybe I'd lost something a lot more precious inside.
* * *
Though Corey's cold dash of reality felt unpleasant at the time, it did serve to shake me out of the clouds and back down to earth. The price was a slightly jaded view of my encounter with Michelle, but I finished the week sharper, on my toes, with a clearer head.
I finished my chores more quickly and efficiently the rest of the week and hung out more with my friends, catching the Wednesday Night Creature Feature at Raedeker Park - —THE MUMMY RETURNS - —with Bill Ward. I went fishing with Gary McNamara and Nate Slocum, picked blueberries at Mr. Trung's blueberry patch with my sister on Thursday. I did all the things I normally would. Corey's dose of reality took the shine off things a little, but it also brought my feet back down to the ground.
Next Saturday night, at Old Webb?
She didn't show.
Surprisingly I didn't feel too badly about it. A little bummed, maybe, but it seemed confirmation of Corey's theory. I decided to take the previous Saturday as it was: an enjoyable evening spent with someone unique, nothing more.
Having driven myself to Old Webb that night, I left early. I couldn't deny feeling a little let down, which did steal some of the usual fun.
* * *
Life settled down nicely the following weeks. My disappointment at Michelle's no-show did linger for a few days, but mostly, I carried on as normal. I played hoops every day with Corey. I chopped firewood; hit the beach at Clifton Lake. I went hiking, fishing, and I played more basketball...all the usual things. In the face of this normality, Michelle Titchner faded into the background, although I'd be lying if I said her memory disappeared entirely.
I stayed away from Old Webb for several weeks, which helped. There were plenty of other things to do on Saturday nights: camping out, heading to Old Forge for fireworks, Five Mile Speedway with my Dad, Utica for the movies, and my classmates’' graduation parties. I managed to keep busy. Of course, if I’d thought about it I would’ve realized I was avoiding Old Webb. Avoiding the reality of Michelle Titchner never showing up again, or worse, showing up with this theoretical “man” of hers.
I successfully stayed away from Old Webb for the bulk of July. Until the last Saturday, July 27th. That weekend was the Gus Macker, an annual three-on-three basketball tournament held in Norwich, about two hours downstate. For an entire weekend, Norwich became a basketball Mecca for players of all ages.
Unfortunately, we bowed out of the tournament early, losing two hard-fought games Saturday. For the first time in three years myself, Corey, Mike Fitzgerald and Micah Cassidy (a stand-out player from Old Forge High) wouldn't be playing Sunday. Someone floated the idea of a “consolation party” at Old Webb. Everyone voted on it unanimously, myself included.
Ironically enough, I didn't think of Michelle Titchner until we slipped through the tree-shrouded front doors of Old Webb and made our way to its lantern-lit gymnasium.
Soon as we entered the gym, I saw her. Like last time she was standing near a group of people clustered around a fire barrel. Sipping her beer, not really taking part in the conversation. I wasn't looking at her for more than a minute or two before she glanced in my direction, nodded and smiled her little smile and started toward me.
Gary must've seen this because I immediately felt his elbow nudge my side. Corey clapped my shoulder and whispered something like “she’s all yours.” I shrugged him off, turning toward her.
We met each other halfway. She smiled. “Hey.”
I smiled in return, desperately hoping I didn't look like a moron. “Hey. Been awhile. Didn't see you last time I was here, then I got busy for a few weeks. You haven’t been..?”
I snapped my mouth shut, worried I was not only rambling but also acting pathetically desperate, but she didn't notice. She shook her head. “I couldn’t get away last couple weeks. Nothing personal, don't worry. Not like I was avoiding you or anything.”
I chanced a grin of my own, once again feeling an uncharacteristic boldness rise in me. “So you weren’t slumming or taking a break from your boyfriend or fiancé or...”
For one terrified moment I thought maybe she might be offended, but she laughed, eyes glowing with amusement. “Wow. Boy pulls no punches, comes out swinging. Let me guess.” She nodded over my shoulder. “That’s all your entourage has been saying since last time. ‘'She’s probably got a boyfriend anyway, so forget about her.’' Am I right?”
I glanced over at my friends, who were clustered around a small portable grill getting their usual hot dogs, beers already in hand. I glanced back to Michelle, chuckling. “They mean well. Worried I’m losing my head, getting all twitter-pated, and such.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Wow again. Bambi. Double-cultural points for your friends. I figured their comments would've been more like: ‘'Dude! Don't be so pussy-whipped!’ ”' “
I laughed outright. “Well, actually, Fitzy did say that. The one with the red hair, last time? He’s not here tonight.”
She laughed also. “You have some interesting friends, Kevin Ellison.”
Once again, the smile on my face must've made me look like an idiot kid on Christmas morning. “Good thing, because I’m not interesting at all. We all balance out, I suppose.”
She mock-scowled at me as we turned slightly and started meandering away. “Now, c’mon. A nineteen year old who's filled notebooks with short stories and poetry he won't let anyone read because he’s going to college on a full basketball scholarship next year? Sounds interesting to me.”
Once again I felt thankful for the dimness in Old Webb’s gymnasium, because my cheeks felt hot with embarrassment. Had I really told her all that stuff last time? About these blue spiral MEAD notebooks of mine?
I realized with a mild sense of shock that I had (I must’ve, right?), which officially made her the first girl I'd ever told those things
to. Stuffing my hands into pockets, I glanced down (stopping short of scuffing the floor with my toe), and muttered “Naw, that’s not important. Just me messing around is all.”
I forced myself to meet her gaze. “Writing is fun. I mean, I like to make stuff up, see the story in my head and all...but it’d be hard to make a career out of it, I guess.”
Her gaze sharpened slightly. For the first time I thought maybe something harder lurked behind those beautiful green eyes. Not something malicious or mean, but intense. “Let me guess. You've gotten the whole ‘'do something practical’' speech from your parents, right? Dad told you not to waste your time on pipe dreams like writing for a living?”
I meant to smile, trying to lighten the mood, but it felt more like a grimace. “Well. Yes and no. I have gotten the ‘'do something practical’' speech – —mostly from Mom - —but I've never said anything to Mom or Dad about my writing. I think Dad would dig it. He teaches English at All Saints—, over in Clifton Heights? He loves reading and writing as much as I do, so I think he'd understand why I like to write...”
Michelle nodded slowly, realization dawning in her eyes. “He tried to write, didn’'t he?” A pause, and then a gentle, ”Did he fail?”
I shook my head. “Well, not really. I actually think failing completely would've been better. Then he could've put it out of his mind for good. No, he sold a handful of short stories during graduate school, right before landing his job at All Saints. After he got married, he sold the stories as a collection to a small publisher. He wanted to take a year off from teaching and really make a go of it. Write some more stories, maybe write a novel...”
“But..?”
I shrugged. “Mom wasn’t into it, I don’t think. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I don't think she ever told Dad in so many words to quit writing. But I think Dad knew taking a year off to write wasn't going to fly. He landed the job at All Saints...”
Michelle nodded, her expression grim. “And he never wrote again.”
“Nope. His collection sold well, though. He sold a few hundred copies. But that was it. Got too busy with school, grading papers, doing lesson plans, the usual teacher things. Plus...like I said. Don't think Mom ever forced him to quit, but because he knew she wasn’t into it...”
