Hoodie

by S. Walden

  He didn’t mention anything about the panties when he found her sitting at a table outside in the back yard. He wondered if this was like the clothing incident when he disrobed her and put his hoodie and athletic shorts on her. It wasn’t meant to be discussed. A movie moment, he thought.

  She affected complete ignorance to what had just occurred, and he was grateful for it. He sat beside her and dumped his book bag in a vacant chair. He had no motivation to work on a paper today. He wanted to go back upstairs and see what other things she would pull out of her dresser drawers. He wondered how long they would refrain from doing anything more than flirting. They had so many more weeks together, and he could think of nothing but getting her naked and exploring her body.

  “Are you listening to me?” she asked.

  “Uh, yeah. You was sayin’ how we gotta tighten up that third paragraph ‘cause, you know, the syntax be all wrong and, um, those commas all over the place make it sound bad.”

  He grinned at her.

  “Pay attention!” she ordered, and slapped a piece of paper down in front of him.

  “How ‘bout we go do somethin’ fun today? Like go to the park and shoot hoops?”

  “No.”

  “Well what about seein’ a movie or somethin’?”

  “No.”

  “Game of cards?”

  “No.”

  “Damn, Emma. Why you gotta be all studious all the time? We got plenty of time for this paper. We already done half of it. Can’t you just relax?” Anton griped.

  Emma looked at him evenly.

  “And anyway, it Sunday. Day of rest? We can’t be doin’ all this work on the Lord’s day. That’s just disrespectful.”

  Emma slammed her binder closed. “Fine. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you show me some of them ballet moves you so good at,” he offered.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “You could teach me. Like I taught you how to shoot a ball,” he said.

  “You’re insane,” she replied laughing.

  “Well, it’s a pretty day and we ain’t gonna waste it by doin’ no school work,” he said.

  “I thought you liked this project,” she said.

  “I do. I just can’t get focused today.”

  Emma knew why. She knew it was because of her panties. Even now as she sat across from him, she knew he was thinking about them, the way they felt in his hands. He probably put them in his pocket to take home. She disregarded the thought, and then making up her mind, she got up from her seat.

  “Alright. Stay here,” she ordered.

  She disappeared for a few moments and then returned with a chess board and pieces.

  “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me, right?” he said.

  “Um, language. It’s the Lord’s day, remember?” she said.

  He gave her a level look.

  “Do you know how to play?” she asked setting up the board.

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll teach you.”

  “I don’t wanna learn,” he said.

  “Too bad. You don’t want to work, we don’t have to work. We’ll sit here and play a game.”

  “This ain’t no game,” he argued.

  “How is this not a game?”

  “Because it ain’t fun.”

  “How do you know? You’ve never played before,” she said, and he rolled his eyes.

  She walked him through the pieces and how they moved on the board. He thought he would never master it, but she was patient with him, explaining and correcting throughout their practice game. To his surprise, he actually began enjoying it. He thought it was fitting that the queen had so much power on the board—how she was able to move anywhere—while the king could only move one or two spaces at a time. Not much different from human relationships, he thought. The woman always has the power, and he looked at Emma. She was so pretty sitting there with her brows furrowed in concentration, pretending that he was a worthy opponent, and he smiled at her kindness.

  She beat him. That was to be expected, and she was surprised when he wanted to play again. And when she beat him a second time, he asked for another game. They played chess all afternoon, stopping only for bathroom breaks and to rummage through the refrigerator. They played until the sun set and her parents came home. She won every time, but he never got frustrated. He never gave up. With each game he was studying the way she moved. He began realizing that she had her go-to moves, her same set-ups. He had simply been too amateur to recognize them before. But now he knew them; he knew what she would do. And next time, he would be ready for her. He would anticipate her moves, and he would beat her.

  ***

  That night Anton had an unsettling dream. She was there, a tall elegant queen on a chess board and he a miniature pawn standing opposite her. He moved to the only space he could, knowing his fate. He watched her, eyes pleading, but she drew her sword nevertheless. She came towards him slowly, controlled. He was ready for the blow, probably to his throat, he thought, and would feel her slice his head cleanly from his neck. But he never felt the pain in his throat. Instead, his eyes went wide with agony and disbelief as she cut through his chest. He thought he should fall down, but he was fixed to his spot. He watched as she plunged her hands into his chest, pulling out his rapidly beating heart and holding it up in triumph.

  “I didn’t want to kill you,” she said. “I only wanted this.”

  He watched as she strode away gracefully, like gliding upon water, carefully cradling his heart in her hands. She could have it, he thought, and then his knees went out. He collapsed on the floor still watching her though his vision blurred. His eyes never left her until she walked off of the chess board and disappeared into the night. Then he closed his eyes and died in her hands.

  CHAPTER 11

  MONDAY, APRIL 26

  “You are not coming to my recital,” Emma said firmly.

  “Why not?” Anton asked. “Why can’t I see you dance?”

  “Because you just want to come to make fun of me,” Emma said.

  “That’s not true,” Anton argued. “I know ballet important to you. It’s part of who you are. Yo’ culture and all that.”

  “I’m so sick of this assignment,” she muttered.

  “Whoa. Where’d that come from?” Anton asked.

  They sat on his bedroom floor after school that evening amidst strewn papers.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess I’m just frustrated with it. You’re so good at articulating where you come from and what it means to you. I don’t even know what my culture is. I come from a wealthy white family. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Well, that ain’t all there is to you,” Anton pointed out.

  Emma grunted.

  “You tell me all about yo’ family and how they successful in they jobs and stuff. Wouldn’t education be part of yo’ culture? Something that’s shaped you?”

  “Whatever,” she said flippantly.

  “Okay,” Anton replied. He was trying to help, but she seemed distracted, irritable. He wondered if it was something he’d done.

  “Why don’t I know your friends?” she asked suddenly.

  “Why don’t I know yo’ friends?”

  Silence.

  “You’ve never introduced me to them,” Emma said. “Do they know we’re working on this assignment together?”

  “You know they do.”

  “And what do they think?” Emma prodded.

  “They don’t think anything. No, correction. They think Dr. Thompson a lunatic,” Anton said chuckling.

  “They never say anything to you about me? They laughed at me when I confronted you that time,” Emma said.

  “Why you gotta bring that up? Can’t we just let that go?” Anton asked. “And anyway, why you care what my friends think?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “It’s just weird to me that we’ve been hanging out a lot . . . I mean, I know it’s because of this project, b
ut still. We’ve been hanging out a lot and neither one of us has ever introduced our friends.”

  “And how you think yo’ friends would react to meetin’ me?” Anton asked. “Be for real, Emma. They’d be like, who the hell is this guy?”

  Emma said nothing. She stared at the papers on the floor.

  “What’s really botherin’ you?” Anton asked. “‘Cause I don’t think it’s about meetin’ each other’s friends.”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled. She flipped carelessly through the novel, careful not to look at him. “Are we friends?” she asked quietly.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Are we friends?”

  “‘Course we’re friends,” Anton said.

  “So after this project is done and after we graduate, we’ll still be friends?” she asked.

  Anton thought for a moment. “Well, sure, if you want.”

  “Please,” Emma said coldly. She felt an unjustifiable anger rising within her. “We’ll never talk to each other after this. What the hell is the point of all this?”

  “Do you wanna be friends with me after this project?” Anton asked. He was confused by her sour mood. “It ain’t no big deal. If you wanna stay friends, we can stay friends. What is yo’ problem?”

  She could not voice her frustration. She was not sure exactly what that frustration was. She panicked at the thought of the project ending, school ending, and the very real possibility that she would never see him again. She had not even known him for that long—a week and a half at most—but they had spent so much time together. Nearly every day, she realized. And she liked being with him. He made her laugh constantly. She wasn’t sure how they ever got any work done. They seemed to always be laughing. She liked coming over to his house. She liked wearing his hoodie. She wore it even now because his bedroom was cold. He had it ready for her—told her she could wear it anytime—and helped her put it on. Then it hit her like a hurricane force wind. She was in love with him. Oh God, she was in love with him! It had taken less than two weeks!

  “You on yo’ period or somethin’?” she heard Anton ask.

  “What?!”

  “You just all pissy today. I can’t figure it out. Look, I didn’t mean no disrespect when I axed you that.”

  Emma shot him a nasty look.

  “Okay, I guess you on yo’ period,” he mumbled to himself.

  She got up to leave.

  “Wait, I was just playin’. Come on, Emma, don’t be like that,” Anton pleaded.

  “I’m not being like anything,” she said, taking off the hoodie and throwing it as hard as she could at his face.

  “What the hell?” he asked behind the fabric.

  The hoodie fell from his face revealing a large grin. He tried to suppress an urge to laugh. She wanted to smack him, knowing all the while that she was being ridiculous. He had come to realize that this was the way of women. Never know what you’re gonna get, he thought. She’ll be all sunshine and smiles tomorrow.

  “I have to go,” Emma said, gathering her papers and books. “It’s late anyway.”

  “A’ight then,” he said.

  He moved to open the door for her, but she stormed out before he could. She didn’t bother to say goodbye.

  ***

  She didn’t know why she returned. She had just left. It was getting late and she knew her parents would be angry. She called them on her cell phone and explained that she needed to stay a little longer. They believed she was still at Morgan’s, and the guilt of lying to them made her chest feel tight.

  She knocked on the door softly. At first there was no answer. Maybe he had gone somewhere, she thought panicking. She prayed silently that he was still home, knowing she would never have the courage to try again. She knocked for a second time more determined. He opened the door then, his brows furrowed in a question.

  “You forget somethin’?” he asked.

  She pushed past him into the small living room.

  “I don’t know. I . . . I think I might have,” she lied.

  He said nothing but led her to his room. He stood in the doorway and watched as she pretended to look around.

  “What you think you forgot?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said unable to look him in the face. Did he know her true intentions?

  “I didn’t notice anything,” he continued.

  He seemed oblivious which only made it harder for her. She would never be able to voice out loud what she wanted. She was too afraid that he would reject her.

  “I had on a bracelet,” she lied. “I’m sure I had on a bracelet and now it’s gone.”

  “No you didn’t,” he said.

  “Yes I did!” she screamed unexpectedly. She looked at him then, her eyes beseeching him, and his lips curled into a smile.

  He knew.

  “Come ‘ere,” he said softly.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said desperately.

  “Come ‘ere.”

  She obeyed and walked towards him. She was inches from him and felt like she would die if she could not touch him. She reached her hand to his face—she needed to feel the silk of him—but he drew back.

  “You really wanna go there?” he asked. “You wanna get with a nigga?”

  He watched as her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  “Don’t talk like that,” she whispered. She was fighting down the urge to jump on him. But she didn’t know if she wanted to hold him or claw at him. She thought that perhaps she needed to do both.

  “Talk like what? ‘Nigga?’ I’m a nigga if you hadn’t noticed,” he teased. He flashed his teeth in a brilliant smile then licked his lips. “I don’t normally kick it with white chicks,” he continued watching the contortions of her face. He knew she was thinking fast and hard. She was in emotional turmoil, and it was amusing to watch. “Not that I got anything against white chicks. They can hang, I guess.”

  “Forget it,” she said bitterly. She tried to push past him for the front door, but he grabbed her upper arm.

  “Who you think you fuckin’ with?” he asked, the ghost of a laugh in his voice. He bent low to whisper in her ear. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ it. I ain’t even gonna lie.” His lips brushed her ear, and she shivered. “I want it, too. I want you. I’ve wanted you from day one.”

  She didn’t know if he meant from the first day they began the project or from the first day he ever saw her. Frankly she didn’t care; it was all she needed to hear, and she pressed her body against him feeling his arms envelop her. They were strong and dark, contrasting starkly with her white skin. She lifted her face to him and only then felt the tear slide down her cheek. He bent to kiss it, but it evaded his lips and fell to the floor. He looked at her face and smiled. She was crazed inside. He couldn’t help but imagine for a moment what she would do to him in bed.

  “Please kiss me,” she said hoarsely.

  “I will,” he said and released her from his embrace.

  She stood there confused. The warmth of his body still lingered on her, but she felt it fading fast and was reluctant to let it go.

  “What do you want? You want me to beg?” she asked angrily, wheeling around to look at him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed watching her.

  “Nah. I want you to come here and sit on my lap,” he said patting the tops of his thighs.

  She was at a loss for words.

  “You comin’?”

  “I have to be home soon,” she said.

  “That’s your answer?” he asked.

  She paused for just a moment before going to him and settling herself on his left leg. She tugged on her skirt, trying to pull it down over her knees, but it covered her just to mid-thigh.

  “You so tiny,” he said playfully. “You prolly weigh, what? Eighty, ninety pounds?”

  She shook her head as he bounced her lightly with his knee.

  “I don’t wanna just jump into bed with you,” he said. He brushed her hair over her shoulde
r and turned her face to look at him.

  “You must think I’m a ho or something,” she said. Her face was red with embarrassment.

  “Please, girl. You the furthest thing from a ho.” He placed his hand on the back of her head pulling her gently towards his face.

  “Wait. You’ve got to say something else.”

  “Huh?”

  “The last thing you say to me before we kiss for the first time can’t be ‘you’re the furthest thing from a ho’,” she pleaded.

  He laughed. “A’ight.” He pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling in consideration. “Okay. How ‘bout this? I think you kinda cute.”

  “Kind of cute?” she asked.

  “Okay really cute,” he said. “Actually, you fine.”

  She couldn’t wait for him to make the first move. She grinned and pressed her lips hard against his. They were soft and plump, silky and foreign. She relaxed and softened then, letting him gently explore her lips with his own. She opened her mouth to him feeling his tongue search her tentatively at first, then more forcefully. Her tongue mingled with his, tasting honey, and she felt the tingling moving down her throat, through her chest, twisting through her belly to rest in between her legs. She couldn’t understand her inability to restrain her desire. It was animal. She didn’t want to sleep with him. She wanted to fuck him.

  He knew he should keep it strictly at a kiss. Going any further would be too fast, and he wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted. He imagined she wanted more, and he tried to justify his own desire by convincing himself that they had actually spent more time together—an inordinate amount of time—in the last week and a half than most couples do in their first month of dating. Yes, he thought, that sounds right. It wouldn’t be imprudent to assume she’d want his hands all over her.