Hoodie

by S. Walden

  “I had gone to Dr. Thompson to complain about him before I even gave him a chance. He caught me doing it,” Emma said sheepishly.

  Sarah grinned. “Not a good way to get things started.”

  “Tell me about it,” Emma replied.

  “Um, hello? Can I finish my story now?” Aubrey asked.

  “Yes, Aubrey. Sorry,” Emma said smiling.

  “Okay, so anyways, the class is listening to him saying that he’s sorry he called her a bitch. Then he wouldn’t leave until she promised to meet him after school so that they could talk some more. And then Mrs. Hartsford ruined everything by calling someone from the office down to her room to get . . . what was his name?”

  “Anton.”

  “That’s right, Anton. And so Mr. McCullum came to get him. And he walked out of the room all happy because Emma had accepted his apology,” Aubrey said. “It was really cute.”

  “Are we finished with this subject?” Morgan asked, but Aubrey ignored her.

  “You brought it up,” Sarah reminded Morgan who had moved on to scrutinizing her face in the mirror.

  “Like I said, Emma. I think he’s cute, but I would never date him,” Aubrey said.

  “And why’s that?” Emma asked.

  “Um, hello? He’s black. Maybe I would sleep with one just to see what it’s like, but I would never ever in a million years date one. Could you imagine?”

  Emma remained silent.

  CHAPTER 14

  MONDAY, MAY 3

  She felt an uncontrollable rage deep inside. She could kill someone; she was sure of it. She could kill him. She watched as he spoke to the girl playfully. He was at ease, looking more at home with that girl than he ever did with her. What did she expect, though? She was white. That girl was black. Sooner or later the black girl would win. She could never compete with the people he understood the most.

  It was almost the end of the day, and she had a strong urge to check herself out and go home. Nothing had gone right at school since they had sex. They didn’t know how to act around one another. None of their friends were aware of their relationship. They didn’t know how to make it public or even if they should make it public. Perhaps it wasn’t a relationship at all but merely sex. She panicked at the thought of a one-night stand. But how could that be after the things he confessed to her on Saturday? It sounded like he wanted more. A relationship.

  But he was a different Anton at school, rarely venturing to talk to her but instead stealing glances in her direction from time to time that she would ignore if her friends were around. She tried to smile at him when her friends weren’t around, but that never worked because he was always with his friends. He looked through her like he had no idea who she was. On the rare occasions that they did find themselves alone with one another, they both pretended that they hadn’t ignored each other throughout the day and that they weren’t embarrassed by the way they treated each other. It was hurtful and immature, and she was just as guilty as he.

  And now she stood and watched him flirt with another girl. How could he do that? She felt ashamed that she had given him her virginity. How could she be so naïve? How could she let him trap her like that? Showing her a side of him no one else saw, a sweet side—a side that lured her into his bed. Was it merely an act to see what she’d be like? Maybe he just wanted to be rid of his virginity and she happened to be available. As much as it hurt her, she had to confront the possibility that it was nothing more than sex.

  She was a fool, partially hiding behind her locker door as she watched them. The girl wrapped her arms around Anton’s waist and squeezed him. He looked happy, saying something that was evidently funny because his friends laughed. The girl laughed, letting her forehead rest on his chest while she giggled with delight. Fucking bitch, Emma thought, aware of the tear gliding down her cheek. She didn’t wipe at it. She continued to stare until they moved down the hall and out of sight, the girl’s arm wrapped around Anton’s waist and his arm falling comfortably over her shoulder.

  ***

  She stood in his room as far away from him as she could get. They were already deep in the fight. She couldn’t believe the things she had said. They poured out of her without control. She knew she was crazy, but she couldn’t stop. She had to keep saying things—awful, hurtful things to rid her heart of the anger.

  “Can you try for one second to understand where I’m comin’ from?” he asked, trying desperately to control his temper.

  “Where you’re coming from?” she screamed. Her voice sounded strange and shrill. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “You don’t come from the ghetto. You don’t know what it’s like to be black. You don’t know what kind of pressure that is, the way you gotta act around yo’ friends and have street cred and still try to work to get outta that life without lookin’ like you some kinda sell-out.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with earlier? That girl?” Emma snapped.

  Anton ignored her as he continued. “Not to mention datin’ people different from you and how yo’ boys gonna react to that. Cause they matter, whether you like it or not.”

  She was furious, her face tightening with a mixture of anger and humiliation. She was to blame for his flirting earlier in front of his friends?

  “And then on top of all that shit, you gotta deal with not havin’ the same opportunities as other people,” he finished.

  “Give me a break. This isn’t 1963. No one’s keeping the black man down,” she spat. “Get over yourself.”

  He wanted to hit her. He couldn’t believe the rush of rage—that in that short second he could have brought his hand up to her soft cheek and struck her violently like a poor angry black man who justifies abuse because he’s put upon. He was glad that she was on the opposite end of the bedroom.

  “You might wanna check yo’self,” he said calmly.

  “Go to hell,” she said. “I don’t see how not having the same opportunities as other people has anything to do with you flirting with that girl!”

  He was exasperated. “She’s a friend,” he said slowly, emphasizing every word. “I’ve known her since first grade. She used to live like two doors down from me. And anyway, what the fuck you care who I talk to? When you around yo’ little posse, you act like I don’t exist.”

  “That’s not true,” she argued.

  He laughed derisively. “Oh really? You wanna tell me what happened today at lunch? I tried to approach you since I realize we need to start bein’ a little bit more mature, and you shrink down in yo’ fuckin’ chair like I’m some sorta bad muthafucka gonna git you.”

  At those words, he took a sudden step towards her just to watch her body jump. It did.

  “I did not shrink,” she argued. “I was caught off guard.”

  “Girl, what the fuck does that mean?” he asked. “Face it. You was ashamed.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but he cut her off.

  “And yo’ little punkass bitches was lookin’ at me like, ‘How the fuck you gonna come over to our table and talk to our girl?’” he spat. “You need to check the people you hang around. They nothin’ but some bitchass muthafuckin’ hos.”

  “Don’t talk about my friends like that!” she screamed. “Like yours are so much better. They are so disrespectful to me!”

  “Get over yo’self,” he said laughing. The laughter was hard and cold. “They don’t care ‘bout you. They not takin’ any time to worry ‘bout disrespectin’ you.”

  “This was a huge mistake,” she said suddenly.

  “What? Gettin’ together?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Maybe you should just go date your little Latasha or Shaquita or whatever the fuck her name is. We obviously can’t do this.”

  It was shamefully passive aggressive, a way of manipulating with words. She hoped it would elicit the response she wanted, the assurance she needed from him that he did, in fact, like her and want to be with her.

  They stood for a few moments sta
ring at one another from across the room. He finally broke the silence.

  “Whateva,” he said shrugging. “It make no difference to me. I got what I wanted from you anyway.” He was looking for a reaction from her, and she knew it.

  “Oh really?” she asked. “Because I didn’t. In fact, I was left very unsatisfied.”

  The words were a challenge, and while he knew she didn’t mean them, couldn’t possibly mean them, his pride was hurt. He had opened up to her completely that night. Confessed himself to be just as new and inexperienced as she was, and glad for it. Glad that he would share himself for the first time with her, knowing afterwards that he would only ever want to share himself with her. Her words wounded him in his core, and his anger intensified.

  “Is that right?” he asked harshly, moving towards her with purpose.

  She tried to sidestep him for the door, but he was too fast, trapping her against the wall with an arm on either side of her head, hands pressed firmly against a poster of Warren G.

  “Well, I don’t remember it quite like that.”

  She squirmed to get away, trying to retreat underneath one of his arms, but he simply moved it lower blocking her escape.

  “See, I remember you moanin’ into my mouth,” he said quietly, his face inches from hers. “And sayin’ my name over and over again while you fuckin’ came to my hand. That’s what I remember. I hadn’t even put my dick in you and you already comin’ for me.”

  She was desperate for something to say, something else that would sting him. She hated the control he wielded over her, trapped against the wall, listening to a recount of how she yielded to him so easily, exposing the most vulnerable side of herself.

  “Yeah, well it was all a show,” she replied, her voice quavering.

  He laughed genuinely then. She watched for the flashes of his white teeth as he snorted with laughter, all the while keeping his arms on either side of her. She wanted to hit him.

  “Girl, you outta yo’ mind,” he said. “If that was a show, then you need to get yo’ ass to Hollywood ‘cause you be a real big star.”

  He was unprepared for what came next. She pushed against his chest with all her might, making him stumble backwards slightly, and before he regained his balance, she slapped him hard across the face. It was a white-hot burn, a blast of hate, and he could feel his heart pumping in his cheek.

  She stood there with a look of triumph on her face—snide and smug—watching him rub his jaw slowly. He was thinking about how he would retaliate, she could tell, and she knew it was time to leave. She made for the door but he jumped in front of her. She moved to the other side, but he was already there. She backed away from him, but he moved towards her as if there was an invisible chain connecting them. He never took his eyes off of her face. She felt for a moment like she was prey being toyed with before the kill.

  He came at her then, pushing her violently against the wall and kissing her angrily. His lips and teeth were everywhere: her mouth, cheeks, chin, ears, neck. Every place his lips touched burned and stung. He was hurting her, and she tried desperately to throw him off of her once more. But this time he was wise to it. He leaned into her, making it easy to pin her against the wall with his weight.

  He bit her neck hard and listened to her cry out, ignoring her protests as he lifted her skirt, hands roving over her thighs and bottom. Damn, he loved when she wore skirts. He ripped her panties cleanly, and she vaguely felt them float down her legs to the floor. He lifted her up forcing her to wrap her legs around his hips for support, fooling with the zipper of his pants until he was exposed and ready to take her. She protested as she felt him enter her.

  She was wet and ready for him. Little tease, he thought chuckling, and he held her hips still, watching her face as he slid in and out of her. She was trapped between lust and anger—it was evident by the look in her eyes—and it made her that much more desirable. He neither went slowly nor fast with her. He knew that he must find a perfect balance in between or he would lose it before making her yield to him. And he wanted her to yield to him. He wanted to prove a point, prove her a liar, humiliate her sweetly. He was focused on reading her, pushing away the thought of his own sensations, watching her intently. Her face went tight with rage and then relaxed to submission. She was the pendulum swinging between two emotions, and he wondered which would win out.

  He kissed her mouth softly then, and to his surprise and delight she kissed him back. So submission would win out, he thought, drawing away from her lips to smile at her victoriously. She wouldn’t smile back; she had to hold on to some vestige of pride still even as he had her pinned, opened to him, with no chance of escape.

  His eyes never left hers as she came. She was terribly beautiful, caught in between the humiliation of defeat and the rapture of physical satisfaction. Even when her climax was through, he continued stroking her. It was payback, she knew, and while she begged him to stop, crying that she couldn’t bear to feel it anymore, he continued unmoved, watching her eyes, falling into them as he came for her. It was intense, hard and quick. He felt in that moment like a star that imploded, collapsing within, debris and wreckage everywhere inside while the outside remained intact.

  He leaned his forehead against the wall, feeling the beads of sweat dropping off of his face to hit her shoulder. He felt drained of everything: his anger at her earlier, his will to fight, even the constant nagging fear of their blossoming relationship and what that meant for him as a black man and her as a white woman. He found the tiny bit of remaining strength within him and carried her to the bed, laying her down gently.

  He crawled in beside her and felt he could sleep for a hundred years, thinking absurdly of Rip Van Winkle and his fate. What would be Anton’s fate, he thought? Would he wake up in a hundred years to see her still lying beside him, face flushed and shining, hair tumbling about, still the young beautiful seventeen-year-old whose love he stole away? Or would she be old and gone, perhaps someone else’s lover, and he would be in a desperate search for the rest of his life to find her and win back her love? He turned to face her. She was staring at him. Had she been staring the whole time?

  “I love you,” she said softly. “I love you and I don’t know how to handle that.”

  “I love you, too,” he said.

  It was so easy to say. He loved hearing it. He had never said it to a girl, could not, for he never understood it until he laid eyes on her for the first time, touched her arm, felt her breath on his shoulder.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “We’re gonna stop bein’ scared,” he said. “We just scared of everybody and what they think. We have to stop carin’ what they think.”

  She nodded.

  “But I don’t wanna think about that right now,” he continued. He sighed deeply and contentedly. “I just need to lay here with you.”

  She saw him truly vulnerable then, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the flutter of his eyelashes as his eyes moved behind closed lids. She put her hand on his chest and he instinctively closed his over hers. It was strong and warm, no longer demanding from her. Simply thanking her for giving to him. She did not know until then how much he needed her.

  She could feel the slow and steady beating of his heart. Hers was beating wildly still, but now from the realization of his intense need for her. She would give him everything, she resolved. Turn herself inside out for him if he wanted. It was a dangerous feeling, but she was not afraid of it. It was her assurance of his love for her. She had gotten her assurance.

  CHAPTER 15

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 5

  Emma froze in the doorway staring at the group of boys gathered in Anton’s bedroom. They were laughing about something, but it petered out once they realized she was there. They stared back at her, studying her as if she were an alien specimen, something they’d never seen before. She was uncomfortable and quickly grew angry. Why did he invite her over if his friends were there?

  “Okay,
so I brought you all together for a reason,” Anton said.

  No one said a word, so he continued.

  “You my crew,” he said looking at his friends. “So I wanna be straight with you about what’s goin’ on. I didn’t want you caught off guard or anything at school. And how you feel is important to me, know what I’m sayin’?”

  His friends nodded, uncertain.

  He took a deep breath and looked at Emma. “So I like this girl. And I know she white. She the whitest girl I ever met. But I’m workin’ on some things. At least now she know how to shoot a ball right.”

  He was nervous, playing with his fingers while looking back and forth between Emma and his friends.

  “But she a good girl. She good to me. She good for me. Can you understand that?” he continued.

  There was a moment of silence before one of them finally spoke.

  “Man, I don’t care who you date.”

  And then another: “She that same girl who yelled at you at the lockers?”

  “Yeah,” Anton replied.

  “I thought you said she was a bitch?”

  “I was wrong. I assumed it, and I was wrong,” Anton said.

  Another moment of silence. And then the largest of the four friends got out of his seat and walked over to Emma.

  “I’m Kareem,” he said, extending his hand. She took it tentatively. It was large, soft and warm. It matched the way he looked, like a giant teddy bear.

  “Oh shit, I ain’t even made no introductions,” Anton said. He looked at his friends. “So this is Emma.”

  He took her purse from her shoulder and placed it on his bed.

  “Emma, this is Kareem the Dream, Johnny D in the white T-shirt, Nate Dog on the bed—you met him already—and Lazy L at the desk. His name Lamar, but we call him Lazy L ‘cause he never do anything.”

  “Man, not true. I do things. I do important things,” Lamar argued. He spoke with a drawl so that even his words sounded lazy.

  “Bullshit, man. You so fuckin’ lazy. You ain’t even get up today ‘til three,” Kareem pointed out.