One Shot Away Page 7

  “I can’t. Those things are fat bombs.”

  She smiles and munches another fry. “I went on my mother’s diet once. Cigarettes and desserts. I lost ten pounds in a week.”

  “What desserts did you eat?”

  “That was a joke,” she says. “I heard it on Comedy Central. It was a lot funnier.”

  He’s hungry and tastes the burger.

  She pokes at her fries. “How is it?”

  “Tastes like ass,” he says, and she laughs.

  “Don’t eat it then.”

  “You don’t know how hungry I am.”

  “Some girls in the school, they think you’re, like, totally stuck-up,” she says.

  “Do you think I care?”

  “Absolutely not.” She reaches and takes his hand.

  “You ever hear anything about me?” she asks.

  “Nothing that big.” Diggy thinks of the wrestling camp gossip. He tries to picture her taking on half the team and wonders if she would put out for him. She could be his “friend with benefits.” Hookups only. He smiles and wipes a spot of ketchup off her chin with his napkin.

  Diggy

  JANE’S COMPLEX IS BEHIND THE WEEKEND FLEA MARKET, A QUARTER mile of crooked wooden tables and corrugated iron buildings. In grammar school, she worked at a stand behind the gray building selling umbrellas and cheap toys from China. Diggy bought yo-yos and invisible-ink pens as an excuse to say hello to her. Talking to her now reminds him that he always felt Comfortable with her. They drive past a group of Mexican teenagers hunched over stingray bikes, wearing bandanas around ball caps that are tugged so low, they bend their ears.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “They’re all a bunch of wanksters.” She waves to one of them and he waves back. They yell something in Spanish, and she yells something back in Spanish.

  “What’s a wankster?”

  “You know, a wannabe gangster.”

  He finds a spot, gets out, and follows her to the concrete walkway that runs along the front of the apartments. Each steel door has black peel-and-stick numbers. The apartment windows have metal mesh cages over them. In front of apartment 16, a hoodless Saturn’s hoses and wires dangle from the engine compartment like an aborted surgery. “My brother’s leftover project,” she says. “They thought they could make that old four-banger into something.” A dead poinsettia, decorated with a red bow, is tipped over on the doorstep. Its branches are stiff and dry. She sets it upright. “It’s like a private joke. My mother told me to get rid of it, and I told her to do it herself.” She turns her key in the lock and opens the door. He doesn’t know what to expect, but he already has a hard-on.

  Jane’s sister sits cross-legged on the living room carpet playing Xbox.

  “That’s Gloria,” says Jane.

  Gloria glances at Diggy. On the television screen a cartoon man in a blue leisure suit with black button eyes approaches a car and drags a driver into a 3-D street.

  “Grand Theft Auto?” he asks.

  “No, it’s Ms. Pac-Man.” She smiles.

  “She’s an annoying little wiseass,” says Jane.

  “And you suck,” says Gloria.

  Dishes are piled in the kitchen sink. An unidentified cooking odor hangs in the air. A black cat stretches across the stovetop, his head resting near the handle of a frying pan. “This is Ezra. He was my brother’s. He named him after the guitar player in Leftover Smack. They’re totally, like, amped, off the hook.” She pets the cat. Ezra purrs.

  They enter a short wallpapered hall, pass a bathroom, then enter her bedroom. “Sorry, it’s a mess.” She removes a pile of folded clothes off a chair and places them on her dresser. “My mother doesn’t like boys in my room, but she’s working tonight and Gloria’s cool.” Clothes bulge from the closet. A pair of pink pajamas with a cat-paw print is tangled in her rumpled blankets. “Mom gets off at eleven.” She raises her thin eyebrows at Diggy. “So, chill.”

  She unzips her jacket and tosses it on a pile of clothes. Heat is pumping from somewhere. She places her hand on Diggy’s jaw, eases him gently toward her, and kisses him. Her mouth is soft and warm and tastes like French fries, which isn’t a bad thing. He’s sweating and crazy excited. They lean back on the bed. Her hair falls away from her face. The birthmark is the color of a plum, a light plum. Not so bad. He slips his hand between her thighs. He rubs the denim, wondering if he’s at the spot he read about in his mother’s Cosmopolitan magazine.

  She pulls away from him and he’s ready to apologize, but she lifts her sweatshirt over her head. She wears a black bra with foam cups. He unsnaps the top button on her jeans. Strings of a red thong ride her hipbones.

  “I’m boiling.” His cheeks are heated and his mouth dry. “Is it hot in here?”

  “We can’t control the heat. The landlord cooks us for the entire winter.”

  His stomach rumbles.

  She lifts her hips and pulls down her jeans, so that all that separates his fingers from her is a two-inch-wide thong. His belly makes a noise that sounds like a door closing in a horror movie.

  “Are you all right?” Her voice is breathy and distracted.

  His throat bubbles. “I feel like I’m gonna heave. That turkey burger.” He stumbles from the room. Food is coming up fast. He spins into the bathroom doorway and drops to his knees. Oh, God!

  Jane comes to the doorway. She’s already dressed. Gloria stands behind her. He waves them away, but they watch as he retches into the toilet. He wipes strings of spit from his mouth and stands.

  “Are you okay?” asks Jane.

  “Do you have mouthwash?”

  She pulls a bottle of blue mouthwash from the medicine cabinet.

  Embarrassed, he gargles, feeling weak, but better. “I’m not eating there again.”

  Gloria backs down the hall toward the kitchen. Diggy follows Jane into her room. The urgency has drained out of him. Part of him wants to go. Part of him hates her for luring him to this room. Now he’s screwed either way. If he stays, she’ll believe this is more than just a hookup. She might jump right to boyfriend/girlfriend status.

  Her vanity table is crowded with makeup and creams. He imagines her looking into the mirror trying to cover the birthmark. She begins picking up her laundry from the floor. Each time she lowers her head, the birthmark darkens to purple, then lightens as she stands.

  Her eyes narrow. “You’re looking at me funny.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “It bothers you, right?” She touches the lower edge of the birthmark.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But it does.”

  He can’t tell her. Of course it bothers him.

  “Believe me, you’re not the first guy. I know what those dimwits at school call me.” She is a foot from his face. “Jane the Stain, right?”

  “You ever see that plastic surgery show on MTV?” he says. “They had a girl with no jaw....”

  “Do you really think I’d keep this on my face if I didn’t have to?” Her lips are hard, eyes set.

  He feels ridiculous and mean. He’s living in the Hills with his pool and Jacuzzi and he hurt her already, without trying. “I’m outta here,” he says.

  “I know you heard the stories about me,” she says. “Are you here because you think I’m easy? Is that why you’re here? Don’t lie.”

  “What if I am?”

  “If you are, then you can leave, because I was drunk. Nothing weird happened.”

  He doesn’t know what to say. She sits on the bed with tears filling her eyes. “Diggy, I was in the tenth grade. I was the only girl there. The guys had beer in the rooms.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he says.

  “They wanted me to do funnels. To this day, I don’t know why I agreed. They put the tube in my mouth.” She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have done it. My mother took me to the emergency room and had my stomach pumped.” Jane looks up at him. “Then I heard the rumors.” Her cheeks are wet with tears.

  “
Did they, you know?” he asks softly.

  “No. Diggy, I swear, nobody raped me, if that’s what you’re asking.” She wipes her tears on her sleeve.

  He thinks about her on a bed in a darkened dorm room, boys mocking and cheering.

  “Diggy, no one forced me to do anything. I swear nothing really bad happened.”

  But how could she know? And maybe nothing really bad happened, but what happened must have been bad for her all the same.

  “I have to make dinner for my sister.” She stands and opens the bedroom door.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m a jerk.”

  “You definitely are.” She smiles at him.

  Before he can stop himself, he leans in and kisses her. Their noses bump. She turns her face, and then it’s okay, amazing, a kiss he’s thought about a dozen times, but never had the nerve to complete.

  He follows her past the kitchen, through the living room.

  “Feeling better?” asks Gloria.

  Diggy nods. “Bad turkey.”

  Gloria opens her mouth and sticks out her tongue. “Gross!”

  Jane and Diggy step into the night. Music pumps from a Civic with its hatch open. The cool air feels refreshing.

  “I always thought you were beautiful,” she says.

  “Beautiful how?” He feels himself getting hard again.

  “Like in every way.” She takes his hand. “You can call me,” she whispers, moving her face toward his. She slips her tongue in his ear and turns it around, then they are kissing again and he’s holding her incredibly hard butt.

  He trots to his car. Inside, he releases a breath and starts the engine. What did he just do? She’s Jane the Stain!

  Trevor

  IN THE HALLWAY, BOYS STUDY THE PRESEASON MATCHUP BRACKETS printed on eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper, taped at the corners with masking tape. Fourteen weight classes, 106 to 285. Today is when Greco gets to see who’s for real and who’s a skater.

  Trevor finds his bracket. Damn! Greco put him at 170, and damn, he pulled Armbrewster.

  170-Pound Matchups

  Match 1: Trevor Crow vs. Richie Armbrewster

  It’s insane to think that he can beat Richie Armbrewster. Last year, Armbrewster came in second in the districts, while Trevor had a pathetic JV season. Why would this year be different? He’ll be pinned in the first period.

  “Hey, Crow, you got lined up with Arm-buster right out of the gate,” says Little Gino.

  “Awesome,” shouts Bones. “We’re gonna have ourselves an old-fashioned ass kicking,” he says with a country drawl, cracking everyone up.

  Trevor shrugs and moves away from the crowd. At the end of the hall, he pulls his cell from his sweatpants pocket and calls his mother.

  “Secret Keepers, can I help you?”

  “Mom can you get away for an hour to watch me?” If he loses, she’ll be able to give him a ride home. He won’t have to wait around like a humiliated loser.

  “Honey, we have three rooms that turned over and I’ve got two check-ins. Harry is fixing a roof leak, so I’m flying solo in the office.”

  “Flying solo? Is that one of London’s stupid expressions?”

  “Trevor, I can’t talk now.”

  “When can you talk?”

  “This is my first weekend here.”

  “How’s Whizzer?” he asks.

  “Harry had to tie him up.”

  “Why?”

  “He was chewing the paneling.”

  “Tied where?” he asks.

  “He’s outside the office under the awning. He’s fine. He has water and his blanket. Listen, someone’s here checking in.”

  “Mom, I’m wrestling one-seventy.” He hears her shuffling papers. “The guy I’m wrestling, he’s all sucked down. He probably weighs one-eighty during the week.”

  “Trevor, just do your best.”

  “You don’t know anything about wrestling!” He clicks off the phone. He walks to the end of the hall and presses his cheek against the cold window glass. Snow falls softly and is sticking to the grass. He calls his mother back and says he’s sorry.

  “I know you’re under a lot of stress.”

  “No, I’m not. I just want to win my warmup. That’s it.” Silence. “And Mom, it’s snowing. Bring Whizzer inside.”

  “Hold on.”

  He takes a deep breath. She’s talking to someone in her phony cheerful work voice. He watches the snow blow across the parking lot.

  “Okay, I’m back,” she says.

  “Just let Whizzer in, okay?” He doesn’t care that he sounds annoyed as hell.

  “You’re right, I will. Honey, don’t get hurt. Okay? That’s the most important thing. Good luck, love you.”

  Luck? Wrestling has nothing to do with luck. His father never wished him luck. Wrestling is skill, strength, and determination, even courage, not luck.

  Diggy struts up with his headgear hanging from a shoulder loop on his pulled-down singlet. His T-shirt says “Pinners are Winners.”

  “How’s the lip?” asks Trevor.

  “Healed. The mouth heals about three times as fast as the rest of your body.” He looks up the hall, then at the posted matchups. “You’re going one-seventy today. I’m glad you wised up. I told you there can only be one wrestler at one-fifty-two and everyone on the team wants me to be it.”

  “Today doesn’t count against my record,” says Trevor. “I don’t mind wrestling one-seventy.”

  “You don’t mind.” Diggy smirks. “That’s funny. You don’t have a choice. Greco set this up. You’re the one-seventy wrestler so suck it up.”

  “I may have to wrestle you off,” says Trevor. “It’s my senior year too.”

  “My dad’s already contacted some of the big wrestling colleges. Do you think they’re interested in me because I’m Thomas Edison splitting atoms?”

  “Edison?”

  “Whoever the dickhead is.” Diggy turns, then stops. “You know what your problem is, Crow? You think that someone owes you something. You think that because your dad died, everyone is going to treat you different. Well, count me out. Do whatever you have to do, call on some of your Indian spirits, I don’t care.”

  “Keep your mouth shut about that.” Trevor’s heart rages in his chest. He places his palm flat on Diggy’s chest.

  Diggy’s eyes soften. “Forget it. You’re not worth it. You’re always going to be the no-friends weirdo.” He stares into Trevor’s eyes. “Right?”

  “Get out of my face.”

  Diggy wiggles away. “Let’s just wrestle today.” He extends his hand. Trevor automatically goes to shake it. Diggy pulls it away. “Sucker,” he says in a singsong voice.

  The team forms two lines into a clap tunnel. Diggy charges through the Minute Men, slapping five with everyone.

  Kevin O’Malley waits on the other side of the mat. Trevor heard Greco tell Diggy “not to take him lightly.”

  Diggy shakes O’Malley’s hand. The ref sounds the whistle. It’s on.

  Diggy starts his normal routine. Hand tap, move. Hand tap, move. Trevor’s suffered through it in practice. Diggy strikes O’Malley’s head and face again and again. Diggy pushes O’Malley’s head, slaps at it, paws it, then dances away. Diggy continues the punishment, until the referee blows his whistle and holds his fist up, issuing Diggy a caution.

  Trevor knows it’s all strategy. Diggy is blowing O’Malley’s game plan. The ref sounds his whistle, restarting the match. O’Malley is wild with frustration. He leads with his arms, trying to grab Diggy’s head and shoulders. Diggy shoots in and under for a two-point take down. The match continues like that, Diggy stepping away, O’Malley off balance, struggling for a point.

  Diggy wins, six to two. The applause is subdued. Diggy’s father smacks a newspaper in his hand. He comes down from the stands and rubs Diggy’s shoulder. Diggy pulls away and points back at the stands.

  Jimmy’s up next.

  Trevor finds a team chair next to Pancakes. “I give that guy
eighty seconds,” says Pancakes.

  Jimmy steps to the center of the mat. Mr. O’Shea and a few of the Minute Men Varsity Dads clap loudly. Jimmy’s wrestling Bobby Longo. Trevor’s seen him before. He’s hardcore. One knot of muscle from shoulders to calves.

  At the whistle, Jimmy attacks like a praying mantis with quick stabs of his hands, trying to get a good hold on Longo. Jimmy comes in low. Longo’s sprawl is too late. Jimmy has a double-leg takedown. Two points.

  “You see?” says Pancakes.

  Jimmy “throws legs,” winding his legs around Bobby Longo’s legs. Jimmy extends and holds tight to Longo’s shoulders, stretching him like he’s on a medieval torturer’s rack. Jimmy wedges his arm under Longo’s elbow, then reaches and grips Longo’s neck, achieving a solid half nelson. He makes it all look easy, like it’s something that needs to be done quickly, without fanfare.

  Jimmy tests his weight on both sides of Longo’s back by flipping his legs to one side then the other, then begins cranking the half nelson by walking his legs around in a flat circle. Longo’s face clenches in pain and resentment. It’s like watching a snake squeeze a mouse. No escape. Jimmy flips him to his back and immediately goes for the pin.

  “Lift the head,” yells Greco.

  Trevor stands. Everyone is screaming. Jimmy slips his arm through Longo’s leg and his other arm around his neck. It’s pin time. Longo is trapped in a cradle.

  Students stomp their feet. “Pin him,” can be heard all over the gym.

  Bobby Longo struggles, twists under Jimmy’s weight. The referee scrambles around the mat on his stomach, trying to get into position to see Longo’s shoulder blades. The referee slaps the mat. Pin. Jimmy springs to his feet. He struts to the center of the mat, shoulders back, chest out. Jimmy shakes Longo’s hand. The referee raises Jimmy’s arm in victory.

  “Seventy-five seconds,” says Pancakes, smiling. “You owe me a Coke.”

  “We didn’t bet.”

  “Yeah, we did,” he says with the same stupid smile.

  Trevor glances across the gym at Armbrewster, who’s skipping rope like a prizefighter.