Hoodie (15 page)

“Anton?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Where are all the children?”

Anton looked around. “I don’t know. They prolly inside playing video games or down at the store. How should I know?”

“Look, if you want me to leave, just say the word. You’ve been pissy since I got here, and I don’t need to hang around that,” she snapped.

He looked at her and snickered. “Look at what you wearin’. Who wear that on a Saturday? You own any regular clothes? You know, T-shirts, jean shorts or whatever?”

Emma got out of the swing and started walking towards her car. Anton jumped up to follow.

“Emma, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what my problem is,” he said, catching up to her and grabbing her hand.

She wheeled around. “You can’t talk to me like that! I haven’t done anything to you!”

He wanted to say she had. She made him have dinner with her parents.

“You right. And I’m sorry.”

He wanted to tell her how he felt about her right there, but he was too afraid. She would laugh at him, he was sure. Or she would slink away and never talk to him again, saying she’d be happy to do the entire project herself and put his name on it. The words were there; they were locked and loaded. But he couldn’t.

“Will you just come inside?” he asked.

She thought for a moment then nodded grudgingly.

***

“I know what you think,” Emma said. “You think I’m a priss pot.”

Anton smirked as he let his eyes rove over her blouse and trousers. He was making a great effort to be in a better mood for her.

“Yeah, you a priss pot.”

She had no reply but stood there in the center of his room taking in the wall posters. By now she knew most of the rappers. They were waving guns at her and giving her the middle finger. She thought she should feel offended, but she had gotten used to them.

Anton walked towards her and stood within inches of her body. He reached out to feel the soft fabric hugging her waist. She jumped at his touch, but he ignored it.

“Why you gotta be all put together all the time?” he asked, not looking at her but studying the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t know.”

Anton moved his hand to the pearl necklace around her throat. He tentatively touched the pearls one by one, this time watching her face. She was flushed and embarrassed, and he was glad for it. He thought that if he couldn’t voice his feelings, he might touch her instead. Touching seemed easier.

“These real?” he asked smoothing his forefinger over the pearls.

“Yes,” she replied. She couldn’t understand why there was a note of shame in her voice.

Anton laughed aloud again. “‘Course they are.”

“You’re making fun of me,” she said indignantly.

“Girl, I ain’t tryin’ to make fun. It’s just so easy,” Anton replied. “How you stay put together like this all the time?”

“They’re just clothes. What’s the big deal?”

“You all proper and uptight in that shit,” Anton said.

He moved away from her towards his dresser. She watched as he opened the top drawer and removed a large sky blue hoodie emblazoned with the UNC Tar Heels logo across the front. She remembered that he wore it the day she introduced herself to him in English class. He threw the hoodie over his shoulder and turned back to her.

“Don’t you ever get tired of always tryin’ to be perfect and look perfect?”

“I’m not trying to look perfect.”

“Oh, who you kiddin’? Look at you.” And once more his eyes raked her body.

She said nothing but stood there determined. She lifted her face to him and willed the soft pink of her flushed cheeks to disappear. Anton approached her once more and looked down at her eyes. They were ice blue and angry and scared and excited. He made up his mind. If she punched him in the face, he would stop.

He started at the top of the blouse, undoing the ivory buttons one by one, never taking his eyes off of hers. His hands reached her waist and gently tugged at the shirt until he freed it from her trousers. He unbuttoned to the end of the shirt letting his eyes fall to the exposed lace bra. It was pure white. He slipped his hands under the fabric of the shirt on her shoulders and pushed it to the ground. He watched her breathing rapidly.

“Now what you need is a makeover,” he said lightly, and pulled the hoodie off of his shoulder. “Head first.”

She helped him pull the hoodie over her head then pushed her arms through the sleeves. They were much too long. She felt silly and laughed as he pulled the hood up over her head. The material hung low over her brows, and she had to tilt her head back to see him. He was smiling at her, studying her.

“Almost there,” he said and searched around the room until he found what he was looking for. He pulled a pair of black athletic shorts out of a pile of clean laundry and threw those over his shoulder. He approached her once more, a look of determination in his eyes, and her heart beat wildly at the realization of what he planned to do next.

Anton unbuttoned her trousers and slowly slid the material down her legs. They were soft and thin—skinny white girl legs. She placed her hand on his shoulder for balance as she stepped out of the pants. He knelt before her imagining her panties, but the hoodie covered them completely. He imagined they matched her bra—white and lacy, hugging her hips seductively.

He considered how easy it would be to lose control, let his hands slide roughly up the length of her legs, leave faint red marks as the sign of his claim on her. It was a primal need he’d never felt, and it grew in him the longer she stood there unresisting, letting him dress her. Why was she letting him do it?

He fought the animal urge and placed the athletic shorts on the floor for her to step into. She did, and she bent down to pull them up herself. He was relieved, not trusting himself with the shorts, only pulling on the drawstring as tightly as it would go once they were safely around her waist. He was glad, too, that he didn’t get a glimpse of her panties. He felt his racing heart slow then, the animal instinct recede into the depths of his bones to mix with the marrow, and a calm return to the focus of his task. He stood back from her and studied her new image.

“That look better,” he said thoughtfully, and then finding his humor added, “You look like a ‘lil hood rat now. Well, except you ain’t no ho.” He paused considering. “So I guess you ain’t look like a hood rat at all.”

“What’s a hood rat?” she asked.

Anton smiled at her. It was playful and incredulous. “You so funny.”

He thought in that moment that he could own her. He had transformed her, given her the image of someone he understood, and now he wanted to possess her like a child possesses a baby doll, dress her up and keep her in his room to play with and love.

Emma looked down at her new outfit: the oversized hoodie and baggy athletic shorts that hung past her knees. She felt oddly comfortable standing in his room, in his clothes, taking in his scent.

“Okay, so how you think we should organize our paper?” Anton asked, grabbing a notebook off of his desk and sitting on his bed. “We got all these notes we gotta do somethin’ with.”

“What?” she asked.

“Our paper,” he said.

“I . . . you just—”

“Yes?”

“Am I supposed to stay in these clothes?” Emma asked. She raised her hands up, the sleeves of the hoodie covering them completely and hanging limp.

“Why not? You uncomfortable?” Anton asked.

“No.”

“Okay then. Are you ready to work?”

“I guess,” Emma said.

“Then stop standin’ there with that look on yo’ face and get over here,” he demanded. She walked to the bed and sat down.

He looked her over and chuckled. She looked like she had drunk an entire bottle of shrinking potion, dwindling down to the size of a dwarf while her clothes never altered.

“Why UNC?” she asked suddenly, staring at the logo.

“Oh, that’d be the school I’d get a scholarship at to play basketball,” he replied. “You know, if I woulda done sports in high school.”

“That good, huh? Why didn’t you play for the school?” she asked.

“Girl, please,” he said and handed her several sheets of paper. She pulled up the sleeves of the hoodie to take them.

“What is this?” she asked, finally taking her mind off of the fact that he disrobed her just moments before to concentrate on the pages of writing.

“It’s my cultural summary thing,” he said.

She flipped through the pages. There were ten total.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“What?”

“You did all of this? When did you do this?” she asked.

“Here and there. When a thought popped into my mind, I wrote it down.”

“You’ve had a lot of thoughts lately,” Emma said.

“Well, this project’s important, you know? I wanna do a good job. And I don’t wanna let you down neither,” he said.

She smiled at him.

“I thought you could look it over and tell me what you think. I’m sure I got all kinda grammar and spelling mistakes in it. I figured you could help me out with that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Emma said distracted.

She had already begun reading. He watched her face nervously. He couldn’t tell if she liked what she was reading or thought it was horrible. He couldn’t stand the silence as she absorbed his words, not knowing what went on in her mind.

He jumped up and offered her a drink. She nodded preoccupied. He left her immersed in the pages he had written, walking to the kitchen to grab some sodas. He thought that she might hate it, and then it would have been a lot of wasted work. And he had worked hard; he couldn’t remember the last time he cared so much about a school assignment. It was her. It was everything about what was happening inside of him every time he looked at her, talked to her.

He stood at the kitchen counter in contemplation. He couldn’t believe she let him disrobe her like that. He couldn’t believe his brazenness. He didn’t see anything, or at least not everything he wanted. And while it excited him—taking off her clothes—he knew it wasn’t the right time to make a move. The strong urge was there—it almost overtook him—but he fought it down remembering the goal. It wasn’t to kiss her, to touch her body intimately, to be romantic with her in any way. He needed to understand her, to transform her into something that fit nicely into his world.

He wanted to remain casual about it when it was over. He knew she was confused afterwards as he moved on to the subject of their paper. She wanted to talk about it, too, but what would they say? It was one of those movie moments, he decided. Something that would never happen in real life. He wanted to keep the memory of it, not ruin the magic of it by talking.

He left her alone for awhile, putting clean dishes away and washing the few dirty ones in the sink. When he entered his bedroom, she was sitting staring at the opposite wall. She still had the papers in hand, but she was finished reading.

“I just really had no idea,” she said quietly.

“What are you talkin’ about?” he asked.

He sat down beside her on the bed and offered her a drink. She took it automatically, not looking at him, still staring at the wall.