Hoodie (17 page)

“And they know you go to church,” Emma said.

“You people crazy. You tellin’ me they fine with me comin’ over here when they not home because I go to church?” Anton asked.

“They figured it makes you a decent guy, I guess,” Emma responded.

“Well, I am a decent guy,” Anton said.

“I know.”

“And I’m respectful,” he continued.

“I know.”

“And gentlemanly,” he added.

“Uh huh.”

“Now lemme see yo’ panties,” he said.

He meant it to be silly and lighthearted, but it had the opposite effect. The tension it created was palpable. Emma didn’t know what to say. She leaned forward to fix the lamp on her nightstand that was slightly off center.

“I can’t even believe I said that,” Anton said after a time. “I’m sorry. I was just tryin’ to be silly. You know, after I said I was a decent guy. It was supposed to be a joke.”

He felt mortified, and hoped that she would ask him to leave. He had an overwhelming need to be very far away from her at that moment, and if he never saw her again, he would think of her fondly.

Emma seemed to have decided something. She got up from the bed and walked to her bureau. She opened the top drawer and pulled something out. He couldn’t see. He was still painfully replaying the last few moments of his life wishing he weren’t such an idiot.

Something floated into his lap, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He held it up, looking at it, looking at her, looking at it again. He was in disbelief. Her panties. Black and silky, trimmed in pink ribbon and lace. He stared at them as if he held an object of great worth—a signed Babe Ruth baseball card or the Hope Diamond. They were everything he wasn’t—feminine and soft, sensual and delicate.

He looked at Emma. She stood in the doorway transfixed. She had been watching him, watching the way he responded to her panties. Her lips curled into a grin as if to say, “Game on.” And then she disappeared from the room, beckoning him to follow.

He wanted so much to put them in his pocket. Maybe she wanted him to, he thought. He knew he was wrong, though. Perhaps she only showed him her panties to make him feel better for saying something so inappropriate. But then wasn’t what she did totally inappropriate as well? He didn’t understand. Was she giving him a signal? He didn’t dare to hope. But how he wanted to—he wanted to hope.

He placed the panties on the bed. And before he left the room, he made sure to go around rearranging her things, shifting stacked books and moving the objects on her bureau to other places like her nightstands and desk. He wanted everything to be slightly askew. He was about to leave before remembering her dance recital. He walked swiftly to her desk looking around for a planner or calendar. He found neither, but he did discover a mock-up of the dance program. He grinned devilishly noting the time, date, and place. He returned to the doorway and studied his work. Her room was in perfect disorder. She would freak out, and he chuckled. Game on you little cutie, he thought, and went in search of her.

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, but 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?”