i_17bingo: (Default)

I know what those three little words mean. At sixteen, I'm not supposed to, but I do. They've been so diluted by music and television and movies that it seems pop culture's most touching uses of them is how they get substituted with little codes like "I know" and "Ditto." They still do mean something. I'm not stupid, you know.

Sometimes they're used to manipulate; my friend Hakim does that. Sometimes guys say them to each other when they're too drunk to know better; my friend Dusty does that with his frat brothers. Sometimes they're used to stop an argument; my sister and her boyfriend do that. Sometimes they're used as an apology; my step-uncle and aunt do that.

This is not what happened. She just whispered those three little words into my ear. Okay, it wasn't just those three little words. She started with three other words: "Maximiliano Alejandro Fuentes"--two big words and a medium-sized one, I guess, followed by those three little ones.

It started last night. Before that, it started in the afternoon, when I said, "I'm not getting naked. Not for anybody."

"Not even for Heather?" asked Hakim.

I did have to think about it. "Not even for Heather."

"Oh, come on!" he whined. "You made it to second base with her!"

I cleared my throat. "Third."

"So you've been naked."

"Well," I said, "we kept the rest of our clothes on."

"You must be the only sixteen-year-old who's never done it."

"Heather hasn't."

"I have," he told me.

"That's because you're a slut."

"Lisa has."

I stuck my fingers in my ears. "La, la, la-la, la!" Lisa has been my best friend since the first day she scrambled my huevos, so I wasn't going to think about her like that. Ever.

"Dude," Hakim insisted, "I'm not going skinny-dipping without you."

"That's wrong on so many levels."

He clarified, "I'm totally chickening out if you're not."

"But Ange and his girlfriend, Whatshername, said they'd go."

"Not the same."

"And..." I gulped. "... Lisa..."

"I get to see Lisa naked anytime I want."

"La, la, la-la, la!" I repeated.

"Come on, dude!"

"My name's not dude." And then, with utmost finality, I told him, "And I am not taking Heather skinny-dipping!"

And so last night I took Heather skinny-dipping.

Getting to that point was only a small challenge. The weaknesses in the security of the municipal swimming pool were the windows above the locker-room doors. These windows were really narrow, mind you, but, fortunately, Hakim was much, much narrower. He was tall enough that it only took the slightest boost to get him within reach, but, unfortunately, Hakim was as awkward as he was tall.

The only person with the strength and stubbornness to lift him up was Lisa, who steadied his legs with uncharacteristic patience. Her hands, perpetually grease-stained from the tune-ups she performed on her piece-of-shit truck and my piece-of-shit car, cupped his ass for balance, and her raised arms lifted the hem of her hoodie and turtleneck, exposing the bare skin of her hip as it thrust his weight upward.

"La, la, la-la, la!" I whispered.

"What the hell are you doing?" Heather whispered back.

"Did I just do that out loud?"

She giggled. "God, you are so weird." She gripped my cheeks in her palms and drew me in for a clumsy kiss, complete with anxious squirming. "Sexy and smart and totally weird." That's all it took to snap me out of whatever the hell that was.

A glance at Lisa stretching out her taxed limbs snapped me back into it.

In moments, Hakim cracked open the locker-room door, and we scrambled inside. Ange wasted no time stripping and getting into the water, which was just as well, since I had no desire to see him naked. His girlfriend, Whatshername, took her time, which was not just as well, since I had no desire to see her naked either. Teenage curiosity made me look anyway, though, and I was not happy about that.

Heather did a slow striptease for me. This would have been much more exciting had it not been for three things: the first was that, having rounded 75 percent of the bases, I was already very familiar with her long, creamy white torso--perfect for stroking with my tongue, and her barely swollen breasts--perfect for holding in my hands while my fingertips squeezed her nipples. The part of her I hadn't seen was covered by black denim, which she had yet to dispose of.

If she had gotten that far, I just might have missed the second thing, which was in my line of sight behind her. Hakim had removed his shirt to reveal the jutting ribs and shoulder bones I'd always suspected were hidden there. He'd peeled off his fishnet sleeves and half of his pants before he remembered he was also wearing tightly laced, calf-length leather and canvas boots.

The third was something I would not have missed, no matter how many girls might be rolling her hips for my benefit. And no amount of la-la-las could hide the way Lisa whipped off her hoodie and turtleneck and unhooked her bra in one smooth movement. I couldn't stop it--a teenage heterosexual boy was blessed and cursed with a photographic memory when it came to exposed female flesh, even if it was just an arched, muscled back.

And then, almost as if she could feel me fighting the urge to stare, she turned her head, smirked, and uttered to me three little words that seemed at the time to be just as--if not more important than--the earth-shattering three little words I would hear later. "Don't look now," Lisa said.

Just like that, a door slammed shut in my mind, reinforcing the wall of the status quo, echoing with the loudest la-la-la of them all.

That settled, I focused again on Heather, noting that most of her jeans were gone, and her thumbs were hooked around the elastic of her underwear. After they dropped down to her ankles, she kicked them over to the rest of her clothes and told me, "Your turn."

Home plate now in sight, I obeyed, with considerably less grace than she had shown.

"Wow," she said.

"Yeah," I repeated.

The other four were comfortable enough with each other's bodies to splash around the pool, squealing with the goofy innocence of five-year-olds. Heather and I, however, stared into each other's eyes in stunned silence. We drifted away, my arms holding her waist, her arms draped over my shoulders. After a romantic eternity, she leaned in close and said those three words--well, those six words. But it was those three at the end that were the most important. And though even though we're both only sixteen, we know they'll last forever.

i_17bingo: (Default)

I knelt down, folded my hands, and told the person on the other side of the screen, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been four days since my last confession.

"Since then, I've smoked three cigarettes--which is up from last week, and it's only Wednesday. I also thought a whole bunch of impure thoughts. I don't know why that's a sin, you know? I'm fourteen. That's what fourteen-year-olds do. Oh, well, God's house, God's rules; you don't make them.

"Where was I? Oh, yeah. What commandment tells you not to draw schlongs in someone else’s textbooks?" I asked. "Either way, we also drew gross pictures of Sister Mary Sebastian in the margins and put it someplace where she could find it. I mean, it's not like I'm coveting Sister Mary Sebastian or anything, but I'm pretty sure framing Jimmy Emerson for that is bearing false witness against my neighbor."

I added, "Speaking of coveting, Heather Baruchel is still going with Alfred Nuñez, and I really want her to be going with me. It's not like they're married or anything, but I still think it would be adultery if I stole her away, so I'll go ahead and skip that one, I think. That's not my kind of sin. Besides, Alfred's kind of a..." I wracked my brain for a confessional-safe word. "... jerk-face. It's only a matter of time before she's single again.

"And of course, I skipped school yesterday..."

I straightened my back. "Actually, I'm not going to apologize for that. There's nothing to apologize for. I thought no impure thoughts, I didn't covet my neighbor's wife, and I didn't kill anybody. My friend had a crisis, and word got back to me--always does--and I went to her. That's what I do. Am I supposed to do anything less?

"She's lost. She's like a sheep in a briar patch or something like that, and I'm going to lead her out." I wanted to stand to emphasize my point, but that's not how things were done in a place like this. "Isn't that what Christians are supposed to do?

"Anyway, let me get back on script: Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee, and I detest--"

I thought of something else. "And it's not like she makes it easy to lead her away from the thorns. One minute, she's like a puppy, you know? Following me around and attacking anyone who's being mean to me? And the next she's sulking and impossible. But I still look after her because she's a good person. She really is."

With a frown, I asked, "Could I get sainthood for that? How do you get sainthood anyway? Is there an application process? Because, believe me, if the pope ever met my friend, he'd fast-track me.

"Oh, and I can't forget to mention the reason I'm here in the first place: Darla O'Donnell hired Angelo Schaaf and me to steal the answers to her Anatomy final, and the Mother Superior heard us in the teacher’s office, and we took off, and I'm hiding in here until she stops checking out the chapel. Amen."

Just before I made the sign of the cross, I added, "Oh, and I played with myself at least ten times since my last confession."

"Jesus, Max!" hissed the screen.

"Priests don't say Jesus," I replied. "Taking the Lord's name in vain and all."

"I'm not a priest!"

"You're on the padre's side of the confessional, Ange;" I told him, "you're the padre."

"Fine," he said, "but I don't want to hear about you playing with yourself!"

"There are no secrets from the Lord."

He mumbled a bit until he stopped and opened the door a crack. He whispered, "I think she's gone, Max."

"Anyway, Lord," I said to the sky, "Got to go. Thanks for listening. I'll say Hail Marys and shit later." I made the sign of the cross, jumped to my feet, and ran for it.

Jetsam

Mar. 20th, 2011 07:27 am
i_17bingo: (Default)

There was nothing Lisa Green hated more than being a kid.

When she wasn't floating around this vast, barren trailer park in this vast, barren town in this vast, barren desert, she was wedged into her tiny, secret ditch far from her bed. When she wasn't hiding there, she was in her room, getting chewed out by her father's latest "aunt" for not being quiet enough. When she wasn't sitting through that, she was at school, getting chewed out for not learning hard enough. When she wasn't in class, listening to their bullshit, she was at recess, pretending not to hear what the other kids were saying about her when they followed her around. And when she wasn't getting tormented by them, she was home with her father. It got so all she wanted was to be left alone.

But even with the way things were in her seven-year-old life, she never believed for one minute that it could get worse; but there it was, in her hand: an F. Since she was in for a long, long weekend now, she figured she'd take her time getting home, and that's how she ended up in the catholic school playground. She went there all the time on the weekends because they had the cool, older-kid swings--the rubber ones you could jump off of, not the shitty baby harnesses they had at the public school.

As she sat there, swinging back and forth, imagining what it would be like to bring home an A, a pair of hands shoved her off the swing, into a puddle. She rescued the soggy report card and sat up in time to watch a chubby kid her age waddle over to his scrawny friend, who just stood there, wearing a wicked smirk.

Something in her snapped. Sure she'd been pushed to the ground more times than she had fingers, but this time she was getting even--just not yet. The coming revenge armored her up that night as her father punished her coming home late and soaked, and again when he came back for seconds because of the F. She had no intention of going after the kid who'd done the deed. It was obvious that shoving her wasn't his idea. Besides, she didn't know who he was. But his friend? Him she knew.

He was alpha dog to a pack of little shits that prowled her trailer park, breaking things and running away from grownups. His dad was her father's supervisor at the bottle factory, so he had a name: Fuentes. If he had a first name, she didn't give a fuck, especially now.

A few days later, she woke up early, and skipped breakfast so she could find him alone at his bus stop. She never said a word. She just snuck up behind him, kicked him in the balls, and made him eat two handfuls of dirt. That night, she slept like the dead, even with inevitable retaliation circling the sky around her.

A couple of Saturdays later, it finally swooped down to her secret ditch. Her face hot and her stomach very, very cold, she watched Fuentes, his chunky friend in tow, stroll up and look her in the eye. There was no fear on his face; just that predatory smirk. "Hi," he said, "I'm--"

"I know who you are, you fart!" she told him, balling up her little fists.

At that, the chunky one charged, but Fuentes held him back, saying, "I got this, Ange."

"But she called you a fart!"

"I said I got this!" To her, he said, "Sorry. He's still pretty mad about how you cracked my huevos."

In her toughest voice, she asked, "You want me to do it again?"

"Yeah," he replied.

She dropped her arms. "Huh?"

Ange frowned. "Huh?"

Fuentes's cheeks lifted with that dangerous smirk. "Not to me, you dummy. Simon Largo."

"Who the fart is Simon Largo?"

"He's in my class at the catholic school."

"And you want me to kick him in the balls?"

"You don't have to kick him in the huevos," he explained. "You can give him a black eye or a wedgie or make him eat dirt like you did to me; all I care about is that he knows he got beat up by a girl."

"Why?" she asked.

"He's a bully."

"So are you."

"I got better." Again, there was that cocky smirk. "Simon Largo and his friends need to know they can't get away with that kind of stuff anymore. You're the meanest, toughest person I ever met."

Ange growled.

Fuentes ignored him. "I need you to make an example out of him."

"Why?" she asked again.

"Name your price."

She thought of the most ridiculous one she could imagine so they would just go away. "Five Merde Bars."

"You're crazy!" shouted Ange.

"Let me handle this!" Fuentes barked. He turned to her. "Deal."

"How do I know you'll pay up?"

"If I don't," he replied, "you make scrambled eggs in my pants."

She couldn't stop herself from smiling. "Deal." They shook hands, and he passed her a slip of paper with Simon Largo's address on it. The following Monday, she snuck into the Largos' backyard, punched Simon in the face three times, and threw his action figures into the street. That Wednesday, Fuentes found her in her secret ditch. He was carrying a paper bag and that stupid smirk of his.

She snatched the bag away and looked inside, ready for one more disappointment in a long life full of them. Instead, she found six assorted Merde Bars, and not the mini ones either. "I only asked for five."

"I know," he replied, "but I threw an extra one in because everyone knows what happened to him, and no one knows it was me."

"Thought that was what you wanted."

"It was, but I didn't expect you to do it so good." Again he smirked that cute smirk.

She blushed. "So, ah, if you want me to, like, I don't know, beat someone else up, um ..."

"And if you ever, you know, want to throw rocks at stuff with me and Ange, like, whenever, you totally can." He added, "I'm Max."

Okay, so she was crushing on him then, just a little, but she didn't want to be too easy. "I don't give a fart, Fuentes," she replied.

"Suit yourself, Green." Right before he ran back to the vast, barren trailer park, leaving her alone, wedged in her tiny, secret ditch, he gave her one more dazzling smirk and told her, "I'll be in touch."

i_17bingo: (Default)

"I ain't goin' in there," Hakim told us.

I turned around to stare into his collarbone. Like the rest of us, he was eight. Unlike the rest of us, he was really, really tall. His growth spurt had kicked in about half a dozen years too early. You'd think the height advantage would have given him a little more courage.

"Fine," I said. "Angelo?"

"That place is haunted!" Angelo replied.

"I ain't goin' in alone."

"Get Lisa," Hakim said.

"So you're saying," I clarified, "that a girl's braver than both you guys, and you don't care that I'm gonna tell everybody?"

"That place is haunted!" Angelo replied.

"You people make me sick." I hopped on my bike and pedaled back to our neighborhood, seized by a bit more dread than I felt about that allegedly haunted house.

Lisa Green scared the crap out of me, and because she did, I could rest assured that I was perfectly sane. She was a sixty-pound bucket of undiluted viciousness, ready to splash on anyone standing too close.

What I'd discovered some time ago was that she was willing to splash on commission, and so we kept her on retainer at a cost of five stolen candy bars a week. The result was that we got a thug, and she got to eat chocolate and beat people up--her two favorite hobbies. Relationships didn't get more professional than that.

Usually she was wherever we needed her to be, like magic. This morning, though, she wasn't in any of the playgrounds she frequented, nor was she in her secret, special place in the desert hills that surrounded our trailer park. I had no choice: I had to go to her home, which I'd never been to before. Something about that scared me even more than she did.

The woman who answered the Greens' door looked tired. There was no other way to describe her. She was really pretty, and really young, like she was in high school or something. Maybe she was the babysitter.

"Um," I asked her, "can Lisa Green come out?"

The woman craned her neck inside and barked, "Kid!"

Lisa appeared instantly under the woman's arm. For the first time since I'd met her fifteen months ago, she actually seemed a little happy--maybe not happy; more like not pissed off. "Hey, Fuentes," she said.

"Hey, Green," I replied.

Before we could exchange more words, a hairy, meaty hand clamped down on her shoulder. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" it growled before yanking her inside and slamming the door shut.

I should have left, but my feet were stapled to their cinderblock steps by the words pouring out of the walls. Most I'd never heard before. Of those, I've since became fluent in all but one. To this day, I have never spoken that one word, nor do I intend to.

More jarring than all that shouting was the way it stopped without warning. My feet still couldn't move for the long-as-hell minute it took for the door to open again.

Lisa emerged, pulling on her enormous red hoodie, despite the fact that it was August. Through the curtain of her stringy, brown hair, I could see that her thousand-yard stare was bloodshot, and the snot trickling out of her nose was beginning to dry. "What do you want," she said.

I gulped. "I need your help with …"

"Don't care," she replied. "Let's get out of here."

Nothing was ever the same again after that.

Profile

i_17bingo: (Default)
Jeremiah

January 2013

S M T W T F S
  1 2345
6 789101112
13141516171819
20212223242526
2728293031  

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jun. 28th, 2017 07:07 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios