Can't Get Enough of Your Love (13 page)

“How was your weekend, Miss Cole?”

“Busy.” I do not tell him the details nor mention my friends with benefits. “And yours?”

“I was pretty busy, too.”

“Good.” The busier he is, the more he moves, and the more he
can
move, the longer he'll live. “What did you do?”

“I played chess mostly.”

I smile. “With Sunny?”

He blushes again. “Yeah.”

Sunny (not her real name, I'm sure) is a girl somewhere in the world who plays online chess with Bobby. The Web site they use allows them to “chat” while they play, and it seems that Sunny and Bobby have become an item.

“Did you beat her again?”

“Not this time.”

Such a gentleman. “Did you let her win?”

“No,” he says, looking away.

Yeah, he let her win. “How's your typing?”

“Too slow.”

I squeeze his shoulder. “That's okay. You just keep typing slowly. You'll never say something wrong to Sunny if you take your time.”

“My mom's getting me some voice-recognition software so all I'll have to do is talk.”

Damn. I know his mama means well. She's just trying to make Bobby's last days easy. Muscular dystrophy is hereditary, so everything she does seems to be done out of guilt. “Well, you keep typing. Keep those fingers moving. How else are you going to beat me at chess?”

We get to his first class, history, which is pretty much like all of his other classes. The students are loud,
crude, and obnoxious. Somehow, Bobby can focus through all that bedlam and hear the teacher, who is teaching her guts out. I feel like standing up and screaming, “Listen, y'all hoodlums, this boy here is dying, yet he is dying to learn! What the hell is wrong with y'all? Shut the hell up and learn something, damn.”

I'll never say all that, but I think it loudly in my head every single day.

Every class has its nerds (in the front row, with notebooks open), jocks (in the back row, with shoelaces untied), immigrants (along the sides, squinting most of the time), and “beautiful people” (in the middle of the room so everyone can admire their beauty). I used to be able to tell who was rich, but not anymore. When I was growing up, the rich girls always wore more clothing with labels that didn't come from Wal-Mart, like Versace, Dior, Abercrombie & Fitch, and the everpopular L.L. Bean. Now? It is so hard to tell, since there are so many hoochies wearing as little as possible. I
can
tell which girls
are
hoochies and which girls are shy, and I'm willing to bet that the shy girls put out more than the hoochies do on the weekend.

How do I know?
I
was shy in high school, that's why. While all the other girls were showing every square inch of their anatomies, wearing thongs and other pants that showed off their “camel toes” and tops that showed off their pierced belly buttons, tattooed lower backs, and cleavage, I wore jock clothes: sweat suits, T-shirts, and high-tops. And trust me—I got more play than any of those hoochies because I was approachable.
Any
boy could talk to me. While the hoochies had their noses, tails, and hair in the air, I was firmly on the ground, where boys could find me. I was
athletic for the jocks, street for the roughnecks, and just smart enough to talk to any intelligent boy. And I didn't have as bad a rep as you might think. Unlike some of these hoochies who tell their business to the world, I kept things quiet.

I have been sneaky a
long
time, ever since my earliest sexual conquests in middle school. No, I didn't have sex in middle school. I just conquered quite a few boys sexually. I didn't know what I was doing—at first. Mama didn't school me. Daddy wasn't around to school me. I learned through experience. My first boyfriend was a ninth grader two years older than I was. He didn't know what the hell he was doing, but he was willing to try anything. I ruined that boy's drawers so often, his mama caught on and … that was that. With him. There was always some other boy willing to try anything in middle school. So I guess I've had boys who were friends with benefits since the seventh grade. And because I was so “advanced” sexually, no boy was actually inside me long enough during his fifteen seconds of fame to break my hymen until I was seventeen.

After his last class, I leave Bobby in the resource room, and he thanks me for helping him. “Have a good day, Miss Cole,” he says.

“You, too, Bobby Fischer,” I say.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

I
hope
so, I think just about every day. “See you tomorrow.”

After work (which really isn't much work), I go to football practice on the field at East Salem Elementary. I get out of my car and pop the trunk. It's kind of a turn-on putting on all those pads as cars whiz by. A few of my teammates come fully dressed, but most do as I do and dress in the parking lot, and occasionally we
nearly cause traffic accidents because most of us wear only sports bras or tight T-shirts underneath our pads. I nod at my teammates dressing behind the trunks of their cars or the tailgates of their SUVs, and they nod back.

Hell, I just play ball with them. I mean, it's hard to be friends with people you knock heads with five days a week.

I'm just through applying a little greasepaint under my eyes when it starts to rain.

Hard.

Shit.

We
never
practice when it rains so we won't mess up the precious field. This, of course, is pure bullshit. It might rain like this during the game, right? Are we just going to stop playing to save the field? I start taking off my jersey and shoulder pads as our quarterback, Cherry Zane (her real name, I kid you not), walks by unsnapping her flak jacket and flashing me her tattooed stomach.

“I hear it's supposed to rain like this all week,” she says.

“Shit.”

I like practice. I like the crunch, the sound, the pain, and the sheer fun of putting all the knowledge Daddy gave me to good use. In a depraved corner of my mind, I actually like hurting people. Hmm. I also hurt myself when I hurt them. In fact, most of the bruises I earn are self-inflicted. Oh sure, I could just grab my opponents and throw them down with my hands, but where would the fun be in that?

“You have any plans?” Cherry asks.

She's still here talking to me? And what is that tattoo, a little demon face? “What?”

“Do you have any plans?”

“No.”

“A bunch of us are going to O'Charlie's.”

Good for you! Drink lots of beer! That's what professional athletes do instead of practice! Go on, get drunk. “I might see you there.” Not.

I dump my gear into the trunk and get into my car as the rain thunders down. I page Karl. He doesn't hit me back immediately, which means either “not tonight” or he still isn't back from New York. Figures. I call Berglund, and a few minutes later, Juan Carlos is on the phone.

“Hello?”

“It's Lahhh-na,” I say, mimicking him.

“Oh. Hello.” There's that sexy voice I love. I love to hear him whisper my name on my earlobe. Mmm, that really gets me going.

“Are you busy?”

“You have heard about the recall?”

Not again! “Another one?”

“Yes. Brake lines this time. Over three hundred thousand cars and trucks.”

Shit! GM is ruining my sex life. “So you'll be working late.”

“Yes. Until we are done, the boss says.”

Shit! He's already working double shifts, and now this. “Maybe after you finish?”

“It will be so late.”

“It's only twenty miles, and I promise you won't regret it.”

“I would, but Mama is not feeling well.”

That woman! I'll bet she's a hypochondriac using her phantom illnesses to keep her boy at home.

“Well,” I say, “at least come to my game Saturday.”“I am covering for Darren all day Saturday. I can see you Saturday night.”

I'm hoping Roger can soothe my bruises Saturday night, since he's the best masseur. “I'll be all worn out by then.” And in another man's more capable hands.

“I am sorry.”

So am I. I wanted Juan Carlos
tonight
. Damn. I'm not in the mood for the three Rs: reading, relaxing, and reliving. Whenever one of them isn't around, I read, relax, and relive our more intimate moments, and it isn't the same as the real thing. “Get back to work.”

“Call me.”

Maybe. “I will.”

Then I call Roger, and he answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Lana,” he says. “No practice today?”

Such a soft voice. “Nope. No cutting grass today?”

“I was about half-done before the rain started.”

Hmm. A little afternoon delight at his place, perhaps? “So, can I meet you at your apartment?”

“I wish I could, but we have two more interments later, and this weather is going to …”

I tune Roger out. Now dead people are ruining my sex life.

“What about later tonight?” I ask. I have all this energy. I need to channel it somehow.

“It might be late, and I'll be stank.”

“We could …” I then whisper something so filthy that I hear him breathing hard. I'm good at pushing Roger's kinky buttons—once he taught me how to do it, of course.

“I'll be there as soon as I can,” he says.

I hang up. Hmm. Dinner at Mickie D's, or at O'Charlie's to watch lesbians do nasty things with Jell-O shooters.

Decisions, decisions.

I stop by the Mickie D's drive-through, get a couple double cheeseburgers and some fries, and head for home to rest up for the filth to come. I first soak my bum left ankle in some Epsom salts, then doze off in my rocker watching screen snow on the TV as the rain continues to pour down. I get no reception whatsoever when it rains like this, though NBC sometimes blows in and out.

The phone wakes me a little after nine. “Hello, Mama.” Like clockwork. She still has to “tuck me in.”

“How was your day?” she asks.

“Fine.”

“Just … fine?”

“Yeah. How was your day?”

I let the phone rest on my shoulder and listen to Mama spew out her day. I know it's tough to be a manager, but why do I have to hear her vent about it? And it all starts to sound the same. Wendy this and Joe-Bob that, and the regional VP said this and Booger said that. I'm about tired of it.

“Mama,” I say, interrupting something about someone named Prentice who is always out on family leave (which is strange, since Prentice is a man), “I'm really tired, so …”

“It's only nine o'clock, Erlana.”

I have plans. “So I'm going to bed early.” Which is kind of true.

“You aren't sick, are you?”

“No. I just had a long day.”

“Oh, I scheduled your yearly for you.”

I groan. There's nothing fun about having your legs up in icy cold stirrups, showing your stuff to an old male doctor and his equally ancient nurse. “Mama, you
don't have to schedule things for me anymore.” Especially “dates” with Dr. Cold Finger and Nurse Moustache with the Icy Stare.

“You're still on my health plan, and it will only cost you the fifteen-dollar co-payment.”

It costs me more than that. I mean, I actually have to shave my legs closely and tidy up the nest down there with some scissors. Oh, and I have to put up with the humiliation of answering his nosy questions, like “Have you been sexually active?” and “Have you noticed any lumps in your breasts?” One day I will ask him if
he's
been sexually active and if
he
has noticed any lumps in his balls—and I won't answer his questions until he answers mine.

“Look, Mama, you can take me off your health plan.”

“Do you have health insurance now?”

“No, but I'll look into it.” I'm sure the Roanoke City School District offers something I
can't
afford.

“Erlana, I'd be a fool to take you off my plan now. It's football season.”

She has a point, but I have to make mine. “Mama, I have moved away from you. I am on my own. I make my own plans now, and if I don't feel like going for a checkup, I'm not going.”

“What about the dentist?”

Grr. “Did you already schedule me for Dr. Fumble?” It's actually Dr. Comfort—how ironic—but the man drops metal objects often.

“You know I have, and don't call him that. He's been your dentist for fifteen years.”

I do have some nice teeth, but one day that man will stick me with something, I just know it.

“And anyway, it's been on the calendar in the kitchen for months, and he charges when you don't show up.”

Time to set her straight. “Mama, don't schedule me for anything anymore, okay? You don't know my schedule.” Not that I know my schedule any better. “You don't know what I may have planned.”

“Well, at least do these two things for me.”

It's only one trip to the doctor and one trip to the dentist, but it's more than that. I can't have her controlling even my body anymore. “Mama, you know I love you, right?”

“I love you, too.”

“But you've got to let me go, okay?” I'm trying to be as gentle as I can, but I have a man about to show up any minute for some rough stuff.

“But I'm your mama, Erlana. I'll never let you go completely.”

“You have to, Mama. How else am I going to grow up?”

Silence. Then … “I'm your mama forever, Erlana. Nothing you can say or do will ever change that. Nothing will ever change that.”

If she only knew. Hmm. I'll bet I can think of something. “Look, Mama, I've survived on my own for a couple weeks now. I'm doing fine on my own.”

“As long as you can use my washer and dryer.”

I hate it when she's right. “So I'll stop using them, damn. I'll find a Laundromat out here.”

Longer silence. “You don't have to do that.”