Hoodie (7 page)

He lifted his blue polo shirt and studied his stomach.

“Maybe if she lucky, I’ll let her put her hands on these rock hard abs,” he said and then heard an angry knock on the bathroom door.

“Anton! Get yo’ butt outta that bathroom!” his mother yelled. “You been in there forever! What are you doin’?”

Anton opened the door to find his mother standing in the hallway wrapped in a bathrobe, an expression of intense irritation plastered on her face.

“I’m sorry Mama,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

“What were you doin’ in there? And why are you even up?” she asked. “You never get up this early for school.”

“Sure I do,” he said then told her he was off to catch the early bus.

His mother stood perplexed staring after him.

***

He waited by his locker. He was impatient and annoyed that he had gotten to school so early. What was he thinking? This was when all of the nerds got to school so they could have more time to study before a test or go visit with teachers because they were complete losers, he thought. Suddenly he wondered if she would think he was a loser. He’d have to lie when she would ask and say he had just arrived.

He walked down the hallway to the soda machine and purchased a Coke. He was running out of things to do and felt anxious. Just then she arrived, and his heart leapt into his throat. She wore her hair in a ponytail today he observed first. And he liked it. He liked the way it swung from side to side as she walked. Her ears sported diamond studs—real, he figured—and she wore a pale pink collar shirt with brown khaki shorts.

Her shorts were the perfect length, he decided. Not too short like some of the other girls wore. He thought those girls were nothing but hos letting their asses hang out, leaving nothing to the imagination. He liked to imagine; that was part of the fun. But her shorts weren’t too long either, so she didn’t look like that other type of girl at school: the clueless dork. A thin pink belt hugged her waist, and he felt jealous of it wishing he could wrap his arms around her in place of it. Her sandals sparkled with sequins and jewels. They were pretty and dainty like her, he thought.

He watched as she walked to her locker and put her books up. She was completely unaware of his presence, and he liked being able to observe her in secret. She bent down to scratch her knee. She checked her face in her locker mirror touching a spot under her eye and frowning. She fixed her ponytail. He thought now was a good time to go and say hello. His friends weren’t at school yet, so he knew it would be safe. He walked towards her looking around for any of her friends. No one was in sight.

“Hey,” he said approaching her locker.

“Oh hi,” she said. He thought he saw her face brighten. “What are you doing here already?”

“Oh, I just got here,” he said casually. He leaned against the lockers to appear more relaxed though his heart was racing.

“I had fun on Saturday,” she said, closing her locker. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“You welcome,” he said. He wanted to tell her he had a fun time too, but he wanted to play it cool.

“You ever been to that park on Gordon Street?” he asked.

“Lots of times. I love that park,” she replied.

He wished that she would ask him if he’d like to go today after school. That’s what he wanted to do, but he didn’t want to appear too eager to hang out with her.

“Maybe we could go there sometime to work,” she offered.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he said, rejoicing inside. Now all she had to do was ask if he wanted to go today.

“What do you think about this afternoon? I’m free,” she said.

God, he loved this girl. She was making it so easy for him.

“Yeah, I think that’ll work,” he said.

“You look nice in a hat,” she observed, lightly smacking the bill.

“Hey now, watch it!” he said, and heard a familiar voice at the other end of the hall.

“Emma!” Morgan shouted walking towards her friend.

“I’ve gotta go,” Emma replied. “I’ll meet you after school at my car, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, and his heart tensed with jealousy.

He was there first. How could her stupid friend come in and steal her away just like that? He knew he’d get no other opportunity to talk with her that day unless Dr. Thompson gave them class time to work on their papers. And he had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen. He walked to the other side of the hallway back to his locker. It was not far from hers; in fact, it was very close, and so he contented himself with at least being able to look at her in between classes. And he knew he would have her all to himself that afternoon. Suddenly, he didn’t care that Emma’s friend stole her away. She was his in seven hours.

***

“You keep a blanket in yo’ car?” he asked helping her get it out of the trunk. It was large and bulky.

“I told you I come to the park a lot,” she replied.

“And how you carry this thing by yo’self?” he asked. “It look heavier than you.”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Here, I’ll take it,” he said, balling it up as best he could. It weighed nothing to him, but it was cumbersome.

Emma offered to carry his bag for him, and he laughed.

“Nah, I can manage. In fact, why don’t you give me yo’ bag,” he said, and before she could refuse, he took it off her shoulder.

They walked to a shady spot under a large oak tree near the edge of the park lake. Her arms were empty while Anton carried both book bags and the unwieldy blanket. She looked at him and grinned. Just like a boy, she thought. They have to be the heroes. She helped him spread the blanket then took her shoes off before sitting down. He reluctantly removed his shoes but left his socks on. Exposing his feet felt too vulnerable.

“I love doing work outside,” she said. “Well, I love doing anything outside, really.”

He watched her pull a binder from her book bag and open it to a page filled with notes about their paper.

“You got nice handwriting,” he said. “You write in cursive all the time?” he asked remembering the piece of paper she gave him with her contact information.

“Yeah, don’t you?”

“Girl, I don’t know how to write in no cursive,” he said.

“You never learned?” she asked bewildered.

“Well, sure. I mean I remember doin’ some of that in fourth grade. I never picked it up though. It easier to write in print.”

“Actually once you learn cursive, it’s easier and faster to write that way,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess you right. You always be scribblin’ so fast in class takin’ them notes,” he observed. “You prolly write down every single word Mr. Cantinori says.”

She looked at him oddly and suddenly he felt self-conscious. How could he slip up like that? Now she knew he looked at her, watched her when she was completely oblivious to it. He prayed silently that she wouldn’t say it out loud, wouldn’t ask him why he was looking at her in class.

“Do you want me to teach you how to write your name?” she offered after a moment.

He was beyond grateful. He almost thought he could kiss her for not saying anything.

“Uh, okay.”

She scooted closer to him, and he watched as she spelled ‘Anton’ on the page in a neat, slanted script. He studied his name, the way she made it appear on the page, and decided that he liked it. He liked it very much. He wanted her to write his name again. And again.

“Okay, did you watch me form the letters?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, now you try,” she said, and offered him her pen.

“But you left-handed. I’m a righty. Won’t it be different for me?” he asked.

Emma thought for a moment.

“Well, the letters look the same, but you’re right. Your hand is going to move differently. I didn’t think about that,” she said, mostly to herself.

Anton held the pen poised over the paper. He was unsure what to do and felt mildly ridiculous like he was back in kindergarten learning how to write for the first time.

Emma looked as though she were deciding something.

“Well, I guess I can try,” she said to herself, and then placed her right hand over his.

His heart jumped at the feel of her hand. It was so small and warm, covering only a portion of his. She began guiding his hand to form the loops of his name. She giggled when they finished. It looked like chicken scratch.

“Okay, I so cannot write with my right hand,” she said, scrutinizing the name they had both written.

She did not notice that her hand was still covering his. She was so intent on studying the name. But he noticed, and he said nothing. She could keep her hand there as long as she wanted.

“Let’s try one more time,” she said determined.

He let her guide him once more, forming the uncertain loops of his name, feeling the softness of her hand as she tried for control. She withdrew her hand suddenly and stared at the page.

“I give up,” she said. “Someone else will have to show you how to write in cursive. Someone right-handed.”

But Anton thought that he didn’t want a right-handed person, and he almost voiced it aloud.

“It ain’t no big deal,” he said casually, trying to hide the disappointment he felt that her hand was gone.

He noticed that she did not scoot back to where she was originally sitting. She stayed close beside him. He was sure that she simply wasn’t aware that she stayed put, but he felt excited anyway. He could imagine that she stayed close to him on purpose, and it made him giddy.

“You smell nice,” she said after a moment.

He thought he would die. She kept noticing everything. The hat earlier. Now his cologne. He was tempted to flex his arm and show her his muscles. Maybe that would put her on her back for him. He shook his head. Get yo’ head outta the gutter, he thought frustrated.

“Thanks,” he managed.

She immediately delved into their project, asking him questions about certain chapters in the book, contemplating the characters, making connections with what they had learned already about each other’s lives. His heart dropped. He could not understand her. How in one minute she could tell him he smelled nice and then in the next breath ask him his thoughts on Carrie Meeber. He didn’t give a shit about no gold diggin’ ho, he thought. Why didn’t she just put her hand on his again and try for a third time with his name?

He pretended to care. That’s how he could keep her there with him. If he listened to her and answered her questions with even the slightest bit of thoughtfulness, he could keep her on the blanket all afternoon. Maybe even until the sun set. Maybe until the stars came out. Maybe forever. He watched her bite her lower lip in concentration. Every now and then she absent-mindedly touched the stud in her earlobe, fingering it and spinning it slowly.

They worked for an hour before she closed her binder. He was afraid she wanted to leave. They had not been there that long, he thought. How could he make her stay? But she did not want to leave; she was just tired of writing and needed a break.

“There’s a guy at the park entrance who sells bread,” she said. “To feed the ducks. He charges way too much, but he’s convenient. And we could feed the ducks. If you want.”

He agreed, and they left their blanket under the tree. She took her bag and binder, and he thought it funny that she entertained the notion that someone might steal their English paper notes.