Winger

“Come on,” she said. Then she held my hand and walked me to my dorm.

  We stopped in the dark outside the mudroom door.

  “Good night, Annie.”

  She didn’t let go of my hand.

  “Wait,” she said. “Don’t be mad at me, Ryan Dean. I’m so looking forward to this weekend. Please don’t be mad at me.”

  And I thought, Crafty girl almost sounds like I did when I fake-cried for Mr. Farrow.

  “Okay, Annie.”

  Then she got real close to me. Her unbuttoned jacket even tickled, brushing against the zipper on my pants, and I suddenly forgot everything in the world about JP and stitches, or anything else that existed at an altitude higher than my waist besides Annie Altman. Our lips were just inches apart, and I could feel her heat and smell that awesome stuff she uses on her hair, and I thought, Oh my God, she is finally going to kiss me. We are finally going to kiss, and this is going to be the best thing I’ve ever felt and tasted in my entire pathetic life, and I knew we were going to kiss; and just then the door opened and the glacially unhot Mrs. Singer stuck her head out and said, “Young man, you are going to be late if you do not check in with your resident counselor immediately!”

  And that was like a Niagara Falls of razor-sharp ice cubes pouring right through the fly on my pants. Oh . . . and some of those ice cubes were shaped like rusty bear traps and triple fishhooks, too.

  She had to be a witch.

  Annie released my hand and turned away.

  “See you, West,” she said.

  I sighed. The biggest part of me wanted to go after her and just get it over with, like Seanie told me, but my only chance was gone, and Mrs. Singer stood there watching me, unblinking, holding the door propped open against the cold and dark.

  Do not look into her eyes.

  As I passed Mrs. Singer, I kept my eyes on the floor, unwilling to battle the soul-sucking-diarrhea-spell-casting witch that she was. Then I felt her arctic fingers on my shoulder, and she said, “Your head would happen to look nice on a serving platter.”

  And I squeaked like a frightened baby mouse and hurried for the stairs.

  Well, to be perfectly honest, I am pretty sure she said, “What happened to your head? Is something the matter?” But that could just have been part of the spell-thing-whatever-it-is she’d been working on me ever since she caught me peeing in the girls’ bathroom. And as I made my way up the darkened stairway, she said either “You better be afraid” or “Why are you afraid?” But, again, I can’t be sure which it was, to be totally honest. But I swear, I swear, I really do think I heard her say something about “a catastrophic injury to your penis” just as I slammed shut the door to the boys’ floor behind me.

  Diarrhea I can handle, but the catastrophic-penis-injury thing strikes the deepest imaginable chord of fear in any boy’s mind.

  I was sweating, stitched-up, panting, and terrified. But at least I wasn’t late.

  I am. You know.

  Such a loser.

  I made it to the common room just in time to sign off on our check-in sheet with Mr. Farrow. The TV had just gone dark, and most of the guys from O-Hall were sluggishly making their way to their rooms. After I signed in, I went down the hall to the bathroom.

  I stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes, looking at the stitches closing the cut over my eye. As I stared, the cut seemed to get bigger, blacker, worse than it was. I was tired and wanted to go to bed. I ran the water and washed my hands and face.

  The door opened, and Chas came in. I hadn’t entirely forgotten about how he’d looked at me as he was leading Megan away, but I also figured that my fear had a lot to do with my own guilt about what his girlfriend and I were doing behind his back.

  But I was wrong, because before I could even get my dripping hands on a towel, Chas grabbed me by the neck and spun me around, pinning my back against a hand-soap dispenser, right in the same spot where JP had knee-dropped me.

  Yeah . . . it was definitely a four out of five possible mousetraps-on-the-balls on the Ryan Dean West Pain-ometer.

  “What’s up with you and Megan, Winger?”

  When one of my shoes came off, I realized my feet were actually dangling above the floor, and four mousetraps became a definite five.

  “I saw how you two were looking at each other tonight,” he said. “Everyone says you flirt with her all the time.”

  “Chas, who wouldn’t look at Megan like that? She’s smoking hot,” I gurgled.

  I was sure he was about to hit me. And, like I said, I deserved it. So . . . ouch.

  There was nothing else I could do. I had to hit him. I balled my right hand into a fist and drove an uppercut just below his sternum. I’ll be honest. I have punched guys before, but punching Chas Becker hurt my hand. Chas loosened his grip, and I was standing again, but he held on to my necktie with his left hand as he raised a fist with his right.

  Whoever invented neckties must have never gotten into fistfights.

  Okay. This was really going to be ugly, because I could quickly calculate the trajectory of his intended punch, and I estimated the point of impact would be somewhere between my tenth and eleventh stitches. All I could do was hope my saddest possible stitched-up-lost-puppy-injury look might earn me some sympathy.

  Chas froze midswing when the door opened. He released my tie and dropped his fist. He turned around to see that Joey had followed him into the bathroom.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Chas?” Joey said. “Can’t you see Ryan Dean’s hurt?”

  And Joey was a fighter. He looked really pissed off, and stormed over to Chas and shoved him down the entire length of the bathroom, practically into a shower stall.

  Then Joey yelled, “Don’t ever touch him! I’ll fucking kill you, Betch!”

  I slipped my foot back into my shoe.

  “It’s nothing, Joey,” Chas said calmly. “It’s no big deal. I wouldn’t hurt him. I just don’t like the way he looks at my girlfriend. No big deal. I just wanted him to know.”

  And then Chas walked out of the bathroom, but as he pulled the door open, he grumbled, “You guys are fucking queers.”

  Joey just stood there, leaning against the pale green tiles of the wall, his arms folded, staring at me. I could tell he was mad.

  “You should have just let him punch me, Joe.”

  Joey didn’t say anything.

  I left and went to bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  WEDNESDAY MORNING BROUGHT ONE of those cold Pacific rains that makes you feel like the gray of the sky has worked its way inside your skin.

  When the alarm sounded, Chas and I both sat up. Usually, when we woke up, we would say things to each other—stupid things, the kind that Chas could understand. I never really minded sharing a room with him, either, to be absolutely honest. But that morning, our silence was ominous. Like a funeral. I kind of felt like telling him I was sorry for punching him, but then I thought it would just remind him that he was in the middle of returning the favor when we got interrupted by Joey, so I thought I’d better just leave the whole thing alone.

  I lowered myself from the bunk bed to the cold floor, grabbed my towel, and headed down the hallway. The doctor told me I’d be able to take a shower that morning, as much as I’d have liked that nurse to help me out again.

  I was really sore. My head, my back, my shoulders—I felt like a 142-pound sack of broken shards of glass. Actually, I was 152 now. I’d put on some weight since school started, and my skinny-bitch-ass pants were getting too short in the leg for me, too, which made me look like even more of a dork. Annie told me she’d let them down for me when we went to her house, which, of course, made me think of the perfect oh-I-didn’t-know-I’d-need-to-actually-take-my-pants-all-the-way-off-for-you-to-do-that plan.

  When I got out of the shower, I saw Chas standing at the same spot where I’d punched him the night before, bent over the sink, shaving. He stopped and watched me as I padded, barefoot and wrapped in my towel, behind him.

/>   I didn’t say anything to him.

  He didn’t say anything to me, either.

  Annie wasn’t in the mess hall for breakfast. I saw Isabel, though. She told me that Annie was sick and staying in bed. At first, I thought Mrs. Singer had put a diarrhea spell on Annie, but I shrugged off the idea. I was mostly disappointed because there was no way I’d be able to see Annie now until Friday. Boys were not allowed inside the girls’ dorm, and the team would be leaving early the next morning to drive down to Salem for our game.

  I felt like I desperately needed to find out something from her. And I knew I could tell the truth by just looking at her, that I wouldn’t have to actually ask her if we’d really been about to kiss, because I don’t think I’d ever have the guts to say it.

  But Isabel did give me a folded note from Annie, so I thanked her and told her I’d give her one later to take back.

  I couldn’t go sit in my usual place; JP was there with Seanie. I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding JP forever, but I wasn’t ready to be around him yet, either, because I still wanted to fight him, and I believed I would if we were forced to be too close together. I knew that now, after punching Chas the night before, and I still really felt like JP and I needed to have it out some more.

  So I took Annie’s note and tucked it inside my heavy coat and headed up to the locker room, half an hour early for Conditioning.

  I straddled the bench by my locker and looked at the paper.

  It wasn’t folded fancy, like some girls do. It was just in half, and then in half again.

  On the outside, she’d written Ryan Dean West.

  I opened it.

  Hey, West.

  I am really sick today and I’m just going to stay in bed, so I’m sorry I’ll miss seeing you today at school. Because you always make my day. And I’m bummed because I won’t see you tomorrow, either, so I have to tell you good luck in your game and have fun. And I hope your dumb coach lets you play, because you deserve to play more than most of the jerks on your team. So, do good, and score lots of whatever you call scores in rugby, and I will be thinking about you.

  I don’t mind missing classes today, though. Mr. Wellins is a creepy, dirty man, and I don’t care what he says—everything in the world is not a symbol of penises and vaginas, except for maybe the Space Needle, which you will see when we go to Seattle on Friday.

  I am excited you get to come to my house this weekend. You will like my mom and dad, but probably not my dog. It’s a pug named Pedro who likes to hump people, especially boys. Oh . . . if I forgot to tell you, I hope you’re not allergic to horny dogs (ha ha). I’m sure you and Pedro will get along just fine. You are kindred spirits (ha ha). The horny part, I mean, not the gay part. Trust me, I KNOW you are not gay, but my dog is, I think. No, yeah, he REALLY is gay.

  I am sorry you got your head cracked open by JP, and I hope you are feeling better today. Everyone says you were beating the crap out of him before that happened, and that you were both really mad, so everyone says you deserved it and that you cheap-shotted him in the balls and stuff. Why are you mad at JP? Is it because he asked me out? You don’t have to answer that, because I know that’s why. Whatever, West.

  Okay. One more thing. Last night, were we about to kiss or something? That is too weird to handle, West, and I’m not saying it was your fault or anything. I think it was mine. Maybe I felt so sorry for you sitting over with the little kids all alone with those stitches in your head. But it won’t happen again.

  Oh, and make sure you bring some running stuff with you this weekend. I have some really nice runs down by the beach and the woods on Bainbridge Island, which is where we live. And I’ll tell my mom to make sure and pick up some doggie breath mints, because my gay pug can’t wait to meet you in person (ha ha).

  Well, I’m going to go vomit now. Play good tomorrow. I will see you at school on Friday, okay?

  Bye,

  Love,

  AA

  So I knew she really did want to kiss me. And, as far as I was concerned, her it-won’t-happen-again was nothing more than a challenge. I had a perfect plan, thanks to her confession, and I had to get it down on paper before I forgot it. I tore open my backpack and began writing.

  Dear Annie,

  Wow. I really hope you are feeling better. And thanks for wishing me luck for the game. I promise I will score a try (that’s what they’re called in rugby) just for you, but if not, I will play my best, and I’m pretty sure Coach M will have me in the lineup, because Joey said he wants me there, and Joey is the captain. So I will be thinking about you tomorrow too.

  To me, honestly, it sounds like BOTH you AND Mr. Wellins need to get your minds off of sex and think about something else. I never knew you thought the Space Needle looks like a penis (ha ha).

  I can’t wait to see you on Friday. I am so excited about flying to Seattle with you. I have already packed, and I am bringing all three of my school pants so you can fix them like you said you would. Sorry, but you’re going to have to see me in my boxers, so try to control yourself when you do (ha ha ha). I am not allergic to dogs, but I think I will also bring doggie tranquilizers, because I don’t think I can handle getting humped by your gay pug dog. I think he AND Mr. Wellins need to deal with some issues, but not at my expense.

  Oh, and about my head: It hurts worse today, but I’ll be okay. And, yeah, JP and I were going at it pretty good up until that happened. And we almost fought again after practice, too. We are definitely NOT friends anymore. And I don’t think we should talk about JP with each other, either. Okay?

  I already packed my running stuff. It will be fun to run on the beach with you, so I hope you can push me pretty hard.

  Now, one more thing: about last night. Man! I had no idea you were going to kiss me, Annie! Yuck!!!! I guess I was groggy from the stitches, but I didn’t ever think you’d try to do something like that! ’Cause, damn! Why would you want to kiss a LITTLE KID??? And, anyway, let me tell you that if I ever wanted to kiss you, I would have already done it. I am a guy, and that’s what guys do. That’s why we have BALLS. No big deal, but if I am not afraid to get in a fight with JP or Chas (who I punched last night), I wouldn’t be afraid to kiss you, believe me. I would have done it a long time ago. Here’s some calculus for you:

  2 × BALLS = YOU DO WHAT YOU WANT, WHEN YOU WANT TO DO IT.

  I think the best thing for you to do to make yourself stronger and test your resolve is to make sure that we sleep as close to each other as possible this weekend. Like, maybe if you have a couch in your room or something (keep the gay dog out of there). That is the only way you can prove to yourself that you are really strong enough to keep yourself from ever trying to kiss me again. I will even sleep naked if I have to. But, man, am I surprised at you!

  Remember, I am only thinking about you, and I need to help you get over this need you have to kiss me, no matter how much work is involved, so I am willing to make this huge sacrifice just for you.

  I will play good tomorrow.

  See you Friday.

  Love,

  Ryan Dean

  PS—I drew a picture of the Space Needle for you . . . .

  Perfect.

  Now we’ll see about it-won’t-happen-again.

  I folded the note just as the guys began coming in to the locker room. I wanted to change and get out of there before something else happened between JP and me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  WE TOOK A SLOW THREE-MILE run in the rain for our conditioning, but I wasn’t about to lag back with Seanie and JP. I felt bad about it, because I missed Seanie, but since they were roommates, I couldn’t expect him to ditch JP just so he could talk to me. At least I was relieved that I’d only have to sit through one class, Lit, with JP; and Annie’s empty desk would be between us.

  There aren’t many things I like more than running in the rain, even if I wasn’t supposed to get my stitches too wet. I stayed right at the front of the pack, and I was completely drenched by the time I made it back
to the locker room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  JOEY WATCHED ME WALK THROUGH the doorway to Calculus class. We hadn’t said anything at all to each other since practice, not even after the fight in the bathroom with Chas, but he didn’t need to say anything. His pissed-off look was enough. I know what he would have said, without the words.

  As soon as I stumbled to my seat, Megan spun around, her amber hair sweeping silently across my desktop and over my fingers—damn!—and, smiling at me, she said, “Hi, Ryan Dean!” like nothing ever happened.

  And then Joey intervened, looking as serious as he did the night before, after Chas backed down. Joey leaned over between Megan and me and grabbed my chin firmly and said, “Let me see that.”

  He tilted my head like an unskilled barber and looked quickly over my stitches. My hair was still wet from the run.

  “You going to be good to play tomorrow?” Joey said flatly, still holding my head steady.

  “Uh-huh. You know I will.”

  Then he kind-of whispered, even though I know Megan heard the whole thing, “Get your shit together, Ryan Dean.”

  I didn’t know if he was talking about JP or Megan or Annie or just me. No . . . I guess I did know.

  Then, birdlike, and in a hot-therapist kind of way, Mrs. Kurtz was looming over us, chirping, “Oh my goodness, Ryan Dean! What happened to you?”