Damage - A. M. Jenkins [11]
Not exactly a sparkling topic. You try to think of something else, something that will at least open up a conversation. “So. You like football?”
“Yeah. Well, it’s okay,” she says doubtfully. “I mean, the actual game is just about the most boring thing in the universe. But I like the clothes. Like, the pads make you look all huge? And I like the way the pants fit.” She says it so frankly that for a second you think you’ve heard wrong. “I can really tell who’s in shape and who’s not. I’ll bet I can even tell who’s a good player and who’s not. Like that guy with the red hair you were standing next to—”
“Rhinehart?”
“Whatever. It’s like, his pants are really saggy in the behind, which means he’s probably real slow and clumsy.”
“Well—”
“Whereas your pants fit nice and you’ve got good muscle tone, so I’m guessing you could really move out there, if you got hold of the ball. Am I right?”
She’s right about Rhinehart. You think about her sitting on the bench, watching so intently when Coach gave his talk. Only it wasn’t Coach she was watching.
“Are you blushing? Don’t tell me; you thought only guys check out bodies. And you probably think only guys talk about them, too.”
“I never really thought about it.”
“Well, girls check out, and girls talk. Are you curious what we say about you?”
She’s watching you with a little smile. Your fingers are gripping the steering wheel too tight; you flex them a little. “Not really,” you tell her.
“Yes, you are. It’s only human. Well, I’ll tell you. The feeling around school is that you should model jeans or underwear or something.”
Your face is hot. “Thanks for the info,” you say, still able to make it come out casual.
“You’re welcome.” She doesn’t seem to notice that the sides of her slit skirt just dropped open again, showing smooth, slender legs stretching clear up to Idaho. “On the other hand,” she adds, “you’re also known for not getting serious. Like you’re working your way down a list?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” you begin, trying to watch the road instead of her legs.
“Oh, I’ve heard enough. Now, tell me, how is practice going? It must be horrible out there in the sun.”
“It’s not so bad. Not like two-a-days.”
“Two-a-days?”
“A couple of weeks before school starts, we work out twice a day. It’s like cramming a month of workouts into two weeks. So we’re out there pretty much all day.”
“My goodness. Doing what?”
“Warm-ups. Lots of sprints—Coach is real big on speed. All kinds of drills. And we run plays, of course.”
“Poor thing.” Heather scrunches up her face in a sympathetic expression. “It must wear you out.”
“Not too bad—not like last year,” you add.
“Was it worse last year?”
“I could hardly walk the first couple of days. Felt like somebody’d beat on me with a two-by-four.”
“Ooh. Sounds painful.”
“It was. The morning after that first practice, I swear I couldn’t even lift my feet off the floor.” You don’t add what Curtis said at the time, that he felt like an old man the way he had to ease out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom to pee.
“Wow,” says Heather. “But not this year?”
“No. We’ve been doing all right. Curtis talked me into lifting weights over the summer, and that probably kept us in shape some.”
“Over the summer? You are so dedicated.”
“Plus, I worked all summer. Maybe that helped.”
“You’ve always looked in shape to me,” Heather says. “Where did you work?”
“Winn-Dixie. I was a night stocker.”
She asks about what night stockers do, about your family. You even find yourself telling her how Becky raises calves for 4-H, and she asks for more details.
It pumps you up a little, just having her here. You hardly ever talk about yourself—your friends already know all about you, and your girlfriends have always tended to talk about themselves.
Not to mention her legs, her body, her smile. It is a fact, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. The most beautiful girl in town, all ears and hell-bent on getting to know you.
Heather’s house is small, a painted white brick set far back from the street. The windows are shuttered from the inside. A long driveway edges