Damage - A. M. Jenkins [37]
You decide to run the play on Friday after school because that allows plenty of time—no practice today, and game tonight because this week is one of two in the season with a Saturday game.
So you take her for a Coke at the Dairy Queen, then home, where you start all the action outside on the front porch, not even trying to get inside her clothes—not yet. Keep both hands firm on her back. Do not stick your tongue in her ear. Not yet. She’s teasing you a little, nibbling on your lips before going for the deep kiss.
When your hands slide down to her rear, she rubs you through your jeans, and at the catch in your breath she gives that low laugh and presses closer. But when your own hands move out of her neutral zone, she puts both her hands on your shoulders to push you away.
You can almost feel her thinking. She enjoys taking you to the edge—and occasionally over—in places where you can’t—or shouldn’t—react. Right now she’s got you upright, standing on concrete, outdoors, in plain view the street. There’s no reason to push you away.
So she doesn’t.
You take your time, and after awhile longer your hands are spending time in places they’ve more or less passed over before, zeroing in here and there, and after awhile she’s trying to press herself up against your fingers, trying to get you to stop somewhere and focus. She’s forgetting to kiss you back and her hands have forgotten what they’re doing, and then she’s forgetting to breathe—she’s clinging to you, and when air comes bursting out of her in a shaky sigh, you hear yourself give a low laugh that sounds familiar.
She hears it. Her whole body grows stiff. She puts her palms against your shoulders and shoves, so hard you have to step back to keep your balance.
She’s upset. And now you have to fight against vacuum that wants to suck your body onto hers; your whole body is leaning forward, wanting to tackle her, drive her down onto the concrete porch and peel jeans off and do what needs to be done.
Something’s wrong. But you have no idea what it is. It’s not like you’ve never touched her before. And you not imagine the way she was clinging to you. You did imagine that little explosion of her breath against your neck.
You will burst, if this is it.
She fumbles in her purse for her keys with one hand and with the other makes a swiping gesture at her mouth.
As if she’s trying to wipe off your touch.
“Is something wrong?” It can’t be—she’s got to about to burst, too. You know she has.
“You think I’m going to fall at your feet,” she the words over her shoulder as her keys blunder, jangling around the lock. “You paw me a few times, and I’m supposed to beg you to do it to me. Like you’re so irresistible,” she adds, and gives you a disgusted glance. “You’re just some clumsy little high school boy. Except you drive pickup. Which makes you a clumsy little hick.”
She’s like a nail gun, driving words in; it hurts breathe all of a sudden. You take a step back.
“That’s right, get out of here.” She gives the uncooperative key ring a vicious shake. “Damn it! I can’t find the right key!”
You’re already turning away, moving down the sidewalk in slow motion—it’s like wallowing through thick mud, and you can’t walk away fast enough.
“Just remember, you were the one panting for it. me.” She hurls the words at your back as you step off the curb.. “Not me,” Heather says again, and it sounds somebody is strangling her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The air has caved in on top of you.
Her perfume is wrapped tight around you like a cocoon, it’s woven into your shirt, laced over your and your foot presses harder and harder on the gas by the end of the block you’re going too fast to brake the stop sign.
No one hears the squeal of rubber on asphalt as you take the corner. No one sees. No one follows.
You are all the things you’ve ever failed at, sitting top of a couple tons of steel zigzagging in and out of traffic. If there is any justice, this pickup will get crushed like an empty Coke can.
But it doesn’t, and you end up