Hot Little Hands (6 page)

“I'm a graphic designer,” he says. “And I paint.”

“Sounds great,” I say. The tightness in my chest gets worse. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. I just broke up with a woman about four months ago.”

“Cool,” I say. “Can I sleep over?”

“Uh—” He smiles an embarrassed smile and looks up at the radio tower on the hill. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Please,” I say. “We don't have to do anything. We can just sleep.”

“I just met you,” he says. “I don't know you.”

“I'm nice,” I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing.

“You're smashed,” he says. “It wouldn't feel right. Why don't I just walk you home?”

When I wake early the next morning, it's still dark outside my window, and I feel like something has gone horribly wrong. I sit up and rack my brain for a minute before I remember: I'm pregnant.

“What's going on?” someone says.

“Jesus.”

Luke is lying beside me, one hand under his head, the other one lying flat on his bare chest.

“How did you get here?”

“I rode my bike,” he says.

“Who let you in?”

“You did. You drunk-dialed and told me to come over. I asked if we were gonna talk about the baby and you said yes. But when I got here, you kept telling me to shut up. You had other ideas.”

“Shut up,” I say. I find my phone on the floor by the bed and scroll down to the outgoing calls section. And there it is:
(Don't call) Luke 1:38 a.m.

“That's my name in your phone?” he asks.

“It's a joke,” I say, lying back down. He props himself up on his elbow and looks at me. His face is just a few centimeters from mine.

“Anyway,” he says, “I was happy you called.”

“How do you do that?” I ask him. “How do you smell like coffee first thing in the morning?”

“I didn't shower yesterday,” he says. Then I lift my face and kiss him because, for some reason, right now I can't think of a single sentence that is sexier than that one.

I fall asleep and when I wake again, the sun is rising over Potrero Hill. I slip out of bed, go to my desk, open my laptop, and stare at the last words I wrote, over a week ago:
The enduring namelessness of the protagonists of
Hiroshima Mon Amour
underscores the fragmentation and anonymity that, Resnais holds, are universally characteristic of the postwar experience.
I read it over three times. Then I think,
God, I'm a wanker
.

I look around for my cigarettes. I find an unopened pack in my bag, along with my percussion instruments and a pile of pamphlets that Dr. Hill gave me. The one on top has a picture on it of a Latina girl who looks both solemn and confident. Above her head it reads,
ABORTION: WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW.

By the time Luke wakes up at eight thirty, I've read through all of them, and am showered and dressed. “Shit,” he says, climbing out of the bed. “I have a staff cupping at nine.”

I stare at his crotch as he pulls his jeans up his legs, and I say, “This was an isolated incident.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Sure.”

Mission Street is almost deserted. There's a prostitute talking on her phone on the corner of 21st Street, and a couple of dealers standing outside the Beauty Bar. None of them pays any attention to the two of us: Luke on the seat of his fixed-gear, pedaling, and me on the handlebars, giving directions. “Keep going,” I tell him. “Okay, move a little to the left. Now there's a stop sign coming up in about half a block.” Either it's too early for this, or I'm still drunk from last night, or maybe it's the first signs of morning sickness, but I feel every pothole and every piece of rubbish we ride over like it's a punch to the abdomen. I almost scream when he runs a red light at 19th Street. When he turns left onto 17th, we narrowly avoid a collision with a girl riding a beach cruiser in the other direction.

“You don't look so hot,” he says when I hop off the bike outside Anton's place.

“Yeah,” I say. “That was rough. You have to change your gear ratio or something.”

“Who lives here?” he asks, looking up at the building.

“Uh, this girl Calory,” I say. “You don't know her. Thanks for the lift.”

When I ring the doorbell, Anton's roommate opens it, wearing just his boxer shorts. He rubs his eye with the palm of his hand, walks down the hallway, bangs on a closed door, and then goes into the next room. When Anton comes out, he's wearing just his boxers as well. He's not as skinny as Luke and he has less chest hair and no tattoos, but what strikes me is how similar all these guys look when they're half undressed.

“Hi,” I say. “My name's Claire. I don't know if you remember me but we met last night at the bar.”

“You do look familiar,” he says. “Betty's Revenge, right?”

“Yep, founding member.”

He doesn't ask me in so I cross my arms and lean against the door frame. “So I was reading up about this abortion stuff. And there's this website run by a really nice woman in Georgia called Loretta who'll pay for a girl like me to have an ultrasound of my baby. Just to help me make the decision.”

“That's sweet of her,” he says in a croaky voice. He has sleep goop caught in the corners of both eyes.

“So I was wondering if you're interested in a road trip?”

He stares at me and yawns at the same time. “Are you serious?”

“No. Actually, I need someone to pick me up from the clinic tomorrow. I'm not allowed to leave by myself. I guess I was wondering—”

He looks like he doesn't want to do it. But then he says he'll do it.

“Thank you,” I say. “You're the only person I know who wouldn't judge me, or try to sleep with me, or tell me to keep the baby.”

“Jesus,” he says. “I can't wait to meet your friends.”

And I can't help it: The future reference makes me happy. “Do you want to go get a coffee or something?” I ask him.

“No,” he says. “I'm going back to bed.”

It's a Sunday morning and Valencia Street is quiet. There are a few couples walking together, with rolled-up newspapers under their arms or with babies in prams, but the road is empty and the sidewalks are mostly vacant. I realize I can walk slower and look around a lot more when I'm not expecting to bump into someone I know. I walk the two blocks to Amnesia, and the next four to the Common Room. Then I cross the street, cut over to Shotwell, and let myself into my apartment.

I go to my room, take out my phone card, and call the number on the back. I punch in my PIN and dial the number of my sister's flat in London. It rings, and I wait for her to pick up. It is late in the day where she is. I am excited to speak to her. I am excited to tell her that I'm happy she has found love.

Y
esterday was my thirteenth birthday. When I woke up, my grandmother was still asleep in her bed across the room. My dad was awake. I could hear him in the shower, whistling. I was caught between two feelings: I wanted to curl over and fall back asleep, and I wanted to climb out of bed and see what the world looked like now that I was a teenager.

I turned onto my side, covered my ear with the blanket, and thought about Dimitri. I tried to picture his face in my mind. This is the weird thing—I can clearly imagine anyone's face, except if it's a boy who has a crush on me. Once somebody has saved me a seat in English class, or teased me in a way that means he likes me, I can't keep his image in my head for a second. I can remember pieces of him—the color of his eyes, or a shirt he wore—but I can't create a whole picture from those parts.

Dimitri is cute. He has straight hair the color of Licorice (my cat), and green eyes that look their best when he smiles. He's one of three boys who have definitely shown interest in me this term—the others are Anatoly and Vlad—but I like him best because he's mysterious but not too mysterious. He definitely compliments me (like, about my hairstyles or the things I say in class) but he doesn't fall all over himself like some sappy, desperate idiot (Vlad).

I had just started to conjure Dimitri's face in my mind, especially the way he looked last week when I told him I wasn't sure I had time for a boyfriend, when I realized that my dad was whistling the tune to “Happy Birthday.” My feet hit the floorboards and I ran to the bathroom without putting socks on, even though it's January and has been snowing for almost a month.

“Papa,” I called through the door. “Do I get a present this year?”

“I'm no surprise-ruiner. You'll have to wait till your mother's up.”

“But what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Go back to sleep?”

“Ugh! Impossible.”

Lately I've been quarrelsome with my parents. I try to be good but it's hard when they sometimes treat me like an adult, and sometimes treat me like a child, just based on whatever happens to suit them at the time.

I decided to do handstands in the hallway, kicking my feet up and seeing how long I could hold myself upside down before flinging over into a bridge. Then I kicked my feet up again. I was half doing it to stay warm and half doing it in the hope that the sound of my feet thumping on the floor might wake my mother.

“Kira, stop with the noise,” my father said on his way out of the bathroom.

“Is that the birthday girl?” my mother called.

I ran into their room. She was propped up on her pillow, her eyes puffy, the lids a smudgy blue with the residue of yesterday's eye shadow. I kissed her on the cheek and she tugged on my ear. I usually hate it when she does that but I didn't say anything; I was waiting for my present and didn't want to start a fight. Then she said, “Look under the bed.”

I got on my hands and knees. Licorice was under there, snoozing on the floor among the dust balls. I shooed him away. There was a small white paper bag sitting there and, inside that, a carton the size of a jewelry box. My dad came and sat on the bed. They both watched me run my fingernail along the edges to break the sticky-tape seal.

“Oh my gosh.” Inside the box was a digital camera. It was a metallic navy-blue color, 6.0 megapixels with a zoom and LCD screen. “How did you—” I looked from my mum to my dad and back again. They seemed tired, but they were smiling.

“It's to take with you to America,” my mother said then.

“What do you mean, America?” I knew my voice was getting loud but I couldn't help it. “I thought the answer was no?”

“Coach Zhukov came to speak to us last week.” My mother looked at my father.

“He said it's the opportunity of a lifetime,” he said. “He's convinced us to let you go.”

I know I had just become a teenager but I could not stop myself from squealing like a little kid. I stood and started jumping up and down on their bed. It made them laugh. A minute later my grandmother was in the doorway, rubbing her eyes and asking what the noise and commotion was about. Then the neighbors' babies started crying—the one next door as well as the one upstairs—but I was too excited to feel guilty.

I am a gymnast. I have wanted to be a gymnast my whole life. I have been taking classes since I was four years old but my first real lucky break came last October, when my father read an article in the paper about Mr. Zhukov, a gym coach and choreographer who had just moved here from St. Petersburg, where he had his own gymnastics academy. He was planning to start one here in Vladivostok.

My mother called and arranged for me to audition. On the day, she wanted to come with me, but I wouldn't let her. It's embarrassing, being escorted around by your mum when you're old enough to look after yourself. It was a group audition and there were probably fifty girls stretching their legs in the foyer of the church hall. I watched one girl practicing her punch-front salto, taking off from two feet and then pulling them into a tight tuck before she rolled. Another girl hand-walked past me.

“Those beam shoes are too small for you,” she said when her face was next to my feet.

“I know. They're really old,” I said. “I'll probably do my routine barefoot.”

She turned herself right-side up. “I'm Anastasya,” she said. “I'm best on the floor.”

“Kira. I prefer the beam.” I couldn't help wondering how she did well at anything gymnastic. She was the tallest girl there and, with her round hips, big breasts, and long legs, she had the body of a model rather than an athlete. I felt like a child standing next to her, with my skinny legs and flat chest, wearing the same leotard I've been using since I was eleven. When Coach Zhukov's assistant came out and called for everyone's attention, Anastasya took my hand and squeezed it.

“I'm shitting myself,” she said.

The assistant's name was Xenia. She was plump and smiley and middle-aged, and she used the same color maroon to dye her hair as my mum. She explained that we would each perform a routine on the apparatus of our choice. She read the list of compulsories. For the balance beam, it was a 180-degree split and a 360 turn, plus a clean mount and dismount. Easy-peasy, I thought. We went into the hall and chalked our hands.

Coach Zhukov was less intimidating than I expected. He had strawberry-blond hair with bits of red in his beard, and a squinty look behind his glasses. He was taller and bulkier than the average gymnast, but just as graceful when he moved around. He seemed more like a dad than a coach; he had a kind word of praise or encouragement for everyone.

“All right!” he said as I began my routine with a flic-flac then lowered myself into a straddle split. I held my legs straight out to the sides as I somersaulted, and then raised myself onto the beam for a handstand. “Nice transition,” I heard him say. I turned my hands on the beam, pirouetting around with my legs in the air. I felt calm and happy, the way my dad always describes me on the beam:
You look so at home up there, they should be charging you rent.

I lowered myself into bridge position, and then flung my legs up and over, willing my feet to find their way back onto the beam, one in front of the other. Once upright, I raised my arms and stood in place for a moment, evening my breath, before flinging myself into a double back, and off onto the mat.

It was a clean landing. I smiled like there was a crowd and a TV camera, and a bunch of nodding judges taking notes. But really there was just the scattered sound of light applause. That's when I knew I'd done well. The better you do in gymnastics, the less your competitors clap for you.

A girl in a black leotard prepared to mount the beam and I went and sat with the others. “That was great.” Anastasya tapped my shoulder. “I saw him pull your form and photo out of his folder. I think you're gonna get in.”

“Who knows?” I said, shrugging, but I hoped she was right.

“Will you stay to watch me?” she asked. “I'm worrying my tits off.”

She started out strong in her floor routine with a double front handspring, but she stumbled badly on the landing. Coach Zhukov smiled and said, “It's always good to get the stumble out of the way at the beginning.” She blushed, moved back to the corner of the mat, and started again. After she was done, she came and sat next to me. “I'm finished,” she whispered.

“You never know,” I said.

She shot me an insulted look, like we had been best friends for years and I owed her the truth. “Come on,” she said. “I wouldn't let myself in after that performance.” At the end of the afternoon, though, my name was on the acceptance list, and so was hers.

Coach Zhukov said we would have to clear our calendars for him, and he wasn't joking. Practice started the next week, three evenings after school and all day Sunday. It was exhausting. I had to go to bed right after I did my homework every night. I fell behind on socializing with my friends. I had to miss out on my first best friend Lara's birthday, when she took some girls from school to see
Pirates of the Caribbean,
and at my second best friend Raya's slumber party I had to go to sleep way before the others did so I could get up early the next day. I barely had time to flirt with the boys in my class anymore. If one of them wanted to talk to me alone, he had to walk me to practice after school.

“You're no fun, Kira,” Dimitri said one day in November. He was walking beside me, with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “All you care about is gymnastics.” He kicked his feet into a pile of leaves on the sidewalk.

“What would you prefer? One of those dumb girls who can't think about anything besides which boys like them?”

He curled the top corner of his lip up in disgust.

“That's what I thought,” I said. “Wait until you see me compete in the regionals at the end of term. Then you'll see where all my spare time's been going.”

I started to set my alarm clock ten minutes early in the morning, so I could lie in bed and picture myself competing. Every morning, the daydream got more elaborate; one day I would be wearing a sparkly turquoise ensemble like Alina Kabaeva in Athens, the next day I would be perfecting difficult routines I'd been messing up in practice: back handsprings from corner to corner on the floor, or a double-twist dismount from the beam.

Dimitri was always in the fantasy, too. I couldn't picture his face, of course, but I could see all the kids from school he'd be sitting with. He would jump to his feet as soon as I'd finished and clap louder than anybody, louder than my parents even. Later, after I'd been awarded a perfect ten, he'd meet me outside the locker rooms and the shake in his voice would tell me that he was so impressed with me, it scared him a little.

“It's still me,” I'd say, and he'd laugh. Then, I imagined, he'd kiss me. At first the kissing was tame—a quick brush of his lips on mine—but one morning I imagined he kissed me and opened his mouth. I saw him put his palm out and hold my cheek while he showed me how to kiss with tongues. I lay on my side and slid my hands, palms together, up the outside of my pajama pants and between my thighs. It felt nice, lying there. I decided that if he came to watch me in the regionals, I really would let him kiss me, and maybe even be my boyfriend.

But one Monday afternoon in December, after two months of solid practice, Coach Zhukov sat us all down and told us that we would have to postpone our participation in the regionals until the following round. We all looked at one another and groaned.

“What the hell?” Anastasya muttered beside me.

“I've already got my costume,” a girl called from the back.

“I know you're all upset,” said Coach Zhukov. He was sitting on a chair, with his forearms on his legs, leaning forward to talk to us. “But I promise there's a good reason. I've been invited to give a talk at a conference. It's in America and it's called ‘The Global Gymnast.' Colin, the director, called me last week and asked me to give a presentation about competitive gymnastics in the new Russia.” He sat up straight in his chair and beamed at us. “Now the exciting part. He's asked me, also, to bring a small group of students to present something in the showcase section of the conference. So a few of you, I hope, are going to come with me to the USA and perform.”